Corpses in the Cellar (12 page)

He grasped the sledgehammer with both hands, his left gripping both the tool and his weapon, the safety now on to keep it
from firing on impact. He drew the hammer back, like Ducky Medwick waiting for a pitch, and then swung. The wall was nothing
but plaster and lathe, disguised to look like cinder block, and it flew into bits as the heavy steel smashed into it. Still
no sound.

Again Lockwood brought the steel-weighted instrument back, again he swung, and this time steel was answered by steel as a
spray of metal rocketed out of the hole behind the crumbling wall, the sound of the shotgun held by the figure inside thundering
through the room.

Lockwood looked down at his arms. They were running with blood. He shrugged, and then an image slammed into his mind. The
image of Tawny Tourette as she’d lain in his arms, broken and mutilated. And now the rage exploded within him. “I’ll kill
you, Griese!” he shouted, and again was answered by a blast.

Immediately, Lockwood clawed at what was left of the wall, sending it crashing to the floor, as he flung himself in at Vinnie
Griese, who was frantically trying to reload his double-barreled weapon.

The mobster threw his hands up as he saw the pistol gleaming in the raging Lockwood’s bloodied hand, but an instant later
they fell as the detective dropped the weapon to the dirt at his feet. “I want to do this job by hand,” Lockwood snarled.
“Lead is too good for you.”

The space they were in was like a small cave, literally dug out from beneath the sidewalk, less than six-feet high, and five-feet
wide. Immediately, the two closed in on each other, Griese driven by desperation, Lockwood impelled by the rage that coursed
wildly through him.

Arms locked around each others’ torsoes, they struggled, straining for momentum, fighting for the edge. The words were like
flames, burning past Lockwood’s lips. “You murdered Tawny. You burned down The Palms, killed all those people, innocent people.
You need to be destroyed. And I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Griese grimaced, sweat pouring down his face as he pushed, and strained, the heat in the little space almost
unbearable. “Dumb flatfoot.”

Lockwood’s foot, thrusting back, searching for more leverage, hit a loose rock, and suddenly he went back and down, Griese
on him, as he lost his footing, the mobster taking immediate advantage. “You’re the one who’s gonna die, shamus,” Griese snarled.
“You’re the onel”

He broke free of Lockwood’s grasp, bestriding him, reached for a slab of loose rock, jagged and heavy, brought it high and
then down toward The Hook, missing the detective’s head by a fraction of an inch as Lockwood slipped the blow at the last
moment. Again his arm raised, and again it descended, but this time Lockwood was ready for him, his two crimsoned arms coming
up, grabbing, and then angling back, throwing the gangster back over his head, into the basement itself. Instantly, Lockwood
was on him, scrambling through the opening in the wall, hurling himself upon the gangster, muscles straining, wrestling with
him, the two bodies tossing back and forth on the dry cement floor, flesh being worn raw as they struggled.

Lockwood felt himself weakening, his arms a mass of wounds, his thigh again leaking blood. Griese was tough, too tough to
put away like this. He’d have to box him, have to hope his hands and arms could take it, have to hope he still had enough
strength to take Griese out with the right punch. He fought himself free, disengaging, and then rolling back and away, leaping
to his feet before Griese could get to him. “Why’d you kill her? Why’d you kill Tawny?” he rasped, breath coming in gasps
as he began circling his adversary whose arms were up in a semblance of defense.

“Nobody cheats on Vinnie Griese,” the mug answered, snarling it out. He arched a smile that was anything but a smile. “And
nobody who takes me on lives, either,” he grunted, and lashed out with a wild right.

“What about The Palms? Why’d you do that?” Lockwood shouted, blocking a second punch, and missing with a right to the stomach.

“Wrong guess, dummy,” Griese snarled, this time catching The Hook with a right to his shoulder, sending him smashing back
against the wall. “Although, if you’d been in the place, I’d sure as hell have torched it,” he yelled, coming at The Hook,
right hand cocked, ready to finish off his opponent.

The left jab caught Griese unaware, and as he rearranged himself to combat it, a right sailed into his mid-section, doubling
him up. Lockwood summoned the last reserves of his failing strength and sent in a left hook, but it was off the mark by a
fraction of an inch, knocking Griese to the floor, but not putting him out of action.

The Hook stood there, swaying, the breath coming hard, trying to force himself after his opponent, but his sagging body failed
him. Griese was rising to his feet, coming at him, and he knew he didn’t have the strength to keep the mobster off. All that
blood, draining out of him, his strength ebbing out with it. He was by the workbench, and quickly he grabbed behind him, blindly,
for something, anything, with which to defend himself.

Griese saw it too late, heard it too late, unable to stop himself, as The Hook’s fumbling fingers locked onto the trigger
of the electric drill, the black cord swinging wildly in the air as the end of the tool sank into Griese’s soft, fleshy belly,
burrowing into it, tearing it away.

The Hook, as stunned as Griese, pulled his hand away in horror, as Griese looked down at himself, plucking at his shirt in
shocked fascination, staring at the hole that had been drilled through the flesh into his vitals, watching as the life force
began spilling out of him.

Griese had turned white, staring at The Hook. “Why? Why’d you do that for?” he gasped. “Why?”

With an anguished wail, he spun, and ran for the stairs, scrambling up them blindly, tripping, his knee slamming against a
wooden tread, and then righting himself, and plunging out through the cellar door, a high-pitched scream tearing from him
as he ran, his steps sounding over Lockwood’s head, and then trailing into the distance.

The detective lurched back into the underground retreat for his weapon, falling to his knees as he bent to pick it up, then
slowly rising and making his way unsteadily to the stairs, feet barely shuffling, splatters of blood marking his trail. He
was only halfway to the stairs when he saw the figure standing at the top of them. It was Griese. He was holding a tommy gun.
Blood was running out of the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “I’m going to blow you away, Lockwood. I promised I was going
to do it, and I will. If I gotta go, then I’m gonna take you with me. Say your prayers, flatfoot.” He pulled back the bolt
on the gun, and then staggered, caught himself, and again directed the weapon at his target. Lockwood tried to get his hand
up, tried to swing the .38 into position, tried to get off a final, defensive salvo, but his shattered arm refused to move.

And then the shot sounded, and Griese went down, eyes disbelieving, chest thrust out as he arced into the air, and then tumbled,
hitting the stairs halfway down, bouncing and then hitting once more, thudding onto the unyielding stone of the floor. Lockwood
looked up. Brannigan was standing there, smoking pistol in his hand.

It was mainly shrapnel, small bits and pieces of metal that had torn into Bill Lockwood, ripping away portions of skin, digging
into other areas, embedding themselves there, but the wounds were all flesh. The bullet in the thigh was a secondary wound
too, near the surface, coming out with no trouble. Mr. Gray stood waiting in the recovery room.

“Ah—ah—how are you, Bill?”

Lockwood regarded his boss with a certain coolness. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll be back on the job in a few hours. The
company won’t lose any time on me.”

“Ah, Bill, you mustn’t think I—”

Lockwood cut him short. “I’m just telling you, nothing’s going to interfere with this job. Not now.”

Gray brightened up considerably. He’d seen Lockwood this way once or twice before. Each time it had saved the company a vast
sum of money. “Ah, well then, that’s good, Bill, very good. Naturally, we want you to stay healthy, to take care of yourself,
but if you feel you—”

“I do,” Lockwood said, curtly.

“Good! Good! Well, I—I must be going. Much work to do.” Gray smiled falsely at him, anxious to go. Personal contact was not
his style.

“The company’s taking care of the hospital bill, of course,” The Hook reminded him.

“What—oh—ah, oh, well I suppose it will. Yes. Yes! I’ll attend to that right now. Goodbye, Bill, glad to see you’re all right.”
The older man lurched around and exited.

Lockwood heard a throaty laugh, and turned. Brannigan was there, chortling to himself. “Christ, that guy’s a pistol, ain’t
he?” the big Irishman wondered. “Nothin’ much matters as long as the company keeps goin’ on smoothlike.”

“That’s why he’s so good at what he does,” Lockwood murmured grudgingly. “There’s no one better in the business. Who the hell
else could be as grasping?”

Brannigan chuckled. “Nothing like bosses, is there?” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “Anything I can do for you, sick
boy?”

“Yeah. Tell me what you found at Griese’s.”

“What do you mean?”

Lockwood saw the uncomprehending look in Brannigan’s eye. “You’re slipping, pal.”

“That’s what the missus tells me all the time. But Jesus, surely
you’re
not suggesting I’m losin’ my—”

“No, but my guess is you are.” Lockwood grinned. “I’ve got something else in mind.”

“Well?”

“Baby Nambu.”

“Christ!” Brannigan’s palm slammed into his forehead. “We went all over the place, but not with a fine tooth comb. I completely
forgot about that damn Jap pistol.”

Lockwood shrugged. “You’ve always been better at stopping them than finding them, Jimbo. How about the two of us taking a
look over at Griese’s—after we pick up a fine tooth comb.”

Nothing turned up. They searched the house from top to bottom, under the rafters, behind beams, out in the yard. Nothing.

It was nearly dark when the two of them straightened up and brushed their hands off, acknowledging they were done. “Griese
said he didn’t do it—didn’t burn down The Palms,” Lockwood said. “I’m beginning to think he was telling the truth.”

“Anyway, it’s narrowin’ down a little,” Brannigan grunted. “Griese’s out of the way, his girl friend—”

“Don’t lump her with Griese, Jimbo,” Lockwood said, quickly. “Tawny Tourette was nothing like him.”

Brannigan heard the pain in the detective’s voice. “Okay, pal, okay.” He offered a Wings, but Lockwood opted for his Camels,
as did Brannigan after a moment’s hesitation. “My kids love the airplane pictures,” he said, drawing in on the Camel, “but
just between you and me, buddy, I’d rather smoke cowflop.” He took another drag and asked. “What now?”

“I’m going home, Jimbo. Going to climb into my bed and forget about all this for ten hours or so. And then, come morning,
I’m going to try to find out who could have come up with that damned automatic.”

He took his time that morning, sponging himself off carefully, longing for the hot shower that his wounds forbade, shaving
slowly and carefully, getting the part just right as he combed his hair.

The maid had laid his clothes out for him, unasked. Word had evidently gotten around about his battle of the day before. He
sighed and replaced everything but the shirt. It wasn’t exactly the time of year for winter suits, or a gift tie that he’d
never worn, for very good reasons, but he appreciated the thought. His tips were already generous, but he’d have to add a
little at the end of this week.

He left the hotel and saw them all, one-by-one, starting out in Brooklyn with Mary Clarke. It was as if nothing had ever happened
between them. She was polite but cool, and assured him that she had never been anywhere near Japan, and doubted that Beechie
McMahon had been any farther east than Queens.

McMahon’s parents confirmed this when he saw them.

Len Claypool, the waiter, had obviously never heard of a Baby Nambu. But then, he was an actor, so maybe it wasn’t so obvious.
The Hook toyed with him, strung him along, pouncing occasionally without Claypool’s catching wise, but it was no go. Either
Claypool was wilier than everything about his circumstances suggested he was, or he was telling the truth. There had been
a tour, once, he admitted, of the Far East, but by great bad luck he had missed out, replaced by a genuine fifteen-year-old.
Clay-pool’s wife began calling him and Lockwood left.

Mack Grand admitted he had been everywhere in this country. Nowhere else. Debbie Grand was another blank. The prostitute,
Melody O’Houlihan, wouldn’t let him in. She was still a suspect, but not much of one. He decided to let her go for now.

Eddie Black had lived with his mother in an apartment house in the Bronx. It was an Irish neighborhood, small children returning
from parochial school as The Hook drew up in his black and silver Cord, the girls in their middy blouses and orange four-in-hands,
the boys in jackets, white shirts and navy blue ties, all staring at the luxurious car so far removed from anything they knew
or even dreamed of. The streets were bustling, an uncomfortable contrast to the silence that greeted him when he told Lillian
Black why he was there.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“I don’t like disturbing you, Mrs. Black, after all that’s happened, but it’s important.”

“That important?” she asked, her eyes trailing off in the distance. By her side was a framed photograph of her son, vital
in his cop’s uniform, grinning exultantly at the camera. So handsome. How proud she must have been of him, Lockwood mused.
How she must have dreamed of his future, a wife, children, a nearby apartment…

“I’m afraid so,” he answered, after a moment. “Lives may depend on it.”

“All right,” she sighed. “What do you want?”

“Your son—was he—did he ever travel outside this country?”