Believed Violent (7 page)

“Dr. Kuntz will not keep you for more than a few minutes.” she said and Lindsey recognized the voice he had heard over the telephone.

He nodded and sat down, reaching for the latest copy of
Life
. Four minutes later, the door swung open and the nurse said, “Dr. Kuntz will see you now.”

Lindsey followed her down a passage and paused with her outside an oak panelled door. She knocked softly, then opened the door and stood aside.

Lindsey walked into a room where a fat, short man, wearing a short sleeved double breasted white overall sat at a desk. To his right was a leather covered couch. Cabinets containing various surgical instruments lined the walls.

“Nice of you to see me at such short notice,” Linsdey said, his charming smile in evidence. He took the chair facing Dr. Kuntz and sat down.

Dr. Kuntz regarded him, his fat face expressionless. His bald head, his black bushy eyebrows, his small hooked nose and thin lips made up a picture of cold, efficient professionalism. A patient, facing him, would draw confidence from such a face: a man who knew his business and who would be impatient and ruthless with hypochondriacs.

The two men regarded each other. Lindsey, relaxed, was in no hurry to begin. He had decided that Kuntz should make the first approach. Finally, Kuntz said cautiously, “You come from Mr. Radnitz?”

“That’s right. I work for him.” Lindsey crossed one long leg over the other and regarded the glossy toe-cap of his Lobb hand-made shoe, then he looked straight into Kuntz’s eyes. “You probably remember him?”

Kuntz picked up a gold fountain pen and turned it between his fat fingers.

“I think the name is familiar,” he said finally.

Lindsey laughed. He had an easy, infectious laugh, quiet, almost a chuckle that usually set other people laughing. Dr. Kuntz remained poker-faced, his fingers turning the pen.

Again there was a long pause, then Lindsey decided he was wasting time. He came abruptly to the point.

“I have a patient for you, doctor,” he said. “It will be necessary for you to close your office and give up three or four weeks of your time while you look after this patient. He is a V.I.P. You will be paid a fee of ten thousand dollars. You will be needed in six days’ time . . . the third.”

Kuntz put down the gold fountain pen. His bushy eyebrows climbed to the top of his head.

“That is quite impossible,” he said. “I will be happy to treat your patient, but he must come here. I am far too busy to leave my office for such a length of time.”

“But have you an alternative, doctor?” Lindsey asked, smiling. “Perhaps I can bore you with a little story? In 1943, a certain brilliant-brain specialist was living in Berlin. He volunteered ― not under any pressure ― to work in a certain concentration camp, so that he could experiment on Jewish prisoners. It is on record that this man murdered two thousand three hundred and twenty-two Jews before he perfected a certain brain operation. This operation was of considerable advantage to people suffering from manic depression. It is now recognized by medical science as a major breakthrough. This doctor, whose name was Hans Schultz, made other and less important experiments. Again it is on record that he murdered some five hundred Jews without achieving anything very important. I have documentary proof of this. I have also photographs of this doctor actually at work. These photographs and the documents have been given me by Mr. Radnitz who you may remember was also active during the Nazi regime. But this is neither here nor there. It so happens we need your skill. We have a V.I.P. patient. The fee is ten thousand dollars, and of course, silence. Dr. Hans Schultz is believed dead. He can remain dead, providing you are willing to co-operate.”

The small, fat man again reached for his gold fountain pen. Again he turned it between his fingers, then he looked up and regarded Lindsey with stone cold, expressionless eyes.

“Very interesting,” he said quietly. “The third did you say? Yes, then perhaps I could arrange to be free for ― you said three weeks? Yes, I suppose that is possible.” The black, beady eyes moved over Lindsey’s relaxed face. “And who is the patient?”

“We will go into that on the third.”

“I understand.” The fat fingers moved to a bell push on the desk and hovered over it. “Then what are the arrangements?”

“I will be here at ten o’clock on the morning of the third. We will drive together to a certain place and you will stay there, looking after the patient for a period of three or four weeks. You will bring everything you need. Any additional things I can collect for you.”

Kuntz nodded, then thumbed down the bell push.

“You did say ten thousand dollars?” he said, peering with greed in his small black eyes.

“Yes. You will receive your fee when your work has proved satisfactory.”

The faded, elderly nurse came into the room and Lindsey got to his feet.

“See you on the third, doctor,” he said, and nodding, he followed the nurse to the front door.

He walked to the Cadillac, humming softly under his breath. As he got under the driving wheel, he opened the glove compartment and helped himself to a boiled sweet from a number he kept there in a glass jar.

Acting on instructions and information supplied by Lindsey, Chet Keegan pulled up outside the Go-Go Club, a brash nitery that catered mainly for the nautical trade. Sailors, coming off visiting warships, needed lots of hard liquor, lots of willing girls and lots of strident music. The Go-Go Club provided all this. Since it skimmed off the rowdies, the toughies and the trouble-makers and knew how to handle them, the police were content to live and let live. It was seldom that they were called in to quell a disturbance. The Go-Go Club bouncers were professionals and could stop a fight before it got started. There were six of them. What they didn’t know about dirty fighting, the use of a cosh and the stunning blow from a fist wrapped in brass wasn’t worth knowing. There were times when some foolhardy sailors, lit up with whisky, would start trouble just for the hell of it, but the trouble was invariably cut short and the sailors invariably laid out in the parking lot to recover from a vicious beating from these six professionals, Having recovered, they would return to their ships, nursing their wounds, wiser and more prudent men.

The girls working at the Club were handpicked. They were all under the age of twenty-four. A number of them were prostitutes, the rest, girls in search of excitement. All of them were capable of handling any man. They wore as a uniform a skimpy bra and silk panties, high-heeled gold shoes and a carnation fixed over their navels with surgical tape. Across the seat of their panties were printed various slogans:
Don’t Park Here. This Belongs To Me. No Place For Hands. Cul-de-Sac. No Entry
, and so on.

The Belle of the twenty girls at the Club was Drena French.

According to the information Lindsey had received from his Detective Agency, this girl had arrived in Paradise City some eighteen months ago. She was twenty-two years of age, with raven black hair, sensually beautiful, with the morals of an alley cat and a lump of quartz where her heart should have been.

It was this girl that Keegan, on Lindsey’s instructions, wished to see. He entered the Club, nodded to the doorman who gave him an oily smile, handed his hat to the hat check girl who gushed over him, then, pushing aside the red velvet curtain that screened the entrance, walked into the noisy, smoke ladened room that made up the Club. There were some thirty odd sailors already having themselves a ball, and a few well dressed men, probably Advertising Account Executives, trying to find relaxation, and, of course, the girls.

Keegan spotted Shane O’Brien who ran the Club. He worked his way around the tightly packed tables, shook his head at the three girls who were advancing hopefully towards him and came to rest at O’Brien’s side.

O’Brien was a tall, rangy Irishman with a broken nose, red hair and steel blue eyes.

As Keegan came out of the smoke ladened atmosphere, O’Brien looked warily at him. He didn’t like Keegan. He knew he was dangerous and a professional killer.

“Hi, Shane,” Keegan said. Looks like you have a big house.”

“It’s early yet,” O’Brien returned. “It’ll be quite a night by two o’clock. There’s a Flat-top parked in the bay. The boys keep coming.”

“Yeah.” Keegan lit a cigarette. “Where’s Drena?”

O’Brien looked away.

“She’s busy. What’s she to you?”

Keegan smiled at him. His small green eyes glittered viciously.

“Look, Mick, relax. I want her. I’ve business with her. So suppose you go get her?”

O’Brien eyed him. Big as he was, plus his six bouncers, he was still scared of Keegan.

“Now look, friend, she is valuable to me. She does a good job here. I don’t want her doing business with you.”

“No?” Keegan continued to smile. “Well, that’s too bad. Run along, Mick, and get her. I could come in some other night with Lu. He and I could have a ball here. Lift the feet, Irish. I want her.”

O’Brien recognized a threat when he heard it. He hesitated, then decided Drena wasn’t worth his Club being smashed up. He moved away. Keegan sat at one of the empty tables. A waiter came swiftly to his side. Keegan shook his head at him and the waiter went away.

Drena French pushed her way through a group of sailors, protecting her behind with her hands. She was wearing the Club uniform. The slogan printed across her neat hips read:
Fanny Is My Name ― Frantic Is My Nature.

She paused beside Keegan, regarding him. She thought he was quite a doll, but she was alert and suspicious. O’Brien had warned her this man was dangerous.

“What is it, honey?” she asked, leaning over him.

“Get changed,” Keegan said, “and meet me outside in ten minutes. I’ve a proposition for you.”

Drena laughed.

“Come on sweetheart, be your age. I work here. I can’t quit at this hour. Besides, I’m not interested in propositions. That’s terribly old hat.”

Keegan managed to control the urge to slap her pretty face. Even he didn’t want to tangle with O’Brien’s six bouncers. Containing his vicious temper, he said, “But you will be interested, baby. It’s big money. I have a little job lined up for you. The pay-off is in four beautiful, fat figures.”

Drena stiffened, staring at him.

“You kidding?”

“No.” Keegan took out his wallet and produced three one hundred dollar bills. He let her see them, then folded them, and getting to his feet, he tucked them into her bra. “Hurry it up, baby. In ten minutes,” and he walked out of the Club.

O’Brien came through the cigarette smoke and dim lights.

“What gives?” he demanded.

“I don’t know.” Drena took the three folded bills from her bra and showed them to him. “He says he wants me to do a job.” She was about to tell O’Brien that Keegan had talked of four figures, but decided that she could be talking too much. “Can I run along, Shane?”

“I can’t stop you,” O’Brien said. “But watch it. This guy is as cute as a cobra and as loving as a dose of poison.”

“Well, it can’t kill me to hear what he wants,” Drena said. “I can take care of myself,” then turning, she walked away, swishing her hips, the lettering on her panties jerking.

Fifteen minutes later, wearing a shabby nylon dress and down-at-the-heel shoes, she walked out of the Club.

Keegan was sitting in the Thunderbird. He swung open the car door and she slid in beside him.

That big Mick doesn’t like you,” she said, leaning back, adoring the luxury of the car. “He says you are poison.”

“Yeah?” Keegan started the car and drove into the steady flow of traffic. “Maybe I am.”

He drove to a deserted part of the beach, stopped the car and turned off the lights.

“Okay, baby, let’s talk business,” he said. “First, the pay-off. Play the cards I deal you right and you will pick up ten thousand dollars. Just in case you have wax in your ears and think I’m kidding, the pay-off is ten thousand dollars ― repeat ten thousand dollars.”

Drena gaped at him. She looked into the small, cold, green eyes and a wave of excitement crawled up her long, beautifully formed spine. This man meant what he said. Years of experience, dealing with men, told her this.

“Keep talking,” she said, her voice shaking, her hands clenching into fists. This makes beautiful music.”

“Doesn’t it?” Keegan said. “Ten thousand dollars could buy you a ball.” He lit a cigarette without offering her one. Keegan had no polish. To him, women were to be used and abused and certainly not to be considered. “Your little pal, Fred Lewis. I’m interested in him.”

Drena started and stared at him in surprise.

“Freddy? But why?”

“Look, baby, I do the talking. You answer the questions. Lewis . . . how are you two getting along together?”

She shrugged, grimacing.

“Well, he’s a drip. Maybe later . . . I don’t know. He wants to marry me. One day, perhaps, when I’ve had enough of the Club I’ll decide, but not now.”

“How does he feel about it?”

Drena shrugged impatiently.

“He’s crazy about me.” She shook her head. “Okay I admit it’s nice for a girl who works the way I work to have some poor sap just mad about her. But he hasn’t any money. A girl can’t get along without money. . .”

“Has he ever laid you?”Keegan asked.

Drena sat bolt upright. “What the hell is that to do with you?” she demanded. “I’ll have you know . . .”

“Brake the yak,” Keegan said, not bothering to look at her, but staring through the windshield at the gently moving sea. “I asked you . . . have you given him anything?”

Drena hesitated, then shrugged.

If you have to know . . . when a sap wants to marry a girl that bad, she keeps her legs crossed. Do you imagine I am soft in the head?”

Keegan leaned over the back of his seat and brought up a brief-case lying on the rear seat. He laid it across his knees. Zipping it open, he turned on the dashboard light, then said, “Feed your eyes on this, baby.”

Drena caught her breath. In the case, neatly arranged were packets of $50 bills . . . more money than she had ever seen in her life.

“That’s what ten thousand dollars look like,” Keegan said. “All yours if you can handle this deal.”