McHugh Page 2
“Huh.” McHugh winced inwardly. The Door was no place to even mention a classified project. “There’s been no trace of Johnny or his car. Could be a good sign.”
“I don’t see…”
“Just a guess,” McHugh said. “I say he’s pulling a sneak—nobody kidnapped him. I don’t know yet what his current project is, but I know the field he works in and I know the Russians have their own versions of mechanisms he’d logically be assigned to. Theirs work at least as well as what we have. Johnny lives high, and I’ve heard more than one tough apple is holding his paper. Maybe somebody said ‘pay’ and he couldn’t, so he took off until he could figure something out. If this somebody was putting the arm on him, they wouldn’t mess with that car. It’s a one-of-a-kind job. It would have been dumped in the first available parking space. But there’s no sign of it, so I say Johnny’s hidden both himself and Mr. Pierce’s Arrow.”
“I’ll believe it, McHugh. But Nadine won’t.”
McHugh shrugged. “I won’t try to sell it to her until I hear what she has to say. Think she’s home?”
“She was a couple of hours ago.”
“I’ll stop by. Call you back here if I finish up before you close. Otherwise I’ll see you at home.”
“Mm-m-mmm…yes.” Her mouth brushed his, and her tongue speared between his lips. “Thanks, McHugh.”
For nothing.” He took the attaché case back to the men’s room, strapped the Browning automatic that was in it over his left hip and phoned for a taxi. The sweet aftertaste of her lipstick was with him as he went through the bar.
Loris was at the keyboard again as he pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the drizzle to wait for the cab. The fog was still riding the freshening wind off the bay. It made a gauzy halo around the street light on the corner. When he got in the cab he wondered how many eyes were watching from darkened windows.
The apartment was a top-floor efficiency in a row house with a view of the waterfront McHugh hunched his shoulders against the chill and climbed the stone steps to the entrance. The outer door was unlocked. He crossed a dim-lighted foyer to the stairway. The house had been built in the Twenties, and there were three apartments on each of the two lower floors and two smaller ones crammed under the sloping roof. He heard radios or teevees going behind closed doors and the sound of at least one party. He found Nadine Andersen’s door and pushed the bell.
McHugh heard familiar chimes, and then nothing. He jammed his finger on the button again. There was no response, and he tried to recall if lights had been showing in the windows when he left the cab. He took a small leather case from a pocket, studied the lock and selected a thin strip of steel. He manipulated it between the door and the jamb. There was a faint click, and he pushed the door open and slipped inside. The Browning was in his fist when he snapped the light switch.
He was spinning to his right, hoping Nadine hadn’t shifted the furniture, as the light came on. He banged into a chair and sprawled on the grass mat carpet. He rolled, got his feet under him and swung the gun in a short arc as his eyes covered the room.
The man on the couch stared at him,
McHugh swore. The apartment was a mess. The chair he’d hit was overturned, and padding bulged through knife slashes in what had been fine leather. The drawers of a small desk and their contents had been dumped on the floor. Nadine’s collection of charcoal sketches had been ripped from the pine-paneled walls and added to the pile. So had clothes and whatever had been on the shelves of the small kitchen. Corn flakes, flour, smashed crackers and prepared mixes were strewn about.
The man on the couch was still staring. He was a big man. The knife beside him was big, too. About the right size, McHugh thought, to have made the gaping hole in his throat.
McHugh’s lips pursed in a quiet whistle as he studied the splotches of blood. There was a lot of it about five feet up the wall by the couch. It had run down to the couch, drenching it in red. Stepping carefully to avoid spots on the floor, he touched the body. There was still some warmth, and McHugh guessed the man had been dead about an hour. He searched his memory and concluded he’d never seen the man before.
He backed away and checked the kitchenette and bath. They were empty. He went to the door, eased it open and eyed the deserted hallway. His tumble over the chair apparently hadn’t disturbed other residents of the building. He went out, locked the door again and moved silently down the stairs. There was a phone booth in the lobby, and he called a cab.
The service station half a block from The Door was closed, but it had an outside phone booth. He paid the cabbie, found a Him, and dialed the night number of the FBI.
Nick Foote answered. McHugh gave him the address of the apartment and said, “There’s a dead guy there.”
“Hold it, mister,” Foote said sharply. “You should’ve called the city police, not us. Give me your name, and I’ll have them send an officer by. Where are you calling—”
“Can it,” McHugh interrupted. “You want a guy named Stover. The stiffs in his girl’s pad.”
He hung up while Foote was still talking and walked briskly toward the dim-lighted sign over The Door. It was almost closing time, and there were no customers left. The bartender was wiping glasses. He saw Loris in profile at the piano bar. She sat without moving, eyes directed downward at the cup of coffee in front of her. There was another woman with her. Nadine.
McHugh thought of the way the man in the apartment had died, and he needed a drink. He went behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of bourbon and a couple of glasses.
“Hey!” The barkeep dropped his cloth and started for McHugh. “What’s the big—”
Loris swung around on her stool and called, “It’s all right, George.”
“Yeah…He stared at McHugh, then shrugged.
McHugh put the glasses on the piano, splashed whisky into them and the coffee. Loris watched him intently.
“McHugh…what’s happened?”
He nodded toward the glasses. “Better have a jolt.”
They looked at the expression in his eyes and drank. Nadine made a face at the taste of the straight liquor. She gasped and said, “Hi, McHugh.”
“Hello, little sister.” He got a cigarette going and studied her face in the light of the match. It was fuller than Loris’, but the mouth was the same. Nadine’s hair was the same pale blonde, but cut shorter and curled. “Been here long?”
She looked at her watch. “About twenty minutes.”
“How about before that?”
“What do you mean?” There was an edge of anxiety in her voice.
“The past few hours. Say from ten-thirty on?”
“McHugh—what’s the matter?” Loris said.
“Quiet, honey. Please.” He turned to Nadine. “Well?”
“Fisherman’s Wharf. Why?”
“In a bar? How long?”
“I got there about eleven o’clock in my car. I didn’t go into any of the places. I was waiting in a parking lot.”
McHugh sighed. “For Johnny, maybe?”
Nadine’s hazel eyes narrowed. “No. Well, not exactly. I had a phone call earlier. A man said Johnny wanted to see me but couldn’t come to the apartment. I asked why, and he said he couldn’t explain over the phone. He told me where to go and wait. He said not to get impatient because Johnny might be late…McHugh, what’s happened?”
“Somebody got you out of your apartment so they could search it. A dead man got left behind.”
“Johnny?” She trembled, and her fingers curled into fists. He thought she might scream.
“No. I didn’t know him,” McHugh said quickly. “He looked like a wrong type.”
“McHugh…Loris’ voice trailed off. The bartender was coming up, and she shook her head. He went back to his glasses, and she said softly, “Oh, God….”
Nadine was shaking, staring vacantly at the curtain behind the piano. McHugh poured more liquor into her glass, and she drank it without a word. He got up and said, “We better move out smartly. I expect a team of inspectors from Homicide will be making a call here soon.”
“Oh, no,” she blurted. “McHugh, I don’t even—”
McHugh squeezed her hand. “Sure, little sister. You don’t know a thing. But unless you want to spend the rest of the night talking to cops, you better come with me.” He caught Loris watching him and said, “With us.”
“Wait,” Loris said. “She’ll have to tell her story sometime.”
“No doubt.” McHugh took another small drink. “In a couple of hours the cops will likely decide no woman did that killing. Homicide will pick Nadine’s brains and turn her loose. Until I know who the corpse is, or rather was, and what he was doing there, I don’t want Nadine walking around.”
“There was nothing in the place for anyone to take, McHugh,” Nadine said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Your true love hasn’t made muster for a couple of weeks, and he’s being looked for. I don’t know how many people are looking, but at least one of them must have thought he left something behind at your place,” McHugh said firmly. “Make that two people. The dead man and the killer. That pad’s really torn apart, and I don’t think whatever was being hunted got itself found. The lookers could figure you’ve got it or know where it is.”
Loris swung her long legs down from the stool. She went to an alcove and came back belting a transparent raincoat around her waist. “The car’s in back, McHugh. Where do we go? The apartment?”
McHugh grabbed his attaché case. “Just to meet the cops?” He rubbed his heavy jaw in thought. “I know a motel that should be good for a few hours.”
Nadine slung a gabardine raincoat over her shoulders and tucked her short hair under a Basque beret. McHugh hustled them through the back door of the bar into a station wagon parked in the alley. He slid behind the wheel, held his hand out and said, “Keys.”
He gunned the motor, backed the car around and headed for the Marina. The wipers slapped at the thinning rain. They passed a black-and-white police cruiser that was rolling fast in the direction of The Door.
The motel was on the rim of the Bay, with a parking area shielded from the street by the double-decked buildings. The vacancy sign was on, but the manager was asleep. He shuffled into the office in striped pajamas and bathrobe and gave McHugh a baleful look.
McHugh fingered a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, put it on the counter and reached for a registration card. “Connecting doubles,” he said curtly, and began to write.
The manager considered McHugh’s rumpled suit, the beard stubble on his face, and sniffed. He looked at the fifty and put eyeglasses on to peer through the window at the women in the car.
“Pretty late,” he said irritably. “How many?”
“Three of us.” McHugh chewed his lip and wrote, Bill Lambert, Mayor, Jamesburg, Calif. He jammed the pen in its socket and said, “The fifty says you can fix us up.”
“About the way it is, I guess.” The manager took keys from the rack behind the counter. “Up those outside stairs. Couple on the end of the row. Nice view.”
McHugh winked lewdly and went out. He parked and locked the car and led the way to the rooms. They were big, with rattan mats on the floors, double beds and television sets. The walls were of pink-textured stone, and picture windows overlooked the yacht basin and the Bay. Matchstick bamboo drapes were drawn across them now. He opened the connecting door.
“Take your pick, girls.” He felt Loris watching him as she slipped the plastic raincoat off, and he avoided the green eyes. He had been in Jamaica forty days. “No talk about what we’re going to do, because I don’t know. I’m beat. I’m going to hit the shower. Good night.”
He strode into the bathroom, shut the door firmly and began peeling his clothes off. He ran water until it was too hot for comfort, soaped himself in the scalding spray and felt the travel stiffness burn away. He turned it on cold and allowed himself a yelp. He dried himself with a shaggy towel and went into the bedroom. It was dark except for the glow of a night light by the bed.
Loris was sitting there, knees crossed, a speculative smile on her lips as she smoked a cigarette. She was wearing the transparent raincoat again. She stood, silhouetted by the light, and he saw that this time there was nothing under it.
“Loris…” He stopped, and his eyes moved to the connecting door. It was closed.
“Don’t be an idiot, McHugh. Little sister doesn’t mind.”
His eyes took in the sleek, taut lines, the slender hips and ivory curve of thigh. He went to her, and she drew his mouth down and ground herself against him. The raincoat was a second skin. She twisted away. Her eyes were wide and bright, and her breath came in shallow gasps.
Her hands tugged at the coat lapels. When her breasts were bare she stood close to him, with the small, erect nipples brushing his chest. Her fingers undid the belt. The coat opened all the way and she pulled him hard against her. Sharp teeth bit his ear and she whispered, “McHugh…McHugh…”
McHugh slipped the raincoat from her shoulders and carried her to the big bed. She rose to meet him as his fingers pressed the nerve centers in the small of her back, and he felt her fingernails bite deep into the heavy muscle of his shoulders.
Chapter 2
McHugh sat cross-legged on the bed. He frowned around a thin cigar and worked his way through the pot of coffee reluctantly provided by the management as he read the late editions of the Chronicle and Examiner. He found the lack of information provided by the press outstanding.
The dead man had been identified as one Gordo Nuss. He had a police record spanning a dozen years and multitude of charges, and was rated as a smalltime muscle man.
Homicide inspectors had turned up a witness who had seen Nuss enter the apartment an hour and twenty-three minutes before an anonymous tipster telephoned authorities with the report of the slaying.
Police had so far been unable to establish any link between Nuss and Miss Nadine Andersen, 25, occupant of the apartment. Also, they had not found Miss Andersen.
They confessed to being without any reasonable theory as to what Nuss had been doing there in the first place. Either he or the killer, or possibly both, had ransacked the place. There was no way of knowing if anything had been removed from the premises.
There was a picture of a sheet-draped body being removed from the apartment. There were none of the interior. There were none of Nadine, although McHugh knew both papers had at least mug shots of virtually all members of the Andersen clan, which possessed both money and social prominence.
There was no mention of The Door, despite the facts that Nadine Andersen’s sister was one of the owners and that the night spot was well-known to police as a gathering place for persons with unorthodox occupations.
There was no mention of Johnny Stover.
“Somebody put a big lid on this one,” McHugh said. He was mildly disappointed, he had hoped the papers would provide him with enough information so he could dig around without going to the FBI or police.
“They don’t seem too anxious to find me,” Nadine said.
“They are. By now every cop in the state has your description,” McHugh said. “They’re just keeping it quiet. That can help us a little. Until a public alarm goes out, we can stay here as well as anywhere.”
“Both of us?” Loris asked.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll need some clothes and things,” Loris said.
“I’ll go by the apartment and get some of your stuff. Nadine, scribble down your sizes and I’ll pick up enough to last you a few days.”
“McHugh, won’t the police be watching the place?” Loris said.
“Probably. It won’t matter. I’ll have to talk with the inspector in charge and the FBI, find out what the score really is.” He put his shoes on and knotted his necktie without looking in the mirror. He slipped into his jacket and said, “Got a gun, honey?”
“The thirty-two,” Loris said.
“If anybody but me tries to come through that door, use it,” McHugh said. He put on his hat and went out.
Nick Foote glowered at McHugh. He looked like a man who had not slept. He closed a folder which had been open on his desk and demanded, “Where the hell have you been? What did you do with the women?”
McHugh grinned. “Sleeping. Doctors advise a man of my years to get at least seven hours a night of good, sound sleep. I imagine you need ten or so at your age. The ladies are in good hands. Mine.”
“Someday, McHugh, someday, I promise you…”
“Persons of advanced years must also watch their blood pressure,” McHugh said pleasantly. “Now, what do you have to report?”
“Report?” Foote bellowed. “You keep me up all night looking for you and have the gall to ask for a report? Listen—”
“By this time you’ve made your inevitable call to Washington and received the inevitable order: Co-operate.”
“So?”
McHugh chuckled. “Co-operate.”
“Have you paid your respects to Inspector Kline yet?” Foote lit a cigarette and hurled the match into a wastebasket. “Homicide would like to ask you some questions.”
“I’ll see him later. Give.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Foote opened the folder. “Gordo Nuss was a punk, a goon who hired out one time or another all over the West Coast. We think he did a few kills, but nobody ever stuck him for one. So far, no link between him and Stover. How about the Andersen girl? Could she have known him?”
McHugh shook his head. “Nope. That’s straight. And, as far as I know, he never came in The Door.”
“Uh-huh.” Foote made a note. “We don’t know who he was working for or what he was after in there. Until we can get the girl to go over the place, we won’t even know if anything is missing. You better produce her, McHugh.”