Carla's Revenge Page 6

  Jerry rubbed his bruised lips and lit a fresh cigarette. He watched King Logan bolt the door after Carla had left. He said:

  “I don’t like it. I don’t trust that dame.”

  King snarled: “Shaddup!”

  Jerry dragged on his cigarette, watching King. He couldn’t understand the way King felt about Carla. Sure, she was a looker, had a swell form and class, but hell, a guy didn’t have to act like she was the only dame in the world. Jerry had made plenty of dames—but he didn’t drool over them. When he’d had his fun, he kicked them out—fast.

  He said: “What’s eatin’ yuh, King? She’s double-crossing us, all right—she’ll be running to Shapirro and leading him straight here. You gonna wait to be rubbed out?”

  King hurled an empty glass at Jerry.

  “Carla’s OK,” he snapped. “You shut up about her— she’ll be back.”

  He slumped in his seat and tossed back a tumbler of whisky. His close-set eyes gleamed in the yellow light and he rubbed an unshaven jaw with his hand; the missing finger made his hand appear like a malformed claw.

  “Carla’s all right,” he repeated.

  Jerry didn’t say any more. He looked round the tiny cellar and began to think how much it was like a prison. The thin carpet and bare walls; the single door. If Shapirro’s mob found them, they wouldn’t have a chance. They’d be like animals in a trap, waiting to be executed.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He swung his feet off the bed, onto the ground. He stood up, moved over to the door.

  King watched him suspiciously.

  “You going someplace, Jerry?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m getting outa here. You can stay for that crazy dame to bring Shapirro’s killers here—not me. I’m getting out while I can still walk.”

  “Carla won’t double-cross me,” King said. “Sit down and take it easy. Carla’s one dame I trust.”

  Jerry said: “Nuts!”

  King watched him unbar the door and fury swept over him. Jerry had kept in line all the while things had been going smoothly; now that they were on the run, he wanted to get out. Desert him. King’s lips curled. He no longer had any use for Jerry.

  He brought out his .45, pointed it at Jerry’s back. Smiling coldly, he squeezed the trigger. The shot boomed deafeningly in the tiny cellar. The heavy slug tore into the small of Jerry’s back, the soft nose spreading out. King always used slugs with soft noses because they killed slower and gave more pain.

  Jerry writhed on the floor, moaning, a bloody froth bubbling from his thin lips. He twisted sideways, brought out his .22, aimed it at the man who had shot him in the back.

  King fired again, sent the .22 target gun sliding across the floor. He went over and kicked Jerry in the guts.

  “You cheap, yellow four-flusher,” he snarled. “No one says my dame is a double-crosser!”

  Jerry winced, and began cursing. Then King squeezed the trigger again.

  Jerry’s head was almost blown off by the shot. His body convulsed once, then lay still. King stood over him, his face dark; Jerry wasn’t going to walk out on anyone again.

  It was strangely quiet after the echoes had died away; the air was acrid with cordite fumes. King looked down at the corpse, thinking: he couldn’t stay at the Water Rat now. He had to get away, find another hideout. And get in touch with Carla.

  He went through the door and along the cellar. Steps took him up to ground level and he let himself out by a side door. No one saw him leave. Outside, it was dark. The night air was cold on his skin and the river lapped at the jetty a little way off.

  King moved swiftly, silently, along the dingy streets of the Battery. He had made up his mind. He was going out to Mount Vernon, to Carla’s home. He’d stay there till she showed up. It would be a good hideout—Shapirro wouldn’t think to look for him there. And it would make a swell headquarters when he got a new gang together. If Carla’s old man started anything, well, it would be just too bad for him.…

  King stole a car and drove north to Mount Vernon He ditched the car where it would give no clue to his destination and started walking. He didn’t mind doing the rest of the journey on foot—not with a safe hideout waiting at the end of it.

  He swung along the road, his face brightening as he thought of Carla. She was a swell dame, society too. It would be nice to hold her again, to feel her cool lips against his. Maybe she’d be waiting for him at Mount Vernon…he began to hurry.

  * * * * * * *

  Sunlight streamed its brilliance over the Mount Vernon hills as Eddie Gifford swung his car up the drive leading to Matthew Bowman’s home. Eddie decided he liked the house. It was quiet, an old Colonial mansion, with wide windows and stone terraces. Ramblers clung to the stone face and twined about the pillars.

  Eddie went up the steps and thumbed a bell push. The butler was smooth-shaven and plump. Eddie handed him his card and said:

  “Is Carla at home?”

  The butler stiffened.

  “Miss Bowman,” he replied distantly, “is away.”

  Eddie stuck his foot in the door to prevent the butler closing it in his face.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Bowman,” he said, smiling.

  “Mr. Bowman,” said the butler, stiffly, “is not well. He does not see visitors.”

  Eddie leaned on the door a little, and walked inside.

  “Suppose you take him my card and ask if he’ll see me,” he suggested. “Tell him I want to have a talk with his daughter.”

  The butler hesitated.

  “Miss Carla,” he asked, “is she in some kind of trouble?”

  Eddie shrugged.

  “Maybe. I could tell better if I knew where to find her.”

  The butler seemed to be struggling with his conscience. At last, he padded softly upstairs, returning shortly.

  “Mr. Bowman,” he said, “will see you. This way.”

  Eddie followed him up the stairs and along a passage. The butler paused outside an oak panelled door.

  “I hope you’ll excuse me mentioning it, sir,” he said apologetically, “but the master’s heart…he is in no condition to hear anything unpleasant. The shock would be too much for him.”

  Eddie nodded gravely.

  “I’ll watch it,” he said, and went in.

  Matthew Bowman was sitting up in bed waiting for him.

  Eddie saw the proud, high forehead, the faded eyes; saw too, the lines of worry etched across the parchment face.

  “Carla?” said the old man in a pleading voice. “She’s not in trouble?”

  Eddie thought she might be, but he didn’t say so.

  “Not so far as I know,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve never met your daughter, Mr. Bowman—but I’d like to.”

  “Your card,” Old Matthew croaked. “You’re a detective—”

  “Private investigator—nothing to do with the police,” Eddie replied. “A client of mine wishes to trace a man called King Logan. I was told that your daughter might be able to help me locate him, that’s all—a routine investigation.”

  Matthew Bowman didn’t seem as relieved as he should have been. He studied Eddie carefully; his tanned face and steady brown eyes, the humorous quirk to his mouth.

  He seemed satisfied with what he saw.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone called Logan—my daughter’s never mentioned him.” Old Matthew brooded a while, then added: “Mr. Gifford, have you ever met a private detective named Piggot?”

  Eddie shook his head.

  “I hired him to keep an eye on Carla,” Bowman said. “She’s young and a little—er—wild, and I was afraid she was in some kind of trouble. Piggot was supposed to report back to me. He hasn’t—and I haven’t heard anything from Carla. I’m worried about it.”

  Eddie thought: a tec watching Carla—and he’d disappeared. With Carla running with Logan, and Shapirro cutting in on them, it was only too likely that Piggot had stopped a lead slug. He didn’t think Bowman would be hearing from Piggot.
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  “Do you know where I can find Carla?” he asked. “Or where Piggot went before he stopped reporting?”

  Matthew Bowman shook his head.

  “Carla comes and goes as she pleases,” he grumbled. “I never know where she is. And Piggot never reported at all.”

  Eddie sighed. It looked as if all the leads were blind. He was getting nowhere.

  “I’d like to hire you to find Carla,” Old Matthew said, struggling with the words. “Help her if she’s in some kind of jam. She’s all I’ve got and I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  Eddie looked at Matthew Bowman. He felt sorry for the old man; he didn’t look the sort of man who deserved the kind of daughter he had.

  “I can’t take on two jobs at the same time,” he replied. “It isn’t ethical—but if I run across Carla, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can persuade her to return to the fold.”

  Bowman sighed with relief.

  “I wish you would, Mr. Gifford.”

  Eddie shook the old man’s band and left the room. Outside, he went down the stairs and out to his car.

  He didn’t think it likely he’d be able to do anything with Carla. Not if she were in deep with King Logan. Not if Shapirro was gunning for her. He shook his head sadly: Bowman was due for a shock in the near future and Eddie doubted if he’d get over it. He wouldn’t have betted on Matthew Bowman living to a ripe old age.

  He drove slowly back to the big city. What now? He still had to find Logan somehow. And Carla, where was she? With King? Or had Shapirro found them first?

  Eddie found a bar and did some steady drinking. It didn’t help him find Logan or get anything on William Franks’ killer, but it did stop him wondering about an old man whose daughter had gone wild. And that was something.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  First there was a grey mist. She floated slowly to the surface, wondering if it were all a dream. Consciousness came back by degrees. She was aware of a blinding light that filtered through the mist, hurting her eyes. Strange objects floated about and, after a time, settled into the walls of a room. Strange walls that might have been padded with rubber-sponge.

  She was in bed, tightly tucked in. Something coarse chaffed her skin, irritating her. She moved, slowly because her body didn’t seem to respond properly; her arms crawled sluggishly. She struggled into a sitting position, feeling her body with her hands.

  Where was she? The pyjamas she wore were made of rough linen; it had been this that irritated her. She tried to get out of bed and found she couldn’t—something dragged on her leg. With difficulty, she felt under the clothes, ran her hand down her leg till it touched a metal band fixed round her ankle. A chain ran from the metal band to the end of the bed.

  Why was she chained? She tried to think clearly—even had trouble remembering her own name. Then it came back to her. Carla.

  Her arm hurt. She pulled up the sleeve of the pyjama jacket and rubbed the spot. There was a tiny mark as if a needle had been jabbed in, and this worried her. She couldn’t remember—

  She must have had an accident, that was it. She was in hospital. But they wouldn’t have chained her to the bed. Her eyes fixed on the padded walls again…padded! She caught her breath. Surely she couldn’t be—insane?

  It hit her, jolted her out of the grey mist. She became aware that she wasn’t alone in the room. There was another bed with another girl—a blonde. This girl was pretty, except for the lack of expression on her face. She had a smooth skin and the sort of figure showgirls have. She too, was chained. She was murmuring, over and over, in a dull monotone:

  “I must do as my lord commands. I must do as my lord commands.”

  Over and over, without stopping, without varying her tone. It got on Carla’s nerves. She snapped:

  “Shut up!”

  The other girl took no notice. She went on muttering to herself. Carla studied the room more closely. Yes, she was in a padded cell—there could be no doubt about it. The walls and floor were quite bare except for the rubber-sponge. The steel door looked quite immovable and, through the slots in a metal grille, she looked out into a whitewashed corridor.

  Her bed was fixed rigidly to the floor and she was chained to the bed. The bright light came from a concealed tube high in the ceiling, far out of reach. She began to panic. How long had she been like this? She wasn’t mad—she felt all right now. They had no right to keep her chained up. She calmed herself. The doctor would see she wasn’t insane when he came, then she’d be released. She told herself this several times.

  The other girl was still muttering:

  “I must do as my lord commands.… I must do as my lord commands.”

  Carla began to feel annoyed with her. Why couldn’t she stop? The blonde must be insane—the doctor had no right to confine her in the same room. She’d complain about it.

  Meanwhile, she had to lie there and listen. It seemed to go on for hours, then—

  A key grated in the lock of the steel door. The door opened and a man came in. He was dressed in white like a hospital orderly. Carla thought: they ought to have female nurses.

  He was a broad, tough-looking man with a battered face.

  “So you’ve come round,” he said, looking at Carla. “About time too.”

  Carla said: “I’m all right now. I’m not mad. I demand to see the doctor.”

  The male nurse took no notice of her. He pulled back the bedclothes and unfastened the metal band round her ankle.

  “Get up,” he grunted. “You’re to take a bath. Doctor Arnaud is coming to see you, and he likes his patients to be bathed before he touches them.”

  Carla flared up: “I am clean! I want to see the doctor now!”

  He pushed her out through the door and locked it behind him.

  “To save you worrying,” he said. “The doors at each end of the passage are locked. You can’t get out, so don’t try.”

  Carla looked down the white-walled corridor. There was an impressive steel door at each end. She didn’t try to run.

  The man marched her along the passage and unlocked another door. Beyond it was the bathroom. He ran hot water and said:

  “Strip, baby!”

  Carla glared at him.

  “Not with you here,” she retorted.

  The man sneered at her.

  “Don’t worry about me, baby.”

  Carla defied him.

  “I won’t undress,” she said. “I demand to see the doctor!”

  The man grunted and grabbed hold of her. He dragged her to the bath and shoved her head under water, holding her down until she went limp. Carla gurgled, choking. She began to black out. He hauled her out again and slapped her face till she came to.

  “No arguments,” he said, “or you’ll get the same again. Now, strip—and wash yourself!”

  Carla sucked down air into her lungs. She panted with fury.

  “I’ll report you to the doctor,” she snapped. “You can’t treat patients like that.”

  He laughed.

  “This is a very special kind of a hospital. A sanatorium—a nuthouse. The doc knows we have to rough you a little, so it won’t do you any good to cry about it.”

  Carla turned her back on him while she took off her jacket. She dropped her pyjama trousers and plunged into the water and began washing herself. The male nurse leaned against the wall, smoking and watching her.

  “He sure knows how to pick ’em,” he grunted. “I get tired of seeing so much beauty. Come on, hurry it up—we ain’t got all day.”

  Carla got out of the bath and took the towel he handed her. She dried herself and stepped into the pyjamas.

  “Where are my own clothes?” she demanded.

  The male nurse grinned.

  “Baby, when you were delivered here, all you had on were panties and stockings and brassiere. Very nice too—I gave the stuff to a cute little blonde I know. She looks swell in black net!”

  Carla’s eyes blazed—to think that this brute had undressed her…s
he shuddered. He took her back to the cell where the other girl was still muttering to herself. Carla got back into bed and watched him fasten the ankle band again. She bit her lip.

  “Do I have to have that on?” she wanted to know.

  “Sure baby—you nuts get wild at times!”

  “I’m not crazy,” Carla said, “I’m not!”

  She said it again, calmly. It suddenly seemed very important to convince this man that she was sane.

  “I’m perfectly all right,” she insisted.

  “Sure baby—I know.”

  He leaned against the door waiting. When he heard the sound of the far passage door opening, he ground out his cigarette and straightened up.

  “Now, no trouble now or I’ll get rough. The doc’s coming.”

  Doctor Arnaud was a dapper man with a neat moustache. He came in briskly, carrying a case that he gave to the male nurse. All his movements were brisk. He seemed like a man who had to go somewhere in a hurry.

  “All ready, Jordan?” he asked.

  “She’s had her bath—looked swell too.”

  “Shapirro likes them that way,” Dr. Arnaud remarked.

  Shapirro!

  Carla shot up in bed with a startled cry. At the sound of the name, her memory came back. It was like a key turning in a lock. She remembered everything. Her father. King. The twins. Piggot—she’d killed him. And the crazy house with the black-and-white motif, and Sylvester Shapirro and his strange desires and lovely girls. She remembered Phyllis—and Shapirro doping her.

  Dr. Arnaud looked at her sharply.

  “It’s come back, eh? Queer bow the dope affects some girls more than others.” Carla didn’t know whether he was speaking to her, Jordan, or muttering to himself. “Some girls go under quickly—some have to have the stuff pumped into them for months. But it drains them all in time.”

  “Let me out of here,” Carla pleaded. “I don’t want to be like the others. I don’t—”

  Jordan hit her across the mouth, knocking her flat.

  “Shaddup!” he growled.

  Dr. Arnaud opened the case and took out a hypodermic. He filled it with professional quickness.

  “Hold her down, Jordan—I’ll give her another shot now.”

  Carla tried to get away. She came off the bed in a hurry, forgetting the chain round her ankle. Stabbing pain shot through her leg and she fell flat on her face. Jordan picked her up and slung her back on the bed.