Never Say No To A Killer Page 4

  “You don't understand me,” I said. “I want money, but not your money, not John Venci's money. I want that dossier that your husband collected on his enemies.”

  She stared hard at her hands. “And what... do I get in return?”

  “I told you, Mrs. Venci. I'll kill Burton before he kills you. You know you'll never be safe as long as you have those documents in your possession; actually, I'm doing you a favor by taking them.”

  Then she looked at me, and smiled the smallest, bitterest smile I ever saw. “I thought it would be so simple,” she said, “when I helped you escape from prison. You would kill Alex Burton; I would give you a certain amount of money; and then you would leave the city and I would never see you again—that's the way I had planned it.”

  “Things are never as simple as they seem at first glance, Mrs. Venci. We'd better go now, the taxi's waiting.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, in a way that made me turn and look at her. “I agree to your... proposition, but under two conditions. The first is that I am never to see you again, after you come into possession of the documents.”

  “That's fair enough. What's the second condition?”

  “You don't get the documents until after the... transaction has been completed.”

  I laughed. “Mrs. Venci, I was not born yesterday, not even the day before yesterday. This is strictly a pay-in-advance job we're talking about. Now, before we go,” I said, “I want the answer to one question: Why did you take me out of the hotel and put me in this crummy apartment?”

  She stood up, taking her lump gracefully enough about the advance payment. She said quietly, “Patricia Kelso lives just across the hall from you; she is Alex Burton's secretary.”

  “Is that supposed to help get me within killing distance of the ex-governor?”

  “Where his secretary is, Alex Burton is not far behind.”

  I grinned. “Mrs. Venci,” I said, “you have simplified things considerably. I apologize for some of the things I've been thinking about you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “ELLEN,” DORRIS Venci said, “show Mr. O'Connor to the library, will you, please?” Then, to me, “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Sure,” I said, watching her walk stiffly to a large spiral stairway, then up the stairway, then out of sight.

  Ellen, a grim, long-faced woman of about forty-five, said, “This way, Mr. O'Connor,” and I followed her over the wide expanse of reddish carpeting, down a few steps, around some corners, and finally she opened a heavy mahogany door and stepped to one side. “Thank you,” I said, walking into the library. The maid closed the door and vanished like yesterday's dreams.

  It was a hell of a place, this place where the maestro had lived. Note it carefully, I thought, because this is the way you are going to live, Surratt. The king is dead—long live the king!

  I stood there and tried to soak it up, the luxury of that room. The floor was of old oak, and a huge, thick carpet.

  But there were other things on the wall, things to make a man's head swim, if he could even vaguely estimate their worth. For one thing there was a fantastically delicate Chinese tapestry, and there were paintings that I absolutely could not believe, would not believe to be originals, until I had inspected them closely. There was a large boating scene that I recognized as a Turner. On another wall there was an El Greco—an EL Greco, mind you!

  That paintings so floored me that I forgot for a moment how fantastic it was finding them here in John Venci's library. But, when I did think about it, the answer was obvious. Paintings like that simply weren't for sale, not at any price. Possibly the Turner could have been bought—but not that El Greco, not in a hundred years! Those things were museum pieces, strictly!

  The obvious implication just about bowled me over, By God, I thought, he stole those things! John Vend stole them! The pure audacity of the thing struck me as being hilariously funny. I sank into a chair and felt the laughter coming up from my bowels! I lay back and howled.

  The door opened, Dorris came into the room carrying a small steel strongbox, and I was still laughing. “What's so funny?”

  “Those pictures,” I said, trying to choke it down. “Pictures?” She glanced at the paintings. “They never struck me as amusing.”

  I was off again. “How... How long,” I said, “have those paintings been here?”

  “Why, for years.”

  “Did your husband keep this room locked? He didn't receive visitors in here, did he?”

  “Of course he did; this was his favorite room. Now will you tell me why you're laughing?”

  I said, “No. It would be a shame to spoil a joke as priceless as this one.” In my mind I could see John Venci receiving governors, senators, bigshot politicians, all of them here in this room. I could see the cigar-chewing apes gaping about the room, seeing but uncomprehending, their brains as solid as concrete. I could appreciate the razor-sharp humor, the subtle, bitter hilarity that John Venci must have experienced as he watched their stupid faces. It was more than a wonderful, fantastic joke, it had been a source of fuel for the ego; it had been a day-by-day replenishment of confidence, for every time an oaf stared dumbly at those paintings, Venci's superiority was made brazenly obvious.

  I stopped laughing and took the strongbox from Dorris. I could feel the transfer of power, John Venci's power becoming mine. It's more than a strongbox, I thought, it's the world, and I've got it right in my hands. It is power over others and strength for myself, and, I've got it right in my hands!

  “Is everything here?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you won't mind if I look for myself; will you?”

  She handed me the key and I opened the box. I was disappointed at first; there didn't seem to be much to it. The strongbox was arranged like a miniature filing cabinet and everything was very neat and orderly. The name on the first index card was Allen, George W.

  I looked at Dorris. “Do you know a George W. Allen?”

  “He is an insurance broker.”

  I skipped the material on Mr. Allen and turned up the next index card. “Karl Johnson Applewhite,” I said.

  “President of the First National Bank.”

  That was more like it!

  The next name was Alex Burton, and the next one was somebody named Colter, who Dorris said was merely a superintendent of one of the city schools. There were twenty index cards and I went through them quickly, having Dorris give me a quick rundown on each name. Some of the names I didn't have to ask about, they were known all over the state and even the nation. Some of the names meant absolutely nothing to me. A United States Senator or a down-at-the-heels school teacher, it had made no difference to John Venci. An enemy was an enemy, an old wound never healed. He had gone after the little ones just as relentlessly as he had the big ones.

  And he had hooked them all. I didn't realize how completely he had hooked them until I started going through the material on a man named Kelton.

  Kelton had been a pretty important boy. He had been a district attorney with one foot practically in the Governor's Mansion before John Venci had cut him down. It seems that the DA. had somehow failed to summon an important witness in an important murder trial. The day after the trial the D.A. made a deposit of five thousand dollars and traded his Chevrolet in on a new Cadillac. Mr. Kelton had lost a murder trial, but obviously he had gained in other ways, and the proof was in the strongbox. A signed affidavit by the spurned witness, cancelled checks, bills of sale, plus a detailed account of Kelton's financial condition ten years back from the trial. As if that wasn't enough, there was also an affair with a certain young lady of doubtful reputation, to say the least, and this was backed up with photostats of hotel registers, actual photographs, bills of sale from various jewelry stores, clothing emporiums and even a liquor store. All this together with another signed affidavit from the young lady herself. Every bit of evidence was strong almost to the point of ridiculousness, and any one bit would have brought hi
m crashing from his political heights, and many of them would have landed him long prison terms.

  Mr. Kelton was cooked. He had known that he was cooked. First his wife had divorced him, then there were rumors of grand jury investigations. The rest of it was spelled out in a newspaper clipping, also included in the material on Kelton. The headline was: D.A. KILLED IN FREAK AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT.

  It didn't come right out and say that it had been suicide, but that wasn't important: John Venci had known.

  All in all there were four names that I couldn't use at all because Venci had already finished them off. One was killed in another “freak" automobile accident, another took too many sleeping pills, and the third, who didn't have the guts to kill himself, was suddenly discovered to have played a leading role in a seven-year-old murder and drew life in the State penitentiary.

  Quickly, I ran down some of the other material, especially the material that John Venci had gathered on Alex Burton. Most of the stuff on the ex-governor was in photostatic form, photostats of bills of sale, cancelled checks, deposit slips, and even photostats of Burton's income tax forms for five years back. The upshot of the evidence was that Burton had made himself a killing running well into six figures the four year stretch he had put in at the State Capitol. It was rock-hard, iron-bound evidence that could put Burton so far back in prison that they'd have to pump air to him.

  It was incredible, it was almost more than I could believe, but it was there, it sure was!

  Dorris Venci said, “Are you satisfied?”

  “Perfectly. It's pretty hard to swallow all at once, it's something I'll have to chew on for a while before I can digest it. But I'm satisfied, all right, in spades.”

  “... And Alex Burton,” she asked flatly.

  It was almost a shame to kill a man like that when I had all that evidence on him—still, he had proved that he was dangerous. He sure had proved it to John Venci. Yes, I thought, the only smart way to handle it is to kill Burton. There were still plenty of fish left, and I had plenty of bait.

  I said, “You can stop worrying about Burton, Mrs. Venci.”

  “I hope you realize it won't be easy.”

  “Please relax,” I said. “Just keep out of sight for a day or two; I won't let him kill you.”

  But she wasn't so sure about that.

  I said, “Look, Mrs. Venci, I'm no amateur, this is no punk kid trying to work up his guts to stick up an oil station, this is a professional, a well trained professional playing for big stakes. I'm not underrating Burton—a man with his record has to be pretty smart, but I've handled smart boys before, and I can do it again. So take it easy.”

  I was half afraid that she would let her natural female instability lead her into some unpredictable action that would ruin everything. I was sorry now that I had got rough with her. She still knew things, she was still Mrs. John Venci, and I could use her on my side.

  “Good by,” she said.

  “Oh... Yes, I guess I've been here long enough. But before I go, is there anything you want to tell me, about Burton, I mean?”

  “... No. You said you could handle it.”

  “So I did. Well, I'll be going.”

  She rang for the maid. We stood there looking at each other, and after a moment she said, “I really mean good-by. Don't ever try to see me again, ever.”

  Not until I got back to my apartment did I remember Dorris had brought a package with her that morning. The package was still in the kitchen where she had left it, partly unwrapped. I opened it up and the first thing I saw was a nicely blued, but not new, “police special” .38 caliber revolver. There was also a box of ammunition. But the thing that caught my eye was the money. There was a package of fives, a package of tens and a package of twenties, every bill brand new and crisp and green.

  I counted it out and it came to five hundred on the nose.

  Well, I thought, this is very nice. This is very nice of you, Mrs. Venci. You may be a little mixed up sexually, but what's an aberration or so among friends—you've got your nice side, too. Yes sir, you sure have!

  I pocketed the money and went out to find the biggest goddamn steak in Lake City.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I WAS AT THE mail box in the hallway next morning when she came out of her apartment. She was just about the handsomest girl I ever saw, this Pat Kelso, this secretary of Alex Burton's that Dorris Venci had hinted was something more than a secretary. She walked like Royalty: chin up, erect, every step sure and solid.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  She smiled faintly. “Good morning.”

  “Pardon me, but could you tell me what time the postman comes around? I'm new to this neighborhood.” Then I added, “I just moved in yesterday, down the hall. Apartment seven.”

  I thought maybe she would say something about our being neighbors, but she didn't. “I believe the postman comes later,” she said, “around ten.” Then she nodded pleasantly, smiled that faint smile again, and walked out of the building.

  I went to the door and watched her walk to the curb where a taxi was waiting. Pat Kelso. The name stuck with me, and the vision stuck with me. This girl is class, I told myself. How did she ever get mixed up with a bastard like Burton?

  Then I remembered that most people didn't know Burton as I now knew him. After all, he was a very wealthy and powerful and respected man in the state. He was a bigshot; he was an ex-governor. Maybe that's the kind of guy girls with class went for. I watched her as she got into the cab. Pat Kelso, I thought, I think we ought to get better acquainted.

  The telephone was ringing when I got back to the apartment. Words jumped out at me when I picked up the receiver, frightened words coming fast and making no sense at all. It was Dorris Venci and she was scared.

  “Hold it, Mrs. Venci,” I said. “Now what's the trouble.”

  “A man tried to kill me!”

  “Who? When?”

  “I don't know who, just a man, one of Alex Burton's men, it could have been anybody. But he isn't important, Alex Burton is the important one. Have... have you done...”

  “Not yet,” I said. “After all it's only been a few hours; I've got to have a little time to figure something out.”

  “Something's got to be done!”

  “It sure has,” I said. “You've got to get hold of yourself. Now calm down and tell me what happened.”

  “I told you, a man tried to kill me! It was last night, this morning, rather, about two o'clock. I woke up and there he was in my room; he had a gun!”

  “Hold on. How did he get in your room. You had the house locked, didn't you?”

  “Yes, the house was locked, but there's latticework and vines on the north side, and he must have used that to climb up to the second floor. He broke a window—rather cut the window, a small hole near the lock—that was how he got in.”

  “I see. Then what happened.”

  “I woke up and there he was. He had a gun pointed right at me!”

  I said, “I don't get it. If he went to that trouble and had a gun pointed at you, why didn't he kill you?”

  “He tried, that's what I'm trying to tell you. He fired once but I had thrown myself off the bed. Luckily, before he could find me in the dark, Ellen began knocking on my door, making an awful noise, and I guess that's what frightened him away.”

  “You mean he just knocked off the job and left? I'd hate to hire a man like that.”

  “I told you that Ellen was making a lot of noise, and, besides, she had a gun. She finally got the door open and fired once. Of course the killer couldn't see who it was; he fired once more in the darkness and left.”

  “How did he get out of the house?”

  “He jumped from my window, my bedroom window.”

  “Then there's one hell of a sore hoodlum somewhere in Lake City this morning, taking a drop like that. But it's over now. The main thing is for you to calm down and be quiet, and keep Ellen quiet too. I'll think of something.”

  “Soon!”
>
  “All right, soon.”

  “Today! Tonight at the latest!”

  “All right, I said I would take care of it. Calm down.”

  “There's one more thing,” she said. “My safe was open, the wall safe upstairs where the strongbox was kept.”

  I whistled. “That was close; I got that stuff just in time. And you are right about Burton, the bastard is entirely too persistent. Well, he won't be so persistent this time tomorrow. Just think about that and try to get some sleep.”

  I hung up.

  That goddamn Burton, I thought, he's going to ruin things good if I don't stop him. When a politician gets in so deep that he starts playing with murder, that was the time to do one of two things: either back off fast and get out of the blast area when the explosion comes, or close in fast and try to get at the fuse.

  There was one thing I was sure of—I wasn't backing away. I had my hands on a million dollars worth of blackmail material. So Burton had to go, and fast. Soon as he found out that Dorris no longer had the evidence, he'd come after me. Somehow he would find out about me. That's the only trouble with blackmailing—sooner or later you run into a guy like Burton, a guy who won't give.

  So, right on the spot, I made up my mind about Burton. I was going to kill him today, or tonight—anyway, within the next twelve hours—if it was humanly possible. But it wasn't going to be easy. I didn't know a thing about his personal habits, except he was somehow tied up with his secretary, Pat Kelso. That was the angle I would have to use, it was the only angle I had.

  The only thing to do was begin at the beginning and try to find out something about Pat Kelso. I had a look at the door across the hall, the door to Pat Kelso's apartment, hoping that it would be unlocked, but of course it wasn't. That didn't stop me for long.

  I went back and looked at my own door and smiled a little when I saw that it was equipped with an ordinary spring-operated night latch. In my kitchen I found a cheap paring knife, a flexible, stainless steel affair that was practically made to order.