The roar of the 45 thundered and the whine of the ricocheting slug screamed through the air. Robert Burroughs had slid behind the bulk of the sedan just as his assailant had fired the round. He had been lucky, very lucky. That bullet might have had his name on it. Cordite tinged the still air with its acrid influence.
Burroughs lowered himself down beside the auto, first to his knees, then palms flat he laid beside the vehicle. He peered beneath the running board, his face close to the street. Two sets of feet shuffled behind a coup across the way. Taking a chance Burroughs pointed the barrel of his pistol at the street just in front of the feet and fired. The shattered cobblestone and fragmented bullet bounced up and scored a hit on the left pair of shoes. They danced and bounced; pain evident by the gyrations.
“Shit!” a pinched, nasal voice cried out. “I’ve been hit! Shit! Right in my Dingus!”
“Quiet, dummass!” a deep baritone commanded. “Christ! Grab your dick and stop the bleeding!”
“But it hurts! Damn, it hurts!” the nasally voice ended in a prolonged whining wail and the feed danced about uncontrollably.
“Fuck!” the baritone ejaculated and then a crunch followed. As Burroughs watched from his vantage point beneath the sedan a small form crumpled and dropped to the street. He recognized the face. The left set of feet had been knocked senseless by his companion. It was Steve “Wormy” Tayback; small time hood always looking to rise in an organization that never noticed him. If Wormy was here then the other must be Lance Sharpton.
These two had been dogging Burroughs for two months now. He had been able to avoid them until tonight. Word had it that they wanted to question him about one of his past cases but apparently tonight they decided that a silent Robert Burroughs was a better choice. He had been three doors away from his office when the first shot zinged above head. One fired prematurely warning him of their presence and intentions. He had just the time to dive behind the dark sedan before they opened fire.
He rose to a crouching squat and inched his eyes around the front of the automobile using the grill and headlights as cover.
Sharpton was at the opposite end of the coup looking for a clear shot. He didn’t see Burroughs. The private dick dropped to the street again and peered beneath the car. A quick look at Tayback showed a huge cleft in his skull where his head had been caved in, brain leaking out like an obscene soufflé. Blood ran over his face looking like crimson tears. It pooled beneath his head, his eyes stared unseeing at all prospects that had now fled and his tongue lolled out of a breathless mouth. Poor little Wormy had angered the massive Lance one time too many.
Sharpton’s size sixteens stood at the hood of his sedan. Burroughs contemplated for a few seconds of attempting to dart across the street to come up behind the big thug but he decided to stay put and wait for the larger man to make a move. Instead he covered the front of the opposite car with his barrel. A steady aim might drop Sharpton without killing him before he could try anything. Burroughs could hear the crunch of gravel beneath the other’s feet. Then there was a loud grunt and a commotion started up across the way. It was the unmistakable sound of two men scuffling. The PI shifted in his crouch, surprised by this turn. Then Sharpton started screaming.
Past plans of dropping the thug fled from his mind. Sharpton sounded terrified, screaming in unrestrained panic and then in mortal agony. Robert stood from behind his vehicle but could not see what occurred across the way. He ran out to see if he could help save the thug from whatever was accosting him but he stopped when he heard a loud crunch and the death groan of the big guy.
Fearful of what he might find he rounded the coup. He stopped short. The dead Tayback stood over the still form of Sharpton. Sharpton was now dead too. Burroughs had just seen the little guy drop the big guy letting him fall from his grip to the street below. The way Tayback’s head lolled to one side it was quite evident he was still quite dead. Sharpton’s upper torso had been twisted around completely. Lying on his stomach he was looking out over his rear. His spine was completely crunched. Even alive Wormy never had the strength to accomplish such a feat.
Tayback looked at Burroughs blankly. There was no intelligence in his gaze; no life shown within the eyes. The blood and brains had begun to clot on his face and it added to the surreal horror of the spectacle. The small form turned slightly, the cock of its head taking on the appearance of one listening even though its lifeless expression had not changed. It turned completely away from the private investigator and headed off down a nearby alley.
Burroughs hesitated as Wormy disappeared around a corner then gun still in hand he broke into a jog. He had to follow the little guy and try to apprehend him. If the Don controlling this area of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan thought that Robert had anything to do with the death of two of his henchmen he might be “invited” in for a chat. From what Robert had heard about these chats not too many men survived them. No, he needed to find Wormy. He caught sight of his prey rounding a corner and he sped up to try and catch him. As he turned the corner he was in time to see just the heel of Tayback’s shoe. He tried speeding up but the cool air and the poor shoes he was wearing were telling on him, let alone the number of cigarettes he burned in a day.
He followed the sound of the retreating little man a bit further and then realized he was lost. These alleys were an older part of Escanaba and he had never seen them before. He could tell that these were some of the oldest buildings in the little city. The hell with pursuing Wormy! He had to stop and get his bearings. The twists and turns he made brought him deeper and deeper into older and older alleys between buildings with architecture and materials that would be ancient by modern standards. He tried to retrace his steps but each corner looked like the one before and he had to admit he was lost.
Before fear could set in he heard the screaming siren of cop cars approach. The crunch of tires told him the cars were close. Then the cars came to a stop. Cops arrived at the scene of the gruesome murder. There followed the normal banter and interplay of conversation as beat cops and detectives mused over the scene.
“Johnson! There’s some casings over here next to Sharpton’s body. And his gun’s been fired.”
“Bag ‘em both!” Johnson barked back. “And Westmore, don’t mix them up with yours again.”
“Right, detective,” Westmore answered sheepishly.
Shit, Johnson! Burroughs mused. Thick-headed, broken-nosed moron. If anyone could foul up a case it would be Martin Johnson! At least Westmore was there. Young and slightly inept, at least he was level headed. But then being saddled with Johnson he probably stood little chance of improving. Still, using the sounds of conversation Burroughs followed them as they guided him out of his maze.
“Sergeant Reece! Keep those people back. Get these hangers-on away from the scene.” Johnson barked further. “C’mon men, crowd control! Nothing to see here folks, go home! Get the hell outta here before I arrest you!”
The cooler headed sergeant Reece called into the night, soothing and coaxing, “Okay, people. Let us do our jobs so we can get out of your way.”
Burroughs returned his pistol to his shoulder holster. He was much closer to the street now and a rookie flat foot stopped him in the alley.
“Fleeing the scene were we? Hands up!” The PI could do no less. He had to admit it did seem suspicious for him to return to the scene out of a half-forgotten alley.
“Detective Johnson, this man was sneaking about back here,” the rookie called as he marched him into the street.
“If it isn’t my old friend, Robert Burroughs!” Johnson sneered. He grabbed the private detective by the collar and throwing him off balance planted him face first over the hood of a police sedan. A knee was thrust into the small of his back as first one arm was wrenched behind his back and then the other, handcuffing him neatly. Johnson left him leaning over the hood of the car and moved to one side. The policeman shoved his face close to Burroughs’, whiskey breath strong and unpleasant, his red rimmed eyes looking piggish in the street lamps.
“Leaving the scene of the crime, Burroughs?” He belched and the warm breeze of garlic and alcohol washed over the cuffed man’s face. “What’d you have against Sharpton? Muscling in on your racket was he? Why’d you kill him, Private Dick?!” the emphasis placed on the last word was meant as an insult.
“I got nothing to say to you, Johnson. Why don’t you wait for the big boys to show up and go play somewhere else? You’re out of you league here, Marty. There’s gotta be some orphans nearby for you to roust.”
“You!” Johnson blurted and an explosion of glitter and sparks told Burroughs he had just taken a blow to the head. He tasted copper in the back of his mouth and his knees wanted to buckle. A warm, wet sensation over his forehead, followed by blood dripping onto the car let him know the cop had clocked him a good one. He was dizzy and muddle-headed. He had a pretty thick head so he was pretty sure he wouldn’t suffer a concussion. But it sure hurt like Hell!
He stiffened his spine to firm up his stance and shook his head. The dizzy spell was already abating. He rolled to one shoulder and looked Johnson in the eye.
“Such a brave little soldier: able to beat up on those ever so ready to defend themselves!”
The outraged cop drew back a fist full of brass knuckles for another clout.
“JOHNSON!” The shout froze him in place-fist reared back, swiveled at the hips to deliver a telling blow. The head snapped around to see who would dare shout at him, disbelief on his face. Then his expression became one of shock and the color left his cheeks.
“Johnson!” this time the command was less severe.
“But, commissioner!” the detective countered.
“Don’t make me put you on report again, lieutenant! It’d be your LAST strike,” the voice was cold steel, inflexible, immutable. “And get rid of the cuffs.”
The portly detective did as he was bid but there was much muttering under his breath. Burroughs rose from where he was perched and rubbed at his wrists. It wasn’t the first time he had worn cuffs and knew the irritation would be only momentary. He looked up at the Commissioner and recognized the unofficial apology that lay behind the crooked smile. He was as broad and trim as the private eye but the silver at his temples and in his mustache showed the man’s age.
“What you got, Robert?” he asked.
“Commissioner McCammon, I was almost back to my office when Sharpton and Tayback ambushed me.”
“Bob, drop the title.”
“Yes, Michael.”
“Tayback’s not here!” Johnson contradicted.
McCammon took no notice of his detective.
“Wormy took a blow to the head and dropped. You can see his blood there,” Burroughs pointed at the dark spot. “He pissed off Sharpton one time too many. Sharpton brained him with his pistol butt. Dropped him stone cold dead.”
As the commissioner of police digested this Martin came back and got in the PI’s face again.
“Then where’s the body?”
“Johnson, I won’t tell you again…” Michael McCammon cautioned in a soft yet steel hard tone. “Bob, where’d Wormy go?”
“That’s the kicker, Mike! He got up from where Big Lance dropped him dead as a stone. Got up and twisted Lance in half!” The private eye was actually shaken. Not much got to him much since the Big War but this rocked his belief system. “Then he walked off down that alley.”
Commissioner McCammon just nodded as if he had expected to hear something of this sort. He pursed his lips and hummed to himself as he looked first at the blood on the pavement, the twisted form of the large thug, then turned on his heels slowly to take in the alley entrance.
“Knowing you, you gave chase didn’t you?”
Robert Burroughs nodded. “Followed him around so many corners I got lost. Your boys in blue guided me back with their prattle after they arrived. Mike, there are buildings back in that maze that are still standing from before the Civil War. I’ve never seen this side of Escanaba before.”
The commissioner nodded and began humming through his lips again. He twisted his head in a gesture that indicated he wanted the civilian sleuth to walk with him. They turned and made their way down the street in the direction of Burroughs’ office. Once within they both moved to the bar and the sparse collection of bottles that rested on its surface. The cop reached for the bottle of scotch and the detective the bottle of whiskey. Two shots poured and downed and the commissioner turned to his friend.
“Bob, we’ve had two other incidents just like these one a few nights ago, one again last night. Both in different parts of the city but there’s something that’s very similar to them. Can’t put my finger on it just yet but there’s a connection there somehow.”
Robert shared another couple shots with his friend. Both looked at the diminishing levels on the bottles in abstract thought before Burroughs replied. “I could look into the locales for you if you want; on the side, unofficial. I’m between cases right now.”
“If you’d like. Can’t pay you but, Bob, it would keep you on my good side,” the policeman teased. Robert smiled, poured the last shot out of his bottle and tossed it back.
“Gonna hafta find some more hooch. Any connections?” he looked askance at his friend.
“I can ask around.”
“Who would think a small little city like Escanaba would have this kind of trouble?!”
“Prohibition. Oh, you mean Wormy! When it comes to the occult and black magic, Bob, no city is safe I’m afraid.”
Michael McCammon finished the contents of his bottle and shrugged to the thickening evening. Robert Burroughs smiled sheepishly. There was nothing else to discuss so he showed his friend to the door and the Commissioner pushed the fedora he was wearing to the back of his head.
“Got a bad feeling about this one. You be careful, Bob,” and then he was out in the night. Bob returned to his bar and cracked the seal on a bottle of vodka. In lieu of his favorite Irish libation he could be coerced into partaking of the Russian elixir.
The strident crash of his doorbell shattered sleep like an alarm claxon and sent his head spinning into the self induced hell of a hangover. He rolled and ended up on his knees next to his couch. He didn’t even make it to bed last night. The binge he allowed himself to rationalize was to ward off the effects of what he had seen earlier in the evening. Normally in his world the walking dead didn’t go walking. They had a way of lying there until they were interred into the ground, on their way to the afterlife. The alcohol didn’t help his understanding of the situation with any miraculous insight. His fright at seeing the lifeless corpse of Steve Tayback shuffling through the back alleys of the old town was only partially eclipsed by the thought of Vicenza Stephanacci wanting an audience with the private detective to see what hand he had in the deaths of Wormy and Big Lance. This was a prospect that was less appealing than running into Wormy again.
But all that dissolved into one glass of vodka too many and now the shrill siren of his door bell clamored for attention. He had meant to have that thing disconnected twelve client interrupted hangovers ago. This time for sure!
He attained his feet and smoothed back his hair. Rumpled shirt and wrinkled trousers would have to suffice. In his stocking feet he moved to the door and peered through the peep hole. A vision of loveliness stood waiting patiently on the other side. She was seventeen different kinds of classy all wrapped up just barely in an evening gown that had no place being this side of midnight. In the instant he looked he was all but over come with alabaster shoulders and wave after wave of auburn tresses that yearned to be caressed. The light shawl thrown over her shoulders hid nothing of the charms beneath. There were curves and contours all put just where he didn’t need to see them right now. She stood as if this was all that had been readily available as far as apparel went. It did not look like this was the end of a long evening for her but this was all she had to approach her day. He did the only thing he could do at a time like this. He opened the door.
“Mr. Burroughs?” Her voice matched perfectly her appearance; a heavenly chorus of refined culture that rolled the “R’s” just ever so slightly with an exotic trace of an accent. There was a touch of humor in her eyes as she sized up the disheveled private investigator.
“Who would like to know?” he responded, a throat full of gravel and dessert sand.
Her back stiffened and the look of amusement fled from her gaze. She tilted her head slightly as if in bowing to him. “I am Anastasia Magilluppe!” she announced as if it should mean something to him. It didn’t.
“And?”
“So sorry, Mr. Burroughs. I thought you might have heard of me,” she replied. “My country has recently received a lot of interest in international newspaper coverage.” Her lower lip pouted forward and quivered slightly. Long lashes batted above eyes that now looked on the verge of tears.
“Miss Magilluppe, how may I help?” Burroughs asked as he further smoothed the hair on his pate and straightened his shirt. “Chair?” he indicated one near his desk.
She moved with fluid grace, a sashay to her swivel and his eyes watched appreciatively every sway. She lowered herself to the seat, knees together, legs slightly to one side beneath her. Every motion indicated she was raised a refined lady.
“An artifact has been stolen from my family estate in Europe and I have followed it here. It is an heirloom of no import to anyone but my family.”
“Important enough for you to come all the way to this Podunk little town in the U. P. to retrieve it?”
“I’m sorry, the U. P?”
“Upper Peninsula. Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Not much of international intrigue happens up here. Most we got is organized crime looking to control all the illegal hooch in the country.” Robert moved around his desk and sat in his chair. He offered the cultured dame a cigarette but she declined with a short shake of her head.
“I am sorry I tried to deceive you,” she said after a long pause. With a tiny little cough she continued. “This artifact could legitimize my claim to the throne of my country. I am an exiled princess, Mr. Burroughs.”
“No kidding, huh? How about that?” His wonder seemed insincere as something slid into place. “Monrovia without a ruler, huh? So who has this artifact?”
“I believe it is in the hands of a rather unscrupulous individual. A Mr. Gerome Applegate.”
“That’s it, nice meeting you, lady!” the detective said shortly and rose from his seat. He moved over to the door as if to hold it for the lady.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, confused.
“I bet you are,” he replied cryptically. “Mr. Gerome Applegate is one of the Big Bosses hereabouts in organized crime. I am not gonna tangle with any of that lot! My services may be up for the best price but my skin isn’t. You’re gonna hafta find some other tool to do your dirty work.” His hand turned the knob and slowly began to open the door.
Anastasia Magilluppe remained where she was seated. Her large eyes blinked at him, and then tears dotted the long lashes. Her mouth quivered and a teardrop slide gracefully down one alabaster cheek. Robert Burroughs felt like a heel as he stood watching her composure first crumple and then shatter. She dropped her head to her hands and sobbed openly.
He slid the door closed and then crossed back over to his desk. He pulled open a drawer and withdrew a clean cotton handkerchief. He held it out to the lady and waited patiently for her to see it. She sobbed heartfelt sobs that wracked her form and shook her shoulders. Even weeping she was a gorgeous creature. He cleared his throat and she glanced up to see the proffered linen. A graceful hand reached out and took it and then hid her face in it.
She was sobbing silently now, large gasps filling her lungs and forcing the material of the evening gown tighter against her curvaceous form. He resisted the temptation to pat a shoulder and be consoling. Good sense warned him of familiar actions like this all the time. Most times he turned a deaf ear but something tugged at his logic and he refrained from falling into the trap. Or so he told himself.
In broken sentences she poured out her soul. “Mr. Burroughs. This artifact. It’s all I have left of my family. They were all destroyed. Bad men. They want to ruin my country. The artifact. It proves my claim,” the sobs were less frequent now and her breathing was resuming a normal pace. “If I could reclaim my throne the reward for your services would be considerable!”
This hit Burroughs right where it counted: his wallet. He rocked back on the corner of the desk where he had been sitting. He stared at the water stained wallpaper and the cracked paint on the ceiling.
“I can’t promise anything. I don’t like this Gerome Applegate one bit. I tell you what I’ll do. I can look into the case and if it looks like Applegate might have the artifact we can call in the authorities.” It was weak but right now it was all he was willing to do. “If your claim is legitimate then you’ll get your gewgaw back.” Yet the change over the woman was miraculous.
“Oh, Mr. Burroughs. You are a wonder!” She rose and held out her arms as if to enfold him within her embrace. He stayed her advance with an upright palm.
“Hold it, sister. I didn’t say I’d take the case. I said I’d look into it.”
It didn’t matter to the woman. Her face was all smiles and the tears had vanished. She no longer looked the defeated, forlorn waif. There was purpose to her step. She stepped around the detective and moved to the door.
“I’ve left my card on your desk, Mr. Burroughs. You can reach me at that number,” and she was gone. A hint of jasmine and ginger hung in the air, a residue of her curious and exotic perfume. Robert Burroughs just shook his head in bemusement and retrieved her card from the desk.
“Anastasia Magilluppe: Meridian Hotel, Main and First.” It was a card most of the finer hotels produced for their long term renting clientele. On the back was written in exquisite scroll her apartment number and phone number. No way to know if it was her handwriting or not. He could tell nothing from the card. He tossed it back on his desk and moved to his bathroom to make himself presentable to the day.
One greasy plate of sausage and eggs at the corner diner and copious amounts of coffee set him on his day. He had washed, changed into cleaner clothes, and was now walking the few short blocks to the city’s newspaper offices. His contact down in the daily’s morgue might be able to help him out: Bernie Roth. She was a mousey little brunette that if she’d let her hair down and get rid of her cat’s eye, horn-rimmed glasses she wouldn’t look half bad. Burroughs suspected that she bore a secret crush on him and at times he felt guilty about taking advantage of that for his own personal gain but then if she had feelings her him it was up to her to pursue them, not him.
He snuck in through the side entrance. If Murdock Murphy was editor in chief today there’d be a scene and the detective didn’t want any more trouble looking into this little affair then was necessary. He and Murphy had some bad history and he avoided the newspaperman like the plague nowadays. No, side entrance right next to the stairs leading down into the paper’s morgue and dead files. He sidled through the door and listened carefully. There was no one above or below him on the stairs so he slid through and hastened down to the basement level. The morgue stood next to the boiler room and the heat from the furnace helped to keep the mold and mildew away from the “stacks.”
The door stood ajar slightly and a conversation issued from within. Bernie was being stern with someone else. Her voice had a hard edge to it and she held firm to her resolve. The PI would have loved to be part of the scene but he didn’t know who the other person was and wanted his visits here kept low-keyed. Instead he moved over to the furnace room and peeking quickly in moved to stand next to the inside door jam.
Heeled shoes clicked across the floor in the other room and Burroughs peeked around the corner. It was Murphy. He looked like he had been handed his hat. Bernie had given him a dressing down that was probably long overdue but unexpected to the editor. He slumped by a towering man of humbled chagrin. His form retreated up the stairs dejected and chastened.
Robert quickly moved to the other room and announced his presence with a soft cough. Bernie turned on her heels ready to give more to her boss but when she saw it was the private eye she caught herself and smiled at him instead.
“Bob! How have you been? It’s been a while since you needed free research,” the tone in her voice took away the sting of the words.
“Hey, Bernie! How you been?” he parried.
“Did you see the ‘Weasel’ leaving?” she asked, the pride fairly gleaming from her countenance.
“I heard too. What did he do? What’d you say?”
“Bastard thought he was going to cut my hours. I told him what departments rely on my work and which of his cherished reporters actually do their job and which ones rely on me making them look good. I told him the lazy ones shouldn’t be reprimanded, though. They are only following his example!”
Burroughs chuckled at this and it brought a giggle from the librarian. She thought about what she had just done to her boss and the thought made her laugh even harder. Robert was carried along in her mirth and he began laughing. Before long the two of them were laughing uncontrollably over the described scene. Bernadette Roth had tears streaking down her cheeks and Robert Burroughs was bent over double. Their merriment lasted several long seconds before Robert regained his composure. Bernie was holding her side and was fighting to catch her breath.
“What did you want, Burroughs?” she asked finally.
“Hooo! I needed that, Bernie,” he replied. Then getting serious he sat on her desk corner and told her of his visit earlier.
“Monrovia, hmm? Anastasia Magilluppe. I just saw her name associated with the police blotter a couple weeks ago.” Bernie became a machine as she sorted through papers and piles. Finally she found what she had been searching for. “Yup! Here it is.”
She handed it to the detective but what was written was incomprehensible to him. “Um…” he floundered.
“You men are really helpless aren’t you? Here!” she took it back. “Magilluppe was connected with Edgar Howard who met an untimely end. It was decided that there was no connection with the refugee heiress and the private detective’s demise. He suffered a catastrophic automobile accident that had taken his life. Miss Magilluppe had engaged his services to find a family heirloom that might restore her to the throne of Monrovia.
“Catastrophic automobile accident?”
“Yes, the report says the damage to the sedan was almost negligible but Howard’s body was almost twisted beyond recognition. No whereabouts to the heirloom were forthcoming.” Bernie finished. “Guess that’s where you come in.”
“No, this is where I step out. I told her I’d look into it, not take the case. Well, I’ve looked into it. End of story. Now let me leave you with a better puzzle.” He told the librarian about the chase down the alley but left out how Wormy Tayback became a walking corpse. He then added the other locations Commissioner McCammon mentioned and she was engrossed.
“Old parts of Escanaba that have been buried by newer neighborhoods? This will be interesting but the search is gonna take some time.”
“Pace yourself. I’ve got nothing going on but nursing a hangover the rest of the day.”
“Can I drop by your office with the results?”
The detective pondered the implications as to where they might lead but decided it was an innocent question. “Sure. I’ll be there all day and night. Got no case to work right now anyway.”
Her pleasure over the answer was more than he would have expected but he left her with it and sauntered out of the “stacks” and climbed the stairs to navigate the day.
Robert returned to his office to deal with his hangover the only way he knew how: a long nap on the couch, window shades closed. By the time he awoke the sun had already begun to set. He could tell by the dim light oozing from behind the blinds. He rose stiffly and went into the apartment in the back of his office and took a long hot shower. Clean clothes went a long way to make him feel more human again. That and the cup of strong coffee. He was still drying his hair when his doorbell rang again.
He peaked through the spy-hole and saw it was Bernie Roth. She was dressed casually, flannel shirt and slacks. She had let her hair down and had ditched her glasses and Robert was impressed in the change. She could be a knockout if she dolled up just right. The flannel shirt wasn’t tucked in but it did little to hide her curves.
He opened the door and was about to greet her warmly when her shirt flipped open. It wasn’t buttoned. Beneath she wore a dark maroon bustier with black and red piping strategically placed to accentuate her charms. She smiled a slow, knowing smile.
“Aren’t you going to invite me it?” she asked.
To be continued.
