The Key to My Heart

The Key to My Heart

Michael Cnudde

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Michael Cnudde

Email: somersethousepress@gmail.com

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ISBN 978-0-9878657-5-5 [EPUB]

ISBN 978-0-9878657-6-2 (Kindle)

ISBN 978-0-9878657-7-9 (PDF)

ISBN 978-0-9878657-8-6 (Ebook)

ISBN 978-0-9868723-9-3 (RTF)

ISBN 1-927732-00-7 (LRF)

ISBN 1-927732-01-4 (PDB)

ISBN 1-927732-02-1 (Plain Text)

Cover images on this work are property of their respective owners and are used under the Fair Dealing guidelines of the Canadian Copyright Act and under Fair Use provisions under United States copyright law.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Other books by Michael Cnudde:

War Plan Crimson, A Novel of Alternate History

Elvis Saves JFK!

For Deborah. Naturally.

I

I knew she was trouble as soon as she stepped into my office. The type of trouble that only gets talked about by lonesome men in dusky bars over gin in dirty glasses. The type of trouble that leaves a smile on your face and you begging for more. The type that if it hasn't killed you stone cold, it's only because it's driven you nuts first.

She wore a long black cape with her hood up and under it, a hint of long blonde hair. Her cold red lips parted in a ghost of a smile. Mr. Gannon, she said. Chance Gannon.

That's what it says on the door, I said, sitting up behind my desk. Behind me, a tabletop fan battled the steamy August night air. I could tell by the sweat beading on my forehead it was losing. Somewhere, the latest Dorsey tune droned from a radio. A half-read pulp magazine - Amazing Stories- lay unfinished on my desk with a shining finned rocket ship sitting tail-first on a moonscape with jagged alpine peaks in the background and planet earth glowing in the sky above. It was a cinch I wasn't going to finish that. Have a seat. What can I do for you Mrs...?

Miss, she smiled. Miss Melody. She lounged in my sofa, her long tanned legs peeking through her cape. Mr. Gannon, six months ago, you were retained by an associate of mine, the late Walter Carswell.

I said nothing. But I remembered Carswell. He vanished just after I started to work for him. Never knew what happened to him; but she seemed to. I slid my hand towards half-open desk drawer where my .45 lay.

That's all right; I know. Before Walter died, he placed something with you for safekeeping. It belongs to me.

You'll have to excuse me, but I'll need a bit more proof than that before I hand anything over.

"Carswell said when the time was right, I should come to you and give you this." She stood up and placed it on my desk. The golden heart basked in the weak light from my lamp's 40-watt bulb.

I picked it up. There's a little tarnish on your heart.

She smiled. A gleaming 9 mm automatic appeared from the folds of her cape. "Give the item to me, Mr. Gannon. Now."

I dove for my drawer and my .45, but she'd fired first. Two slugs bore into me, burning hot pokers of pain into my leg and my thigh, tearing into already scarred flesh. As I lay up against the wall in a pool of my own Type O, I looked up at her as smoke curled up from the barrel of her gun. We could both hear wail of sirens coming down the block. That's what you get for having nosy neighbors. Guess you lose, babe. You don't get it.

Next time, Mr. Gannon, she smiled, walking for the door. Next time.

She'd be back. And I don't think it was because she loved me. As her heels clicked down the linoleum of the corridor and the sirens got closer, I slumped back against the wall. The pain shooting up through my body, it wasn't nearly as bad as when I got shot up after jumping into France back in '44. But four years later, on damp mornings — which are most mornings in San Francisco — my knee still ached and I still walked with a cane. And I didn't like the idea of carrying more lead in my body.

I looked up to the sound of flat feet charging up the hall. I knew the uniform that came through the door, gun drawn: Bertinelli. Holstering his revolver, he walked over and knelt beside me. Jeez...Chance!

I'll live, I croaked. Anyone see the woman who did this to me?

A skirt. Bertinelli got to his feet, smiled as he picked up the phone to call for an ambulance. Always figured it'd a be woman who'd do you in.

So here I was stuck in the hospital. Smelling of antiseptic and propped up in a bed that was too soft and pumped up with just enough painkillers to stop me from tearing the head off of my next visitor. Not that I'd had many. After the ambulance had taken me to the hospital and they'd pulled the slugs from my body and stitched me up, it was the SFPD's turn to play Forty Questions. Did I know the woman? No. Have I ever met her before? If I had, I would've remembered. What did she want? The whatsis that the late Walter Carswell had left me. Did I know what it was? No.

Which was all the truth I was ever willing to admit. What I had was a single key to a safety deposit box with a four-digit number stamped on it. Fat chance that knew of all the safety deposit boxes in the country, which one it belonged to. Never mind what was in the thing.

For six months I held onto that key. I still had it, on the same ring as the keys to my office, apartment and my '39 Ford. But sometimes, I wondered. Carswell had the look of a timid man on the run; a frightened rabbit who was always looking over his shoulder. Didn't seem the type have Miss Melody as a girlfriend. More likely, if he was the rabbit, she was the wolf. I'd seen men die for a lot of stupid things. I'd also seen men die for great and important things. But I didn't know what to make of Carswell. Had his luck run out because he was stupid or because he was doing something great and important?

Somebody knocked at my door and it opened. There, big and bluff, stood Ronson. Last time I'd seen him, we'd been in a pub in London on V-E Day, toasting each other with watered-down beer. He hadn't changed much, only trading in his colonel's birds for a double-breasted suit and a snap-brim fedora. Major Gannon, you look like shit, he said after giving me the once-over.

Felt better, I said. It wasn't far from the truth.

Ronson pulled up a chair, its wooden legs squealing across the tile floor like fingernails across a chalkboard. Parking himself in it, he said, Heard you got shot up again. I was in town, so I decided to check in with you. Gotta be more careful, Major. You wouldn't let a woman get the drop on you in the old days.

She had an unfair advantage. She was a blonde.

Seriously, Gannon: why did you ever leave us? By us, he meant the OSS — the Office of Strategic Services, created by FDR and headed up by Wild Bill Donovan himself. Now of course, the war was over, we no longer needed the OSS; what we had was its replacement, the brand spanking-new CIA, created by the National Security Act of 1947 and Harry S. Truman. You traded it all in for a two-bit office and women who pump you full of lead the first chance they get.

It's a living. And you?

"It's a whole new world out there, Major. And ol' Harry Truman, he knows who our real enemies are... It's still a war, but a different type of war. A whole new ballgame. He nodded in self-agreement. We could use guys like you... I mean, once you heal up, and all. But with your bum legs and all, it'd be more like a desk job. Still..."

Naw, I'll keep my two-bit office. Why are you really here, Ronson? Haven't seen you in years, and now you're suddenly here to check on an old war buddy. Much as I'd like to, I can't buy that. What do you really want?

You always were hard-headed. I told them that. Ronson sighed. Your visitor the other night...

Besides the fact she put me here, what about her?

Anything to do with a certain Walter Carswell? Carswell. There was that name again. For a dead man, he was certainly getting around. And by the narrow look in his eyes, I could tell Ronson knew the answer to his question already.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Okay, Major, play it that way. He got out of his chair. I did come to see you, but I also came to pass along a friendly warning. Stay clear of anything to do with the Carswell business. It's National Security. So if you do know anything about it, you'd better tell me, clear? " He put a crisp business card on my bed.

I nodded.

He walked to the door and pulled it open. Be careful Gannon. For old times' sake, I'd hate for you to get on the wrong side of me. I won't be able to save your ass like I did in Paris. I'll be in touch.

I lay in the hospital bed a couple of more days. I felt the hot knives in my legs less and I knew they'd weren't giving me as much painkillers; I figured I must be getting better. I felt pent up. I looked out the window and watched the traffic pass below me on the street. I watched the cable cars clanging by stopping to unload one mob of people for the next. And the cars — especially the shiny new ones: the new Fords, Packards and the bullet-nosed Studes. But what I really wanted was one of those new step-down Hudsons. Big eight-cylinder engine could drive all day without noticing. Wasn't likely I couldn't carry one on my salary — not when I was still snooping for divorce lawyers and chasing down deadbeats for collection agencies. Not much time for gunplay, which was why my .45 was in the drawer that night. Those high-powered cases only came in the movies, never in real life. Not unless you got lucky. Of course, then there was my old buddy Ronson. I thought about Ronson and his offer. Go to work for him again? His card was on my nightstand, but there was the Carswell matter to deal with — and what was his interest in it anyhow? — and why an icy blonde had used me for target practice. I was still thinking when Velma, my neighbor, came in.

Hello, Chance. she said. She was the type of girl you'd bring home to mother and for the last two years since I'd met her, she'd been trying to get me to do exactly that. Nothing much to look at: young, a mess of brown hair over librarian's glasses, her slim body usually covered by an overcoat or a bulky turtleneck sweater and a pair of baggy jeans. She taught piano in the little studio next to my office. I'd guess she was the one who called the police that night. I was worried for a little while when saw them bring you out.

Hello, Angel. I smiled at her. That's what neighbors are for: to worry about ...And for the record, thanks.

She blushed. I...I.

We'll go for coffee once I get out, okay?

Velma made a small nod. Chance, I came to tell you there's been some strange men hanging around your office, the last couple of days.

I sat up, wincing. That hurt. Suits or uniforms?

That's the funny thing. They wore suits but talked like they were in the Navy. One kept calling the other 'Commander,' and 'sir.' He did everything but salute. I don't think they got inside.

If they were pros they probably wouldn't have left a trace anyhow. Thanks again kid; now I definitely owe you that coffee.

I was out the next afternoon. That Velma was real quick on the uptake, so I didn't doubt for a moment there were sailors in civvies hanging around my office. So as I leaned on my cane, pulled the lever on the elevator and rode it to the third floor, I began to logic it out. Now there were at least three — including Naval Intelligence, ours I was guessing — parties interested in the Carswell business. Four, if you included me. The elevator jerked to a stop and I pushed the cage door open. I limped down the dimly lit hall, my right leg still smarting, past Velma's studio. She must've had a class; through the thin ripple glass