Dig My Grave Deep Read online

  “Where is Shelly?” Port said.

  Port didn't notice the way they frowned, not knowing what he wanted, but Port didn't follow it up. The tight knot of hate had started to loosen and grow, and the size of it grew over his head. It got so big for him that he couldn't stand it and it turned into panic. When he moved it was panic that pushed him.

  He was out of the room fast and then out of the building. He didn't think of the men in the room and what they might do, about the distance to go, how long it might take him. He was back in the slums, with no knowledge of time and no change in pace. Only one thing had suddenly changed—his drive was no longer a crazy splatter of fear but a very sharp, pointed force. If he hadn't been out of breath he would have whistled now, but when he stood in Ramon's room he was very still.

  “Where is she, Ramon?”

  Ramon laughed.

  Port stepped closer and the man in the bed was out of the shadow now, back in the dim light from the kitchen. Ramon was on his back, as before, and the gun in his hand was pointing at Port.

  Port saw it, but it had no effect. His thinking was clear, his movements decisive, and he could hold them forever, to get his advantage.

  “Bellamy's going to tear off your skin, Calvin, if you shoot me.”

  Ramon laughed again.

  “He's the one that called you were coming, and said I should be expecting you.”

  “And to bring me back.”

  “Alive—if I can,” Ramon said softly.

  “Can you?”

  “Any gun's bigger than you,” said Ramon, and sat up in bed.

  “That's why,” said Port and before Ramon was properly settled the gun flew out of his hand with Port's sudden slap.

  He didn't hit Ramon. He watched him get up, and then he spoke once more.

  “Where is Shelly?”

  Ramon stood stiff and afraid, with a fast spasm inside his stomach. When Port took a step forward Ramon said, “She is safe,” and then he stopped.

  Port wondered about Ramon's fear for his life and the stubborn answer. It was a part of Ramon he had never seen, and Port frowned.

  “I tell you this because I'm afraid,” said Ramon, “but I am not so afraid that I'd tell you more.”

  “Then I believe that she's safe.”

  For a very brief moment they were not enemies, but then Ramon cast down his eyes, as if the feeling shamed him, and Port stepped back to the wall to pick up the gun. Shelly was safe. There was time now for unfinished business.

  “We're going to do like Bellamy wants it. Where's he waiting?”

  “At your place.”

  When they got into the car, Port put the gun in his pocket and drove back the way he had come. He drove back just as fast but he knew why he was doing it now, and the wild excitement inside him was bright and hot.

  They stopped at a building unfamiliar to Ramon, and when Port pressed the button downstairs there was only a number next to it. The buzzer sounded, and Port pushed Ramon ahead. The apartment door opened as soon as Port reached for the bell.

  Fries had been in bed, but his thin hair was combed, he wore trousers, and the silk coat and ascot looked very correct.

  “Let me in,” said Port.

  Fries wouldn't step aside.

  “What do you want?”

  “FU tell you inside,” said Port and pushed Fries out of the way. Ramon came in too.

  Fries said, “What's he doing here? Isn't he the guy that got thrown out of the club? If you think for a minute...”

  “Close the door, Fries.” Port was going to the lighted room with the desk, and Ramon was following him.

  Then Fries came in. “You're not starting out very well,” he said, “now that Stoker is dead. From now on this free-wheeling stuff is out. I'm setting up regular hours...”

  “This couldn't wait, Fries. Listen to me. Did you buy the Paternik building?”

  Fries didn't seem to hear. He sat down at his desk and picked up one of the sharp pencils he kept there.

  “Now then,” he said.

  “Twelve hundred Birch—did you buy it?”

  Fries tapped the pencil on the desk and said, “What's it to you?”

  “I need it! I need that frame for a trade, or Paternik will push me into a murder indictment. He was there when Stoker died.”

  “You murdered Stoker?”

  “For Christ's sake, Fries!”

  It would have been easy to grab Fries and choke the ascot around his neck. Port swallowed and lowered his voice.

  “Yes or no, Fries. Did you set up the frame?”

  The voice made Fries look up, and he saw the murder in Port's face, close to the surface.

  “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

  Port relaxed and started to smile. From now on it would just be one step after another to the end.

  “Fries, you're a doll. Let me have the papers.”

  “What papers?”

  “How much did Stoker pay extra for that property?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “Receipted separately?”

  “Of course.”

  “That's what I want. That, receipt.”

  Fries pursed his lips and looked at his pencil.

  “Or I'll break you.”

  Fries looked up, because his first thought was that Port meant it now. He couldn't tell what Port's exact meaning had been, and he had a thousand vague speculations. But the thing about Fries was his stiff, well-armored shell.

  “You don't have to do that,” he said. His insides were twisting, but all that showed was his remark. It carried him over the moment, and Port relaxed too.

  “All right, I'm waiting.”

  Then Fries went on hastily. “What would you do afterwards—leave? You take the receipts and the organization can't use them any more. And on top of that, you blow.”

  Port felt something near boredom. He said, “If you don't give it to me I'm out of the organization just the same. He's framing a murder, I told you.”

  “It wouldn't stick. At best they can make it manslaughter., And with the weight we carry around here...”

  “Give me the paper.”

  “And you stay.”

  Port looked away to reach for a chair and when Fries saw his face again, Port wore a small, vicious smile.

  “I stay,” said Port. That made Fries sit up, his face very still, all the tics gone out of it. Then he heard Port go on, smiling.

  “And when I stay, Fries, do you think you'll be the top man? Even Stoker told you, don't you remember, he even told you I know more than you do.”

  “Just a minute, Port...”

  “I don't like you, Fries, and when I'm in, you're going to feel it. You understand that sort of thing, don't you, Fries?”

  “If you think for a minute...” Fries stopped.

  Port said, “Your kind of gutless creep never knows why you can't make the top, with all your filthy scheming. I'll tell you why not, Fries: because all you ever know and all you can ever do is to kick up the dust so your tracks don't show, so your scared insides don't give you away, and the scream for help doesn't bust out of you! I know that better than you, and that's why you can't win, not with me around, not as long as I run my business my way. I stay, Fries, and I'm going to ruin you! It wouldn't kill you, but you'd look a mess. Tell the truth, Fries, that's worse than anything, isn't it? That's worse than death to you.”

  Fries covered one side of his face, because his tic was now driving him crazy. He thought one eye might jump out or spit would drip out of his mouth.

  “Give me the paper, Fries, and I'll blow.”

  There wasn't any more argument.

  They drove to the Lee building and went up to the office where Stoker used to be. Fries went to the safe in the corner, and when he came back he had what Port wanted. Port took the paper. But for Fries there had now been enough time to collect himself; not that the words would matter too much, but he had to say it.

  “You can't get away with it. If I want to...
”

  “But you won't, will you?” Port was smiling, which in a way was worse to Fries than shouting would have been.

  Port took a sheaf of papers out of his pocket, folded typing paper which Fries saw was a carbon copy. Port laid it all down on the desk.

  “Read it, Fries. And when you're through, you'll know as much as I do. About dirty politics, about our hookup, about payments to whom, and what law violations didn't get on the docket. With a lot of details about you and— more important—about men higher up. A criminal investigator's dream, big shot—and insurance for me.”

  “Where—where is the original?”

  “Where will it be if I die?”

  Fries waited.

  “It'll be all over. So here's what you do with it, Fries. Pass it on to the top when you make your report about Daniel Port leaving the fold, and point out that it's safer that I stay alive.”

  Fries put the papers down. He would read them later.

  “There are ways, Port. There are experts who make a death look like...”

  “It says right at the bottom, Fries, this thing comes out when I die. No matter how. That trick ought to impress you.” Port started to laugh.

  Fries tried to think of something else he could say now. “You can't—you can't—” he managed.

  “Can't what?” Port was still smiling.

  “Can't take the car! It's company property, if you come right down to it. Stoker just...”

  Port's laughter was like a volley of slaps in the face, and when he threw some keys on the desk Fries grabbed them up as if they were his salvation.

  “You'll like that, won't you, Fries? Those two big antennae in back, they really got to you, huh?”

  Port waved at Ramon, who ran to open the door, and then they walked through the outer office. Port stopped at the switchboard and made three calls. One was for a taxi and with the other two Port used first names. Ramon didn't know what the calls meant.

  Since losing his gun Ramon hadn't said a word, and Port hadn't tried talking to him. If he would talk, Ramon thought, maybe it would be like a sting which could arouse him again, make him find his old role, the one he had lost when they left the kitchen. The one he had lost when Port didn't beat an answer out of him. But they sat in the taxi and nobody talked.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When the taxi pulled up at Port's place, the prowlcar was waiting. Ramon saw it first. He felt like crouching into the seat, hiding himself, and he was afraid Port might notice. But Port wasn't paying any attention.

  One cop was on the sidewalk, the other one sat in the car.

  “You better both come,” said Port and ran into the building. He heard one of them say, “Yes, Mr. Port,” and then Port tapped his foot nervously, waiting for the elevator to open. He pushed Ramon in first, then let the policemen pass by. On the way up he said, “You wait in the hall. When I'm ready for witnesses, I'll call you in.”

  “How many are there?” asked one of the cops.

  “There's Bellamy. You know Bellamy.”

  The cops looked at each other and then Port went on, “And Judge Paternik. You've heard of him.”

  The elevator doors opened, so the cops didn't have a chance to look at each other.

  They stopped in the corridor and Port said, “You can tell it's important. When you come in I want you to make an impression. Have your guns out.”

  They nodded without understanding and watched Port and Ramon walk to the door.

  They were all there: Paternik at one end of the bed, Bellamy at the other, like balances on a scale. Kirby was on a chair, his gun looking at Port.

  “What happened?” said Bellamy. His voice was loud, irritated, and he looked from Port to Ramon.

  “Just stay by the door,” said Port to Ramon, and stepped into the middle of the room.

  “And you drop it,” said Kirby.

  Port shrugged, reached for the bulge in his pocket, and tossed Ramon's gun on the floor.

  “I'll get to you later,” Bellamy yelled at Ramon. “When I give an order...”

  “He brought me, didn't he?” Port smiled.

  “All right. Now you, Port. You've taken all the sweet time you're going to get...”

  “Why don't you tell your dog to put down the gun. You know I don't carry any.”

  “He stays as he is!” roared Bellamy, and Kirby did.

  If Port was impressed it didn't show. He went to the couch where his suitcase was. He did it so easily, without sudden movements, Kirby let him do it. Port opened the suitcase, took out a handkerchief, and blew his nose. They waited, with the tension thick in the air.

  Port put the handkerchief back in the suitcase and when he straightened up he shot Kirby.

  The man fell smoothly out of the chair. After a moment he slowly pulled up his legs and made low sounds. Port said to Ramon, “Stick your head out the door and tell them it's nothing. They should wait.”

  Ramon did it. Port tossed his gun up and down, waiting, and they all waited for Port. When the door was closed again he smiled at the judge.

  “I'm back.”

  The judge frowned, cleared his throat, gave one quick look at Bellamy. But Bellamy wasn't helping.

  “I'm here to trade murders,” said Port.

  There was a pause while Port let them catch up with the words. Then he said, “Paternik, did you ever sell that building?”

  “I fail to see— The serious matter—” said the judge, not understanding.

  “Paternik, listen to me. Twelve hundred Birch—you sold that, remember? And at what a price!”

  “If you think stalling around with that gun in your hand...”

  “Shut up, Bellamy.”

  Bellamy's face got mottled but he didn't move.

  “You sold it to Stoker,” said Port. “You know what that means, Paternik?”

  “Port, what are you saying?”

  “That alone looks like collusion with gangsters. And now this!” and Port held out the receipt. “You got a price that has nothing to do with the property's value. You got paid extra. You know what that extra was for, Paternik?”

  “You must be insane!”

  Port smiled and waved the receipt back and forth.

  “That's not how it's going to look after I get through making mud out of you. It's going to look like political murder!” Port smiled. “You and me, Paternik, are going to trade murders.”

  “For heaven's sake—”

  Port went over to Kirby and looked down at the man. A wet stain was spreading high up on one leg.

  “Tell them, Kirby. How's it feel?”

  Kirby started to make little sounds, and they all heard.

  “And this one,” said Port to the judge; “he's going to be as good as new in a month or so. What'll you be doing, Judge Paternik, in a month or so?”

  The old man got up, then sat down again. He looked at Bellamy, who hadn't said a word.

  “I'm through waiting,” said Port. “Call them in,” and he nodded at Ramon.

  The judge got up fast, talking urgently. “Mr. Port, you asked me to consider. You offered a bargain to which I —” That's when Bellamy moved. While the judge held Port's arm, talking to him, Bellamy charged to the end of the room where the guns were lying. It wasn't clear what he meant to accomplish, because had he tried shooting Port the judge would have been in the way, but it never came to that. The two cops came in, with guns, and one of them said, “You're under arrest. Assault with a deadly weapon.”

  The gun fell out of Bellamy's hand.

  “And this one,” said Port, “is Judge Paternik. He is...”

  “Please! Mr. Port!”

  “He is here to give us a statement. A straight witness statement, because he hasn't had a chance to tell the police about Stoker's death.”

  “Yes,” said Paternik. “A mere formality. I was present when Stoker suffered his heart attack, and then fell on the stone apron at the fireplace. This young man and I saw it happen, and though I was present, witnessed the
natural death, I have not had an opportunity to submit my statement. I welcome this chance...”

  “That's enough,” said Port. “Now get this one for breaking and entering.”

  “Okay,” said one of the cops, and took Paternik by the arm. When he had him up to the door, he told Paternik to wait while he picked Kirby up from the floor.

  “This will never stand up!” yelled Bellamy, and the cop who was holding him said, “You should tell it to the judge.”

  The judge and Bellamy looked at each other like strangers. Port said, “It's good enough till tomorrow, right, officer?”

  “Okay, Mr. Port.” They started to leave.

  “Wait a minute.” Port came after them. He tapped the judge on the shoulder, smiled at him. “This is yours,” he said, and gave him the twenty-thousand-dollar receipt.

  When they had gone Port and Ramon left too. Ramon carried the two suitcases.

  Landis opened the door himself. He had been waiting for over an hour but the hair standing up in back of his head and the shadows under his eyes made him look as if he had just come out of bed.

  “I thought you were alone,” Landis said.

  “Ramon will wait in another room,” Port answered, and Ramon left.

  Landis took Port into the kitchen and asked him if he wanted coffee. Port said no, and Landis picked up his cup, leading the way to the study.

  “I'm not used to being up at this hour, Port, so if you'll come to the point—”

  Port waited till Landis sat down.

  “You still got my airplane ticket?”

  Landis put down his cup very carefully.

  “I thought you were joking, the last time I saw you.”

  Port shrugged.

  “The fact is,” said Landis, “I do have it.”

  “You can give it to me now.”

  Landis went to the desk and found the ticket. He gave it to Port. “And have a good trip,” he said.

  “Thank you, Landis.”

  Landis went back to his cup but did not sit down.

  “You wouldn't consider staying?”

  “No.”

  “You are simply leaving the mess.”

  Port gave a short laugh. “Yeah, it's that simple.”

  “I had thought, when you called me...”

  “I called to leave you the mess.”