Gilded Canary (18 page)

Toomey just sat there, not moving.

“I’m giving you a chance to stay alive, Toomey. Do what I say or I’ll plug you where you sit. Ask Petey Ahearn whether or
not I mean business.”

Toomey thought it over, and slowly slid off the chair till his knees touched the floor. He kept his right hand loose and ready,
just in case.

“Now put your hands on the floor.”

Again Toomey hesitated, and Lockwood repeated the instructions.

Toomey shrugged, curled his lip in his best badman impersonation, and did as instructed.

“Okay, now just push those hands out till your whole body’s on the floor.”

Toomey looked at him, head snapping back, and then, realizing he was hopelessly out of position, gave in. In a moment he was
flat on the floor, defenseless.

The Hook strode over to him, a length of rope in his hand. Still holding the .38 in his other hand, he began binding Toomey’s
wrists; then, when they were secure, pulled up his legs, and tied them. He tested the rope, then, satisfied, walked to the
door and flicked on the overhead light. Swiftly but methodically, he searched the room, closets, tables, bookcases, under
the carpet, behind pictures.

“Try anything and you’ll regret it,” he told Toomey, and moved to the next room, and, when that was exhausted, the next.

It was a six-room brick house, and Lockwood went through it all, first floor, second floor, basement. Nothing showed, and
angry at himself, he went back over it again, moving even more quickly this time, not knowing when someone might turn up,
another remnant of Toomey’s mob, if any existed, or maybe a gunman pal allied with another gang.

He had gone through the basement a second time, raging in his frustration, and was about to leave when he looked at the water-level
indicator of the furnace. Nothing showed. It was summer, and there was no need, but still…. He opened up the furnace, snapped
on the tiny flashlight he pulled from his inside jacket pocket, and peered in. A large manila envelope was lying against the
back wall.

He pulled off his jacket, reached into the furnace, and drew out the envelope. Quickly, he untied it and took a fast look
at the contents. There were rows of figures and what seemed to be code names next to them. This had to be it.

The envelope under his arm, pistol in hand, he raced up the stairs, stepped over the bound body of Toomey’s bodyguard, exited
through the same window he’d entered, then strode out of the shadows onto the sidewalk, keeping his pace at a normal clip
until he reached the Cord, two blocks away. Immediately, he vaulted in, flicked the ignition, and pulled away, the V-12 roaring
out its power.

It was the first time he’d been back at the apartment since Stephanie’s death, and it took a few minutes to push that aside.
Numbers and words, made-up words, to the left of the figures, page after page after page.

like that, row after row after row.

Nothing registered, and after an hour of this, he went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, some ice, and the bottle of Canadian.
He could use a drink. Or two.

He turned on the radio, coming in in the middle of “Lux Radio Theatre,” and turned the dial till he found some music. The
strains of “Thanks for the Memory” came out of the speaker, and he picked up the sheets again.

There were maybe 500 code entries, some of them duplicated in the pages. Again he put the papers down, angry with himself,
and took another sip of the whiskey. He felt this had to be it, the key that could lead to the final unlocking, sensed it,
in fact, something telling him that he was seeing it, over and over again, but it wasn’t registering.

The new song on the radio was annoying him, and he switched it off, gulped down a bit more of the Canadian, and returned to
the pages. Where the hell was it, what was it that was escaping him?

Suddenly it hit him. His eye went back up the sheet.
“SPON; BITZ; ESCA.” ESCA.
That was it.
ESCA
-5600.00. He cursed himself for his slow wit, then sat back and for the first time in days, relaxed. The
job was almost done.

That morning Lockwood showered slowly, enjoying the laziness of it, feeling good. He was well-rested, his mind alert, his
body fully recovered from the pummeling it had taken over the past few days, and he luxuriated in the thick Turkish towel
that he used when he stepped from the shower. He shaved slowly and carefully, taking almost sensual pleasure from the act.

He dressed at a leisurely pace, taking time and care, white Arrow shirt, navy blue silk tie, gray Brooks Brothers double-breasted
suit, black socks, and highly polished black shoes. By this time, room service had arrived, and he sat down to the fresh-squeezed
orange juice, sausage, scrambled eggs, toast, currant jelly, and coffee, relishing all of it as he thumbed through the New
York
Herald-Tribune
. A light news day, nothing dire. It had been a good summer that way, so far. Finished, he lit a Camel and poured himself
a second cup of coffee, finding pleasure in the sounds of the street that drifted up to him, the roar of the automobiles and
trucks, the continually sounding horns that gave New York so much of its character.

Finally, he stood, pushed the room-service cart out into the hall, and returned to the apartment briefly, donning the black
leather holster, pushing it into place. Then he picked his hat off the hook in the hall and left.

It was a good day all around, sky blue, clouds white and fluffy, and he was even close to thinking pleasant thoughts about
Mr. Gray when he pushed the button alongside Muffy’s door.

Surprisingly, Muffy seemed to be in a good mood, too, even when she saw that it was he who was her visitor.

“Why, Mr. Hook! What a delightful surprise,” she exclaimed, light mockery threading through her voice.

“Hello, Muffy.”

“Can I help you, Mr. Hook? I can’t tell you how anxious I am to oblige.”

“I’d like to come in for a moment, Muffy.”

She threw the door open. “Why certainly, Mr. Hook!” She turned to someone in a corner of the room hidden from Lockwood’s line
of vision. “Guess who’s here? That nice young man from the insurance company!”

Lockwood entered, put his hat down on the small table near the door, and now saw, with no surprise and some satisfaction,
whom Muffy had been speaking to. Jock Bunche.

Bunche’s mood obviously didn’t match Lockwood’s and Muffy’s. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“It’s his job. He has to knock on doors a lot. Like a salesman.” Muffy was still playing, but was finding it a little harder
to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She wasn’t used to being rejected.

“I’m here about your jewels, Muffy.”

Muffy’s fingertips went to her face for an instant, and then she regained control. “You’re
always
here about my jewels.
Almost.”
And with the last word she now seemed to be taunting Jock.

Bunche took the bait, snarling at Lockwood. “State your business and then get out of here. Fast.”

There was a small writing desk near him, and The Hook leaned back against it. He wore an air of utter relaxation, but quietly
kept an eye on Bunche’s right hand, which was twitching, as if impatient to be put into use, aching to close around an automatic.

“I’m here to tell you your case is closed,” Lockwood drawled. “Or at least soon will be,” he added.

Bunche and Muffy exchanged glances and then returned their gaze to Lockwood. “What the hell are you talking about, shamus?”
Jock roared.

“You heard me. Furthermore, my company’s not paying off.”

“Not paying—” Muffy looked frantic, in her sudden helplessness turning to Jock. “What does he mean? They’ve
got
to pay off!”

She swung back to him. “I’ll sue you! I have a policy with you! You
have
to pay!”

Bunche stood up, muscles tensed.

“Cool down, Jock,” Lockwood told him. “You’ll both be agreeing with me before this is over.”

The two sat back down, and in the bright light of the morning sun, for the first time, possibly for the first time in her
life, Muffy seemed to have lost a little of her looks. There was a hint of harshness about her eyes and the corners of her
mouth. Now, Lockwood realized, he had an inkling of what she’d look like as the years wore on.

He turned toward Jock. “I’m glad you’re here. I had a theory that sooner or later you would be, but theories always feel better
when they translate themselves into hard, cold fact.”

He drew out a Camel and the Dunhill lighter. “Anyone?” he asked, but they simply sat there, unmoving, looking numbly at him,
and he tapped out just the one cigarette.

He let the first drag drift fully from his lungs before he spoke again. “I found out something about your friend here,” he
told Bunche. “She likes to play games.”

Bunche looked at him blankly.

“There was something she came up with, a little fantasy about my playing security guard at a party. That’s when it hit me.
The night she opened at the Persian Room, she was probably playing a game with
you.”

When neither of them responded, he continued. “All that noise you made, all that rudeness you showed her on opening night,
that was just a game. Muffy’s game. She made up the rules, and you followed them.”

That didn’t sit well with Bunche. Nobody was his boss. “Out of here. Get the fuck out!”

Lockwood’s voice was ice, and it shut the big man up. “Don’t crowd me, Bunche. Just sit back and listen.

“Muffy had you do all that because she’s a rich girl, and rich girls like fun. And the richer you are, the more fun you have.
Sooner or later you’ve exhausted all the old ways, and you have to find new forms of fun. So Muffy found a new one. A big
public fight between the two of you, a well-publicized split-up, and later, the icing on the cake, yet another big incident,
this time during Muffy’s opening night.”

The Hook inhaled deeply, luxuriously. He had all the time in the world. “And all the while,” he went on, deliberately abandoning
manners since they no longer seemed called for, “the two of you were laughing up your sleeves, sneaking off and boffing each
other left and right.”

Muffy let out a shriek of anger and Jock sprang to his feet, but the .38 was gleaming in Lockwood’s hand, and they subsided.
The .38 went back into its sheath. The Hook smiled, and went on.

“You’re a crook, Bunche,” he said. “You like to think of yourself as something else; some kind of society type; a member of
the elite. But you don’t fit in, you know, you never have. For Muffy, you’re just a toy, a criminal, brute type to add a little
excitement to the otherwise humdrum life of the Southampton set. And somehow I think something in you sensed it.”

He stubbed out the cigarette. “And then Muffy’s diamonds were stolen. And just like everyone else with any kind of tie to
the underworld, anyone with their ear to the ground, that is, you heard that Stymie the Fence had Muffy’s jewels. Or, more
likely,
would
have them, once he anted up the necessary scratch.” He looked at the two of them. “Shall I go on, or am I boring you?”

Muffy gave a helpless little nod, and Lockwood resumed.

“You sent your one-eyed pal, Widwer Levinksey, over to Hell’s Kitchen to work things out with Stymie. Your man offered him
a sum, and Stymie agreed.” He looked at Muffy, then at Bunche. “As I say, maybe you’ve been fooling yourself all along, Jock,
that Muffy was gone on you, but deep down, somewhere at the bottom of yourself, you weren’t quite that secure. And so you
decided to buy back Muffy’s jewels and give them to her.”