Corpses in the Cellar (14 page)

Slowly he lifted the head, turning it so the light from the streetlamp caught it. Yes. Len Claypool. Still appearing fifteen,
and with no hope now of ever looking older. He saw the weapon beside the corpse. That was it. Case over. The Baby Nambu.

He noticed the small feet by his side. “Who is it?” Debbie asked, the light wrong where she stood, so that she couldn’t make
out the figure lying on the sidewalk.

“The waiter your husband fired. Len Claypool.”

“Oh my God!” Her legs began to tremble. “Len! Oh, gee, how he must have hated Mack!”

“I suppose it just became too much for him,” Lockwood mused, straightening up. “A career that was going nowhere, an invalid
wife, and then being fired—I imagine that kind of a thing could make any man snap. He was in love with you, you know, jealous
of Mack. He must’ve tried to gun you down as a way of getting back at him.”

She was crying, softly. “What are you going to do now?”

“Call a cop. Make a visit to the precinct house, I suppose. Then take you home.”

“I can do it myself.”

“No. You’re in no shape to go home alone.”

“But I could just call a—”

“No,” he said firmly. “I
insist.”

There turned out to be no need to phone. A police car suddenly arrived, siren shrieking, and two cops leapt from the car,
weapons out of their holsters.

Lockwood recognized one of them. “Hello, Maher.”

“Hook!” The policeman turned to his companion. “It’s okay, Artie,” he informed him. Then, “What happened?”

“This is the guy who burned down The Palms night club. A disgruntled waiter.”

“Jesus.” Maher looked down at the dead man. “You sure seem to have gruntled him.”

The cop called in and within minutes they were all there, an ambulance, the coroner, a photographer, fingerprint experts,
a half dozen cops, and Brannigan.

The big Irishman stood over the small body for a long time saying nothing. Finally, he turned to his friend. “Thanks, Bill,”
he said quietly, with a sad reserve that was unusual in him. “I don’t know yet how Eddie Black figured in this, but Eddie
was a cop, and this mutt was a cop-killer. Thanks for getting him.”

They grilled Lockwood and Debbie Grand for a few minutes, getting all the details, and finally Brannigan gave them the word.
“Get yourselves some shut-eye,” he told them. “If we need you for anything more, we’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” The Hook told him, and then they stood for a moment, watching the ambulance draw away with the body of the dead
man. Lockwood put a hand on Debbie Grand’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said, gently, “I’ll take you home.”

She was silent on the ride uptown, the detective leaving her alone, his eyes riveted straight ahead, staring out over the
coffin nose of the black and silver Cord.

She tried to say goodnight to him when they reached her building, but he wouldn’t hear of it, stepping into the elevator with
her.

Her apartment door was locked, and again Debbie told him, “You can go home now. I’ll be all right.”

“No,” he said, in a tone that brooked no opposition. “You shouldn’t be left alone after what you’ve gone through. We’ll wait
for Mack.”

She acceded, unlocking the door, switching on the hall light and then all the rest of the lamps in the living room as they
entered. It was a hot, gummy night, as bad in here as out in the streets, The Hook decided.

“I don’t know when Mack will be back. It could be late,” she said.

“That’s all right. I can wait.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please. Canadian and soda, if you’ve got it.”

She was generous with the whiskey, half filling the glass with it, then adding ice and soda. She took plain soda for herself.

She looked tired as she seated herself after handing him his drink. “Why don’t you go to bed?” he suggested. “I can wait up
for Mack myself. No need for you to.”

“That’s all right,” she told him, visibly forcing some freshness back into her expression. “Now that I know that Len Claypool
did it, that he’s dead and it’s all over, well heck, I can wait about sleeping. I mean, knowing that from now on I can sleep
without worrying, without being afraid.”

“Have it your way,” he agreed. “I admit I could stand a little company.” He took a swallow of the drink. Good stuff. Powerful.
“You mix a hell of a drink.”

She smiled at him, prettily. “I guess that’s because I don’t drink much myself, so I really don’t know how much to put in.
Mack always laughs at all the gin I stick in his martinis.” She giggled. “But I notice he drinks them all the way down.”

“My intentions exactly,” The Hook told her, taking another sip.

“Oh boy, it’s hot,” Debbie said, using her hand as a fan.

“Good call,” Lockwood murmured.

Her hand shot up to the button at the throat of her blouse. “Look, you’ve been here before. You’ve seen me without my shirt
on. You don’t mind if I do it again, do you?”

He’d been around, really around, but it was hard even for him to feel completely sophisticated and at ease at a moment like
this. Damned if she wasn’t about to do a strip act again. He tried to make it sound offhand. “It’s your house.”

She smiled, nodded, and began to disrobe. Button one, button two, button three, till all of them were undone. Then slowly,
gracefully, the blouse came off, showing her two rounded decorations standing out prettily in the white brassiere that contained
them.

Her arms went behind her, the bra tightened, and then relaxed, as the hooks came undone. One small hand went up and pulled
delicately at the tiny loop of lace that circled her shoulder, pulling it down over her arm, next doing the same to the other
loop. And then there she sat, pert and pretty and bare-breasted, smiling sweetly at him. “Thanks. I do appreciate your not
minding.”

He smiled, nodded, and took another pull at his drink.

In a moment, he noticed her eyes were moist. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I was just thinking—all those people.” Her hand went to her eyes, trying to brush away the tears with a small embroidered
handkerchief. “All those people dead, and for what? So, so meaningless.”

He nodded. “It’s always meaningless,” he said. “Always a waste.”

“And his wife—Len’s wife—what will she do now?” she cried, the tears coming faster.

“I don’t know. I plan to see her. I know some people. Perhaps—”

She looked at him. “You’re a good man. I’ve seen that from the first. You try to act tough, try to act like nothing bothers
you, but I know you’re not like that.”

He said nothing, not knowing what to say.

They sat in quiet for some minutes. For a time she would be silent, and then again the tears would come.

Finally, she stood up. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio? Maybe if I heard some music—”

“I think I could stand some myself,” he said. Where the hell was Mack Grand? He was beginning to feel a weariness stealing
over him. He shook himself and stretched.

“Please,” she said, noticing. “You’re tired. Go home. I can handle all this. I’m a big girl.”

He smiled up at her. “Nothing doing.”

She’d found a station featuring a live band, a new guy by the name of Glenn Miller. Nice stuff, smooth, easy. He began to
relax into his chair.

“Uh, Mr. Lockwood?”

He looked up. Her eyes were awash again. “Yes?”

“Look, I don’t want to impose, don’t want to force this on you. But I—I can’t seem to stop thinking of—of—” she stopped for
a moment as sobs wrenched through her. “Sometimes, when I want to forget all my troubles, I go dancing. Sometimes that helps.
I wondered.” She looked at him, helplessly. “I wonder if—if for just a few minutes—you could dance with me?”

He looked at her, her nipples pertly standing out from her firm, round breasts.

“It’d be a hell of a thing”—he smiled at her—“if we did, and while we were dancing, Mack came home.”

Her eyes went big, and open. “He’d understand. Mack knows me. Trusts me.” Her lids dropped, and then fluttered open again.
“Please.”

He rose reluctantly. He knew he had willpower, but—there she stood, half-naked, a supplicating expression on her face, her
arms held out to him, trusting—he shrugged and walked over to her.

He didn’t recognize the song, but it was a ballad, dreamy, romantic. They moved slowly to it, she as light as a feather, her
cheek against his lapel.

After a while, it began to feel good, and from time to time he’d forget where they were, what the situation was, aware only
of a beautiful girl in his arms pressing close to him, the sweet scent of her in his nostrils. Occasionally, he could hear
her hum, a soft, pleasantly melodic sound. She seemed to be relaxed now, seemed to have forgotten just as he had. And then
he felt her stiffen, and sob.

“Oh darn!” she cried, in a small, tight voice.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking down at her, her bare shoulders gleaming in the light.

“Everything! Everything!” She broke away, turning her back to him.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. You’re not supposed to. I don’t want you to.” And she was weeping again.

He took her by the shoulders and turned her gently to him. “Talk to me about it. Let me try to help.”

She tried to pull away, and when he wouldn’t let her go, she collapsed against him. “Oh darn!” she repeated.

“Is it the fire again?” he asked her, quietly. “The memory of all those people—?”

“No, no,” she sobbed, her bare breast heaving. “It’s Mack.”

“Mack?”

“Yes. And—and—” she looked up at him, and then away. “And you.”

Despite himself, he felt a stirring within him. “Me?”

“Yes! Oh darn!” This time she broke away successfully, walking to the bar, again facing away from him.

“What about me? And Mack?” he asked, remaining where he was.

“I’ve been a good wife,” she cried, ignoring his question. “I’ve been a good wife to Mack. I’ve tried to be. And I have been.”
She turned toward him, sinking onto a straight-backed chair alongside the bar.

“And—?”

“And darn it, that’s what I want to be. That’s what I’ve always wanted to be, anyway,” she amended. “And then you came along.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. You understand everything. That’s what’s so awful. Mack, Mack, oh gosh, he tries hard, but he never understands.”
She stood up, arms outstretched. “Look at me, Mr. Lockwood. Look at me. I’m a young woman. I’m in my prime—and Mack—Mack,”
her hands went to her face, covering it. “Mack’s an old man. I feel so—so—so
disgusting.”

“Why? Why should you feel that way?”

“Because my feelings aren’t what a good wife’s should be, Mr. Lockwood. Not anymore. Not since I met you.”

She was beautiful, no question of that. And her sorrow seemed to make her even more so. He looked at her beautifully sculpted
arms, her delicate shoulders, the compelling beauty of her breasts… Darn, indeed.

He found himself moving toward her. “You’ve nothing to feel guilty about,” he assured her. “Being married doesn’t mean that
you can’t be attracted to someone else from time to time. It’s not as if you’ve acted on those feelings.”

She was at the flood now, and threw herself against him, sobbing. Her arms went around his body, frantically. “Please—please—just
hold me,” she wept.

He put his arms around her, his fingers lightly touching her exposed back. It felt smooth, warm, and firm, and involuntarily
he found his hands beginning to press down, drawn by the sensuousness of the touch, wanting to encompass more of it. Her body
was still wracked with sobs, the spasms giving yet more life to the flesh he was pressing, thrusting up toward him and then
away, and then back again. She was only a child, he told himself, and yet, he found he could not tear his hands from her.

She clutched him tighter, as a final paroxysm of grief overcame her, every part of her body now pressed against him. He tried
to break loose, to put some distance between them, but when he did, she clung to him all the more.

Finally, the tears began to subside, and after a while she looked up at him. “Oh gee,” she said, “oh gee…” and her eyes were
on his eyes, and then they dropped to his lips, fixing there, her own pointed up at him, open and moist, fresh with youth
and vulnerability.

He fought it, fought it hard, and yet found his head, despite himself, lowering, lowering to those petals of pink, the small,
glistening teeth exquisitely framed by them. And now they were raising to his.

They met, and he tasted her magical scent, felt the sweet urgency that came up from inside her, welling over and coursing
against his lips.

Her head tore away. “Oh gee, oh gee,” she moaned. “I didn’t want it to be like this…”

“It’s my fault,” he said, dropping his arms. “Look, I’ll wait out in the hall…”

“No!” Her eyes flashed fear, and she reached out to him. “No! Please!” and now her lips were once again upturned. “More. Please.”

Her lips were fresh, and alive, working at his, pushing, pulling, and slowly they began to change, heat starting to emanate
from them, a fierceness beginning to make itself felt. At once he felt her tongue, quick, tentative, darting at his lips,
then pulling away, savoring him. Her mouth was beginning to open, widening, entreating him, and he responded, plunging his
own tongue inside, sliding effortlessly between her moist, pulsating, rose-tinged flesh.

“Ohhhh,” she moaned, and clung to him yet more tightly.

Now their tongues were intertwining passionately, rapidly, and slowly her body began to undulate against his. He was ready
for her, had been even before their first kiss. He could feel that part of himself straining against her, wanting her.

She pulled her mouth away, and looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder and a kind of fear. “I’m not like this. I’m really
not. But oh, oh gee, I want you so much!” Slowly she began to crumple, lowering herself to a couch near the bedroom door.
He didn’t care now, gave no thought to Mack Grand, was intent on only one thing—her womanliness. He had to have it. All of
it.

She was beginning to moan, an anguished sound, high-pitched and vulnerable, and was kissing him on the mouth, the cheeks,
the forehead, her hands in his hair, caressing it, pulling at it, and then pushing his head down slowly toward her breasts.