The Choking Rain (The Adventures of Captain Swashbuckle Book 1), page 17
"No thanks to you, Barney Oldfield."
"I'd better have one of the boys take you to the hospital. Then you can catch a ride back to the Valley."
A strange silence followed his words.
"What's wrong? What's the matter?"
Professor Death looked down at the floor, scuffing it with his shoe. "Uh, we can't stay at the ranch any more, Ted. We sorta told Kate we were leaving town."
"Why did you--? Kate? Oh, hell! I was supposed to send somebody to pick her up! She's going to be mad as a hornet."
"There's a gentleman here to see you, miss. From the police."
"What? Oh. Oh, yes. Show him in, please, Jeffries." Katherine had been sitting in a fog since Damien and T.J. left. She had tried to stay mad at them, but it wouldn't stick. They had their own lives to lead, and it was probably high past time they got back to doing…whatever it was they did. She had realized with a start that she didn't even know how they supported themselves. With the economy in its present shape, any job at all was precious, and they had come all this distance just to help Eric help her!
Now she felt horrible.
"Detective Jones, miss."
Judging from the expression on Detective Jones's face, she didn't look horrible. His eyes moved up and down her shapely form with an eagerness that was almost palpable. Only when he met her own gaze did he start to act like he was there on business. But then again, every detective in the squad room the other day had acted the same way. Maybe this was just Ted's idea of a joke.
"I'm ready to go," she said crisply. Jeffries had appeared again, with her hat and coat, handed to him by an unseen subordinate outside the doorway. Feeling Jones eyes on her, she wasted no time getting her coat on.
"Car's over here," he said when they had reached the street. He lead her to a somber coupé parked at least a foot and a half from the sidewalk. He got in and opened her door from the inside. The curb was rushing with water, and Katherine wet both shoes getting in. Jones didn't apologize.
He pressed the starter, let out the brake, and the car jerked into gear. It was warm with the windows rolled up against the threat of rain, and Jones didn't seem inclined to make idle conversation, which fit Katherine just fine. While she debated with herself whether or not she should make a scene in Ted's office about Jones's offensive behavior, the posh shops of Beverly Hills gave way to West Hollywood and Los Angeles proper. The coupé must have had very good springs; they gave the ride a wide, rolling feeling, like a trip back East on the train.
Katherine shook herself--she'd almost fallen asleep. She couldn't help it; the car was so comfortable and the ride so soothing and the air so warm that she slipped into a doze again and wasn't even aware of it when she finally lost consciousness altogether.
Jones leaned forward and adjusted something under the dashboard, then continued to drive as though nothing had happened. Time and again he turned his head to look hungrily at Katherine slumped peacefully against the car door. Once he reached out to touch her coat, but the thought of Herr Krausen's retribution made his throat go dry and he lost his nerve. The car hit a bump in the road and Katherine moaned softly in her sleep. Jones swallowed hard and concentrated on the road.
Reaching downtown, Jones turned onto a side street lined with converted coachhouses from another day and age. Now they, and the homes they had served, were used as warehouses, workshops, and occasionally, as residences. The door to one coachhouse opened as he approached, without any signal. Jones let out his breath. He was right on time.
The door closed behind him, leaving him for a time in darkness. Jones didn't move. There were no passwords to speak, no identity papers to show. But if he tried to get out of the car too soon, he would be shot. After an unannounced interval, the door was opened from the outside.
"Okay," someone unseen called, and the lights came up.
Krausen stood on the other side of the car, looking through the window at Katherine. He smiled.
"The gas worked as I said?"
"Yeah," Jones said enthusiastically. "A little bit at a time through a hose under the dashboard on her side of the car. It took a while, but it got to her. Then I turned it off before it could make me sleepy, too."
Krausen motioned to another man. "Take her upstairs and leave her in one of the guest rooms." Jones leaned over from his seat as though to help remove the girl. The German snapped his fingers and instantly one of his men jammed an automatic into Jones's side.
"Take it easy, buddy. This dame ain't for you."
Jones sat still, watching mournfully while two other men cradled Katherine gently and carried her into the house. They laid her on a bed in an upstairs room, then left her alone to sleep it off.
She woke slowly, but naturally. The dim light seeping in through the boarded window was the fuzzy grey of either extreme twilight or early dawn. It took a few seconds before she recalled the coupé, and Jones. Why hadn't she asked to see his badge …?
The room held a large table, but no chair. The door was locked from the outside. No sound entered from the hallway.
"Typical kidnapping lodgings," she muttered. "Let's see. In the movies, you're supposed to stand next to the door and hit the guard with a lamp when he brings you your food." There was no lamp. While she stood before the door trying to decide where she should hide, it opened.
Thankfully she hadn't been hiding behind it; if she had, she'd be sporting a broken nose.
The man in the doorway stood tall and straight, with receding blond hair and a hard chin. His eyes, brilliantly blue, almost made her catch her breath. In other circumstances, she might well have thought him handsome.
"Good evening," he said courteously. "My name is Herr Krausen. May I come in?"
Herr Krausen--this was the same man who had grabbed her, and Ted, at the hospital.
"Please," she offered, stepping aside. Time. She needed time.
Krausen stepped in and shut the door gently behind him.
"What I have to say is for your ears alone," he confided. "These men make willing tools, but they are brittle. If they are given too much to think about, they will break." He gestured toward the bed. "Please, would you like to sit down?"
She shook her head. It would take more than his good manners to get her anywhere near that bed--!
"Very well. I regret that I cannot offer you a chair. You might try to use it to barricade the door." He sighed softly, and his eyes flickered over her, not in such an obvious manner as Jones, but it made her skin crawl all the same. "I am here to offer you your freedom." She blinked. "Wait. You must hear what I am offering." He paused again, weighing his words. "I belong to a group which is dedicated to returning Germany to its rightful place in the world. We believe that the Aryan race is superior to all others--you yourself must admit that the coloreds and the Mexican immigrants are only good as servants."
He paused, giving her a chance to respond, but she only watched him.
"We believe in the ubermensch --do you know what that means?" She shook her head dishonestly. "It means that there is one kind of man above all others. I and my countrymen are such men. I believe you are one, too. You have the blond hair and the blue eyes that marks the true Aryan race. We need women like you, pure women who can bear strong sons--to fight."
Katherine kept her gaze steady, but her thoughts were whizzing, blurring one into the next. Aryan race? Bearing his sons? Was this some kind of bizarre proposal? If she said no, would he pull out a gun and shoot her?
Krausen blinked, backing down from her stare. "Forgive me. This is all too much. I will leave you some time to think about what I have said." He turned to go, and the sudden sloping of his shoulders showed the first human emotion she had seen in him.
"You must be thirsty. I will have one of the men bring you some water."
She tried the lock after he had gone, but without any real hope, and was not disappointed. She kicked the door and hurt her toe.
Damn that Jones! If only she had looked at his badge…!
21. Messengers of Death
"The bedroom must be through there." The Professor nodded toward an archway leading off to the right from the front hall. "I'll leave Ted's key on the table; why don't you stretch out and catch forty winks. I'm going to check out the kitchen."
Damien gingerly touched the bandage on the side of his skull. His eyes were dull from the effects of the painkilling drugs administered at the hospital, but they glittered all the same at the chance to needle his pal.
"The kitchen? Ted lets us borrow his apartment while he's trying to find the guy who socked me, and all you can think of is raiding his icebox?"
"Hey, this is Ted Kane we're talking about. The man's got a bigger icebox than Fatty Arbuckle."
"True." Carefully placing one foot ahead of the other, Damien slowly found his way into the bedroom for a well-deserved rest.
The sibilant voice that whispered in his ear before he could touch the light switch was the first warning that he was not fated to receive his just reward.
"Don't make any funny moves," the voice cautioned, "and both of us will live to tell our kids about it."
Damien closed his eyes for a long moment.
"Whatever you're going to do, go ahead and do it. The way my head feels, you'd be doing me a favor." To his surprise, the response was mildly apologetic.
"I probably had something to do with that," the whisperer admitted. It was a man's voice, that much Damien could tell. It filtered slowly through the painkillers that this was the man he had fought in Edith Miramonte's apartment.
"You get around, don't you?" Damien said quietly. The Professor was in the next room, but there was no sense in drawing him into a confrontation with an armed man.
The other snorted softly. "I try. But I was expecting your friend, the cop."
"He's at work. He loaned me his place. I was hoping to get some sleep. My head's about ten feet in diameter."
"I can't let you go to sleep yet. I've got a message for your cop friend."
Damien sighed in tiredness and pain. "I can imagine. But he's not here. And it won't do you any good to kill me. I don't know anything. I'm not even a cop."
There was a pause, during which Damien imagined the unseen thug nodding to himself.
"Probably be noisy, too. Then I'd have to shoot your friend, too. The one in the other room." He nudged Damien with something hard. "Why don't you sit down before you fall down?" Gratefully, Damien complied, lying down with his eyes closed. "The cops don't know anything about the gang that's doin' all this. I do. I want to make a deal."
"So go to the cops."
"Uh-uh. The German would know. He's got people in the police department. I've gotta talk to your friend. I know he's okay."
"He's not here."
"I know. But I can tell you. You can tell him and he won't even know where it came from. That keeps me safe."
"What do you want to tell him?"
"Tell him-- damn! "
The pounding of Professor Death's feet on the hardwood floor stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He sailed straight in, arms outstretched for a flying tackle, powerful as a rocket and as unstoppable. Damien's eyes shot open but he had no time to prevent what was coming.
Somebody slammed into him, driving him back and snapping his head onto a pillow. He bounced, skinning the headboard. There was a heavy body on him, struggling. Sudden anger washed away his pain.
"Damn it, Professor! He was trying to tell me something!"
"Where'd he go?" the Professor gasped. "He was right there! Nobody can move that fast!"
"Would you get the hell off me?"
"I had him!"
"And he had a gun, you stupid son-of-a… Would you get off me?"
"I can't tell you anything I didn't tell you before, Mr. Kane. I haven't seen Leslie Overton since last week, before the warehouse burned down and we chased those pirates off my boat." Recent events had mellowed Aloysius O'Donnell's attitude toward the police; he no longer treated Ted as though there were a personal vendetta between them. On the other hand, he wasn't handing out cigars, either.
Ted stood patiently, comparing the differences between O'Donnell's office and his home. Mary's touch on the latter was obvious.
"We have a pick-up order out for him, sir, but he hasn't been seen in any of his usual haunts, or his house. It doesn't look good for him."
O'Donnell shook his head stubbornly.
"The boy's no criminal. He has everything he needs, and he's got no gumption to go looking for more. I was hoping, if he married my daughter, that she might make something of him." He smiled at his visitor. "If she can stand up to me she ought to be able to put some spine even in a husband like that."
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door, and without waiting for a reply, Mary walked in.
"Oh, I'm sorry, father. I didn't know you were busy." She smiled graciously. "Hello, Ted."
Ted said hello, and O'Donnell stepped forward to give his daughter a quick hug.
"What brings you here, Mary?" he asked.
"I was just in town doing some shopping, and I thought I'd stop by--but since you're busy, I'll go."
"Oh, don't leave on my account, Mary," Ted said quickly, grabbing his hat from where he'd left it on O'Donnell's desk. "I was just filling your father in on our search for Leslie Bryant Overton."
"Oh? Have you found him, then?" Her face was unmoved, but her intrusive brogue betrayed her interest.
"No, but we have men looking everywhere. If he shows his face around town, we'll pick him up. It's just a matter of time."
"Do you really think he had anything to do with all this? I've known Leslie a long time, and he's never hurt anyone."
"That's just what your father was telling me as you walked in." Ted offered O'Donnell his hand. The older man stared a moment, then took it in the grip of a man who has known hard labor. With a nod to Mary, Ted took his leave.
"Now, then," O'Donnell said, taking his child by the hands, "why don't you tell me why you're really here. You've never come to my office before just because you were in the neighborhood."
"I came because I'm frightened, father. I'm frightened for you, and I'm frightened for myself. Roy is dead, and Paddy Callahan, and Eric, and Edith is missing, and the police are looking for Leslie…"
Her father stroked her hair as he had when she was a girl, a gesture so gentle that his own board of directors would not have believed it unless they saw it with their own eyes.
"Ah, now, Mary. Whatever it is, there's no reason to believe that either one of us is in any danger. I--"
"No danger?" she repeated, pulling away. "Father, they tried to kidnap me! Twice! And Paddy Callahan died on our front steps! And you and the other boys were almost killed on the boat! How can you say we're not in any danger?"
O'Donnell smiled. "Because when I see that flashin' Irish temper of yours, daughter, I know that any kidnapper would be a fool to come after you." It didn't work, and she stared at him, confused and angry.
"We're in no danger, daughter, because I say we're not," he tried again, his face hardening. "I didn't get to where I am now by ducking a fight. Those gangsters, whoever they are, have tried their best and they've failed. We're still here. And if any man should so much as touch a hair on your lovely head--I'd skin him alive and stretch his hide from here to Dublin." Suddenly he stopped, as she threw herself again into his embrace. "Here now, why are you crying?"
Mary didn't answer him; she simply sobbed uncontrollably. He lead her to a sofa and helped her into it. After a few moments she stopped, and finally she lifted her head and smiled faintly.
"I must look a fright," she whispered.
"There's a sink through that door." He pointed with his chin. "Go and wash yourself. When you come out, we can go home."
She did as he instructed, closing the door softly behind her. She doused her face with water from the sink, toweled dry, then set about to reapply her make-up. Now that the water was off, she could faintly hear her father in the adjoining office buzz his secretary, telling her that he was leaving early for the day. Then she heard him pick up the telephone and dial.
Not wanting to disturb his call, she quietly eased open the door--only to stop short when she heard his voice.
"This has gone too far. My daughter is frightened to death and I won't have it! Tell the men I will put the ship at their disposal--yes, and the train, too. But I want this thing done, you understand? I want it finished!"
Trembling so violently she could barely accomplish the act, Mary quietly closed the door. She sat down, her eyes open but unseeing, her ears replaying over and over again those fateful sentences, searing her with the awful truth.
Ted reached the lobby of O'Donnell's building in a fog. He had more murders than he had clues. He had more missing persons than he had clues. And he had more department chiefs breathing down his neck than he had clues.
"In short," he told himself wryly, "I haven't got a clue."
Somebody reared up in his face and shoved a brightly-colored cloth under his nose. Stumbling backward in surprise, he grabbed a hand in his own huge paw and shoved the cloth away. He couldn't believe it-- in broad daylight?
"Hey, detective--watch the merchandise!"
The man Ted had seized struggled futilely to escape, his colorful wares fluttering in his free hand. He was a street vendor--a tie salesman. The cloth shoved into his face had been a garish tie, whose brothers and cousins peeked out from inside the man's coat. Apparently he kept his entire stock in trade on his person. At the vendor's vehement insistence, Ted finally released his grip.
"Look," the man said, his natural sales smile regaining its rightful place, "if you want 'em that badly, I can make you a deal."
Ted took a moment to focus. When you looked past the bright ties, the frothy smile, and the glibness, you saw the worn edges of the checkered coat, the unshined shoes, the button missing from one sleeve. This guy was just trying to raise a few nickels, maybe had a family to support. Ted was suddenly ashamed of himself.
"How much?"
