“Felipe Ortega’s last port of call before illegally entering the United States was San Domingo. Fidel Castro sent him there to teach the rebels commando tactics. But Castro’s got his experts spread so thinly over the world that he can’t afford to buy arms and ammunition for every country.”

  “What are you suggesting, Kent?”

  “I’m suggesting that Felipe Ortega came here to raise some money, a lot of money. He brought some San Domingans with him, or maybe they were here all the while. He used them to kidnap Suzanne Pierson.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Foley said, taking the pipe from his mouth. “You said something about a lot of money. Do you mean a ransom from Gordon Pierson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we got another leak from the state police. Pierson did pay a ransom, but it was only fifty thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money to me, but not to a rebel army trying to overthrow a government.”

  “I have a theory about that, Lieutenant.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Suzanne Pierson was kidnapped by San Domingans wearing long dark robes. They took her into the sewer system with the intention of taking her to another part of the city where they’d be safe. But they ran into trouble down in the sewers and ... well, none of them got out.”

  Foley snorted. “Why?”

  “Call it toxic gas if you like. Anyhow, they didn’t make it. When they didn’t show up, Felipe Ortega got worried. He needed money to leave the country ... quick money. So he got a ransom note to my ex-client and he picked up the fifty thousand in cash that Gordon Pierson left in Central Park.”

  “When was that?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Why didn’t he leave the States?”

  “He probably needed new papers.”

  “What about the papers he used to get into the country?”

  “He was probably afraid that the F.B.I. had a line on every person who’d recently entered the country. You have to tell the Immigration Department where you’ll be staying. He must have given them a phony address.”

  Foley leaned back and his swivel chair screamed for oil. He said, “Why come to me with all this, Kent? Why the hell should you care if one of Castro’s kill experts was murdered or committed suicide?”

  I felt a wry smile pull at my lips. “If you don’t believe there are alligators and other nasty things in the sewer system, Lieutenant, there’s no chance you’ll believe the rest of it.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Night People.”

  He chuckled. “Of course. I’ve also heard of fairies, goblins, elves and little green men from Mars.”

  “They exist. I’ve seen them, talked to them.”

  He stared at me. “Are you giving me a snow job, Kent?”

  “I swear I’m not.”

  He kept staring at me. Suddenly he turned away and shook his head. “I once had a very good legman. One night he was out tailing a suspected drug pusher. It seems the pusher knew he was being followed. All of a sudden he turned around and started shooting. My legman was caught cold. It was lucky that he was hit only in the shoulder. It happened in an alley. Another couple of shots and my legman would’ve been dead. Suddenly, according to him, two men wearing dark robes grabbed the pusher and knocked the gun out of his hand. Saved my legman’s life. He didn’t mention the robed men in his report, but he told me about it. I said they must’ve been monks or something. He quit the department soon after and went to Chicago. The last I heard, he was doing very well in real estate.”

  “They saved my life too,” I said.

  Foley nodded. “Yeah. Well, let’s hear the rest of it. I’m not saying I’ll believe you, but I’ll listen.”

  “Gordon Pierson knows about the Night People,” I said. “He owns an engineering firm in this city. Some years ago the company was contracted to build a tunnel. They broke into another tunnel and found some of the Night People, women and children. They were going to bring them to the surface but were confronted by more Night People, some of them armed. The workers got out of there quickly. So, when Pierson was told by McDermott that four dark-robed figures abducted his daughter, he was convinced that the Night People were behind it. He believed this because only a fifty-thousand dollar ransom was demanded.”

  “What if it was a bigger ransom?” Foley asked.

  “Well, he knew that the San Domingans would have made the ransom at least a million, perhaps more. It wouldn’t have been worth their while to kidnap Suzanne for only fifty thousand.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Not exactly, but I know how he thinks. You see, he wants to destroy the Night People.”

  Foley let out a long sigh. “I’m in trouble, Kent; I’m starting to believe you.”

  “You can, Lieutenant. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

  “Even if it is the truth, there’s something you haven’t explained.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m investigating the death by poisoning of a Cuban national named Felipe Ortega. It’s suicide all the way but you say it’s murder. All right. Who killed him and why?”

  “I can’t answer that right now, Lieutenant.”

  “Then why did you come here? Why have you given me all this malarkey?”

  “I want some information.”

  “Why should I give you information?”

  “Because you’re a good cop.”

  He laughed shortly. “Where does that get me?”

  “A question, Lieutenant. Have I ever kicked a cop in the face?”

  His brow furrowed in thought. “Well, you’ve made more than one cop look like a fool.”

  “Because they were fools. Are you a fool?”

  Foley chuckled. “You’ve got a terrific line, Kent. All right. What do you want from me?”

  “According to the newspapers, Felipe Ortega died in a furnished apartment on the West Side. I’d like to know what you found in that apartment.”

  “Not fifty thousand in ransom money, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “But you found something.”

  “A passport, carefully hidden.”

  “What was the name on the passport?”

  “Not Felipe Ortega. Did you see the photo of the dead man in the News, Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe what you saw.”

  “A dead man with his mouth wide open. He has short-cropped black hair.”

  “How about a dark beard?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he wore a beard when he had the passport picture snapped. As for his hair in the photo, it was long and greasy looking. In short, in the passport photo he looked like a Cuban guerilla fighter.”

  “Are you sure it was Ortega’s photo in the passport?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then he cut his hair and shaved his beard to disguise himself. He must have been waiting for a new passport; a forged one, of course. Did you find anything else in the apartment?”

  “No.”

  “No strychnine?”

  “All the strychnine in that apartment was inside Ortega. And there was no evidence that he was drinking with anyone else when he swallowed the poison.”

  “Is there a janitor who takes care of the building?”

  “Yeah. Black feller named Dugan.”

  “Do you mind if I ask Dugan some questions?”

  Foley grinned crookedly. “What you really want to do is go into that apartment and look around. Well, you can’t. It’s locked and sealed for the time being. As for the questions you want to ask Dugan, the answer to the first one is no ... he didn’t see anyone go into Ortega’s apartment yesterday. The answer to the second question ...” Foley took a leather-covered note pad from his pocket, flipped it open. “When was Suzanne Pierson kidnapped?”

  “The seventeenth.”

  “Lemme see. Ortega moved in on the fifteenth. A couple of days after that, according to the janitor, four men visited Ortega. But Dugan isn’t certain whether they went to see him two or three days after he moved in.”

  “If it was two days later,” I said, “it was the day of the kidnapping. What time was it when the janitor saw them?”

  “Middle of the afternoon. They left a few hours later.”

  “Did the janitor get a good look at them?”

  “He said they were dark, but not Negroes. They wore the kind of cheap, sharp clothes you see on West Indians when they get off the plane at Newark or Kennedy.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Dugan says they jabbered like a pack of monkeys.”

  “Spanish?”

  “He says it sounded a bit like Puerto Rican talk but wasn’t.”

  “How could he be sure?”

  “Dugan married a Puerto Rican girl from a big family. Dugan and his wife visit her parents every Sunday in Spanish Harlem. The whole damn family shows up for dinner. Dugan says that if the four men were talking the Puerto Rican brand of Spanish, he’d have recognized it. The same goes for Cuban Spanish. Or Mexican.”

  “Then they could have been San Domingans. Would Dugan recognize any of the four men if he saw them again?”

  “No.”

  “One more question,” I said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “How did Ortega rent the apartment? Did he do it in person?”

  “No. A woman saw the apartment-for-rent sign and asked Dugan to show her through it. She rented on the spot. Paid two months security and two months’ rent.”

  “By check?”

  “In cash.”

  “A white woman?”

  “Yep. Quite a dish, according to Dugan. In his opinion she was a little too skinny, but she had big boobs to make up for it.”

  “Hair?”

  “A thick head of it. Black.”

  “Eyes?”

  “She was wearing sunglasses.”

  “Voice?”

  “Dugan said she spoke English with a French accent. She said she was renting the apartment for a friend who’d just arrived in Miami after escaping in a small boat from Cuba. A couple of days later she drove up to the apartment building with Ortega and introduced him to Dugan as Manuelo Cortez.”

  “What kind of car was she driving?”

  “Dugan says he really didn’t pay much attention, but it was a small car. He thinks maybe it was a Ford Pinto, but he wasn’t sure. The only things he’s sure about is that the car looked new and was painted yellow.”

  “That can be checked out,” I said. “If it’s a new car—

  “I checked that out, Kent. You see, we’ve been getting a little flak from Washington about Ortega’s death. Seems the Cubans are putting on the pressure. Ortega, you see, was Fidel Castro’s second cousin.”

  “The Cubans are putting up a bluff,” I said. “They know why Ortega was here. They just don’t want us to accuse a Cuban national of having masterminded a kidnapping.”

  Foley shrugged. “Maybe. Anyhow, our check got fast results, thanks to cooperation from the New Jersey police. A yellow Pinto with only a few thousand miles on the clock was sold at a used-car lot in Clifton. The buyer, a woman, paid cash.” Foley flipped a page in his note pad. “Here’s the used-car dealer’s description. Thick black hair ... slim body ... huge set of mammaries. Blue jeans, a red sweater, sunglasses. The name he gave was Mrs. Gladys Wilson. Address: sixteen Prospect Avenue, Cartaret, New Jersey. There is no Prospect Avenue in Cartaret. Nor is there a Mrs. Gladys Wilson. By the way the dealer says she spoke with a French accent.”

  “That figures,” I said.

  Foley relit his cold pipe and blew a cloud of cherry-scented smoke over my head. “Do you know how I see it, Kent?”

  “Tell me, Lieutenant.”

  “Ortega cut his hair short and removed his beard in the hope he’d get a new passport. For some reason or other he had trouble getting the passport. So, to keep his country from getting into trouble with our State Department, he killed himself.”

  “No, Lieutenant; he was murdered.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  I got to my feet. “I’m sure as hell going to try.”

  Chapter 7 ... sanctuary ...

  My office.

  I leaned back in the swivel chair and lifted my feet to the desk. I closed my eyes. In my mind was the image of a woman with thick black hair. Her breasts seemed too large for her slim body. Her sunglasses hid the color of her eyes. Her mouth opened and she began to speak in English with a French accent.

  The phone rang. I put the receiver to my ear and said my name.

  “Mr. Kent, this is Carlos Taveras.”

  I said, “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Taveras. I’m no longer working for Gordon Pierson.”

  “Did he fire you?”

  “I quit.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? Hell, I don’t have any idea what he’ll do next.”

  “You never did, Mr. Kent. Men like Gordon Pierson cannot be trusted to keep to deadlines. Are you available?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then go to number two hundred and twenty-four, West Fifty-Eight Street. Do you have that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Knock on the first door to your right after entering the building. It’s the supervisor’s apartment. Give him your business card. He’ll do the rest.”

  Click.

  Number 224 was a tenement building, a five-storey walk-up built before passage of the law that said all buildings containing more than three floors had to be equipped with elevators. Vandals had destroyed most of the mail boxes in the vestibule. Filthy bits of graffiti adorned the walls. I rapped on the first door to my right.

  “Who is it?” asked a muffled voice moments later.

  “My name is Larry Kent.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  I bent and pushed one of my business cards under the door. Soon there was the rasp of a bolt being drawn back, then another, followed by the jangle of a night chain and the click of a lock. The door opened and one of the skinniest men I’d ever seen stepped out. He wore coveralls and a thick wool shirt. His face looked like the front of a skull just before the skin peeled off. His eyes were hidden in dark hollows. He looked at me for a moment and then he turned to lock the door.

  “Can’t be too careful in this neighborhood,” he said as he slipped a ring of keys into his pocket.

  “I guess not,” I said.

  “All they want to do is destroy property and hurt people.” He twisted his head around to look at me again. “You ever hear of my brother?”

  “I don’t even know your name,” I said.

  “Jackson. But that doesn’t tell you anything about my brother. He worked in circus side shows and carnivals. They billed him as the Skull Man.”

  Which meant his brother was a member of the Night People. “I’ve heard of him,” I bed.

  “Made a lot of money, a hell of a lot of money.” Jackson hissed out air between his teeth. “But the guy he worked for cheated him out of it. Left him stranded at Coney Island. He came to me. I was glad to have him, but people made life miserable for him. Young guys mostly. Always making fun. One night they put him in a coffin ... a coffin with wheels on it ... and they pushed him down the street. He was damn near killed. Then the Night People came for him.”

  “He’s much better off with them,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Come with me.”

  He led me along a dimly lit corridor. He opened a door and reached into darkness to flick on a light.

  “The cellar,” Jackson said. “You go down by yourself,” and I started to descend the stairs. The door closed behind me. The light was a low-watt bulb suspended from a ceiling wire. The cellar was bare except for two furnaces; one was new, an oil burner, and the other was an ancient coal furnace.

  I lit a cigarette. A minute passed, then I heard a rapping inside the old furnace. I opened the iron door. Carlos Taveras’ one eye looked at me. He stood inside the furnace.

  “This is the entrance to one of our tunnels,” he said. “There’s a ladder beneath me. Close the door.”

  I waited until his head was well beneath me before I climbed into the furnace. There was a wire loop attached to the inside of the iron door. I pulled the door shut.

  “Move your feet around until you find the top rung of the ladder,” Taveras said.

  I found the top rung and began to climb down. At the bottom of the ladder was the stone floor of a tunnel. The only illumination came from a lantern. There were shadowy figures all around me. One grasped the ladder and pulled it free. Another walked up to me and threw back his hood. Thin lips smiled beneath a massive nose that looked like the snout of a dog. Above the nose were wide-set brown eyes that had all the warmth and love of the world in them.

  “My friend,” he said.

  I put my arms around him. “Joe ... my dear friend. Thanks for the carving of Pegasus. It’ll always be with me.”

  “I’m proud that you like it.”

  Another shadowy figure moved forward. Yellow light from the lantern revealed the fire-ruined face of Carlos Taveras. He said, “Mr. Kent, Joe did some special work for you.” He backed away. “Joe, tell him about it.”

  Joe’s large eyes gleamed in the lantern light. He said, “Larry, I’ve always believed in the story of the Rat Man. When I heard that you were interested in the story, I asked some friends to help me clear away the rubble in that tunnel where the two men saw the Rat Man. As you were told, nearby explosions set off by city engineers opened a crevice in the wall of our tunnel. It was through this crevice that the Rat Man entered our tunnel. But then, a day later, more explosions caved in the roof and tons of rock blocked the tunnel. But we cleared away some of that rock ... and we found the crevice!”

  “Did you try to enter it?” I asked.

  “No. I wanted to, but I know that the crevice leads to the sewer system, which is taboo. However, I stood there and listened ...”

  “What did you hear?”

  “At first, only the dripping of water. But then, later, I heard what seemed to be a man speaking.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. But I couldn’t make out any of his words.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

 

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