The Walking Wounded Read online

  after that, a darkened hall wall with a gleam of light bathing it in dim, subtle hues of

  amber. I heard nothing from the other room. The world was almost soundless. There

  was a noise, of course.

  But that was only my pulse trip-hammering like ninety. Deep silence, and a dread so thick you could cut it with a knife, enclosed the

  atmosphere about me. There was no wonder in that.

  Finally, at last, my eyes, my brain, my reflexes---had come back.

  To Me. The Home Base.

  To what I was. A man in a fix.

  To where I was. In deep trouble.

  To the boat that Jo Malmedy had put me in. A paddle-less canoe.

  With the towels and the paper-covered drinking glasses on the shelf to the left of

  the medicine cabinet mocking me, with Essex House emblazoned and monogrammed on

  hotel property and directness on the blue wall, I so very suddenly saw, with cold, clear

  vision, the trap I was in.

  Jo Malmedy---again, who else could have cared so much?---had steam-rollered

  and boxed me up good. It's never been done any better.

  I was hanging from the ceiling. The fly was living, by comparison.

  Naked, I hung. Dangling and spiraling gently, like that other fly caught in the

  spider's web. Panic wanted to make me scream. I kept my lips sealed shut. That never

  helped anything. I had to take my time, to push the shock out of the way and let sanity

  build some kind of protective wall for me. Before I plunged off the deep end. I wasn't

  being killed, not just yet. I was obviously being saved for the coup de grace. Some

  finishing stroke which the menu did not call for just yet. The menu or the program.

  Straining, keeping my cool, I studied my prison. And myself.

  That was what the prison really was. From head to toe, a prison.

  Grimly, holding my breath, I took stock. I didn't like a single atom of the situation but it had to be appraised, estimated,

  like a house up for sale, if I was ever going to get out of that blue bathroom alive. And

  smell green grass again.

  Steel handcuffs, a policeman's set, lashed my wrists together above my head and

  these had been hooked over the shower curtain rail. My weight normally would have

  brought the railing down from the wall but my bared feet were standing in the porcelain

  tub, which was as dry as a bone. And not cold at all. Unconscious and slow-to-awaken,

  I had supported my own bulk instinctively, knees bent but no quite slipping from the

  standing position. There was a heavy, clammy feel to m y body, now that I was fully

  revived and only a second was necessary to solve that riddle. And this was the greatest

  blow of all. The keenest shock.

  Both frightening and mystifying, altogether. And at the same time.

  From pectorals to mid-thigh, I was wrapped and bound and mummified in what

  could only be a woman's old-fashioned corset. The still canvas and whalebone

  monstrosity of another time slot, another age. This had been laced and buttoned and

  drawn so tight that my proportions had been mercilessly hour-glassed into the parody of

  Lillian Russell or the drag queens of the Twentieth Century. I was cramped, choked and

  stuffed, like the forty first sardine into a tin can that's only supposed to hold forty.

  Now I could feel the rack and ache of my chest muscles and thigh bones. Now, I

  had to hold myself up, to keep from dragging my knees on the floor of the tub. My eyes

  flew to the overhead shower railing. And my heart sank. The iron or steel bar ran into

  the wall, all bracketed and riveted. It was as sturdy as a stanchion. I wouldn't be able to

  yank it down. I could run the manacles along the railing, about four feet in each direction but I would be going nowhere. Thanks to the grotesque corset prison, elasticity

  was denied my legs. I was stiffened and fore-shortened like a truncated man. Without

  the power to bend or sway. It was an impossible trap. Senseless, stupid, meaningless

  but all in all, one hundred percent perfect and effective. I shut my eyes tight for a

  second, trying to think. I could scream. I wasn't gagged. But hotel walls are thicker

  than thieves when it comes to deluxe hostelries like Essex House. The privacy of the

  guests, the demands of intimacy---chances were no one would hear me. Not right away.

  And screaming just might bring on my death quicker than the schedule called for. I

  began to perspire. Real Fear Dew.

  There were no shower curtains.

  I could feel it trickling down my baked, abused flesh. The mad corset clung like

  ivy to a college, covering me with a mammoth hand.

  And then were was no more time to sweat. Or think. Or worry.

  Jo Malmedy loomed on the threshold of the bathroom.

  Exactly as I remembered him. Formidable and very young.

  Seersucker suit, built like a flying wedge, Jesus Christ hair-do and challenging,

  green eyes. Wild eyes, now. He looked dedicated. Elated and purified. And when it

  comes to Loco Joes, those are the worst kind.

  He also held a hypodermic needle in each hand. There was a glistening, pale

  brown fluid in each tubular syringe as he held them up the same way a two-gun man

  covers the lynch-fever extras in a western.

  "Thought I heard you rattling your chain in here," he murmured, his voice still

  youthful and light but the undercurrent of some tremendous inner excitement made the words almost giggly and blurry. "Time you were up. It won't be any good unless you

  know exactly what's going to happen to you. You understand that, Noon? It has to be

  this way."

  I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything just yet.

  He remained in the doorway, surveying me, green eyes wide open, mocking,

  amused, the hypodermics still held at high port.

  "You can ask some question first, Noon. You're entitled. And then I'll take the

  floor. Might as well do this in the standard, classic manner of all great detective novels.

  Where the diabolical villain tells all before disposing of his opponent. Holmes and

  Moriarty. Bond and Dr. No----it's okay with me. I prefer it that way. I owe you that

  much."

  I had to talk, then. There was nothing else I could do. He had me by all the short

  hairs. By all that was unholy. Keeping him talking seemed to be the only tactic I had.

  He had Schneidered me from the start.

  "You've got me in check, Jo. I can't argue with you."

  "Ask me," he commanded, grinning madly. "My ego demands it."

  "Okay," I said, talking fast because it's always helped me in the past, by keeping

  my mind off the pickles I get in. "You walked into this room without so much as a

  handkerchief in your pocket. You never came near me and all of a sudden, I get drugged

  on my feet. I wake up and you seem to have gone shopping and returned with handcuffs,

  corsets, medical equipment and God knows what else. So I can only conclude you have

  a confederate or the management of this hotel is partners-in-crime with the great Jo

  Malmedy. Which is it?" His broad-planed face lost its smile. The green eyes narrowed.

  "Nobody's sharing this act with me. Nobody. She was my mother. No one else's.

  You want answers. Well, here they are. When I learned you were at the police station

  and would be there quite awhile, I went to a man I know on Broadway who deals in this

  kind of thing. Special equipment---shall I say---oddball device for a select sort of

  clientele
?---then I doubled back in time to pick you up when you left Headquarters by the

  back door. I had all this in a leather attaché case. A big one. Then when I knocked on

  your door, I left the case out in the hall, in a convenient corner, behind one of the

  lounge chairs. I knew you would have inspected the bag, otherwise. As for your sudden

  sleep---the shopkeeper I mentioned also sells small, plastic balls, no bigger than a

  marble and these contain a knock-out gas. I broke it under my armpit while we were

  having our little talk. I held my breath. You didn't. Simple? Then I went out to the hall

  and retrieved my bag."

  "Simple. And then you chopped me down." He nodded happily and while he

  was nodding, I slipped in the only question worth asking. "Why did you chop down

  Marcel Alevoinne? He never did a thing to you. Did he?"

  Jo Malmedy shuddered and his barn-door shoulders squared.

  "A mistake, of course. It was the back of your head that did that. Can you tie

  that? I saw the back of your head and everything went crazy. The whole project. My

  careful plans, my arrangements. You see, I wanted to sweat you first. With the play to

  bug you, with ghosts of the past---with maybe phone calls from women who would

  pretend to be Alma Wheeler and then I would step in and deliver the punch line. Me. The son of the woman you murdered. The woman whose head you blew the back off.

  God, how poetic if I had had you in the same way!"

  "That was an accident," I said, as calmly as I could. Which was quite a trick

  because the hairs on the back of my neck wanted to stand up. The confining corset had

  become an unbearable, intolerable prison. A strait-jacket of terror and brutality. And the

  nausea of dread.

  "Yes, an accident," Jo Malmedy said, tightly. "And my killed poor Marcel was

  the same thing, wasn't it? You bending down to pick up those damn cigarettes of yours

  and a shot gone wild---a million-to-one shot---hitting a guy right between the eyes! Man,

  what a mockery all of this is. Nothing but accidents. Accidents! Truth is stranger than

  fiction, Noon. Exactly as the man said."

  I stared at him. Still somehow incredulous. Perhaps, not wanting to believe. Oh,

  not about Alevoinne. About everything else that was mad.

  "Are you really her son, Jo? Honest to God?"

  "Honest to God," he said, soberly, "and I wish I wasn't."

  "That makes two of us," I murmured, trying to think of ways out.

  Jo Malmedy stepped into the bathroom. Only a yard away from my hanging,

  corseted helplessness. The needles shone like radium in the light of the blue bathroom.

  His green eyes were slightly sad, now. As if some memory had come back, punching

  and kicking him cruelly. Without let-up.

  "You know I like you, Noon. Like you and hate you at the same time. Does that

  make any kind of sense at all?" "Maybe. I can't really say. All I can say is that this is Dumas right down the line.

  Mordaunt come to kill D'Artagnan. And Athos and Porthos and Aramis. Twenty years

  after the fact. Because they had Milady, Mordaunt's mother, beheaded by the

  Executioner of Bethune. I told you. You're an unconscious plagiarist."

  He laughed, almost delightedly.

  "I know that book. This one is going to have a different windup. You believe

  that. Mordaunt fouled up. I won't. And no one is ever going to know about Dolores

  having a son who came and evened the count. You, dear friend, are going to kill

  yourself. In remorse. A suicide for the police to find. And that Lieutenant Di Gregorio

  down at Homicide will be content enough with that. He won't go looking for revenge

  murderers. I know his record. His type of cop. As long as he gets answers and

  convictions and solutions, he doesn't put a strain on his integrity."

  "You pegged him," I agreed, testing the manacles with no success. "And why do

  I lower the boom on myself? Don't mind my asking."

  "I want you to ask," he chuckled. "That's all the fun there is in this, Noon.

  That's what the corset is all about. And the hypodermic needles. You're a queer, you

  see. Something no one has ever suspected. A freak who accidentally killed himself

  while he was performing a bondage-masochistic ritual. Do you follow the script so far?"

  "Give me that again," I got the words out painfully, trying not to read him

  correctly. "Slower this time, if you please."

  Jo Malmedy frowned. As if surprised with my lack of knowledge. "So. The hot-shot private eye doesn't know everything there is to know about

  Death and Games. Well, that's refreshing, somehow. Though you were up on all things

  under the golden sun, My Hero."

  "Cut it out," I rasped. "Stop gloating. It's not becoming at all for a fine, sensitive

  type like you. A great writer. Spell out what you're trying to tell me."

  "There are a lot of famous deaths, Noon," Jo Malmedy recited slowly, as if

  giving a seminar on Writing, "that, were the real facts known, would cause a lot of

  scandal and talk. But you see, some suicides result from the person having been a

  bondage freak, who liked to torture himself by placing himself in traps and tight

  squeezes and then just barely getting out of them. That's the kink, you see. The 'queer'

  fun. The excitement of a close call. And then the freedom from Death. I suppose there's

  a sex-relation in it all. The corset you now find yourself in is one of these devices. A

  bondage-masochistic-fetishist's delight. And this time, you will add the niceties of one

  hypodermic needle in each buttock, which will be found sticking in your hide even after

  you are dead. The theory will be, you injected yourself, after getting into the corset,

  and then you manacled yourself to the shower rail. The injection, incidentally, is

  laudanum. Enough to make you see the world in all sorts of angles and crazy colors. But

  that won't kill you, of course."

  "How do I die then?" I asked. "And that's purely a rhetorical question. I hope."

  My nerve-ends were getting raw, now.

  "You hope," he laughed, taking no umbrage. "Well, there will be a leather loop

  around your neck, also lashed to the railing. You lost consciousness, you see, from the

  drugs and went too far. End of a great detective and a fine human being. Who also killed my mother. And then I can get some sleep again. And go back to work. There's a book

  that's been bugging me for far more than a year now---you've cost me a lot of working

  time, Friend Noon."

  "That's tough."

  "I knew you'd think so."

  "Jo." I took a deep breath, as hard as it was. The corset was binding me in a

  vise. "Is it any use to appeal to your common sense?"

  "About killing you? Afraid not. I have to do it, you see. I've gone beyond. Just

  like Herr Doktor Frankenstein. It's me or you, buddy. All things being equal, it's got to

  be you."

  "Sure. The end justifies the means. Etcetera. An eye for an eye. A back-of-the

  head for a back-of-the-head. What a waste."

  His eyes brightened. "By the way. What did you really think of the play? Don't

  go easy on me. I know what's good."

  "I'm prejudiced. What difference would it make now?"

  "All the difference there is. Tell me."

  "It's a good play. Very good. But your lyrics are lousy. And you were wrong

  about me. I won't do anything for a fee. I got that out of my system when I turned down

  th
e ice cream cone that a dirty old man wanted to buy me. Nobody's going to swallow

  this sad-masochism bit."

  Jo Malmedy smiled. An honest, troubled smile. Almost a sad smile. "Jesus, I like you, Noon. I always will. Damn shame I have to go through with

  this. But it's my hang-up. The only one I've got and I won't be able to go on living if I

  don't. See my side, can't you?"

  "Your side? Don't make me laugh. You're going to put the blocks to me and I'm

  supposed to cry all over your axe blade? Please, Mr. Malmedy. Leave us not be

  ridiculous."

  His jaw hardened, the green eyes flashed, and he took two more steps toward

  me. The hypodermics came up. I recoiled instinctively, trying to edge away. I couldn't.

  I was blocked by the back wall of the room, and there were angels crying in the air.

  Angels of Death. All girls.

  "This is for her, Noon," Jo Malmedy panted. "Not me. Understand that. I have

  to get back what I never had in the first place. What I never had at all----"

  "Then why go after it?" I tried not to shout, tried to keep my voice down. He

  was close enough to the edge to be pushed over the rim and I couldn't risk that. Not just

  yet, anyway. "Maybe it's not worth having. Maybe it's not worth all this. Your career.

  Your whole life ahead of you. All the women you can have, the good times---"

  "No," he insisted, unwildly. As if we were having the most academic of friendly

  debates. "I've got Marcel on my hands. I killed him, whether it was an accident or not.

  They'd put me away. I couldn't stand that. I was born lousy but I was born free. I need

  that freedom. You should understand that. You more than anybody. The last of the red

  hot rebels. You've been doing your own thing for years. What kind of a man would I be

  cooped up in a penitentiary? What kind of a writer? No kind!" "You wouldn't be a willful murderer---" I squired out of his reach, as far as I

  could. Against the blue wall. The corset made all my movements stiff, comical and

  unreal. Like a Chaplin pantomime. "And who said you'd have to buy prison time? A

  good lawyer could get you off. You have the money. There's Nizer. He's great with lost

  causes---"

  It was ludicrous the way he followed me. Like a hungry lion.

  The way he closed in on me, hypodermics poised and aimed at the lower part of

  my body. At thigh level with the undersling of my rump as rounded targets for his