Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

The next few days were uneventful. I was beginning to think that Rugg was going to draw back and play a waiting game. That would cause some complications on my end. Chandler was chafing at the restrictions on his daily life. I’d let him relocate to a guest house that was easier on the eyes. I’d probably have gone around the bend myself after a few days in the Jolly Fisherman.

After the show on Thursday, I drove him to his house. He needed more clothes and a number of books and articles that he hadn’t gotten before. The neighborhood was quiet. Outside of a kid being dragged around by an Irish setter, no one was on the street.

It was highly unlikely that Rugg was in Chandler’s house, but I went in first.

“Wait here,” I said, clicking on the lights. I made a quick check of the back door and the porch. All clear.

“Go ahead and do what you have to do on this floor,” I said. “I’ll take a look upstairs.” He nodded and headed across the living room for the den.

I was halfway up when a shot rang out. I got down the stairs in two strides. Chandler was curled on the floor by the den, moaning and writhing in pain. The door to the den was open about a foot. I was so intent on listening for an assailant that I didn’t see it at first. Then I noticed it, a thin wisp of smoke curling up from the door handle. The handle itself was blown apart. Chandler had triggered a booby trap.

I called the rescue squad and tried to stanch Chandler’s bleeding with a towel. He had taken the blast in his lower right side and it was messy.

As the adrenaline receded anger took over. I’d assumed that Rugg was a gun-crazy moron. He was crazy, all right, but he also possessed a considerable amount of animal cunning. I had underestimated him, and Chandler was paying the price for my carelessness. After the medics took him away, I called the cops and sat down to wait.

“Damn clever,” said Olivera. A team of men was going over every door and window in the house. “He got into the house somehow, removed the guts from the door handle assembly, and replaced them with a spring, a firing pin, and a .410 gauge shotgun shell. When Chandler turned the knob, he broke a sheer pin, which released the spring and the striker. Blammo.” He shook his head. “The son of a bitch. What if it had been the wife or the kid?” He saw the look on my face. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Charles. Who could have figured something like this?”

“I should have. That’s what I’m paid for.”

“Yeah? Well, last I knew, you were just like the rest of us — a mite less than infallible. So ease up. They just told me that Chandler’s going to pull through. Thank God he wasn’t standing directly in front of the handle.” He shrugged on his coat. “And, Charles, don’t do anything foolish. We’ll get the little creep.”

Twenty minutes later I was back at the house on Camp Street. Soto was working on a cherry-red Harley in the large back room that served as the Berserkers’ garage.

“I need to have a talk with Cadillac Jack,” I said, “but I can’t locate him. Any suggestions?”

“I got a suggestion,” said a hulking grease-stained man, standing up from where he and another Berserker were working. “Why don’t you shag your ugly ass out of here before I pull your teeth for you.” A primary chain swung from one hand.

Soto waved him away. “Whoa, Flesher. Get your finger off the trigger, man. He’s okay.”

“He’s a cop,” said Flesher. His partner got up now, a squat man with a face that looked like it had once been on fire and somebody had put it out with a shovel.

Soto picked up a wrench and faced the two gang members. Very softly he said, “And I said it’s okay.” Something in his voice made the muscles in my stomach tighten. It also took the fight out of Flesher, who dropped the chain and turned to leave.

“That’s not quite right, Flesher,” I said. “You’re supposed to bob your head a few times and then say, ‘Duuuuuh, okay boss.’ ”

Flesher’s eyes narrowed. “Next time I see you, cop, we’re going to dance.”

“Now you’ve made a bad enemy there,” said Soto as the two left the room.

“So did he,” I said. “Can you help me out with Cadillac Jack?”

“Well, I don’t think he has any friends, but one of the brothers did mention that he’s big on shooting pool. And,” he raised a forefinger, “he doesn’t like the little bar tables. What do you suppose?”

“Smiley’s,” I said.

Soto’s eyes rounded in mock surprise. “Amazing, Stubblefield. That’s just what I was thinking.”

It really wasn’t amazing. Smiley’s was the only pool hall on Cape Cod. It was dark, smoky, and crowded when I walked in. A sign advised “No Swearing, No Gambling, No Drinking, No Massé Shots.” As far as I could see, everyone in the place was 0 for 4. The houseman was rocked back in his chair, watching the action on table one.

“Cadillac Jack in tonight?” I asked. He continued to watch the table.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.”

“Who the hell are you?”