The Copper Frame (12 page)

The remark explained to Saxon how the men had happened to be here waiting for him. Tony Spijak had warned him that Alton Zek played both sides. Probably Saxon had no more than left the hotel room when the little informer ran to Sergeant Harry Morrison to sell the information that someone was inquiring about him.

He felt irked with himself for being such easy prey, because he had actually considered the possibility of Zek informing on him. It just hadn't occurred to him that Morrison would get the news so soon. With the shape the little addict had been in, Saxon had assumed he would think of nothing during the next few hours except converting his twenty-dollar bill into heroin and shooting it into his veins.

Simmons tossed back the wallet.

“You can put it away again,” Simmons said. “How come you're not carry a gun?”

“I'm not a cop any more. You should know, Hard-nose. You had a minor part in framing me out of office.”

“Me?” the man said with raised brows.

“Didn't you post bond for Edward Coombs's traffic offense?”

“Oh, that. Just following orders. I didn't even know what it was all about. You can take off your hat and coat, Saxon. We'll be here awhile.”

Saxon took off his hat, glanced at the man with the gun for permission, and unhurriedly crossed the room to lay it on the sofa. Shedding his coat, he dropped it alongside the hat, then stooped to remove his overshoes.

The man with the gun said, “You can sit right there on the sofa.”

Saxon seated himself “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

“We don't know,” Simmons said pleasantly. “We're just following orders.”

The man didn't seem to know much about his work, Saxon thought.

He asked, “From Harry Morrison or Larry Cutter?”

“My, my,” the man called Farmer said. “He knows lots of names. He's been doing some nosing.”

Saxon decided that the remark had been a mistake. There was now no question in his mind that Sergeant Harry Morrison was allied with Larry Cutter, for at least one of these men, and probably both, were hired guns of Cutter's. That was the information he had come here to get from Ann Lowry, and now he had it, though by a different means from the way he had anticipated. Having accomplished his mission, there was no point in divulging how much he knew, for he suspected that if his captors decided he knew too much, he would never walk out of the place alive.

“I really don't know much,” he said. “For instance, I don't know if Farmer is your first or last name.”

“Neither,” the man said with a buck-toothed grin. “It's just a nickname. Farmer Benton.”

Saxon said thoughtfully, “Neither of you seems very eager to conceal your identities. Don't you think I'll put in a complaint about being held up?”

“You ain't been held up,” Farmer Benton said. “You still got your money, ain't you? You come walking in a strange apartment without invitation, so I put the gun on you until you explain yourself. The cops ain't going to get very excited about that.”

“Let's call them and see,” Saxon suggested.

“Don't get cute,” Simmons advised. “Just sit there and relax.” Then his tone became more pleasant. “We may have a long wait. Like a drink while we're waiting?”

“No, thanks,” Saxon said with equal pleasantness. “I just had a couple of beers, and I like to keep a clear head when I'm around people who are handling guns. What are we waiting for?”

“A phone call. Until it comes, we don't know no more about this than you do, so it won't do any good to ask questions.”

“A phone call from whom?”

“You're still asking questions,” Farmer Benton complained.

“Sorry. I'll just ask one more and then shut up. Where are the girls?”

“Ann and Sandra?” Simmons asked. “They took off. They kind of loaned us the place.”

Conversation lapsed. Farmer Benton took a chair across the room from the sofa, but facing it, and sat with his gun in his lap. Hardnose John Simmons disappeared into the kitchen. In a few minutes he returned with a clinking glass of whisky.

“The girls stock a pretty good brand of bourbon,” he said to his partner. “Want a drink?”

“No. And you better lay off, too. You know how the boss feels about drinking during working hours.”

“One little highball isn't drinking,” Simmons said.

When Farmer Benton didn't answer, there was another conversational lapse. Simmons carefully circled behind Benton's chair, so as not to cross between Benton's gun and Saxon, seated himself in a chair a good distance from the sofa, and sipped his drink. Benton gazed unwinkingly at Saxon. Saxon simply sat.

After a time Saxon checked his watch and saw it was 3
P.M
. An hour had passed since he had entered the apartment.

Then the phone rang.

The phone stood on an end table near Saxon. But when he rose to answer, Simmons went into the kitchen. When the ringing abruptly stopped, Saxon realized the man had picked up a kitchen extension.

Several minutes passed before Simmons reappeared and resumed his seat. His glass was freshly filled and its color was darker than the first time. Farmer Benton frowned at the glass.

“One little highball isn't drinking,” he mimicked in his adenoidal voice.

“Neither is two, if you know how to handle your liquor,” Simmons said. “That was the boss.”

“Yeah? What's the scoop?”

“He's sending over Spider Wertz with instructions. But not until dark.”

“Oh, fine,” Benton said. “We gotta keep this guy under a gun all afternoon?”

“Well, we could tie him up.”

Farmer Benton considered, then shrugged. “Aw, the hell with it. Long as we got to sit here anyway, I'll keep him covered. What's the matter with these girls that they got no TV?”

“The guys who come to see them ain't interested in TV,” Simmons said. He snickered.

Benton threw a suspicious glance at Simmons's glass, which was again nearly empty.

Another hour dragged by. Twice Simmons went to the kitchen and returned with a replenished glass, and both times Farmer Benton objected to his drinking.

The first time he said, “You trying to get drunk? Every one of those gets darker.”

“You ever seen me drunk?” Simmons demanded.

“I've seen you blotto. You didn't think so, because you never know when you're drunk. You're always talking about being able to handle your liquor, but you get so you can hardly talk.”

“That's a barefaced lie!” Simmons said. “I never showed my drinks in my life.”

The second time Benton said crossly, “Go ahead and get stupid. You'll be a lot of help if Spider brings word we have a job to do.”

Simmons merely gave him a benign smile.

It was a quarter after five and Simmons had made two more trips to the kitchen when the doorbell finally rang. Setting down his glass, Simmons circled behind his partner's chair to answer it, and Saxon noted that he was walking with exaggerated straightness. When he opened the door, Saxon caught a bare glimpse of a lean, mustached man before Simmons stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him. Saxon was disappointed. He had hoped to hear the instructions brought by the mysterious Spider Wertz.

Some five minutes passed before the door reopened to let Hardnose Simmons back in. Behind him, Saxon saw that the hall was now empty. Simmons again circled behind his partner's chair with studied care of movement and reseated himself. Benton gave him a questioning look.

Simmons lifted his glass from the floor and drained it.

Saxon felt the hair at the base of his neck prickle.

“When do we get started?” Benton asked.

“Soon as it's good and dark. It's already getting there. Spider's waiting out front. He said to come out about a quarter of six.”

chapter 15

At a quarter of six Simmons picked up his empty glass and rose to his feet.

“You can put on your things,” he said to Saxon, enunciating his words with great care. He moved toward the central hall in an unwavering line, but a little too rapidly, just brushing one side of the doorway as he passed.

Saxon reached for his overshoes and put them on while still seated. When he got up from the sofa, Farmer Benton lifted the gun from his lap and covered him as he shrugged into his coat.

Simmons returned overcoated, hatted, and wearing a pair of rubbers. He was carrying a second coat, hat, and pair of galoshes. Dropping the galoshes on the floor, he tossed the coat and hat onto the chair where he had been seated. Then he produced his gun and held it on Saxon while his partner put his away and got dressed for outdoors.

When Farmer Benton was ready, Simmons took off his hat and dropped it over his gun hand. Again carefully enunciating, he said to Saxon, “I will be right behind you on the way out. If we meet anyone, it will look like I'm carrying my hat, and I would hate to blow a hole in it. Get the idea?”

“Yeah,” Saxon growled. “You mean if I try anything, you'll shoot me in the back.”

“You understand perfectly,” Simmons said with a smile. “You can run interference, Farmer. Go ahead.”

Benton frowned at him. “You're pretty gassed, Hard-nose. Better let me trail.”

“Just get going,” Simmons snapped at him.

Benton gave his partner an irritated look, but he didn't argue. Striding over to the door, he opened it and peered into the hall.

“All clear,” he announced in a sullen voice.

He stepped out into the hall and Simmons gestured Saxon toward the door, falling into line a step behind him. Simmons paused at the door long enough to click off the light switch next to it and set the spring lock before stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind him. Farmer Benton had already reached the stairway and had stopped there, and Saxon was halfway to him.

“Hold it!” Simmons ordered.

Saxon halted. The man up ahead peered down the stairwell, then signaled them to come on.

By the time Saxon reached the stair landing, with Simmons right behind him, Benton was at the bottom of the stairs. After glancing both ways along the lower hall, Benton again gave the all-clear signal. Then he moved on to the front door.

No one except Benton was in sight when Saxon stepped into the outdoor cold with Simmons still only a step behind. At this time of year sunset came at about four-thirty, so it was quite dark by now. A light snow dimmed the light cast by a nearly full moon. The temperature seemed to have fallen since 2
P
.
M
. Saxon judged it at about zero.

Farmer Benton waited on the front sidewalk for them to join him. When they reached him, Simmons glanced up and down the street. Aside from Saxon's Plymouth, parked directly in front of the building, there were only two cars parked on the block. One was across the street, the other on this side about a quarter of a block back. The windshield wipers of the second were working, indicating someone was in it, though it had no lights on.

It seemed that for whatever reason Spider Wertz had been waiting, it wasn't to furnish them transportation, for after one glance that way, Simmons looked at the Plymouth.

“This your car?” he asked Saxon.

It seemed useless to deny it, for of the only other two cars in sight, one was their friend's and the other, across the street, must have been the one Benton and Simmons had arrived in. Saxon merely nodded.

“Get in from this side and slide over under the wheel.”

Taking his keys from his pocket, Saxon unlocked the car door, opened it, and worked his way across the seat to the driver's side. Simmons slid in next to him, lifted the hat concealing his gun, and put it on his head. Without taking his eyes from Saxon, he reached behind the seat with his left hand to unlock the rear door.

Climbing in back, Farmer Benton settled himself in the seat before asking, “What's with Spider back there?”

“He saw us come out,” Simmons said. “He'll trail.”

“Trail where?” the man in the back seat asked fretfully. “It'd be nice if you'd let me know what the hell the plans are.”

“You'll find out when we get there,” Simmons said. “All right, Saxon. Head straight east until you hit Route Twenty.”

Saxon glanced sideways at the gun. Simmons sat with his back against the door, the gun butt steadied on his thigh and the muzzle pointed unwaveringly at Saxon's midriff. If it happened to go off, he would die rather messily, Saxon realized. He decided not to make any sudden moves that might inspire it to go off, at least until he discovered how lethal the plans for him were. Starting the engine, he switched on his wipers and his lights and pulled away from the curb. After a moment he leaned forward to turn the heater and defroster both to high. In the rear-view mirror he saw the other car's lights go on. The car pulled out to follow.

Despite the cold, by the time they were within a block of Route Twenty, the car's heater had made the interior of the car quite comfortable. Simmons unbuttoned his overcoat.

“Which way on Twenty?” Saxon asked.

“Southwest. You're going home.”

This time Simmons's enunciation was not so precise. There was a definite slur in his voice. Saxon wondered if the car heater was having an effect.

Turning right on Twenty, Saxon said, “Why are you accompanying me home? I know the way.”

“Wanna make sure you get there. Car following will bring us back.”

If it hadn't been for the trailing car, the lights of which he could see only a few yards behind in the rear-view mirror, Saxon would have been sure this was a death ride. But if the men intended to shoot him and dump his body somewhere, there was no point in the second car. They could drive his back to Buffalo after committing the murder and simply abandon it somewhere. Saxon could imagine no purpose for the trailing car other than transportation back to Buffalo for Simmons and Benton. Which was reassuring, even though it was also puzzling.