Corpse on the Grill

She rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “He’s broke. Greg used to make fair dough out of circusing with one of those cross-country wrestling troupes. But he strained his back; he couldn’t wrestle one of the Quints, now. So I give him a few pieces of change, now and then. I hate his guts, but I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to him.”

“No?” The Marshal heard a scraping noise from somewhere outside the living-room; it sounded like a dog scratching at a door. “Somebody did—. And gave your husband a workout on a butcher’s block. With a cleaver.”

Chapter Four The Skull Container

She didn’t scream. She put the back of one hand to her mouth and squinted as if the light hurt her eyes. “Killed him?”

“Dismembered him,” Pedley said. “Burned his arms and legs in the charcoal fire at the restaurant. You wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“No.” She turned her back so they couldn’t see her face, but the Marshal didn’t miss her glance toward the bedroom. “Not a thing.”

Pedley palmed his automatic and approached the bedroom, cautiously. Five feet away he paused; a roomful of men were stepping toward him in the darkness. They were all alike; they were all like Pedley himself. Suzie’s bedroom was walled with mirrors. He switched on the light; saw his own reflection from a dozen angles. But there was no place to hide in that room. He stepped into the bathroom, shoved back the shower curtain. Nothing. There were two closets, both empty. He swivelled quickly to find Suzie watching him with fascinated intentness.

“I give you my word there’s no one hiding in my apartment,” she said, unsteadily. “And unless you want to ask me some more questions about Greg...”

Pedley tried the kitchenette. No dice. But there was another door opening out of the kitchenette. There was no keyhole under the knob. A fire door. Opening onto a flame-proof stairwell; a door knobless on the outside, so no intruder could get into the apartment from the internal fire escape. He yanked it open.

There was a movement in the gloom outside. The Marshal reached out, grabbed a coat lapel and jerked into the room a thin, bony man with pinched and harassed features set in hairless skull.

“Yeah?” growled Pedley. “And who in the hell are you? What are you doing out there?”

Suzie spoke up, sharply. “He’s my brother.”

The bald-headed man snarled. “I’m Jimmy Yalb. This is my sister’s home; I gotta right to step out on the fire stairs if I wanna.”

Pedley slammed the fire door, pushed Yalb roughly into the living-room. As he shoved the eavesdropper past Biddonay, the cafe man yelled:

“Suzie’s brother! He’s a lying so-and-so, Mr. Pedley. He’s the bake-chef at my restaurant, that’s who he is.”

Yalb tugged away from Pedley’s grasp, rushed belligerently at Biddonay. “Yes and no thanks to you, either, you big tub of lard.”

“Jimmy!” Suzie screamed.

“If it hadn’t been for Mr. Krass,” Yalb spat out, “I’d have been bounced a dozen times.”

The Marshal watched Biddonay redden with rage. “You bet you would, Yalb; I’ve never trusted you. And now I know you’re Suzie’s brother, I’ll trust you even less.”

Yalb rumbled hoarsely, deep in his throat; he twisted swiftly out of his coat, eluded the Marshal’s grip, lunged fiercely at Biddonay. There was a short-bladed knife in his hand. He struck once at the cafe owner before Pedley could stop the blow. Biddonay screamed fearfully, reeled back. He struggled desperately to defend himself with his bare fists. The blade of the knife licked out like a snake’s forked tongue. Biddonay clutched at his side, stumbled, pitched sideways against a heavy center table, went down to his knees and stayed there, squealing like a stuck porker. Pedley closed in on Yalb.

The girl kept shrieking at the top of her lungs: “Don’t, Jimmy, don’t! You can’t fight the law.”

But Yalb tried. He butted the Marshal’s chin with his hard bald pate; he kicked, gouged, used a knee where it would maim a man most easily. He dropped the knife and clawed at the Marshal’s eyes with vicious talons. Pedley clipped him across the side of his face with the barrel of his automatic. He had to hit the chef five times before Yalb let go his teeth-grip on the Marshal’s wrist. He sagged to his knees, clutching at the detective’s coat to keep from falling to the floor.

The Marshal gave him one extra belt with the gun-barrel, to make sure the man wasn’t possuming. Mr. Yalb wasn’t.

“Now then,” Pedley gritted. “Get up on your feet and let’s level on this.”

Biddonay rolled over on his stomach and got his knees under him, but remained with his head down, his chin touching the carpet.

“He cut me!” the fat man moaned. “He stabbed me. Look!”

Pedley got his arms under the restaurateur’s shoulders, hoisted him onto one of those underslung chairs. He ripped open Biddonay’s vest, pulled up his shirt. There was a crimson line about an inch long but the blood was merely oozing from it.

“That’s a belly wound,” the plump man blubbered. “I’ll get blood poisoning—”