Carla's Revenge Read online

Martha shook her head.

  “He wouldn’t talk to me about it. Said I would worry too much.”

  “Not much to go on,” Eddie said. “What do you want me to do?”

  Martha Franks got off the bed and paced the floor Her face was hard and bitter.

  “I want his killers,” she said. “I want to make them pay for what they’ve done. Not just the men who used the razors—the one behind them. The man who sits back and orders murder so that he can live in luxury. I want you to find the evidence to convict him. I want him to burn!”

  Eddie looked at Martha Franks. He saw a quiet, elderly woman whose husband had been brutally murdered; a woman who had lost everything she held dear because someone had wanted some easy money. He said:

  “I’ll take the job.”

  Martha smiled, a strangely cold smile.

  “I thought you would,” she said. “I was told you were an honest copper, Mr. Gifford. That’s why I wanted you to take the case.”

  She looked round the room, and added:

  “You don’t have to worry about your fee; I’ve got the money to pay you. I’ve sold the business and the house—you can have it all if you get the man I want.”

  Eddie said: “We’ll talk about a fee later. Maybe it won’t be necessary at all. I don’t like thugs who go around beating up old men.”

  “You can have the money,” Mrs. Franks said. “That’s why I sold up—why I’m living in one room. So that I’ve got the money to pay for what I want. Revenge!”

  Eddie wandered over to the door. “I’ll take a look round the Bowery. When I find out anything, I’ll let you know. And don’t worry about the money—you’ll need that to live on.”

  Martha Franks’ face was bitter. “Once I’ve got William’s killer,” she said calmly, “I have no further desire to live. Goodbye, Mr. Gifford.”

  Eddie said: “Call me, Eddie—Ma!”

  He went down the stairs and out into the street, a man with a mission. A mission to track down a killer.

  * * * * * * *

  The cellar under the Water Rat was neither large nor elegant. The stone floor was covered by a thin, worn carpet. The walls were bare. King Logan sat at the wooden table, drinking whisky and watching Carla. His face was a ragged stubble and a cigarette smouldered between his lips.

  Carla was fed up. She was used to a gay time, drinks, and bright lights. Being cooped up in a damp cellar was not her idea of fun. Life in the raw had become a little too raw for Carla.

  Jerry was stretched out on a camp bed. He stared at the ceiling because King didn’t like it when he stared at Carla. Living three in a room was apt to give the third man of the triangle ideas about the woman. King didn’t like it when anyone got ideas about Carla, so Jerry stared at the ceiling and chain-smoked. He, too, would be glad when they could move out of the Water Rat.

  Carla pulled on her stockings and fixed the suspenders. She wriggled into the black velvet dress and brushed her hair. She wasn’t feeling her best because she wasn’t looking her best. Her raven-black hair needed brushing, her face needed a new coat of make-up. Above everything else, she wanted a bath.

  She slipped into high-heeled shoes, wrapped the cape about her shoulders. She picked up her handbag, feeling the comforting bulge of the revolver it contained.

  King said: “You didn’t oughta leave, baby. It’s damn dangerous.”

  Carla flared up: “I’m fed up here. We’ve been stuck in this filthy hole for three days. I want to hit the high spots again!”

  King didn’t say anything. He went on watching her, his right hand sprawled loosely across the table top. His missing finger made him look like a sinister ogre brooding over his victim.

  “Don’t worry,” Carla said, “I can look after myself. And I may find out one or two things for you. You’d like to know what Shapirro’s doing, wouldn’t you? I’ll be able to pick up some useful information.”

  King appeared to consider it.

  “Yeah,” he grunted, “there’s something in that. Maybe you can find out a few things.”

  Carla smiled in a satisfied way. He wasn’t going to be difficult about it.

  “I’ll be more help to you outside,” she said softly. “I can bring you the news, tell you when it’s safe to leave, find another hideout. Then you can get a gang together and go after Shapirro.”

  King held her close, his hands roving over her lovely figure. He kissed her savagely.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s OK. And when you come back—” he kissed her again— “we’ll go to town in a big way. You and me—once I’ve fixed that smooth shyster Shapirro!”

  Jerry sat up. He took the cigarette from his mouth and said:

  “If she comes back! I don’t like it, King.…”

  King swore and released Carla. He swung across the room and hit Jerry across the mouth, knocking him flat on the bed.

  “You shut up!” he snarled. “Carla’s coming back. You’ve nothing to worry about. Carla loves me, don’t you baby?”

  Carla laughed softly.

  “That’s right, King.… I love you!”

  She handed Jerry a cold look.

  “I’ll be back, Jerry—I promise you that.…”

  Jerry didn’t say any more. Carla went over to the door and unbarred it.

  King said: “Don’t get any ideas, baby. If you double-cross me, I’ll spoil that beautiful face of yours. I’ll come after you and nothing’ll stop me getting you. I don’t like double-crossers.”

  Carla smiled. She said:

  “I’ll be back.”

  And went through the door, out of the cellar. She heard King bar the door behind her. Yes, thought Carla, I’ll be back—with Shapirro!

  She went along the stone passage and up the stairs. There was no one to see her and she slipped out by a side door. It was evening. The sky was dark and a mist rolled in off the river, hiding her from the sailors going into the Water Rat by another entrance. She heard the sound of women’s voices welcoming them.

  Carla glided swiftly along the riverfront, drawing her dark cape tighter about her. She cut down side streets to the subway and took the train to Brooklyn. She wanted to get herself smartened up before she saw Rufus Waldemar, and she didn’t think anyone would be watching King’s old apartment, not after three days. They wouldn’t be expecting him back.

  She went into the Royal by the back entrance and took the service elevator up to King’s floor. She let herself in, went quickly through the rooms to ensure no one was there. Then she stripped off her clothes and ran hot water.

  She relaxed in hot, soapy suds, enjoying life. It was good to lay back in a bath once more, after the dirt and squalor of the tiny cellar under the Water Rat. Carla dried herself and selected clean clothes: dainty net panties and brassiere to match; black silk stockings and high-heels; a white dress that left her shoulders bare and dropped in flattering lines about her waist and hips. She brushed her soft black hair till it gleamed, fashioned her lips in crimson. She checked the revolver and slipped it back into her black leather handbag—then she was ready to see Waldemar. And Shapirro.

  King said that Shapirro operated on West Side, and that’s where she went. She took the Chevy across Manhattan, driving along Broadway, cutting across Seventh Avenue to the riverfront.

  A different riverfront from East Side. Here, the avenues were wide and well-lit; skyscrapers lifted to the night sky, a sky bright with lights and colour. The men wore evening suits and flashed well-filled wallets; the women were exotic, glamorous. This was the quarter where millionaires played.

  Carla selected the Paradise Club, an exclusive nighterie overlooking the Hudson. It was a chromium and glitter affair with gambling tables, secluded corners, and several bars. A cabaret was in progress and a line of girls danced across the floor in very little clothing. The men liked it.

  Carla perched herself at a bar and watched for Waldemar. She had an idea this was the sort of place he’d frequent She was sipping a highball, waiting, when a man approach
ed. Carla ignored him. She was used to men getting ideas about her, and she was only interested in Rufus Waldemar at the moment. But this man refused to be ignored. He gripped her arm and said:

  “I want to talk to you in private. Let’s go outside.”

  Carla was amused by his direct approach.

  “Beat it!” she laughed. “Or I’ll call a chucker-out!”

  The man said: “I wouldn’t do that. Not if you don’t want your father to learn about you and King Logan.”

  Carla went cold. She put down her glass and looked steadily at the man. He wasn’t much to look at and his clothes were shiny. He had an oily face, a sly manner, but it was his eyes that annoyed her most of all. They wouldn’t stay focused in one place but went wandering all over the room as he spoke to her.

  “My name’s Piggot,” he said. “I’m a private investigator employed by your father. Now, do we talk?”

  Carla nodded.

  “Let’s go onto the veranda, by the river,” she suggested.

  Piggot followed her through the French windows. The dance band had started a swing number and the discordant noise followed them outside. Carla stopped by the water’s edge, in the shadow of a maple tree. There was no one else about and the sound of the dance band would prevent their being overheard.

  “Well?” she said. “What do you want?”

  Piggot grinned.

  “Shall we say, seventy-five thousand. For a start?”

  Carla looked at Piggot, then down into the dark waters. She knew she was being blackmailed.

  “The cops would like to know where King Logan’s hiding out,” Piggot said smoothly. “So would Shapirro. You know—and I know! You see, Carla, I’ve been trailing you for the past few days. Your father was afraid you might get into trouble, that’s why he asked me to keep an eye on you. It’s my duty to tell him what I know—unless.…”

  He paused.

  “Shapirro would pay plenty to learn of Logan’s hideout. You cut me in and maybe I won’t tell your father everything. Maybe.”

  Carla said: “You know my father’s suffering with heart trouble. If you told him about me, the shock would kill him. It would be murder.”

  Piggot shrugged.

  “In that case,” he said casually, “you’d better pay me.”

  Carla was furious that her father should hire this greasy pig to watch her movements; then she remembered that Old Matthew Bowman would die if Piggot ever reported back. He couldn’t be allowed to report back.

  Carla hadn’t been around with King for nothing. She knew how to deal with Piggot. Her hands felt the shape of the revolver in her handbag and she smiled in the darkness. She turned her head; they were alone. The dance band, swinging into a hot number, was making enough noise to cover up the sound of a shot.

  “Well,” demanded Piggot. “How about it? Do you give me the money—or do I go to your father?”

  Carla unfastened her bag. Her hand curled round the ivory butt of the .32. She brought it out, gently eased off the safety catch.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I’ll give you what you’re asking for—now!”

  She rammed the barrel into his chest and jerked the trigger. The gun kicked back in her hand; the explosion was muffled by his clothes and the noise from the dance band.

  The red flame didn’t show as the lead slug singed Piggot’s clothes and tore into his flesh.

  He swayed, moaning a little, holding his hands over his chest. He staggered back from Carla, sagging. Carla gave him a push and he went over the side of the veranda into the river. He made a splash as he hit the water but no one took any notice. Piggot didn’t make another sound as he sank into the Hudson. His blood discoloured the water slightly but was soon washed away.

  Carla slipped her revolver back in her handbag. She stood looking down into the water, smiling. Old Matthew Bowman would never learn anything from him. Carla felt elated, almost drunk. It was the first time she’d killed anyone herself and she was excited about it. She felt—

  “You know,” drawled a quiet voice behind her, “even lovely young girls are not supposed to shoot their admirers at the Paradise Club!”

  Carla gasped, and turned to face Rufus Waldemar.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Waldemar swung his gold-tipped cane with a jaunty air. His handsome face was half in shadow and his blond hair gleamed in the reflected light from the nightclub.

  Carla hastily composed herself. She said, easily:

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Really?” Waldemar seemed politely incredulous. “Not,” he added, “to shoot me, I hope?”

  Carla said: “I want to see Shapirro.”

  Waldemar smiled and swung his cane.

  “An odd coincidence. Mr. Shapirro wants to see you. It should be quite a party.”

  He sauntered closer and looked over the veranda into the water. But the man who had gone over had drifted downstream and there was nothing visible to mark the spot.

  “Tell me,” Waldemar said politely, “who was he? An old beau you got tired of? A wolf with persistence? Or did he just have the kind of face you can’t stand?”

  Carla said: “His name was Piggot and he was a private detective. He was trying to blackmail me.”

  “Ah,” purred the blond man, “a detective. That accounts for the fact he was watching Logan’s apartment—as I was myself. He followed you, and I followed him. Quite amusing really. If it’s any satisfaction to you, I am strongly in favour of your shooting every detective you meet, but be careful of blackmailers—some of my best friends indulge in that pursuit!”

  “Let’s get away from here,” Carla said impatiently.

  Waldemar laughed softly.

  “From the scene of the crime? You know, the police have a theory that a murderer always returns to the scene of his crime. Personally, I never do.…”

  He took her handbag, opened it. He removed the revolver and put it in his pocket, then returned the bag.

  “I feel safer,” he murmured, “when the girl I’m with is unarmed.”

  His manner changed abruptly. He caught her in his arms and pressed his mouth firmly on hers.

  “Lovely,” he crooned, “so lovely.…”

  Carla couldn’t get away. She found he was remarkably strong for so slender a man. His arms gripped her with bruising force as he kissed her, kissed her long and hard.

  Carla relaxed and let her vibrant form press against him.

  “Cut that out, Glenn,” another voice said sharply. “We’ve no time to waste.”

  Carla looked over Waldemar’s shoulder. She gave a little cry of surprise when she saw another man, identical in build and face. He, too, had blond hair, a debonair manner, and was dressed in grey. He, too, swung a gold-tipped cane.

  The man who had been kissing Carla said:

  “You always interfere at the wrong moment, Rufus. And I wasn’t wasting time—that would be impossible with any girl so beautiful as Carla!”

  Carla looked at them and wondered which was which.

  The newcomer said:

  “I’m Rufus—we met in Joe Mazzini’s shop, remember?”

  Carla nodded. The first man said:

  “I’m Glenn Waldemar—we’re twin brothers. Confusing, isn’t it?”

  Rufus said, impatiently: “The car’s waiting. Carla, you’re coming with us to see Shapirro.”

  They moved into the light and Carla saw that the twins were identical—except for one odd detail. Rufus had blue eyes; Glenn had one blue and one brown eye. It gave an odd, menacing cast to his handsome face.

  The Waldemar twins took Carla through the club to the black Rolls that waited by the curb. The driver wore a drape suit and a hard face. Carla sat between the twins as the Rolls moved off.

  Glenn offered Carla a cigarette, which she accepted. She lay back in the car, smoking.

  “You know, Carla,” he said softly, “I hope you and I are going to get better acquainted.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Rufus said
to his twin brother. “Shapirro doesn’t like his women to be mauled around.”

  Carla snapped: “I’m nobody’s woman!”

  Neither Rufus nor Glenn replied, but Glenn’s face went sullen. The black Rolls skirted Central Park and crossed the East River by the Queensboro Bridge. On Long Island it headed north, travelling with speed along the broad highway.

  The moon came out, flooding the countryside with silvery light, giving the trees a ghostly appearance. Carla sat tight, wondering what Shapirro was going to be like. She’d heard a lot about him, now she was going to learn for herself.

  She wasn’t afraid. She felt confident she could hold any man’s attention with her beauty; knew, too, that he would be interested in King’s hideout. He’d be grateful if she told him where to find King and Jerry. Carla smiled contentedly.

  She had no doubt that Shapirro would take her into his gang. It was a pity King would have to die, but there’d be compensations—Shapirro would see to that. Or, maybe, Glenn Waldemar. She thought Glenn would be a worthy successor to King.

  The Rolls had reached a flat stretch of open country. To the right, an expanse of yellow-brown sand stretched to the sea. Inland, the sand merged into wild scrub­land. They were very near the northernmost tip of Long Island, Montauk Point, where Shapirro had his headquarters.

  She saw the house in the distance, gleaming palely in the moonlight. It stood on top of a rise, a vast, rambling house surrounded by a high wall. The far side ran to the cliff edgen and the Atlantic breakers pounded the rocks below.

  The Rolls stopped at the gate. Carla watched steel doors open, saw the guards with tommy-guns. heard the baying of dogs. As the car took her up the drive to Shapirro’s house, she had a moment of uneasiness. If things didn’t go as she planned, it wasn’t going to be easy to get out. It was going to be impossible.

  She went into the house, through a wide door, escorted by the twins. They took her through a hallway tiled in black, and white. The walls were a flat white, the ceiling dead black. Concealed lighting cast sombre shadows on the wide staircase that spiraled upwards.

  The balcony was black and white; exquisite statuettes of black jade perched in alcoves; silver figurines gleamed against velvet backcloths. The lighting did weird things to the black-and-white motif.