The Righteous Cut, page 14
Frustrated, the girl returned to the closet. She had crawled halfway through the opening when she happened to glance upward. She paused, turned her head sharply to get a better look. There was a trap in the closet ceiling.
She scrambled to her feet, pulling the wooden clothes rod loose from its brackets. Raising it to the perpendicular, she pushed the trap and saw that it moved. Trembling all over, she put the pole against the wall. She refused to confront the possibility that this might be anything other than a means of escape.
As she looked around for a way to reach the trap, her eye lit on the dry sink. Crossing to it quickly, she removed the pitcher, then lifted the cabinet experimentally. It was heavy, but it could be moved. Two minutes later, she found that it fit the closet with inches to spare.
With a sudden movement, she grabbed the sides of the closet door and climbed. The trap door rose under her fingers and fell back on a hinge, releasing a stale, dusty odor as she pulled herself through the opening. Her eyes darted quickly about the gloomy rafters until she found daylight leaking into the darkness.
All the years of gymnastics and dance she’d studied paid off as she lightly stepped from rafter to rafter, careful not to plant a foot wrongly between them. In no more than a minute she found herself in front of a metal ventilation louver that fit into the peak of the roof. Through it she could see a flat porch roof and a dilapidated rose trellis at the edge.
Planting her feet firmly, she hooked her fingers around the edges of the louver and put her back into lifting it. It made noise, but she was too far committed to stop now. She shifted right, left, up, and down, ultimately realizing that the metal was set into wood that had been milled to accept it. God damn it, she thought. To be this close…
As she moved her leg, the piece of metal in the pocket of her skirt thumped against it. She pulled it out, fitted it into the loose joint and pried experimentally. As she’d hoped, the wood was brittle and desiccated. She worked the bracket methodically, breaking wood off in small pieces. She lost track of time, focusing fiercely on the job.
She had broken away two sides of the triangle when she thought to look at her watch. Holding it up to the light, she saw that it was almost 11:45. If her jailer was feeding her on a schedule, any minute now he’d be there with lunch. She didn’t give a damn about the food, but knew if he found her gone, he just might kill her before she could escape.
Turning regretfully from a job nearly complete, she worked her way to the ceiling trap and lowered herself into the closet. There was no time to get the cabinet back where it belonged, so she closed the closet door.
As Jessica turned from the closet, she got a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was covered in dust and cobwebs. Even if the dapper man were half out of his mind on cocaine, he’d surely notice a layer of filth all over her. She tore off her skirt, sweater, and blouse, and beat them against the bed frame until they were relatively clean. Time seemed to evaporate as she struggled to clean herself.
Pouring water into the bowl, she pressed her handkerchief into use as a washcloth. Her face and arms were nearly clean when the tumblers fell in the lock.
***
It was approaching 11:00 when Daggett and Andrews pulled up beside Merlin Gautier and Eddie Park. Daggett rolled down his window.
“He still in there?”
Gautier nodded. “Unless he’s sprouted wings.”
“Okay.” Daggett took the microphone from the dashboard and spoke into it. “Inspector Fifty-one to Cars Eighty-nine and Sixty. Take your positions and watch closely. The subject may be armed.” He put the mike back into the clip, then nodded to Gautier. “Let’s go.”
Andrews drove up the street, pulling to a stop just outside the gate to the garage complex. Park drove just past them, taking up a position adjacent to the cottage. All four detectives got out of their cars and took cover behind them. Through the gate, they could see mechanics stopping their work to stare nervously at them.
Daggett flipped a switch on his microphone and activated the loudspeaker. “Skeeter Longbaugh, this is the police. Come on out with your hands up. Mr. Blessey, you come out with him. Don’t make us come in after you.”
Inside the cottage, Skeeter jumped to his feet, his eyes flickering wildly. Blessey came past him with his teeth bared in a snarl. “Goddamn them fuckin’ Uncle Toms.”
“P-put the gun down, Unca Howard. They’ll shoot us sure if they see it.”
“Shut up, boy. I gotta think. That Daggett’s a smart mothah-raper. He’s prob’ly got cars stationed on the street behind my salvage yard, in case you try to climb the fence.”
Skeeter put his hand on Blessey’s shoulder. “It’s no good, Unca Howard. Lemme go out before you get in trouble.”
“Shit,” Howard snarled. “I’m in trouble already if they find you here. C’mon.” He grabbed the youth by the sleeve of his coat and pulled him into the center of the house. As Skeeter stared wide-eyed, he kicked aside a frayed rug and, with another quick movement of his foot, caused a section of floor to pop out of its moorings.
“Get down there and work your way to the side of the house. Listen close, ’cause I’m gonna draw them cops inside. When they do that, crawl out from under the house and slide into the next yard under the fence. The house is vacant, and so are the next two. Keep goin’ until you reach Horrit Street, then walk out like you ain’t got a care in the world. It’s our only chance, so go on, now, git.” He grabbed Skeeter and shoved him down in the hole. It was the work of a moment to close the section of floor and replace the rug. Daggett was yelling for them to come out again as the old man walked placidly to the front door.
***
Skeeter’s heart was hammering in his chest as he crawled under the house. Hearing the clatter of cops’ feet above him, he quickly moved to the fence and under it.
Finding himself in a back yard overgrown with weeds, he continued to the next fence. He passed through two more yards until he reached the last one. He trotted down an alley, pulling up short at the edge of the house. None of the detectives were in sight. The compulsion to run was as urgent as a bladder full of beer, but he broke into a sedate stroll, rolling his shoulders like a man without a care in the world. When he turned the corner that would take him out of Gerttown, he began to breathe again. He was considering the theft of a car when a dirty brown Plymouth pulled up beside him. He tried to ignore it.
“Say there, fella, need a ride?” The voice was friendly, kind of country-sounding.
“Naw, man, I don’t—”
The voice spoke again, low, soft, all business. “Get in the car, nigger, or I’ll punch my initials in your back.”
Skeeter froze, slowly turned his head until he saw the blocky, scar-faced black man staring at him over the barrel of a long, slender gun. Coupé pushed open the door. “I’ll leave you layin’ in the gutter if you don’t move.”
“Who are you, mister? I ain’t done nothin’ to you.”
The black man’s bared teeth were like those of a feral dog. “Get in the car.” The words were hard, distinct.
Skeeter willingly gave up his soul to God at that moment. He’d wiggled and squirmed and connived with a criminal, all to end up where he’d started, trapped in a car with a strange, violent man. Ignoring the weight of the gun in his own coat pocket, he eased into the car and shut the door. He was trying to think when something hard struck him over the temple. Daylight brightened to fierce hues of yellow and red before it faded quickly to darkness.
***
Still shaky from his brush with death, Farrell headed Uptown on St. Charles Avenue. He turned toward the river at Jackson Avenue, then continued Uptown on Prytania. Two blocks up he eased the big maroon Packard to a stop under a pair of venerable oaks whose gnarled and knotted roots had turned the sidewalk into a roller-coaster track. A six-foot iron gate in an equally imposing fence was open, allowing him to reach the porch of the granite mansion unimpeded.
A push on the ivory button set into the door frame eventually brought an old man dressed in a morning coat, striped pants, and haughty expression. “Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Gaudain. The name’s Farrell.”
The old man looked him over with a thinly veiled air of suspicion. “May I ask the nature of your call?”
“Tell him Whitman Richards. He’ll understand.”
The old man’s expression didn’t change, but there was a sudden flash of light in his lusterless gray eyes. “One moment.” He gently closed the door in Farrell’s face.
Farrell set fire to a cigarette, smoking leisurely as he leaned his shoulder against one of the massive white columns. He’d smoked it about halfway down when the door opened again. “Mr. Gaudain will see you now.”
Farrell sent the butt spinning out into the yard as he followed the old man down a long hallway to a library. A huge window let in light from a garden that boasted a fountain in which a bronze nymph gamboled under a shower spewed by bronze dolphins. In a leather club chair was a pale slip of a man who sat with his chin cupped thoughtfully in his hand as he examined the nymph. “She’s lovely, don’t you think?” he asked as Farrell approached.
“She’d be the star in any burlesque house in town.”
Up close, Farrell could see the man’s face. The skin had a fragile, rice paper look, his hair platinum. Farrell knew he was yet under forty, but he seemed older, and frail.
“Strange you should say that,” Gaudain replied. “The model was a stripper on Bourbon Street who used the name Torchy LaFlamme. She was my fifth wife—for about ten months.” He paused to allow Farrell to sit down in the chair opposite. “What about Whitman Richards, Mr. Farrell?”
“Someone’s kidnapped his daughter. I have a suspicion that it’s part of a plot to weaken him for a takeover.”
Gaudain’s dry, papery face twitched, almost smiled. “Dear me. Isn’t that just dreadful.” He paused to sip some port from a tiny crystal glass. “It’s so nice of you to bring me the news.”
Farrell got out his cigarette case, offered it to Gaudain, then selected one for himself. He lit it, watching Gaudain’s face. “I guess this is all news to you.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time and money trying to hurt Whitman Richards legally, Mr. Farrell. I’ve backed his opponents in three separate elections, backed Sheriff Marerro’s opponents in two others. All told I’ve spent about a quarter-million trying to ruin that bastardly sonofabitch, and I suppose I’d do it again if I thought there was even the least chance. But kidnapping his child, dear me, no. I wouldn’t even know how to go about such a thing.” He sipped port. “Why are you telling me this?”
Farrell inhaled some smoke, then let it feather out his nostrils. “I’m no friend of Richards’s, Mr. Gaudain. I might even dislike him as much as you do. But I used to be friendly with his wife, and she asked me to help find her daughter after Richards threw the cops off the case.”
Gaudain laughed, shaking his head. “That sounds so like him. I’m sorry for his wife and child, but I don’t know what more I can offer you, Mr. Farrell.”
“Sure about that? I heard someone say that you were staying alive just so you could dance on Richards’s grave.”
“I am not, as you can plainly see, a man of action, Mr. Farrell. Nor have I ever consorted with thugs or gangsters. I might have once, but I didn’t. I know nothing of the kidnapping or anything associated with it.”
Farrell nodded slowly. “Well, knowing that is something, I guess. Richards has a lot of enemies. I think someone here is backing the play of a bigger man who’s masterminding the takeover of Richards’ territory.”
Gaudain held up the decanter of port, offering Farrell some. When Farrell declined, he refilled his glass and took a healthy sip. “Well, I have heard that many people in this town have reason to hate Whitman. I am but one, not that my hatred is by any means inconsiderable. You see, I suspected from the outset that it was Richards who had my uncle killed, even though he masterfully cast the blame on another man, who subsequently left town to escape arrest.”
“Sounds like a story I can believe.”
Gaudain smiled. “It was the man who first approached my uncle about purchasing the refinery. My family opened the first one in this state, did you know that? And Uncle Charles was extraordinarily proud of that heritage. It was his life, you see. He couldn’t possibly give it up.”
“Who was this man?”
“Pete Carson was his name. A big brute of a fellow, but clever. It was he, the police later claimed, who lured my uncle to a meeting up in St. Charles Parish and killed him, left him for the buzzards.”
Farrell sat a bit straighter, intrigued by the story. “Claimed? You don’t think he did it?”
“Well, the entire thing was rather too neat for someone even as gullible as I to believe. It began with the note they found on my uncle’s body which had set the meeting up. It was unsigned, but the handwriting was quite distinct. Then someone came forward who claimed to have seen an automobile leaving the area where my uncle’s body was found. It was quite a distinctive automobile, a dove-gray LaSalle with dark green fenders. An informer later tipped the police that Pete Carson owned such a vehicle. When they investigated further, they found his handwriting on some papers filed with the Notorial Archives that matched the handwriting on the note.”
Farrell rubbed the edge of his jaw. “Pretty damning.”
Gaudain gave him a wintery smile. “Superficially, yes. A private handwriting expert I later had inspect the evidence pronounced it a forgery, albeit a stellar job.”
“I see.”
“When they went to question Carson, he had fled. The subsequent search to find him proved unsuccessful.”
“You believe it’s a frame-up, then.”
Gaudain smiled again. “Well, consider this. The man who reported seeing the car in St. Charles Parish subsequently landed a plum of a job with the State Insurance Commission, a den of thieves run by a cohort of Richards’. The informer who tipped the police was later given a job with the sheriff, as the sheriff’s personal chauffeur.”
“This is beginning to stink.”
“Indeed. Then Whitman proceeded to take advantage of my ignorance, driving away every other buyer who might have had any interest in my uncle’s business. I blame myself for that. I’ve always been rather lazy and knew nothing of what the business was worth. Oh, he offered me a tidy sum, no error, but it was only a fifth of what I could have gotten from the others.” He sighed. “I suppose my efforts to defeat Whitman are merely an outlet for my anger at myself.”
“So nobody knows where this Pete Carson is now.”
“Not precisely. It seems that a year or two later, a man was found cut in half on some railroad tracks in North Dakota. Body was terribly mauled and mutilated. But he had papers identifying him as Pete Carson.”
Farrell raised an eyebrow. “So much for that idea.”
“Perhaps. But you know, Mr. Farrell, I’ve never truly believed Pete Carson was dead. I made some inquiries about him. He was no fool. The police suspected him of any number of capital crimes, but they never found any evidence that would put him in jail. He was ruthless, intelligent, not at all someone who could be tripped up through any fault of his own. His luck was rather too bad to be credible.”
“Meaning what?”
“I sent a private investigator to look into Carson’s supposed death. He reported back that the body was buried without an autopsy. Furthermore, the undertaker who buried him said the man had somehow lost all his fingers—‘perhaps eaten by scavengers’ was his verdict.”
“I get your drift. The body was probably an unlucky hobo that Carson used to cover his tracks.” Farrell crossed his legs, rubbed a thumb along his jaw. “Tell me, Mr. Gaudain. If you went that far with your investigation, why didn’t you turn what you’d found over to the police?”
Gaudain smiled. “Mr. Farrell, were you not acquainted with a police captain named Gus Moroni?”
Farrell blinked as his mind raced back to a night in 1936 when he’d gone into a dark house after a gangster named Ganns and his confederate, Captain Gus Moroni. He remembered vividly the bucking of the gun in his hand as he sent three bullets into the renegade police captain.
“Yes,” Gaudain said softly. “I see you remember. You remember, as well, that Moroni was a blackguard, and that his boss, Emile Ganns, was one of Richards’ supporters. Does that tell you anything?”
Farrell nodded slowly. “Moroni helped Richards cover everything up.”
“Mere speculation, but you’ll grant that there is some basis for it. Might I trouble you for a cigarette now?” He selected one from Farrell’s proffered case, then leaned over to get the light. As he leaned back, exhaling the smoke luxuriously, he pointed a finger at Farrell. “If Carson still lives, I can think of no one who’d hate Richards more than he.”
Farrell stared out the window at the gamboling nymph. “If you’re right, the cops will never figure it out. Carson’s bound to have changed some in ten years. With the police believing he’s dead, there’d be no one looking for him to come back. Not even Richards.”
“Oh, I’m certain Whitman knows who’s stinging him.”
Farrell’s brow puckered. “Any idea why he framed this Carson?”
“Just thieves falling out, I suppose. We may never know, and of course, Whitman would not dare tell the police. He has too many secrets he has to keep hidden.”
Farrell took in some more smoke, let it out gently. “I’m grateful to you for the help, Mr. Gaudain. If you’re right, this is the first good lead in the case.”
Gaudain put the cigarette between his lips, then smoothed an eyebrow with his finger. “Think nothing of it. It’s quite stimulating to have such a famous brigand as yourself visit. I dare say you could tell me some good stories. Perhaps you’ll come again and indulge me.”
