Black Mask (Vol. 15, No. 2 — April, 1932)

Johnny Hi Gear is an unbidden guest at a private pineapple party.

1

The Big man tilted the dull silk hat off a wind-tanned forehead, rested a foot on the brass rail and an elbow on the mahogany:

“How long you been running a carnival gyp, Joey?”

The white mustaches of the old Italian on the other side of the bar bristled, the musty skin flushed darkly and he turned frosty blue eyes in the direction indicated by the ebony cane which the other pointed at the far end of the speakeasy.

“Ha. Datta t’ing, you mean? It is nota mine... I no lika you see it in my place.” He glared at the aluminum-painted machine, with its slots and dial and hand-crank, as if it were a dangerous animal.

The man in evening dress fished a slice of orange from the bottom of his glass.

“They’re rigged to clip seventy, eighty per cent for the house, aren’t they? The suckers don’t ask for a break, do they? What the hell?”

The speakeasy proprietor shrugged.

“I don’t needa jack so bad. It’s a stick-up racket, mister, around men who been drinking. You know what?”

The other chewed the orange, shook his head.

“Lasta week, two deesa bums muscle in here and dump datta junk on my bar. ‘Run it and like it,’ dey tella me. ‘Cut us for feefty a week and you taka de rest yourself.’ ”

The big man smiled.

“Baloney!”

“I tol’ ’em where dey could stuffa de slot machine... and I kicked da collector out on his pants w’en he try gyp me for first week’s rent,” said the Italian.

“Watch your step, Joe.” The big man climbed into his overcoat. “You don’t want to be taking slugs, instead of the machine. Lot of these jack-pot babies are sniffers, you know.”

Little Joe Massetti nodded.

“Yellow-bellies w’en dey’re offa de stuff and mad dogs w’en dey have a card... I know, Johnny.”

“Well... be seeing you.”

“Be good boy, Johnny.”

The big man closed the inside door after him and let himself out through the iron-grilled door which led to the areaway. Before he could swing the gate behind him, two figures stepped close beside him from the shadowy gloom under the steps.

“Back up... back up,” said one pleasantly.

Johnny hesitated. He could not see either of them clearly... could not be sure whether they carried guns.

“Whassa matt’r. Whass wrong?” he said thickly.

“Go on back, you mug.” The other man’s voice was a high, piping falsetto. “Reverse it.” He put a hand against Johnny’s chest, shoved hard.

Several things happened so fast as to be practically simultaneous: Johnny slipped, he swung a short uppercut, his hat skidded off into the slush, something hard jabbed painfully in his stomach and he recognized it for an automatic while he was saying “Hah,” quite involuntarily.

He had dropped his cane: now he lifted his arms from his sides and showed gloved palms.

“No need of the broderick,” he said, quietly. “And you won’t find any heavy dough on me, either... but go ahead.”

The pleasant voiced one swore savagely and swung a hard flat hand at his face.

“—! This ain’t Massetti. This kluck’s twice as big as Little Joe—”

He poked the gun lower and Johnny grunted at the hurt.

“Jeeze,” squeaked the falsetto. “That’s a honey, boss. Nearly give the works to the wrong beezark.” He laughed, shrilly. “What we gonna do with him?”

The one with the gun kicked the silk hat to one side, picked up the cane and broke it over his knee.

“Ah, go on, you mug,” he snarled at Johnny. “Beat it before I change my mind and plug you.”

Johnny started up the three steps to the sidewalk when they pushed him. He sprawled flat in wet snow. Something hit him in the back of the head... . It was the broken cane.

He got to his feet, fighting mad, saw the two figures watching, caught the reflected gleam from the automatic; thought better of it.

He brushed his trousers and limped slowly down the street.

2

His face was scratched and bleeding, his shins ached, his groin pained fiercely. He was hatless, soaking wet and cold with rage.

But he walked far enough down the block to spot the black sedan with the open windows and softly purring motor. The driver he deduced from a glowing cigarette tip; he could not see his face. The license was sure to be a fake, but he noted the cracked head-lamp, the dented fender and new hub-cap.

That watchful driver meant that whatever was due to happen at Little Joe’s would be over in a rush: if Johnny was going to step into that picture he had to do it in a hurry. He turned and limped back towards the speakeasy.

Behind him, gears meshed softly; tires slithered in the snow. The getaway man was going into action.

All Johnny needed was a minute; he counted on uncertainty in the lookout’s mind for sixty seconds. As he dived into the areaway, he picked up the broken cane. He shoved the piece with the crook on it, through the scrolled opening in the grille about a foot under the metal plate guarding the latch, held it hard against the knob inside, pressed and pushed upwards slightly and leaned on the gate. There was a click; the door swung open.

He got inside, closed the door as the sedan slid to a stop before Little Joe’s place. The driver was on the running-board, as it pulled up.

Johnny paused at the inner door to work his gun free from his shoulder-holster; he put his ear to the wooden panel.

“Dio Mio! Notta dat... ” Little Joe’s voice was hoarse with terror. “I’ll pay... for da machine... don’t maka me—” The words ended with an unpleasant gurgling sound.

Johnny went in, quietly.

The white-haired old Italian was bent grotesquely backwards over his own bar, his head resting on the brass plate used to drain beer sloppings. A waxy-skinned, pinch-featured thin man behind the mahogany held the white hair in one hand while with the other he attempted to force something that shone of copper between the speakeasy proprietor’s clenched teeth.

A blocky, beefy-faced man with lustreless gray eyes and a cruel slit of a mouth stood before Little Joe and twisted his wrists savagely.

“Swallow ’em, punk,” sneered the red-faced man, as Johnny got the door open. “Get ’em down. They’re only,32’s. Good f’r what ails you... cure guaranteed to last. Easier t’ chew ’em than have ’em pumped into you. This way you last three, four days. Maybe that’ll straighten up somea you gees that been high-hattin’ us lately.” He laughed as Waxy-Face stuck his thumbs into Massetti’s jaws and forced them open.

“Up,” snapped Johnny. “Way up... quick!”

The man behind the bar let go Little Joe’s hair, the Italian slumped to the floor in a faint and the beefy man whirled on his toes like a boxer.

“You?” He spat out a short, astonished sibilant and reached for his pocket.

Johnny put his right arm out low and straight.

“I’ll let you have it,” he warned.

A blunt-nosed automatic emerged from the stocky man’s coat...

Johnny fired at his belt buckle; the man raised his gun slowly.

“Well!” Johnny let go twice more, point blank. He could not miss that chunky chest at eight feet. The man spun half-way round, his mouth opened noiselessly but he got his automatic on a line with Johnny’s heart.

Johnny swung to one side, there was a stab of light and something hit him in the shoulder like a sledgehammer blow. He tried to work the trigger again, heard his gun crash to the floor and realized that his right arm was useless.

The red-faced man took two steps forward and snarled:

“You hadda stick your — dam nose in. You asked for it, you — so... ” he took deliberate aim, “here it is.”

Johnny ducked, let his knees buckle and rolled as he fell; powder grains stung the side of his face and the sound of the shot was deafening, but he felt no pain. His head crashed into the brass foot-rail, his shoulder lunged into the face of the bar and he wondered what delayed the finishing shot.

... Then he heard the four quick notes of the Klaxon.

“Kippy,” shrilled a voice from the other side of the bar. “That’s Pete’s signal... c’mon... let’s scram.”

Johnny lay very still: perhaps they would think he was dead.

“We can’t leave no trail like this.” The thick-set man swore obscenely. “Frisk that wise guy... I’ll go through Massetti.”

The waxy-faced one kicked Johnny in the knee, flopped him over and took his wallet, cigarette case and a watch that Johnny valued above price.

“Hop it up, Kippy,” begged the thin man. “C’mon.”

Little Joe had recovered, was on his knees, mumbling a prayer in Italian.

“Here you!” Johnny saw the man called Kippy take something like a big black egg from his overcoat and told it in front of the Italian’s eyes. “Here’s where you have one on th’ house... pineapple flavor.”

He pulled the pin and ran to the door; Waxy-Face was already outside.

“You won’t crash no more parties, wise guy,” snarled Kippy, looking at Johnny from the door. “You c’n go f’r that... that’s one for the book.”

He tossed the bomb at Johnny and vanished.

3

All Johnny could think of, during that split second, was that it was a hell of a way to cash in... with his head in a spittoon.

But his muscles flashed into action, even before the black egg which hatched death was out of Kippy’s hand; twisting and rolling his body towards the protection of the battered iron safe at the end of the bar. He drew his legs under him, like a falling cat, covered his eyes with his good arm and ducked...

... he was lifted and slammed against the big iron box; the air was a paralyzing burst of searing flame and he lost consciousness.

How long he was out, he never knew; when he first heard the ringing of the concussion in his ears and opened his eyes, he could see nothing and thought, momentarily, that he was blind. Then he smelt the acrid fumes of powder and alcohol — realized that the lights must have been shattered — got a match from his pocket shakily.

Clouds of plaster dust and a rain of splinters and shattered glass obscured the wreckage, but he saw something gruesome on the floor ten feet away — and winced as from a blow. He felt sick and weak, his eyes were blurry and his hands unsteady at lighting the matches... but there was no need of worrying about Little Joe Massetti any more.

He leaned limply against the crazily uprooted bar and rescued a bottle which had not been smashed... it had a Hennessey Three Star label... he cracked off the neck, and let hot fluid pour into his bruised mouth. He wiped his face, wet with perspiration — and shivered. Why he had not been blown to bits like the red, raw thing on the floor there... he did not know.

Presently his ears made out another sound than the high-pitched ringing which echoed and reechoed through his numbed brain — a confused noise of whistles blowing, people shouting, feet pounding on pavements.

Someone was hammering at the front door. In a minute or so the place would be seething with cops and plain-clothes-men... but he couldn’t wait to see them. He had an appointment with a red-faced man and a coke, and he had to be in shape to keep that date. He couldn’t do it in Bellevue, or in the Tombs as a material witness. Even the fact that he was on the confidential list of the Commissioner as an under-cover man wouldn’t help him in this jam.

He got some more of the Three Star down and shook his head to clear it. His right hand was wet; he looked down, it was covered with blood. Gritting his teeth he got the hand in his overcoat pocket, with the aid of his left. Then he picked up the gun... there were still three shots left... he remembered.

The noise at the front door had redoubled.

He picked his way over debris, across the horrible thing that had been Little Joe Massetti but five minutes ago, and found what he was looking for: the trap door to the barrel cellar. Every speake has one.

He lifted the iron ring, tugged and got the trap open. He backed down the beer-soaked stairs just as the iron-grille crashed open and feet hurried along the corridor to the inner door. He dropped the trap above him.

The cellar was pitch-dark, slimy with grease and seepage, close and fetid. He got out a match, lit it and worked his way towards the front of the cellar. There would be a street-level opening somewhere... twice a week the furniture van would pull up and drop fifteen or twenty half barrels of Jersey beer down that opening, after paying the cop-tax of a dollar a barrel.

He located it by the time the emergency patrol and the ambulance pulled up in front of the speakeasy. They would search the cellar in a few minutes, of that he was sure. So he pushed the metal hatch open and looked out; there were a dozen people in the street and two internes getting a stretcher ready. He bit his lips as he thought of getting what was left of Little Joe on a stretcher.

There would be a bluecoat in the area and more on the way. He had to bluff it out now, if he was to make it good.

“Jeeze!” He shouted to one of the bystanders, a negro musician bound Harlemwards after his night-club duties. “What happened... hey?”

“Still blew up, boss.” The black man hurried on, anxious to be the first to give information. “Wop runs a still — that’s what they say, boss.”

“Crying out loud,” said Johnny. “Scared me so I fell off a pile of barrels. Here... gimme a hand; I’ve got a game wrist.”

The negro reached down to the loading platform, heaved him flat on the sidewalk. Johnny got to his feet, dizzily.

“Lordy, boss... you look like you was inside that still. The wop’s croaked... they gone in for him.”

“I’m kayo. Just scratched up a little. I gotta report this... I’m supposed to be watchman... ”

Johnny thought the explanation was pretty cockeyed, but he couldn’t dope out anything better... and he started down the street. Curious eyes followed him — suspicious whispers followed him... but none of them belonged to uniforms, so Johnny sauntered on casually.

He turned up his coat collar to hide the dirt and blood on his collar and shirt.

Fifty feet from tire Avenue he looked back at the gathering crowd — and saw a black sedan creeping slowly along behind him, close to the curb. It had a cracked head-lamp and a dented fender.

He broke into a run, pulling out his gun. At the corner is a church; the car caught up to him as he dodged into the blackness of the chapel door. Orange blades of light knifed through the sedan’s windows... Stone chipped from the portals and lead rang against bronze doors.

Johnny steadied himself, fired three times from a crouch as the car passed. The black car swerved suddenly, hurdled the opposite curb and smashed head on into an iron railing; finally flopping on its side.

4

Two men got out of the rear of the car and ran around the corner; one was a short stocky figure, the other thin and taller. The driver of the car did not move; looked as if he were asleep at the wheel. Traffic whistles shrilled; down the block behind him a motorcycle stuttered into rapid-fire.

Johnny tried the church door. It was unlocked. He wandered through the high-vaulted chapel, sat in one of the pews for a minute to pull his shaken nerves together.

Voices came to him from the dim, quiet vault above him... then he realized, with a start, that those voices were real. Here, in the church, close to him. He dropped on his knees and crouched low.

“... all covered... if we can smoke this high-hat baby... what’s his name?”

It was Kippy. Johnny began crawling on one hand and a knee, but he kept his gun in the hand on which he rested his weight and went softly.

“John Hiram Gear... Hotel Metropole... what a break... ” said the other, shrill voice. Johnny cursed through his teeth; they had taken his wallet — he had forgotten that. In his wallet were cards, papers and... a sweet roll of the ready. Well, he had to get them before they got him... and he had been planning to do just that, for Little Joe’s sake, as well as his own...

He reached the door of the anteroom, through which one might have access to the great hall of the church... and the Avenue. The voices had ceased. He got his head around the corner of the door, his gun lifted.

The place was but faintly lighted, but he could see that it was empty. He got to his feet in time to hear the sound of a gently closing door. He walked unsteadily through the minister’s room, down the long, carpeted aisle past the high pulpit, to the high, paneled doors.

By the time he reached the Avenue, there was only a cruising yellow to be seen... and a knot of curious men being shoved back from the ruin of the black sedan.

Johnny hailed the taxi.

“Metropole... in a rush, buddy,” he said.

“My—! fella!” The driver turned around in his seat. “You been hurt. Better let me take you to a hospital.”

“I said... the Metropole. And snap it up. If I wanted to go to a hospital I’d—”

There was a backfire noise and the side window of the cab made a queer tinkling sound: a thousand little cracks radiated from the round hole a foot from Johnny’s head.

“Now... will you step on it?” Johnny swore harshly... the driver galvanized into activity, jerked his clutch in and the car leaped forward.

“Listen... you,” he said in a scared voice, as he wheeled the machine around a corner by inches. “I gotta damn’ good mind to take you around to Forty-seventh Street. By jeeze... I think that’s where you belong... you look as if you’d mixed up in something... ”

Johnny worked his gun free once more, kept it where the jockey wouldn’t see it and chuckled:

“Don’t be a sap. If there was anything wrong with me, would I be asking you to take me to the Metropole? I live there... you can check me up with the doorman. And if you get me there fast, so’s the house doc can fix these scratches of mine... ” he gritted his teeth as his arm jolted against the rocking side of the taxi... “there’s a ten-spot in it, for you.” There was something less negotiable in it, if he refused, Johnny thought, grimly.

“Say, get me right... I’m no yellow-belly,” said the driver. “But I don’t hire out to be shot at... and somebody’s got to pay for that glass.”

Johnny grunted. They were pulling up before the hotel now.

“Coupla stick-up gees, that was. They tried to put the stopper on me once before, tonight... that’s all there is to it.” Johnny tried to make his voice convincing.

“Oh, yeah?” The driver was skeptical. “And don’t forgetsis... I gotta make a report on this... you better be on the up-an’-up, or they’ll be puttin’ the finger on you.” He stopped the car with a jerk.

The doorman was there. Johnny got out of the car, painfully.

“What’s my name, Timmy?” He grinned at the big, jovial, uniformed Irishman.

“Ye don’t even know th’ name of yourself, is it?” The doorman came closer. “And have ye been hittin’ th’ high spots, th’ night, Mister Gear?”

“Hell,” said the driver. “I thought I’d seen your pan before... you’re Johnny Hi Gear, the big dice an’ card boy, uh?”

Johnny said: “Lend me a ten-spot, Timmy.”

Timmy looked wonderingly at the bruised face, the shattered window and the coat-sleeve stuck in the right-hand pocket.

“Sure... sure,” he hastened. “You better git inside, Mister Gear... I’ll take care of the taxi.”

“Give him a tenner,” said Johnny from the revolving doors. “And much obliged.”

He got up to his room, with no more attention than the surprised glances of early morning scrub-women cleaning the lobby, the proffered assistance of a bellhop and the unexpressed curiosity of the elevator-boy.

When he got to his room, he locked the door, got out a cigarette and sat on the bed beside the phone.

“Let me talk to Doc Benter,” he said to the sleepy phone operator. “Hello, Doc... this is Johnny Gear. C’mon over. And bring your kit of tools... Oh, I had an argument with a telephone pole,” he finished with a chuckle. He eased himself down to wait.

Three minutes later there was a knock on the door.

He opened it.

“Positively my last appearance,” said Kippy. “Get back... go on.”

5

The cigarette was between Johnny’s lips. He took a drag on it, blew the smoke in Kippy’s face and walked slowly backward. The other followed closely; shut the door and locked it.

“We was expectin’ you to buzz th’ house-doc,” he said in a flat, brittle tone. “So little Egghead is sittip’ on Benter’s belly, right now.” He backed Johnny into the. armchair before the little writing table, put a hand against his chest and shoved him to a sitting position. “Anyhow, you ain’t gonna need no doc.”

Johnny said: “Hell you say.”

Kippy reached over his shoulder, got the desk drawer open and pulled out paper and pen.

“You’re gonna go bye-bye, sucker. But I’ll deal you a break... you can pick y’r exit.”

“That’s nice.” Johnny thought he knew what the letter-paper meant.

“Yeah. If you act wise, you can take a punch on the chin and let the bulls pick you up f’r the Massetti kill. Just write a little note right now telling ’em how you happened to bump him off with one ’f these Dago footballs... make it plenty strong, too. Then... ”

Johnny grinned.

“—Then you put a rod in my chest and let go — that it?”

Kippy lifted gross eyebrows in mock amazement.

“Don’t be like that. Why should I trig you when you’re a swell out f’r me an’ Egghead? Huh? Be your age.”

Johnny tapped the pen with his left hand.

“No sale. I can’t use my right mitt, at all.”

Kippy kicked viciously; his heavy boot caught Johnny in the ankle and he cried out, involuntarily.

“Use your left,” snarled the beefy-faced man. “Or I don’t give a damn what you use. But write that note, now... or take a drag on this... ” he snatched the cigarette out of Johnny’s mouth and jammed his automatic savagely against Johnny’s teeth.

Johnny rolled with the blow, closed his eyes, said “nnnh-h-h” dully and fell over on the floor. Kippy gave him the boot in the ribs, but Johnny didn’t stir.

Kippy swore in disgust.

“Out like a light... well, baby, I’ll bring you back to life.” He went into the bathroom and ran the water. Then he came back, got an arm under Johnny’s head and poured ice-water down his neck.

Johnny sat up, dizzily.

Kippy was squatting near him, a glass in his left hand, the gun in his right. The little, pale eyes were sneering.

“Come out of it, delicate. You gotta letter t’ write. Don’t forget it.”

Johnny saw something on the carpet, it glittered faintly in the darkness of the rich maroon velvet.

“Yeah.” He spoke thickly. “Sure.” He leaned forward, got his left hand over the object and added: “You’ll have to lift me.”

Kippy said: “Get up yourself, you—! And get up now.”

Johnny lurched to his feet, swung a little and tossed something out of the open window.

Kippy lifted the automatic menacingly.

“What the hell... what’d you chuck outa that window? What was it?” He took a step forward, his head lowered, his eyes glittering.

Johnny sat down, reached for the pack of cigarettes on the desk.

“Mind if I smoke?” He spoke very politely.

Kippy showed uneven, gold-capped teeth.

“What — was — that — you — threw?” he said, spacing his words carefully.

Johnny flipped open his lighter.

“My life insurance,” he said, easily. “The key to this room.” Kippy’s finger tightened on the trigger and Johnny tried to keep his voice calm and steady. “You won’t want to be found in here with a hundred and eighty pounds of first-degree evidence, will you, Kippy?”

The stubby finger relaxed its pressure on the trigger, the gun dropped muzzle-down and the stocky man backed towards the other side of the room. Then he whirled quickly and tried the door; he had locked it himself... and now there was no way to get out.

“All right... all right,” he said. “Don’t think that’ll keep you from takin’ the full dose, Mister Johnny Hi Gear... I been in tighter spots than this, an’ I’m still pickin’ ’em up an’ layin’ ’em down.”

He reversed the gun, walked deliberately to Johnny’s chair and clubbed him twice, where the bullet had hit his right shoulder.

Johnny thought he was going to pass out of the picture for good, but he managed to keep a grip on his reeling senses. Kippy smashed the Colt against the side of Johnny’s fate as a final caress, went to the phone and called: “Doc Benter, please.”

“Hello... Egghead? Listen close, kid. Johnny’s done a fadeaway... and I want doc to come right up... but Johnny locked th’ door before he fainted. Get th’ extra key from the desk and jump right up... Right?”

He hung up.

“You got just as long as it takes Egghead to beat it up here, to get ready for the big dive, mug. I had just enough of y’r — dam’... ”

He looked in astonishment at the bed, across the room — a lazy coil of thick, white smoke was curling from the floor like mist.

Johnny spoke from the floor, where he had dived when his lighter had ignited the edge of the woolly blankets, the sheet and mattress:

“Think it over, hard-boiled. You’re in bad enough, as it is.”

He threw one of his shoes through the window.

6

Kippy stared.

The cloth smoked furiously; oily waves of thick gray fumes oozed to the window level, eddied around the ceiling.

Then the man across the room ran to the bathroom. Johnny got to his knees, used his left hand to yank the curtains from their wooden cornice and throw them on the blazing blankets.

Kippy dashed out of the bathroom, panic in his fish-like eyes; his voice throaty with fear:

“Jeeze... you wanta burn us t’ death? You wanta... ” he spilled half a tumbler of water three feet from the blaze. The smoke was quite dense now.

Johnny got to his feet; grabbed the phone and hollered: “Fire... fire!” loudly. Then he left the receiver off the hook and said: “The John Laws will be here before your pal, Egghead, makes the grade. What about it, Kippy?”

“—!” The other screamed in rage and fright. “I’ll fix your works, you crazy... ”

There was a knocking at the door.

“Who’s inside? Who’s in there?” said a voice. It was not Egghead.

“Get the police!” yelled Johnny. “And bring an extinguisher.”

“Open the door... what’s burning?” The voice was getting excited.

Kippy gulped in the fog-like coils of thick, acrid smoke. He slipped the safety on his automatic and stuck it under the bed, fired once, twice. Then he put a bullet through the pillows... another through the foot of the bed.

Johnny crawled past him through the smoke to the bathroom, got inside and closed the door, turned the lock. There was a ventilator which kept the air a little clearer; outside the curtains had blazed up... one of the chair seats was beginning to burn.

Feet were padding up and down the corridor; voices came over the transom in fragmentary clarity:

“... Sent in the alarm... break it down... something about police... that’s Johnny Hi Gear’s room... ”

Johnny ran water in the bowl; drank a glass of ice-water. His arm and shoulder were one throbbing ache. His face was swollen and bleeding... his lips cut and bruised. One ankle was knifing him with pain.

Ping! The medicine-cabinet mirror tinkled to the wash-bowl in silvery, shattered bits of glass. Kippy was trying to write him off the books.

He stepped into the bathtub, turned on the cold shower and watched a row of little holes appear in the panels of the door. Concrete chipped from the walls and metal rang loudly, but he was untouched.

Crash! Someone was trying to break down the door. Why didn’t the fools get the duplicate key, Johnny wondered. Then he realized that it was Kippy who was trying to smash his way through to freedom.

The falling rain of cool water cleared the air a bit — he could breathe more easily now. He sniffed; there was a pungent odor in the smoke... he recognized it for extinguisher-fluid... they must be putting it in through the transom.

Then someone was hammering on the bathroom door:

“Open up... come out of there, you fool... do you hear? Come out... the fire’s over.”

It was a new voice and Johnny turned the lock and stepped out. Water dripped off him in pools; his clothing was plastered to his skin and he could only stand erect with an effort.

A smallish, black-haired man in a derby hat and a dark suit stood outside the bathroom door; the room was full of men seen vaguely through the wreaths of smoke which drifted out through the wide-flung windows.

“Well... maybe you’ll tell us what it’s all about?”

“Get him?” Johnny started stripping off wet clothing, grunted with the reaction from his shoulder. The corridor was crowded with curious guests, bellhops, maids, policemen.

The houseman gave him a hand with his soaking coat.

“Boy! You’re plugged, for fair. What happened?”

“Did you nail him?” Johnny wanted to know, wringing water from his trousers, kicking off his remaining shoe. The walls of the room were smoke-stained, discolored; the carpet was a mess. Curtains and draperies had been torn down, pictures smashed... and the bed smelled like burning goat-hair.

One of the harness bulls stepped in:

“That bird... the one with the burned face... was he the one who was shooting off that rod? My—! man! You’re hurt!”

Johnny swore softly as he got into a dry dressing gown; he had to lift his right arm into the sleeve.

“Some,” he admitted. “That’s a present from the... gee you let walk away... suppose he’s halfway... to Albany by now.” Talking was painful.

“Oh, yeah?” The bluecoat was scowling. “Listen, fella. That playmate of yours is with Sergeant Connolly, right now. At the doctor’s. He got burned, half the skin is off his face. But he’s where we can put the bracelets on him; if he’s the rod that worked on you... we’ll be havin’ fun.”

Johnny said: “Oh! At the doctor’s? With a sergeant? We better snap down there, pronto. Maybe... your officer Will need the doc... unless... ”

... It was a curious procession, that pell-mell rush down the two flights of stairs: half-dressed women, timorous bell-hops, plain-clothesmen... and Johnny.

The door to Doc Benter’s room was open.

Sergeant Connolly lay on his face, his arms outstretched. The house physician was in the closet, trussed up with belts and cords. Connolly had been hit from behind, with a blackjack. The doctor was unconscious, but unhurt.

On the desk, under a green-shaded lamp, lay a silver hypodermic.

7

They untied the doctor, gave him whiskey and let him talk. The sergeant didn’t respond so easily.

“... Look out for the thin one,” mumbled the physician. “He’s full of cocaine... Hello, Johnny. You look bad... who’s the policeman?” They got the story from him, in bits. Egghead and Kippy had jumped him, after gaining entrance to his room in the guise of patients. Kippy had departed: Egghead had tried one means of crude torture after another until the doctor had consented to reveal the small stock of drugs he had. Then the thin man had stoked up... he was as dangerous as a mad dog, thought Benter.

The officer came to, after a minute or so, but it was another five before he could explain.

“Had this heavy-set one in front of me”... he put a hand to his aching head and rested his elbows on knees, dis-spiritedly. “Didn’t know which one was the doc... he got back of me, for a second, and gave me the tap... where’d they go?”

Nobody knew.

Cops ran around in circles; bandages and plaster were put in action; Johnny’s arm got attention; telephones went hot-wire with overwork — but Kippy and the Egghead had vanished into thin air.

“You better get a good, long sleep, Johnny.” Benter was finishing the dressing on his arm. “I suppose the precinct will want to nurse you in Bellevue, as a material witness... but I can stall ’em off for a day, maybe. Urgent danger... infection... you know.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Johnny. “I don’t want to be cooped up, right now. I got things to do.”

“You better not do ’em,” growled Benter. “You mean hunting for that couple of thugs? Lay off — leave it to the cops.”

“They’ll never lam outa here.” The bluecoat who had been left by the sergeant’s orders, as a guard over Johnny, was heavily confident.

Johnny said: “Yeah?” and got a hooker of rye inside his belt. The cop took one, with him.

“They know these babies,” nodded the patrolman. “Kippy Minzer... he’s got a record like Legs Di-mond... out on parole now, he is... Thanks.” The second glass followed the first in close formation... then a third.

“Slot machine was his racket?” Johnny inquired as he filled the cop’s glass for the fifth time.

“You know it.” The officer unbuttoned the top button of his coat. “Them slot machines, now. They’re lousy... Jeeze, this’s good stuff.” He held his glass to the light admiringly.

“Have another.” Johnny got amber liquid right up to the brim, nodded affably, though his arm hurt like hell.

“Mind ’f I do,” said the policeman.

“Warms you up,” Johnny filled up more glasses and Benter, refusing one, watched him curiously. Two more buttons came free on the blue coat. Then the officer stepped out of the room for a minute.

“Got a gun, doc?”

“Sure, Johnny... but I wouldn’t let you have it, shape you’re in.”

“Hell. Self-protection, doc. This dumb bunny in uniform would be about as much use in a jam as nothing at all. He’s cocked, now.”

“Mm, huh.” The doctor went over to a closet, took something off the shelf. He laid it on the desk beside Johnny.

“Don’t say I gave it to you. It’s a .32... and all ready to work. But you pinched it, if anything happens. I never gave it to you... ”

Johnny got the gun in his left dressing gown pocket and grinned.

“That’s my story, too.”

“What you goin’ to do, now you’ve got it?”

“Listen, doc.” Johnny got over near the door, stood with his back to the wall. “I’m the only witness to a pineapple-throwing that these two worked early this morning. The man that went out was a good friend of mine. They tried to get me, too... but I got a break. I’m going to turn ’em up, before they turn me up. They came into the Metropole to put the tag on me... and again I had some luck. So... ”

“Maybe you won’t be so fortunate the third time.”

Johnny said: “I’d thought about that.”

The patrolman came in the room, bleary-eyed. Johnny edged through the door without waiting to hear what explanation the doctor might give. He was at the turn of the corridor when the door opened and the bluecoat bellowed:

“Hey, you. Hey, Mister Gear. Hey! You can’t run away like that... ”

It was an effort to climb the two flights of stairs. He was short of breath when he reached the end of the corridor leading to his room.

There was a big closet five feet away and Johnny paid it no attention, but the minute of waiting to get his breath was the margin between death and life, for...

... The door opened, an inch at a time, the aperture away from him. Noiselessly he got to the stair-door and stepped into the well. Through a half-inch crack he could see Kippy, sidling along the wall towards the door of the room he had left only an hour before. He tried the door, called softly, found no one on guard and went in.

Johnny’s first impulse was to follow — then he remembered Egghead. That coke-eater would be nearby... but where. Johnny thought he knew. He stepped to the closet, got his gun out and said:

“Come out, Egghead... and come out backward, too. When you’ve got the door open, chuck your rod on the floor.”

The closet door opened slowly.

8

Johnny saw a thin back, jabbed his .32 at it and heard something drop on the floor. He picked it up by the trigger guard, stuffed it in a side pocket, with his left hand.

“Ever hear how a man dies with a hole in his kidneys?” Johnny was walking Egghead down the hall, keeping close behind him, prodding him with the revolver. “Takes a week or ten days... they say its the most terrible way to kick in, that there is.”

“You got me wrong, mister. I never hurt no one. Not me. You got me wrong.”

“I’ve got you right, Egghead. You’re going to stay that way. And — unless you want me to drill two holes in your kidneys, you’ll tell Kippy to come out, when we get to my room. Ask him nice and quiet. Say I’ve gone to the hospital. Make it sound natural... or else... ”

Egghead started to turn around. Johnny drew the gun back six inches and lunged at the small of the thin man’s back. It straightened him up like a galvanic shock.

They halted in front of Johnny’s room.

“Do your stuff,” whispered Johnny.

Egghead started to swing his right arm, backward and forward, just a little, but he said nothing.

“Stick your arms up. Clasp those mitts behind your neck. Go on... or I’ll give it to you right now. That’s better. Now talk!”

Egghead muttered something unintelligible.

“When I count three... I’ll pull the trigger,” Johnny said softly. “One, two, thr—”

“Kippy!” Egghead’s voice was shrill.

“You lousy fink... what you doing out in that hall?” The man inside was sore.

“Boss! We better scram. That mug’s not comin’ back today. They took him to the hospital.”

“Shut up. Do what I told you, or I’ll come out there and blow you apart — hear me?”

Johnny put his mouth close to Egghead’s ear:

“Tell him to go to hell... you’re going to beat it,” he whispered.

Kippy said: “You going?”

“You go to hell... I’m gonna scram.”

Egghead’s tone was not defiant, but the words carried sufficient surprise, for the door opened.

Kippy looked into the muzzle of Johnny’s gun and lowered his head, as a bull does when it makes its charge.

“I’ll be a—,” he said. “You double-crossing dope, you... ”

“That’ll be all,” said Johnny. “Get up those mitts.”

“He made me, boss,” whimpered Egghead.

“Yeah?” Kippy’s hand went to his left shoulder and Johnny fired. Not at the chest, not at the stomach. Right between the eyes.

There was a simultaneous spurt of hot flame from Kippy’s gun.

Egghead murmured: “Ah!” in astonishment and buckled at the knees.

“You’ve got a bullet-proof vest, Kippy,” said Johnny. “And I had this snowbird, for my bullet-proof. That’s an even break.”

Kippy could not hear him. He lay, face down, over the threshold of the wrecked room. A thin stream of dark red ran away from his forehead like a piece of cord.

The policeman he had slipped came pounding down the hall.

“Say, you,” he bellowed, belligerently.

“Pipe down. Get a little sense, copper. This is a break for you, if you use your head. You’ve been in on a cleanup — if I say so.”

“Well... ” The officer was dubious.

“Get a load of this,” said Johnny in an undertone. “You came up to my room with me... an errand, see... and they shot it out with us. You get a rating, account of this, if you’re smart.”

“Sure,” breathed the cop. “I make you, mister. You sure are a busy little powder-burner, ain’t you?”

Johnny felt very tired.

“I’m going back to doc’s room. I need a good double-order of sleep. But don’t forget, what I told you. How it happened.”

“I’ll play ball,” said the man in uniform. “What’ll I do with this... ” he turned Egghead over. The coke’s face was pasty-gray and his lips were blue.

Johnny looked at the wet spot on the thin man’s vest.

“He might be patched up for the chair,” he said, finally. “Anyway... he’s got a chance.”

“I’ll take him in,” said the cop.

“Hell, yes.” Johnny walked towards the stairs, through the curious crowd. “He’s one for the book, all right.”