I nodded again, my face a pool of sweat. I felt the needle go in my arm and knew it would be all right soon. I said through teeth held so tight they felt like they'd snap off, "Capsules. Morphine sulphate."
"Oh, no!" Her voice sounded stunned.
McKeever said, "What?"
"I thought he was a drug addict. I destroyed them."
The doctor said nothing.
Slowly the pain was lifting like a fog. Another second and I'd sleep.
Tonelessly, Dari said, "How he must hate me!" Then I was past answering her.
It stopped raining on Wednesday. For two days I had lain there listening to my bedside radio. The hourly news broadcasts gave the latest U.N. machinations, then into the Cuban affair. Now the finger was pointing at Cuba as being the new jumping-off place for narcotic shipments to the States. Under suspected Soviet sponsorship, the stuff came in easily and cheaply from China—a cleverly different kind of time bomb a country can use to soften an enemy.
But two days were enough. I found my clothes, shaved, dressed, and tried to work the stiffness out of my muscles. Even then, the stairs almost got me. I took it easy going down, trying to look more unconcerned than I felt.
McKeever wasn't glad to see me. He told me I had no business being up yet and told me to sit down while he checked the bandage. When he finished he said, "I never asked about that gunshot wound."
"Go on."
"I assume it has been reported."
"You assume right."
"However, I'm going to report it again."
"Be my guest, doc. To save time I suggest you get the doctor's name from the prescription I had filled here."
"I will." He got up and reached for the phone.
The druggist gave him the doctor's name, then he called New York. When the phone stopped cackling, McKeever nodded, "It was reported, all right. Those prescriptions were good. Then you really are here on . . . a vacation."
"Nobody seems to believe it."
"You've been causing talk since you came."
"What about the girl?" I said. "Gloria Evans."
He slumped back in his chair. "She's all right. I have her at my wife's sister's place."
"She talk?"
The doctor shook his head. "No, they never talk." He took a deep breath, tapped his fingers against the desk and said, "She was badly beaten, but there was a marked peculiarity about it. She was carefully beaten. Two instruments were used. One appears to be a long, thin belt; the other a fine braided whip-like thing with a small metal tip."
I leaned forward. "Punishment?"
McKeever shook his head. "No. The instruments used were too light. The application had too deliberate a pattern to it."
"There were others like that?"
"I took care of two of them. It wasn't very pretty, but they wouldn't talk. What happened to them would never leave permanent scars . . . but there are other ways of scarring people."
"One thing more, doc. Were they under any narcotic influence at all?"
McKeever sighed deeply. "Yes. The Evans girl had two syringe marks in her forearm. The others had them too, but I didn't consider them for what they were then."
I stood up. "Picture coming through, doc?"
He looked like he didn't want to believe it. "It doesn't seem reasonable."
"It never does," I told him.
I stopped at the hotel and took the .45 from my shaving kit. I checked the load, jacked one in the chamber and let the hammer down easy, then shoved it under my belt on my good side. I dropped a handful of shells in my coat pocket just in case. In the bathroom I washed down two of my capsules, locked my door, and went downstairs.
The clerk waved me over. "New York call for you, Mr. Smith. Want me to get the number back? It was paid."
I told him to go ahead. It was Artie on the other end and after helloing me he said, "I have your items for you, Kelly."
"Go ahead."
"One, the car belongs to Don Casales. He's a moderate-sized hood from the L.A. area and clean. Casales works for Carter Lansing who used to have big mob connections in the old days. Now he's going straight and owns most of So-Flo Airways with headquarters in Miami. Two, Benny Quick has left the Miami area for parts unknown. Benny has been showing lots of green lately. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Name Simpson in connection with Nat Paley or Lennie Weaver mean anything?"
"Sure, remember Red Dog Wally? He's got a bookie stall on Forty-ninth . . . other day he mentioned old Pigface Weaver. Some broad was around looking him up with tears in her eyes. A real looker, he said, but nobody knew a thing about Lennie. Red Dog said he'd ask around, found out that Lenny and Nat had something big going for them with an out-of-town customer and were playing it cozy. No squeal out on them either. So Red Dog told the broad and she almost broke down."
"Then their client could be Simpson."
"Who knows. Hell, they've strong-armed for big guys from politicians to ladies' underwear manufacturers."
"Okay, Artie, thanks a bunch."
I hung up and stood there a minute, trying to think. I went over the picture twice and picked up an angle. I grinned at the thought and turned around.
She was waiting for me, tall, beautiful, her hair so shiny you wanted to bathe in it. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts said this was a moment she had thought about and planned. She tried a tiny smile and said, "Kelly?"
"Let's keep it Mr. Smith. I don't want to be friendly with the help."
She tried to hold her head up and keep the smile on, but I saw her eyes go wet.
I tipped her chin up. "Now that we've exchanged nasties, everybody's even. Think you can smile again?"
It came back, crookedly at first, but there it was and she was something so damn crazy special I could hardly believe it.
"Mr. Smith . . ."
I took her hand. "Kelly. Let's make it Kelly, sugar."
Before I knew what she was going to do it was over, a kiss, barely touching, but for one fraction of an instant a fierce, restrained moment. We both felt it and under the sheer midnight of her blouse a ripple seemed to touch her shoulder and her breasts went hard.
She went with me, out to the truck, waiting while I went into police headquarters. I asked for Captain Cox and when he came said, "I want to lodge a complaint against two of Mr. Simpson's employees. One is Nat Paley, the other a stranger."
Cox's face drew tight. "About your brawl, I suppose."
"That's right. They attacked me on the street. I recognized Paley and can identify the other by sight."
Nodding, Cox said, "We checked that one through already. The housekeeper whose place you used called us. Another party down the street thought he recognized one of Simpson's cars. However, Mr. Simpson himself said none of his cars was out and all his employees were on the premises. A dozen others can vouch for it."
"I see."
"Anybody else to back up your side?"
I grinned at him. "I think it can be arranged."
"You're causing a lot of trouble, Mister," he told me.
My grin got big enough so he could see all the teeth. "Hell, I haven't even started yet."
Dari and I drove through town and picked up a macadam road leading into the hills. Below us to the right Lake Rappaho was a huge silver puddle. Two lesser roads intersected and joined the one we were on.
At the next bend we came upon the outer defenses of Simpson's place. A sign read Hillside Manor Private. It was set in a fieldstone wall a good 10 feet high and on top were shards of broken glass set in concrete. That wasn't all. Five feet out there was a heavy wire fence with a three-strand barbed wire overhang.
"Nice," I said. "He's really in there. How long has it been like this?"
"Since the war. About '47."