The Outfit: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels) Page 15

  The door opened and the chauffeur stood there, wearing black trousers, an undershirt, and brown slippers. He looked at them, at the guns in their hands, took a step backward, crying “Oh, my God!” He looked as though he were going to faint. He made no attempt to shut the door again.

  Parker had the crazy feeling the chauffeur had been expecting him, that he, Parker, was the one the chauffeur had been waiting for.

  The chauffeur's face was curiously mottled. He kept backing away across the room, shaking his head, gesturing wildly, and murmuring, “My God, my God! I knew it, I knew it. My God, I knew it—”

  Parker walked in and to the right, and Handy came in after him, shutting the door. Parker said, “Take it easy. Don't get excited, just take it easy.”

  But the chauffeur kept backing away and muttering to himself, until he ended up against the far wall. He stood there, shaking his head, terrified out of his wits, his hands still making vague, half-formed movements.

  They were in the living room. It was nicely set up with modern furniture and pole lamps and a large stereo rig against one wall.

  Handy was frowning at the chauffeur, just as baffled as Parker. “What's the matter with you?” He looked at Parker. “What the hell's the matter with him?”

  “I knew it,” mumbled the chauffeur. “I knew it, I knew it, my God, I knew it! Why didn't I have some sense, why didn't I—”

  “I don't know,” said Parker. “You. Shut up.”

  The chauffeur immediately shut up. He brought his hands to his sides and kept them there. He stood at a sort of ragged attention, leaning backwards against the wall.

  And then all of a sudden Parker understood. He laughed and said, “Watch him, Handy. I'll be right back.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Mister,” said the chauffeur. His voice was hoarse. He sounded as though he were going to start pleading.

  “Just shut up a minute, friend.” Parker walked on by him.

  Beyond the living room was a dining room and a hall that led to a kitchen, with a bedroom and bathroom off that to the right. Parker went to the bedroom door and turned the knob. It was locked.

  “All right, come on out.” When nothing happened, he said, “Nobody's going to hurt you, come on out. If I have to shoot the lock off, you won't like it.”

  A key grated in the lock, and the door was opened hesitantly. The woman who came, reluctant and blinking, from the dark bedroom was short and somewhat plump, and sour-looking. She was probably in her early thirties, and wore the kind of black dress women wear to cheap bars. Her hair was dyed a brassy blond, and her skin was white.

  “He forced me,” she said, looking at Parker's chest rather than his face. She had a twangy voice and sullenness riddled it. “I didn't wanna come up here. He forced me.”

  “Sure. Come on along.”

  “It's the truth,” she insisted sullenly.

  Parker took her elbow and led her back to the living room. When Handy saw her, he grinned in sudden understanding. He turned to the chauffeur. “Is that what you were worried about?”

  “He forced me,” repeated the woman sullenly. She said it as though it were something she'd memorized for a pageant she hadn't wanted to be a part of anyway.

  Handy shook his head, grinning. “Listen,” he said to the chauffeur. “You weren't planning on going to school with her up here, were you?”

  The chauffeur blinked and stared at him.

  “It'll go hard on you if you were figuring on studying geometry with her or anything contaminating like that,” Handy said to him. “Were you?”

  The chauffeur was getting his own complexion back. He essayed a small smile in answer to Handy's grin and shook his head.

  “That's all right, then,” said Handy. “Just so you weren't figuring on learning anything.”

  The chauffeur's smile faded away again, as he stared at the gun in Handy's hand.

  “This doesn't have anything to do with you,” Handy told him. “Or with the woman.”

  “He forced me.”

  “Shut up,” Parker said.

  Handy said, “We're going in after Bronson, that's all. And we thought it might be a good idea to just tie you up to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Well, I'll be damned,” said the chauffeur. “Well, I'll be double-die-damned.”

  “So you and the lady lie down on the floor,” Handy told him.

  “I didn't wanna come up here.”

  Parker knocked her down. “You're supposed to lie down on the floor,” he said.

  She started to snuffle.

  The chauffeur stretched out on the floor, seeming relieved at the chance to get off his feet. Parker stood covering the two of them while Handy went to get something to tie them.

  The chauffeur looked up and said, “You going to kill him?”

  “Probably. You'll have to find a new job for yourself.”

  “You going to kill her, too?”

  “His wife? No.”

  “Then I won't have to look for a new job. Just make sure you tie me good and tight, so she'll know I couldn't of got loose and warned him.”

  “What's the matter? Don't you like him?”

  “He's a royal son of a bitch.”

  “That's right,” Parker said.

  Handy came back with a ball of heavy twine and two extension cords. He used the twine to secure their hands behind their backs, and the extension cords to tie their ankles together. He had found undershirts in a drawer of the dresser and he used these to gag them.

  When the two of them were tied and gagged, Parker went through the apartment turning off the lights. Then he and Handy went out to the landing, shutting the door behind them. They went down the stairs and crossed the black-top toward the dark hulk of the house.

  “The poor bastard,” said Handy, speaking softly. “We sure picked the wrong night.”

  6

  Handy had three small, slender tools wrapped in flannel tucked inside his topcoat. He took them out now and unwrapped them. It was pitch-black at the rear of the house, but Handy could see with his hands. His tools made muted, metallic sounds against the lock on the back door and then the door came open as though the lock had been made of butter. Handy wrapped his tools up again, tucked them inside his topcoat, and took his .38 back out of his pocket.

  Parker went in first. He had his gun in his right hand, a pencil flash in his left. There was electric tape over the tip of the flash, leaving only a small opening for the light to peep through.

  They had entered a stairwell. Concrete stairs led down to the basement, wooden stairs led to the upper floors. Straight ahead was another door, unlocked. Parker opened it cautiously, to find more darkness. He aimed the light into the darkness and saw that they were in a big, square kitchen. He crossed it, Handy behind him, and on the other side there were three doors. One led to a small dining room on the right, one to a deep pantry, and the third to a hallway. At the far end of the hallway, there was light. As Parker started down the hallway, clocks all over the house began striking eleven.

  They waited for the clocks to finish, unmoving. When the chiming ended, Handy whispered, “Jesus!”

  Parker started forward again, and another chime sounded. He thought at first it was another clock, then he realized it must be the front door. “Hold it,” he whispered.

  Ahead, at the far end of the hallway, one of the bodyguards went by. They waited, heard the front door open, heard voices, then a door closed and the bodyguard went back to the Monopoly game.

  Parker moved again. The two of them hurried silently down the hallway to where it opened into the main front hall. Someone was going upstairs. They heard a casual voice. “Hello, Mr. Bronson. A real mess, that Cockatoo situation.”

  Another voice muttered something unintelligible.

  “Very nice house, Mr. Bronson. Really very fine. Really.”

  “You said that last time.”

  That would be Bronson. He sounded bitter about something.

  “I must
mean it, then.”

  “Yeah. Well, Quill, come on into the office.”

  There was silence, and then a door closed upstairs.

  Parker whispered, “Watch the stairs.”

  Handy nodded.

  Parker moved to the right, at an angle, and came to the doorway where the bodyguards were playing Monopoly. He glanced in, saw them sitting there, concentrating on the game. They would be there another three or four hours. They played Monopoly all the time, as though they were addicted to it. They could be ignored.

  Parker hadn't expected a visitor. Bronson had had only one visitor in the five days they'd been watching his house, and that had been a youngish man with a briefcase who'd showed up in a chauffeur-driven limousine Sunday night. He'd looked like an insurance adjustor, except for the limousine. He'd stayed half an hour, and then had gone away again.

  He wondered if this were the same one, back again. Whether it was or not, he was holding things up.

  Parker went back to Handy and whispered, “They're at the game again. We can forget them.”

  “Right.”

  Mrs. Bronson was already in bed. They'd seen the light go on and off in her bedroom an hour before. So, except for the visitor, everything was set up the way they'd planned.

  Parker led the way up the stairs. They were thickly carpeted, as was the hall on the second floor, so they moved with-out sound.

  The third door on the right should be Bronson's office. Bronson's bedroom was beyond that, and his wife's bedroom further down, at the end. The hall was dimly lit by electric candelabras. Light gleamed under the door of Bronson's office.

  Parker moved up silently to the door and pressed his ear against it. He heard the stranger's voice, a monotone. After a minute, he figured out what the stranger was talking about. His name was Quill. There'd been a hit at a place called the Club Cockatoo and he was describing the robbery to Bronson.

  Parker smiled to himself. He'd been right. He wondered which of his letters had set off the robbery. He moved away from the door, back down the hall to Handy, who was waiting at the head of the stairs. Handy was keeping an eye on the staircase, just in case anyone decided to come up.

  Parker whispered, “The guy is called Quill. They're talking about a robbery.”

  Handy grinned. “Just one?”

  “I don't know.”

  Parker went back and listened some more. Bronson didn't like Quill very much. Quill was explaining how come the people who worked at the Club Cockatoo had let the robbers get away with it. Parker listened, as impatient as Bronson, and at last Quill said, “Well, I think we may have learned from this.”

  Bronson's voice said bitterly, “And the others?”

  “I'd heard there'd been some more.”

  “Eleven more.”

  Parker moved away, back to Handy, smiling again. “Twelve,” he whispered. “They been knocked over twelve times.”

  “That must have hurt,” said Handy.

  “Karns will go along now. Twelve times! Hell pay us to stop.”

  Handy looked over the rail at the stairs and the hallway below. Faintly, the Monopoly players could still be heard. Handy said, “What do you want to do? Tackle him with that guy in there?”

  “No. He's maybe due some place else after he leaves here. We don't want to keep him and louse up his schedule.”

  “What, then?”

  “Well wait. In Bronson's bedroom.”

  “Right.”

  They went down the hall together, past the den door, through which they could faintly hear the murmuring of Quill and Bronson. Parker went in first, shining the pencil flash around, reassuring himself the room was empty. Handy came in after him. Parker shut off the flashlight, and they settled down to wait.

  They left the hall door partly open, just in case one of the bodyguards should come up, or Mrs. Bronson should decide to leave her room. They took their hats off and tossed them on the bed, but kept their topcoats on. Handy sat on the edge of the bed, and Parker stood by the door. They could hear Bronson and Quill talking next door, but couldn't quite make out the words. They both had their guns in their hands.

  They waited about fifteen minutes and then they heard the den door open. “Good night, Mr. Bronson.” Bronson muttered something from inside and Quill shut the office door and walked away toward the stairs.

  Parker whispered, “Take the stairs. I'm going in after Bronson now.”

  “Right.”

  As soon as Quill started down the stairs and was out of sight, Handy moved out of the bedroom. He went silently down the hall and stood against the wall by the head of the stairs, covering them.

  Parker waited a minute, then went down the hall and opened the door to Bronson's den. Bronson was standing at the window looking out, his back to the door. Parker studied his back, wondering if there were any reason to spend time talking to Bronson first, and had just about decided there wasn't any reason to, when Bronson turned around.

  Bronson saw him, and gave a start, but recovered quickly. A bitter smile creased his lips and he said, “So you're Parker.”

  “That's right.” Parker raised the .38.

  But there was sudden motion to his right. He turned his head and saw Handy coming on the run. He stepped into the den, and Handy barreled in after him, saying hoarsely, “They're coming back up!”

  Parker turned to Bronson. “Why?”

  “What? Quill's staying the night.”

  “All right. Keep your mouth shut.”

  Bronson shook his head. “No. I've been wondering if those bodyguards were any damn good. Now I'll find out.” He raised his head and shouted, “Help!”

  Parker shot in irritation and ducked back out the hall. Behind him, Bronson sagged onto the desk.

  Quill and one of the bodyguards were at the head of the stairs. They gaped at Parker and Handy, then turned to run back down again. Parker and Handy fired, but they'd both aimed at the bodyguard, so Quill got away, stumbling over the body which was rolling down the stairs.

  “The wife!” said Parker. “Shut her up.”

  “Right.”

  Handy hurried down the hall and Parker went back into Bronson's den. Bronson was lying on his face behind the desk. Parker checked him, but he wouldn't need a booster. He straightened and took the phone off the hook, hoping there was only one trunk line in the house. If all the extensions were on the same line, no calls could be made.

  Parker hurried back to the hall. Handy hadn't come back yet. Parker ran down to the end, by the stairs, just in time to see the three bodyguards starting up. He fired, not hitting anybody, and they ducked back into the room where they'd been playing Monopoly. Parker knelt behind the railing and waited for Handy.

  This was a good spot, for right now. Looking over the railing he could see straight down to the foot of the stairs, and across the main hall to the front door. He could also see the room where the bodyguards and Quill were holed up. He could keep them in there, unless they tried going out the window.

  Somebody took a shot at him from the doorway down there. He ducked back, waited a beat, and leaned forward in time to see one of them making a dash across the hall for the room on the opposite side, hoping to catch Parker and Handy in a cross fire. Parker slid the nose of the .38 over the top of the railing, dropped the running man, and ducked back out of sight again. They were firing from the room on the right again, the bullets gouging the wall over Parker's head.

  Handy showed up, running in a crouch, ducking down to kneel beside Parker. “Tied and gagged,” he said. “What now?”

  “Three left. Two bodyguards and Quill.”

  “What about the back stairs?”

  “I don't want a chase. We finish them off in here. It's private in here. No neighbors, no questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “Besides, we want time to go through the place. You don't want to do this for nothing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah, that's right.”

  “You stay here. Take a sh
ot at them every once in a while. I'll go down and around outside to the window.”

  “Right.”

  Parker slid away in a crouch and straightened when he was part way down the hall. He hurried to the far end, where he found the stairs that led to the back door. He started down them, and a sound made him stop. Somebody was coming in through the back door.

  Parker waited. Whoever it was, he was being slow and cautious. Occasional faint noises told Parker where he was and what he was doing. He came in the back door, shut it care-fully behind him, and then started up the stairs. Parker had shut the second-floor door behind him, so it was inky black in the stairwell. He sat on the top step, the .38 in his right hand and the pencil flash in his left, waiting. Both were aimed down at the landing.