Part 4 (1/2)

I swore. I wouldn't find Heigman now. Because I did indeed know who Papa Ryan was. He was a short, thick ape with a pockmarked face and muscles like the hawsers used for tying s.h.i.+ps to docks. He was immensely strong in body, but paralyzed from the neck up, and his idea of a practical joke was encasing your tootsies in quick-hardening cement and then taking you for a swim. ”Race you to the beach,” he'd say jovially, dropping you off the boat.

Fortunately, Papa was as close as Siamese twins to another ungentle character named Shadow - who got that monicker because the boys claimed he was so thin he didn't cast a shadow until five o'clock in the afternoon - the same Shadow very chummy with my informant, Pinky. Both Shadow and Papa Ryan worked for Frank Quinn, so I could understand how Pinky was able to give me info I hadn't been able to get from anyone else.

”My telling you this,” Pinky said, ”won't hurt Papa none, since n.o.body'll ever be able to prove nothing. I'd guess Heigman's in solution somewhere between here and Catalina. But you'll forget I told it to you, naturally.”

”Naturally. You sure about this, Pinky? It's important.”

”h.e.l.l, I didn't see him do it. But I got the word he handled it. That's all I know, Scott.”

”Handled it for Quinn?”

”That part wasn't mentioned. It was just talk, you know, boys cutting up old touches, telling a few jokes.”

I could imagine the jokes. Like how funny the bubbles were, coming up through the deep green sea. And how soon they stopped.

Pinky had no more to tell me. When I went out the door into the afternoon suns.h.i.+ne, he was waving a hand at the bartender.

At five-thirty that Sunday afternoon I sat at the desk in my office, having a meal of sandwiches and milk and using the phone. Except for the information I'd got from Pinky, the rest of the day had been a bust. I knew a little about the two local men Pinky had named. John Porter was a minor city official, Ira Semmelwein was president of the Golden Coast Insurance Company, and owner of a couple office buildings on Hope Street. Each of the men had a spotless reputation.

If I'd simply been out to get Quinn, I would have been more than satisfied with the information I'd been able to get so far. But this was late Sunday afternoon, and Wednesday morning Ross Miller would start breathing cyanide. I'd picked up a lot of miscellaneous info, but there was nothing that would stop an execution - it was all conjecture, hearsay, probability and logic; there wasn't a shred of usable, courtroom-type proof about any of it. I had decided that, with so little time remaining, it would take a miracle for me to have even a chance of clearing Ross.

And at five-thirty p.m. I got it.

The phone rang. I grabbed it and said h.e.l.lo, and a woman's voice said, ”Is this Sh.e.l.l Scott?”

”Yes.”

”Are you alone?”

”I'm alone - you can talk, if that's what you mean.”

”I know you've been looking into the murder of Casey Flagg. And the trial. You'd like to send Frank Quinn to prison for it, wouldn't you?”

I sat up straight in my swivel chair, gripping the phone hard. ”I would.”

”Then we're partners. Because so would I. Frank did it, all right.”

”Who is this?” The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. ”Lolita?”

”No, this isn't Lolita. This is Mrs. Frank Quinn.”

Five.

Thirty minutes later I parked the Cad in a lot half a block from Fifth Street and started walking toward The Lantern, a bar and grill where I'd enjoyed many bourbon-and-waters and orders of rare prime ribs. I was well known there, and it was a most unlikely spot in which to be shot in the back, which was why I had chosen it.

I didn't see any suspicious characters, or out-of-place loungers as I walked down the alley behind The Lantern. I went in through the kitchen, saying a quiet h.e.l.lo to Luigi, the perspiring chef. At the swinging doors leading from the kitchen into the club I paused and looked over the club's interior, but nothing seemed out of place.

I was early, purposely. Ten minutes after my arrival, Mrs. Quinn came in the front door. She was alone. She spoke to the headwaiter, then went to one of the curtained booths on my left. I waited five minutes, but n.o.body else came in after her. Then I walked to the booth.

”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Scott,” she said.

”h.e.l.lo again.” I sat down across the table from her and said, ”We meet under strange circ.u.mstances.”

”Never mind the small talk.” She was all business. ”I suppose you're willing to stick your neck out if you can get enough on my husband to send him to prison.”

”My neck's out about as far as it can get now. Your husband's already tried to kill me once.”

”I know. I was on an extension and heard him call Davey and Grant before you even left the house Sat.u.r.day. He said for them to blast you on the Freeway, a few miles from the house.” She reeled that out casually, as if it were relatively unimportant, then went on, ”I got a good look at you, but I thought it was the last time I'd see you alive. Then when Davey came in babbling that he'd left Grant stiff in the car, I decided you were my man.”

”That's good. I guess. Your man for what?” The charm had rubbed off this gal long ago, and whatever rubbed it off had just kept on rubbing, but if she could help me get to Quinn, I could do without charm.

”My husband's throwing a party Tuesday night out at our place. Lot of his friends are invited to celebrate.”

”What does it have to do with me? I'm no friend of his.”

”It's a costume ball. You know, you come as your favorite history character. Or a dream. Or suppressed desire - anything. You know, Frank likes to do things big - spare no expense and all that.”

”Good old Frank.”

”Yeah. The pig. Anyway, they'll be wearing masks and all, so you should be able to get into the house with a mask on, huh?”

”I don't know. Maybe.”

”Have to wear a mask, all right.” She shook her head. ”With that face, maybe you ought to wear two masks.”

She was a fine one to talk about faces. I said, ”Look, this is interesting as can be, but I've a few questions: One, what good will it do me - and you - if I get into the party?; two, how do I know I won't be shot in the back of the head if I go within eight miles of your husband's fortress?; three, how come you claim that you're willing to finger your own husband - ”

”Forget the number-three question. That's my business. I just want Frank sent to college and figure you're the man who can arrange it. A nice life sentence would suit me. The pig. As for the rest of it . . .” She paused, fumbling in a handbag the size of a briefcase, pulled out a white envelope and handed it to me.

While I was opening the envelope and taking an engraved card out of it, Mrs. Quinn said, ”There's a floor safe under the desk in Frank's room - that crummy red and black mausoleum you were in. n.o.body in the world knows the combination to the safe but Frank. Not even me. Not even his wife. How do you like that?”

I shrugged. The engraved card was an invitation stating that, ”You are cordially invited” and so on. The date was Tuesday night, October 31, at eight p.m., and the address was Frank Quinn's. The invitation didn't look like something that could have been dreamed up and produced on the spur of the moment. But it didn't feel right to me.

I said, ”You mentioned this was a party to celebrate - celebrate what? And why a costume party? Tuesday night seems like a peculiar - ”

”There's a couple reasons. For one, the brawl is set to last all night, until at least ten o'clock the next morning. And something kind of important to Frank is happening then.”

For a second or two I didn't get it. The next morning would be November first. And at ten a.m. on the first, Ross Miller was to be executed. I guess, for a monster like Quinn, that was something to celebrate.

Mrs. Quinn was looking at me. ”Well, don't throw up,” she said cheerfully. ”It just works out that way. Tuesday night is Halloween, see?”

I blinked. ”It is?” It had been a long time since I'd rung doorbells and played trick or treat, and I hadn't realized the witching night was so near. But she was right: Tuesday night was October 31, Halloween.

She said, ”It just worked out great that way.”

”Yeah. Great. What about this safe?”