He Won't Need It Now

CHAPTER I

THE LOUNGE of the Princess Hotel was crowded with stragglers, filling in time before going in to dine. At the far end of the room., waiters hovered at the open doors of the restaurant, waiting patiently for someone to come on in and eat. It was just after seven o’clock, and the room was seething with movement as people pushed past small tables to greet friends, or shouted across, whichever way they felt.

William Duffy sat in a corner, drinking a Bacardi Crusta. The table before him held a number of bottles. The barman was a friend of his and let him mix his own drinks. There was a scowl on his face and he hadn’t removed his hat. He just sat there drinking and smoking and scowling. Looking up suddenly, he saw Sam McGuire of the Tribune crawling by, muttering apologies as he lurched into small tables. Duffy reached out and touched Sam’s cuff. Sam stopped at once.

“My God!” he said, “I’m goin’ blind or somethin’.”

“You ain’t doing so badly,” Duffy said, looking him over. “You ain’t quite blind, but you’re getting on.”

McGuire hooked a chair with the toe of his shoe and pulled it towards him. He folded himself down and grinned.

“You goin’ on a bender?” he asked with interest, looking at the collection of bottles before him.

Duffy signalled the barman, who brought another glass. The barman looked the two of them over with a practised eye. “Ain’t goin’ to overdo it, are yuh?” he asked in a pleading voice.

“Okay, don’t you worry about us,” Duffy said, picking up the rum and pouring it into the shaker.

“I hope not, boss,” the barman took another long look and went back to his counter.

“Poor old George,” Sam sighed, “he’s forgotten us since he’s moved in with the Big Shots. Listen Bill, make that a strong one. I guess I’m just about all in. If you notice a funny smell in a minute, go away, I shall’ve died on you.”

Carefully Duffy added the absinthe, squeezed a lime and spooned in some sugar. He chased some crushed ice round with the tongs before getting a grip, then he sealed the shaker and went to work.

McGuire lit a cigarette and pushed his hat on to the bridge of his nose. He looked at Duffy carefully while he handled the shaker. Duffy met his eye and grinned. “Go on, I know what you’re going to say.”

“It ain’t true, is it?”.

Duffy nodded his head and poured the shaker’s contents into the two glasses. McGuire took his in his hand and rested his nose on the rim of the glass.

“Mi Gawd!” he said, “you mean old Sourpuss has tossed you out?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

Sam sat back and groaned. “What the hell—?”

“Listen,” Duffy said, “Arkwright and me have been hating each other’s guts for a long time. I never gave him a chance to bat me. Today I did. He’d been waiting for the chance and he grabbed it with two hands like a starving man would grab a dollar lunch. O boy! Did it make him feel good! He tossed me out so quickly, I’m still dizzy in the head.”

“But why, for the love of Mike?”

“I was young and innocent and you know how these things go. I didn’t think he was that sort of a boy, and look, mother, what’s happened now.”

“Skip the comedy.” Sam was sitting up with a fierce look on his broad face. “Did you slip up on somethin’?”

“You know me, I don’t slip on anything. Anyway, if I do, I cover it up all right. This was a frame. That heel Arkwright has been angling for an interview with Bernstein for weeks, and at last he got it. You know how difficult Bernstein can be. He said that art was out. Mind you, with a mug like that Yid’s got on him, I ain’t surprised he was a bit touchy Anyway, Arkwright kept right at him until he gave way. I was sent along to get the pictures. I reckoned I had a nice set until I got ’em in the bath, then Mrs. Duffy’s son had a shock. Those goddam’ plates were fogged, the whole lousy lot. Sabotage, that’s what it was. Some smart guy’d tampered with the stock. I tested the remaining plates and they were all duds.” He paused for a pull at his glass. Sam said nothing. His face was flushed and his foot tapped against the leg of the table. Duffy knew he was getting mad. “Well, I explained to Sourpuss and do you think he’d believe me? Not likely! We exchanged a few words, and I guess I got tough, so he ran me inside and they ran me outside.”

Sam helped himself to another Bacardi Crusta.

“This may put you in a spot,” he said thoughtfully. “That punk’s got the ear of most Art Editors in town.”

“Sure, I know. Unreliable, fell down on a scoop!”

Duffy finished his drink and began to mix more Bacardis. “What the hell,” he went on, “it’s my funeral anyway. Come on in and feed with me.”

Sam climbed to his feet. He looked worried. “Ain’t possible, soldier,” he said. “I’ve got to get back and put in some more sweat. Come over in the morning, will you? Alice’s goin’ to be sore about this.”

Duffy nodded his head. “I’ll be over. Tell Alice not to lose any sleep. I’ll get somethin’.”

“Sure.” Sam clouted Duffy on the back, nearly jerking the shaker out of his hands. “Keep ’em bouncin’, brother, keep ’em bouncin’.”

When he had gone, Duffy finished the last of the Bacardis and, feeling pleasantly drunk, sat back and considered his future with optimism. He glanced over to the far end of the room at the fat man who had been watching him all the evening. You can’t go two hours or so with someone’s eyes shifting all over your face without feeling it, and Duffy had been vaguely aware of intense scrutiny ever since the fat man had come in.

Feeling more interested now, he wondered indifferently who he was. In the past, he might have been unusually striking, but he had let himself go and he was running to fat in a big way. He had broad lumpy shoulders that might easily have carried a nasty punch, but he was getting thick in the middle, which told Duffy all he wanted to know. His face was big and fat, and his mouth turned down at the corners, giving him a dismal sneering look. His little eyes were restless and shifted about like black beads.

Duffy guessed he was on the wrong side of forty-five. He had dough all right. Not only were his clothes good, but they were cut right and he wore them right. There was an air of confidence that money brings; the look that tells you that the bank balance’s fat.

Getting to his feet, Duffy began an unsteady journey to the restaurant, and he purposely made a detour so that he would pass the fat man’s table. As he reached the table, the fat man climbed to his feet and stood waiting. Duffy stopped and looked him over. At close quarters he liked him a lot less.

“I’m Daniel Morgan,” the fat man said as if he were saying Rockefeller instead of Morgan. “Mr. Duffy?”

Duffy squinted at him, astonished. “Sure,” he said.

“Mr. Duffy, I want to talk to you. Will you dine with me?”

Duffy raised his eyebrows. He told himself that he wasn’t spending his money, so he said that it was okay with him. Morgan led the way into the restaurant, and Duffy thought his guess that Morgan’s wallet was well lined was a good one. He could tell by the way the waiters fawned on the fat man. He got a table in a corner, pretty secluded, and sat down. Duffy took a chair opposite him. Three waiters came bowing round them, and the wine waiter hovered outside the fringe. The maitre d’hotel came up smoothly as if he had been drawn along on wheels, and the other wops grouped themselves in a line at the back. Royal stuff, but even then Morgan wasn’t satisfied. He wanted the chef. Well, of course he got the chef.

You either get a big kick out of tossing your weight around like that, or else you feel all hands and feet. Duffy felt all hands and feet.

The chef and Morgan got into a huddle with the bill of fare. He didn’t ask Duffy what he wanted and Duffy was glad of that. He just kept talking in his deep harsh voice and the chef squeaked back at him in broken English until they had put a meal together that seemed to satisfy him. After they had done that, they got some elbow-room. Then Morgan remembered that Duffy was sitting opposite him.

“You’ll excuse me for not asking you what you would like, but on these occasions I feel the choice of a good meal lies in the hands of the chef rather than in the hands of the diner. Consult the chef and you put him on his mettle. I think you will be satisfied.”

Duffy shrugged. He began to want another drink.

“I should like to confirm a few details,” Morgan went on; “forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but my questions will eventually be to your advantage, so I must ask for your patience.”

This long-winded stuff gave Duffy a pain, but he hadn’t had oysters for a couple of years, so he let himself go with them.

Morgan didn’t seem to expect an answer, but went straight on. “I believe you resigned from the Tribune this afternoon?” he said casually.

Duffy grinned. “You’re partly right there,” he said. “I didn’t resign, I was tossed out.”

“Arkwright is a difficult man.”

This bird seemed to know all the answers. Duffy laid his oyster-fork on the plate and looked regretfully at the glistening shells. “So what?” he said.

“You may find it difficult to get a job again.”

The soup and the sherry turned up then. Duffy looked at the sherry and then at Morgan. Morgan got it all right. “Perhaps you would prefer Scotch?” he asked.

“These sissy drinks upset my guts,” Duffy said, apologetically.

The wine waiter was called and a bottle of Scotch materialized. Duffy felt he could cope with anything with that at his elbow. He gave himself a generous shot and dived into his soup again.

“As I was saying…” Morgan began.

Duffy raised his head. His eyes were hard. “You seem to know a hell of a lot,” he said sharply, “who told you——?”

Morgan waved his hand. “Please,” he said, “let me continue. I was saying, you will find another job difficult to get.”

Duffy laid his spoon down with a sharp clatter. “You know, pal,” he said, “a guy with my experience seldom stands in the bread-line. I’ve got a swell equipment, I know my job, and if the worst comes, I could set up a studio. I guess you’re being mighty pleasant with your sympathy, but I ain’t worryin’ and I’d hate to have you worry for me.”

“I’m quite sure,” Morgan said, rather hastily, “you’ll get along all right, but I have a proposition that might be extremely useful to help you start that studio.”

“What is it?”

“Before we come to that, I wonder if you would enlighten me on a few technical points of your work?”

“Sure.” Duffy was getting bored with all this. “What’d you want to know?”

“Would it be possible to get pictures of a person who is unaware of you, in ordinary lighting, in an ordinary room, who probably would be moving about. I want good pictures, not just anything.”

“It depends a lot on the room,” Duffy said, pouring some more Scotch in his glass and forgetting to put the water in after it. “I wouldn’t like to say without seeing the room. It depends so much on the walls, if they reflect the light. If you don’t want real art, I could get you pictures all right. Pictures that would reproduce.”

“You could do that?”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be so hard.”

Morgan seemed satisfied with that and went off on another long-winded ramble about nothing at all. They went through the dinner without getting anywhere, and Duffy guessed Morgan was stalling until he had finished the meal. He was right, for when the coffee was served, Morgan lit a cigar for Duffy and one for himself and got down to business.

“This is a delicate situation,” he said, pursing his thick lips, and letting the heavy smoke slide, almost hiding his face. “I don’t want you to know too much about it. The less you know the better for both of us. My wife’s being blackmailed and I want to help her out.”

Duffy grunted. He was surprised, but then you never knew what was coming to you, he told himself.

“Unfortunately my wife and I don’t get on as well as we might.” Morgan fidgeted a little with his liqueur glass. “We don’t live together. However, that does not concern you. She is being blackmailed and I’m going to put a stop to it. She won’t come to me for help, but that does not alter the situation. I want to catch this blackmailer with the goods. This is where you come in. I want you to get pictures of her giving this crook money, then I can crack down on him. It is no use trying to co-operate with Mrs. Morgan, she wouldn’t want me to help her. I can get you into her apartment and you must do the rest. I shall pay you well.”

Duffy didn’t like this. He thought there was a phoney smell that went with it. He shifted in his chair.

“This sounds like a job for a private dick,” he said, without any enthusiasm.

Morgan seemed to expect opposition. “I want pictures,” he said with emphasis. “To get them, I must employ an expert. You’ll be wanting money pretty soon, and you’re an expert. I think it fits, don’t you?”

Duffy told himself that if he was going to pull this job, the dough had to be right.

“Now as to terms.” Morgan spread his big hands on the table-cloth and looked at them. “I will give you five hundred dollars down, and a thousand dollars for every good picture you turn in.”

Duffy got his nerve back with a long drink. He was getting pretty high by this time, but he was still cautious. “You must want those pictures mighty bad,” he said, thinking that he could do himself well with fifteen hundred bucks.

“I do,” Morgan said. “I want them fast too. Will you do it?”

Duffy waved a hand. “Take it easy,” he said, “you’re rushing me. I want to get this straight. You want me to go to your wife’s apartment and take pictures of her and someone else and turn these pictures over to you, that right?”

Morgan was getting impatient, Duffy could see that, but he held himself in with an effort. “That’s right,” he said.

“What happens if she spots me and sends out the riot call?”

“She won’t spot you,” Morgan said shortly. “Let me give you the idea. She is crazy about music and she’s rich enough to indulge herself. In her sitting-room she has a small organ loft. This loft’s a kind of balcony about ten feet from the floor, looking into the room. It’s reached by a special staircase and there is a back entrance to the staircase.”

Duffy reached for the Scotch, but Morgan put his hand on the bottle. “Don’t you think…?” he began, but Duffy took his hand away. He just lifted the fat man’s hand and flung it back at him. His eyes looked annoyed.

“Listen,” he said tersely, “if you think I’m gettin’ drunk, forget it. When I want a drink, I have a drink, see?”

Morgan shrugged. His face was pale and he gently rubbed his wrist. “Quite a grip you have there,” he said.

Duffy grinned. “Sure,” he said. He poured the Scotch into the glass and swallowed it. “Go on,” he said.

Morgan tapped on the table with his thick fingers. “You see, my wife didn’t want the musicians tramping through her room. They could come up the back entrance and get fixed without any fuss. All you have to do is to go up the stairs and lie on the floor in the dark and take photos of the room below. You can’t be spotted.”

When he put it like that, Duffy thought it certainly seemed easy. At the same time, something told him that this set-up was not quite on the level. For one thing, Morgan didn’t give him any confidence. On the other hand, the dough was good, and he was going to need it. He had another go at him.

“Let’s look on the dark side,” he said; “suppose she takes it into her head to play the organ and finds me up there, what then?”

Morgan shrugged his fat shoulders. “There’s no other way up to the loft, so all you have to do is to slip the bolt. Once you’re there, you’re safe.” He took out his wallet and pushed five one-hundred-dollar bills over the table. “Besides,” he said with a little oily smile, “you surely expect to earn this money and not just have it given you.”

Duffy reached over and took the bills. He shoved them in his inside pocket. “Okay,” he said, “when do I start?”

Morgan pulled out a gold watch and glanced at it. Duffy noticed that his hand shook a little. “It’s just after ten now,” he said, “you’ve got to get your equipment, and then go to the house. I think we could start now.”

Duffy got to his feet and pushed back the chair with his legs.

Morgan looked at him and said quietly, “I want to impress on you that this is important….”

Duffy raised his hand. “Skip it,” he said, “you don’t have to tell me all that again. A thousand bucks a picture is more than important to me.”

Morgan climbed out of his chair. “You can do quite a bit with money like that,” he said.

Duffy said, “You’re telling me.”

CHAPTER II

MORGAN HAD BEEN quite right. The whole set-up was easy. Duffy sat on his heels in the organ loft and felt hilariously at home. The small camera hung round his neck by a strap and the lighting of the room gave him no misgivings. He was going to make some money, he told himself. The organ loft was just as Morgan had described. It had an uninterrupted view of the room below and it was partly screened by heavy magenta curtains. Duffy had bolted himself in, and with the help of a pint of Scotch that he had brought with him, his nerves were calm and he could take a professional interest in his work.

He set the camera, using a big stop and a fairly fast shutter. Then he settled himself down to wait. Morgan had driven him to his apartment to collect his equipment and then had driven him to the back entrance to the loft. Morgan seemed to have had the whole thing planned carefully and it ran on oiled wheels. He had arranged to meet Duffy at the Princess bar that night, and Morgan was prepared to wait until he came.

Duffy looked down at the room with appreciation. It was a pretty swell joint, he told himself. The decoration was in magenta and cream. A cream pile carpet on the floor, and the large leather chairs, half cream and half magenta, gave the room a smart modern appearance. Duffy thought he’d like to have a place like this for his own.

He glanced at his wrist-watch. It was getting on for midnight. He wished that he could smoke, but he thought that that would be too risky. He wondered how long he had to wait. Just then the door below opened and a woman walked in hurriedly. She crossed the room and disappeared through another door. She had moved so quickly that Duffy hadn’t had a chance to see what she was like. He cautiously spread himself on the floor, so that he was lying full length, his elbows supporting his arms as he swung the camera into position. He found that he could aim the camera through the narrow slots of the balcony, and he knew that he was completely hidden from the room below. He made himself comfortable by taking out a pint bottle of Scotch from his pocket, which was digging into him, then he settled down to wait.

A quarter of an hour dragged past, and he began to get fidgety, but suddenly he heard a faint whir of an electric bell. He stiffened and looked towards the door expectantly. The woman came out and crossed the room. He could see her now, and he thought, “O boy! O boy!” She was tall and slender. The pale green wrap of heavy silk which she had changed into set her figure off sharply. Duffy appreciated his private view. He admired her skin, which was pale and lovely, and he told himself that a dame with eyes as large as hers was a menace to weak men. He felt mighty weak himself towards her. Her scarlet lips promised passion, and he thought the red-gold hair was just the right finish to a mighty swell job. He thought Morgan showed a nice taste in women, but at the same time he wondered how a dame like that could have fallen for Morgan in the first place. It didn’t surprise him in the least that she had given Morgan the air.

He watched her go to the door, and when she came back into the room again a man followed her closely. Duffy looked with interest at him. He was short and slight, with dark wavy hair. He seemed nervous and his face was unusually pale. The woman sat on the arm of a chair, quite close to a lamp standard. Duffy noted that the light fell directly on her. He focused his camera and gently pressed the release. The shutter slid with a faint click and Duffy pulled the triggerlike film-changer.

The man below said in a low voice, “You got it?”

When she spoke, her voice came drifting up to Duffy in a soft cadence. She had that rather breathless voice with a very faint huskiness that make most men interested. Duffy was more than interested.

She said, “I have the money.” She spoke with contempt, and the man squirmed under her gaze. “Did you bring the stuff?”

“I want the dough first,” he said; “make it snappy, lady, it ain’t too healthy for me being here.”

Again she looked at him, then turning to the table she pulled out a drawer. Duffy saw her take out a thick wad of greenbacks. He again pressed the release. The faint click of the shutter seemed to roar in his ears. Down below, they noticed nothing. He saw the woman give the money and then the man, in his turn, hand over a small parcel. Duffy fired off his camera, pulling the film-changer rapidly, intent on what was happening below him. Then he lowered the camera, satisfied that he had got what he wanted. He reckoned he had at least twenty photos, and most of those would be nice ones. He calculated that five thousand bucks would be his by the morning, and he groped on the floor for the Scotch. He still kept his eye on the two in the room, but nothing was happening to get excited about, and he felt that a drink would help him along. At the back of his brain he was trying to place the short man down there in the room. He had seen him somewhere, but where it was, for the moment, escaped him.

The man was moving to the door now. He sidled like a crab, watching the red-headed woman closely. She followed him out of Duffy’s sight and after a short delay she came back again. Duffy watched her. She relaxed into one of the chairs. Her green wrap parted and Duffy could see her long white legs. He raised himself slowly, so that he could see better. This dame was certainly a honey. He wondered if she had anything on under that wrap. The thought disturbed him, and he nearly wrenched his neck muscles trying to see more of her. He felt dispirited leaving her all on her own, but then, Morgan was waiting and so was the dough. He guessed that he wouldn’t get to the first base with this dame without dough, and to get it he had to leave her. He rose quietly to his feet and took a step back. Something hard dug him in the back.

“Grab a little air, lug,” said a voice in his ear.

In the ordinary run of things, Duffy’s nerves were pretty sound, but this nearly ruined his heart. He felt his long limbs quiver with shock, and he raised his hands quickly.

“Take it easy,” went on the voice, “don’t start anything.”

Duffy turned his head very slowly and looked over his shoulder. Standing behind him was a broad-shouldered man, wearing a black Fedora, pulled down low. In spite of Duffy’s usual nonchalance, he felt his short hairs on his nape bristle. There was something utterly repulsive in the hard white face behind him. It gave Duffy the same feeling he might have got if he turned over a rotten log that had been lying in long grass for some time, and suddenly seen the foul things the log hid. The scurry of beetles and ants, the brown dead grass, and the white fungi, and particularly the long white slug that squirmed away from the sunlight. Down below he heard a door shut, and he guessed that the woman had left the room.

Keeping his hands raised, he said, “For the love of Mike, where did they find you?”

The man’s eyes were almost closed, but the light in the room was sufficient for Duffy to see that they were mean and hard. He dug the gun into Duffy hard.

“Stand still,” he said again. His voice was hoarse as if he smoked too much. He put out a hand and snatched the camera hanging from Duffy’s neck. The strap snapped, jerking Duffy’s head forward.

“Hi!” Duffy said, in alarm. “You ain’t pinching my outfit?”

“Shaddap,” the man snarled at him.

A violent rage consumed Duffy. “A frame-up, huh?” he snorted. “Mr. Sonofabitch Morgan wants his pictures for nothing?”

“If you don’t stop yappin’, I’ll blast your guts,” the other rasped. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ in here?”

Duffy began to lower his hands, but the gun dug into him again. “Listen,” he said, “I’m just doin’ a job of work. Come to that, what about yourself?” All the time he was speaking, he was wondering if this tough would shoot him. He began to think he was in a bit of a spot.

“I guess we’ll go for a little walk,” the other said. There was a threat in his voice, but he took a step back, taking the gun from Duffy’s side. Duffy didn’t hesitate. He took a deep breath and suddenly kicked back with his heel. He hoped to connect with the other’s leg. Maybe splinter his shin-bone for him, but his leg shot back meeting nothing, and before he could save himself he toppled over the low balcony and crashed into the room below.

He came down on his hands, breaking his fall by sliding a little on the carpet. For a moment the shock did things to him, then he sat up.

A door opened and he looked up gingerly, wondering it his brain had broken loose from its moorings. The red-head was standing there. She crossed her arms over her breasts and screamed. A breathless little scream that made Duffy want to put his arms round her and soothe her; not perhaps quite the same way as a mother might soothe her hurt child, but along those lines. When he saw the .25 in her hand he changed his mind.

Women with guns made him nervous. He could never believe that they were safe with them. Before now, a woman had held him up with a gun. He remembered one particularly irate blonde who had been so mad with him that she had squeezed the trigger a little too hard. The thought made him sweat a little, and he sat on the floor very still, giving her no cause for alarm.

Her eyes were large and scared, and her red lips were parted, showing her white even teeth. Duffy thought she was pretty good.

“Who… who are you?” she stammered breathlessly.

“Lady,” he said, holding his head in his hands, “I’m asking myself the same question.”

“What are you doing here?”

Duffy looked at her through laced fingers. “Would you mind very much putting that rod away? I’ve just fallen out of that loft and my nerves won’t stand any more.”

“Will you tell me what you are doing here?” She was getting her nerve back, and her voice was steady.

“For the love of Mike don’t start gettin’ tough,” he pleaded, “take a look at that hoodlum up there before you get that way.”

She looked frightened again. “Is there anyone else up there?”

Duffy laughed shortly. “I should say so,” he said, rubbing the back of his head gingerly, “he’s just tossed me out, so I should know.”

She took a step back hastily and looked up into the loft, then she shook her head. “There’s no one there.”

Duffy groaned. “The so-and-so’s pinched my camera,” he said wearily. “Do you mind if I get up? There’s a draught round here that ain’t doing me much good.”

“I think you had better stay where you are;” she said firmly. She held the gun steady as she reached for the telephone.

“Don’t do that,” Duffy said in alarm, “you ain’t calling the cops, are you?”

“Isn’t that what I ought to do?” she asked, her hand hesitating on the receiver.

“Listen, Mrs. Morgan, I can explain everything. It’s all a big mistake,” Duffy said; then he pondered and went on, “I’ve heard that crack before. My God, I must be losing my grip or somethin’.”

She lowered the gun in her astonishment. “Why do you call me that?” she asked quickly.

Duffy stiffened a little. “Ain’t you Mrs. Morgan?”

“No, of course not.”

He scrambled to his feet and waved his hands at her as she jerked up the gun. “Okay, okay, skip it,” he said impatiently, “this is important. Who are you?”

She tapped her foot on the floor. “What is this?”

“I’ll tell you what this is,” Duffy said furiously, “I’ve been taken for a ride. You’ve got to get this straight. Listen, Toots, I’m Duffy of the Tribune. Some guy who called himself Morgan spun me a yarn that you were his wife and you were being blackmailed. He wanted me to take photos of the crook who was putting the screws on you. I fell for this guff and came up to the hen-roost here and took photos of you and the guy you slipped the money to. Just as I am reaching for my hat and calling it a nice day’s work, some thug hops up, pinches my camera, and heaves me out on my neck. You tell me you ain’t Mrs. Morgan. In your own interests you’d better tell me who you are.”

She stared at him and then said finally, “I think you must be mad.”

“Use your head,” Duffy was getting impatient, “can’t you see that you’re in a spot? Morgan wanted a photo of you with this other guy and he’s got it. Ask yourself why.”

She still stared at him and shook her head “I don’t understand… I don’t believe…”

He slid across to her in one movement and pushed the gun away. “For Krizake,” he said roughly, “will you listen to me? Who was the guy you gave that money to?”

His urgency touched her and she said quickly, “I don’t know. I think his name’s Cattley…”

Duffy stepped back. “Cattley… of course. By heck! I must be losing my grip. Cattley…” He swung round on her. “What the hell are you doing with a rat like Cattley?”

Her eyebrows came together. “Will you stop asking me questions—?” she began.

“Listen, baby.” Duffy came close to her. His voice had a sharp edge to it. “Cattley’s got a name that stinks in this town. Everyone knows him. Cattley the pimp. Cattley the dope. Cattley the slaver. I tell you he’s poison to dames like you. You… you’ve let yourself be photographed with him… and someone’s got those photos Does that mean anything to you?”

“But….” she stopped and he saw she had gone pale.

“Yeah! That’s made you think. Sit down and tell me quick. Make it snappy; I’ve got things to do.”

She turned on him suddenly with furious eyes. “You started this,” she stormed at him. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Forget it!” he snapped at her. “I’m getting those pictures back all right. But you’ve got to wise me up a hell of a lot before I do.”

The flash of temper was gone almost before it started. She sat down limply on the large settee and tossed the gun on the table. Duffy winced a little. Women were hell when it came to handling guns. He took a quick glance and saw that the safety catch was still down.

“Now come on, come on, let’s get down to it,” he said, sitting on the edge of the table. “What’s your name?”

“Annabel English,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap.

“What are you? Just a little dame with plenty of dough, running round lookin’ for a good time?”

She nodded. Duffy lit a cigarette. “Yeah! I bet you are, and I bet you have a pretty nice time of it What’s this Cattley to you?”

Her face flushed and she hesitated. “I—I asked him to get material on the… the underworld.” She stopped. The colour in her face was deep.

Duffy groaned. “For the love of Mike, don’t tell me you’re writing a book or something,” he pleaded; “a Society-dame-looks-on-the-underworld stuff?”

“I thought it would be amusing,” she said. “It’s about the White Slave traffic….”

He threw up his hands. “So you thought you would write a book on the White Slave traffic, did you?” he said, dragging smoke into his lungs and letting it drift from his nostrils. “And you’ve to pick on the worst hoodlum in town to help you. Well, I reckon you’d better change your ideas and write a book on blackmail. You’re going to get a grandstand seat in this racket, and if you ain’t careful you’re going to pay plenty.”

She looked up swiftly, her face resentful. “What am I to do?”

Duffy slid off the table. “You ain’t doing a thing at the moment. I’m getting that camera back. That’s the first thing.”

He walked over to the telephone. “Take a look in the book and see if you can find Daniel Morgan in it,” he said, spinning the dial. She got to her feet and began to rustle through the directory While he was waiting for the line to connect he let his eye run over her as she leant forward over the table. “Annabel English,” he thought. “A swell name and a nice little job.”

A sharp metallic voice snapped in his ear, “Tribune here, what department do you know?”

“H’yah, Mabel,” he said. “Dinny in?”

“Hold on an’ I’ll put you through.”

McGuire came on the line. “Hello, pal,” he said. Duffy thought he sounded a little drunk.

“Listen, soldier,” Duffy said, keeping an edge on his voice. “This is important. Will you meet me at the Princess Hotel right away?”

McGuire groaned. “Aw, what you think I am? I’m goin’ home. Listen, bozo, what’ll Alice say? I ain’t been home all this week.”

Duffy was certain McGuire was drunk. “I’ll fix Alice,” he said. “Get going and make it fast.” He hung up as McGuire began to protest again.

Annabel English said, “There are ten Daniel Morgans in the book.”

“That’s okay,” Duffy returned. “I’ll find him.” He walked over to her. “Now you forget about this… leave it to me. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and let you know how it went.” He paused, looking into her blue smoky eyes. “You all alone here?”

She nodded. “I sent my maid out for the evening, didn’t want her to see Cattley….”

“You ain’t scared?”

“Why should I be?” She looked startled.

Duffy shrugged his shoulders. “Why, I just thought…” He suddenly grinned at her. “If I get that camera, shall I come back an’ see you tonight!”

Her eyes laughed at him, but her face was quite serious as she shook her head. “I shan’t be alone….”

“Who’s your boy friend…?”

She walked slowly to the door. He could see her smooth muscles moving under the green wrap. He knew that she hadn’t anything on under that. She looked over her shoulder. “I think you had better go now,” she said, “I’ve heard that you newspapermen get funny ideas when you’re alone with girls.”

Duffy looked round for his hat and found it near the settee. “Well, what of it?” he said, walking to the door. They stood quite close, facing each other. “What the hell’s a girl got to beef about if he does? Ain’t that a compliment to the girl, anyway? By heck! I can guess how they’d feel if we didn’t get that way sometimes!”

She opened the door and he walked past her. Standing in the doorway, he faced her again. “Well, good night, Toots,” he said with his wide grin, “sleep easy I’m goin’ to do things for you.”

Pushing the door slowly to, she kept his eyes watching her. Then when the door was nearly shut she leaned forward. “Did you say your name was Duffy?”

“Yeah!”

Anything else?”

“Bill Duffy, if you like.”

“It’s a nice name.” She leant against the doorway, the door pulled against her fat hip.

Duffy stood there, putting his personality over on a short wave. “It’s an old family name,” he said modestly and grinned.

She raised her eyebrows. “So?”

Duffy moved a little her way until he leant against the wall, touching her shoulder. “We Duffys go for red-heads,” he said.

She raised her chin. Her lips invited his. “Yes?” she said.

He touched her lips with his. A long green arm slid round his neck and pulled his head down. She did not close her eyes and when he looked into them he tried to jerk his head away, but she held him hard. Stormy, hungry wild eyes she had. He stood there, his mouth crushed on hers, startled by her fierceness. She suddenly drove her teeth into his top lip. The pain stung him, and he pushed her away violently, starting back with an angry oath. She stood looking at him, her red-gold hair wild, and her eyes big and dark, stormy with passion. She took a step back and slammed the door in his face.

Duffy stood there, dabbing his lip with his handkerchief.

“That dame’s gonna let herself go one day,” he said to himself, “and when she does, she’s going to make a meal of someone.”

He walked slowly to the elevator and pressed the button. His lip was beginning to swell already. He stood before the grille, waiting for the elevator to come up. “My God,” he thought, “what a hell of a night!”

As the elevator came up slowly he saw, lying on the roof, the mangled body of a man. He watched the roof glide past him, carrying its grisly burden, then the empty cage came to rest at his floor.

He stood very still, feeling the sweat start out all over him. He said, “Well, well,” for something better to say, then he walked bark to the flat and hammered on the door.

CHAPTER III

SHE DIDN’T COME to the door at first. It was only by keeping his thumb on the buzzer, while the minutes ticked by, that Duffy got her to come at all. When she did come, she had the door on the chain. Duffy thought it was a hell of a time to start playing around with door-chains, but he let it drift with the current.

She started to close the door when she saw who it was, but Duffy got the toe of his shoe in first.

“Listen, bright girl,” he said, “open up, and be your age. You’ve got a corpse on your hands right outside.”

“I honestly believe you’re as mad as a coon,” she said breathlessly, “or very, very drunk.”

Duffy leant his weight against the door, his face pressed against the small opening. “Cattley’s on the roof of the elevator. First glance, I’d say it was in the basement when he hit it.”

He saw her eyes widen, and then she giggled. He’d have forgiven her if she had screamed, or even passed out, but the giggle made him mad. He took a step back.

“That suits me, if that’s the way you want it.”

She pushed the door to, slipped the chain, then opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

“Wait,” she said, putting her hand on his sleeve. Her hand looked white against his dark suit.

“Someone’ll want this elevator in a moment, and then things are going to happen.”

“Is he really I mean, you’re not just saying this to scare me?”

He got in the elevator, slid the grille and pressed the down button. He let the elevator sink half-way, then broke the current by opening the grille. He climbed out with a struggle, leaving the cage between floors.

“Does that look like a bedtime story?”

She peered at Cattley, not moving her body, but just craning her neck. One of her hands went to her mouth. “Is he dead?”

“Do you think he’s catching some sleep? Look at him, baby, look at his arms and legs. Could you sleep like that?”

She turned on him angrily. “Well, do something about it,” she said.

He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re as dumb as you seem to be. You couldn’t be dumber than a hophead, the way that brain of yours works. Do something about it? Well, what you want me to do? Send for the cops? Call an ambulance? What?”

She raised both hands and pushed her hair off her ears. She did it unconsciously. “But you must know what to do,” she said.

Duffy stood looking at Cattley with a faint grimace, then he went over and took hold of him. He gripped his arm and shoulder. It gave him quite a turn when the arm bent back at the elbow. There were a very few bones in one piece with this guy. He pulled and slid Cattley off the roof and let him as gently as he could on to the floor. Cattley’s legs folded up, but not at the knees, they folded up in the middle of his shins. Duffy felt himself sweating. Putting his hands under Cattley’s shoulders, he dragged him into the flat and laid him out in the hall.

“What are you bringing him in here for—?” Her voice was pitched half a note higher.

“Don’t talk now,” he said, looking with disgust at the blood on his hands. “This guy’s going to make a mess in your joint, but it’s better than making a mess of you.”

He walked back to the lift and inspected the roof. The woodwork was smeared with blood.

“Get me a wet towel,” he said.

She went into the apartment, carefully walking round Cattley. He stood by the lift watching her. She’d got a good nerve, he told himself. She came back again with a wet hand-towel. He took it from her and carefully mopped off the bloodstains. Then he wiped his hands on the towel and folded it neatly. He walked into her apartment and put the towel on Cattley’s chest. She followed him in, again skirting Cattley, drawing her green wrap close to her.

“Will you see if he’s got the money on him still?” she said.

Duffy looked at her hard.

“What makes you think the money ain’t there?”

“It’s the way I said it. I meant will you get the money from him.”

Duffy grimaced. “I hate handling this bird. He’s brittle.”

She came and stood close to him, looking down at Cattley. “Isn’t he going to get stiff soon?” she said. “Hadn’t you better straighten him out a little before he gets that way?”

Duffy said, “For God’s sake,” but he knelt down and cautiously pulled on Cattley’s legs. One of his shin-bones poked up through his trousers leg. Duffy got up and looked round the hall. He went over to the coat-rack and selected a walking-stick. Then he came back to Cattley and put the ferrel of the stick on the shin-bone and pressed. The leg straightened, and he did the same with the other one.

His face was a little yellow, and sweat glistened on his top lip. Cattley was making him feel a little sick. He hooked the handle of the stick round Cattley’s arm and put his toot against Cattley’s body, then he pulled gently. The arm came out from under Cattley like a limp draught-preventer.

Cattley’s head lay on his right shoulder. The skin round the neck had split a little. Duffy straightened the head too with the stick.

“Want me to cross his hands?” he said, for something to say. All the time he was fixing Cattley, she stood at his elbow and watched. Then she said, “Get the money!”

Duffy looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “Leave the money where it is,” he said shortly, “get me a drink.”

She went into the sitting-room and he followed her. He suddenly found that he was still holding the walking-stick. It had blood-smears on it. He went and put it beside Cattley. Then he walked back into the sitting-room again.

She stood by the table, fixing a Scotch. He took the glass from her before she could add a Seltzer and tossed the liquor down his throat. It was good Scotch. Silky and full of body, with no raw bite in it. He felt it in his belly, a round little knot of warmth. He took the bottle from the table and poured himself another glass.

“Did you kill him?” he said, looking at her over the top of the glass.

She spread her hands across her breasts, standing very quiet for a moment, then she said, “Was he killed?”

Duffy took another pull at his glass. “Use your head,” he said shortly, “how could he have fallen down the shaft? He wasn’t drunk, was he? Think a moment. He goes out of your apartment. The elevator is standing on the ground floor. He opens the grille to look at it, then he feels giddy and falls down. They wouldn’t pass it in a nut factory.”

She was going white again and she sat on the edge of the table. Her wrap fell open, showing her knees, but neither of them bothered with that.

“This is the way it went. Cattley goes out to the elevator and is smacked on the dome, then he is tossed down the shaft. That makes sense.” Duffy put the glass down on the table and lit a cigarette. “You ain’t answered my question Did you kill him?”

“No,” she said.

“There’s only one person who’s going to believe that,” Duffy said, “and that’s you.”

She raised her head. Her big eyes were frightened now. “You don’t think I killed him?” she said; her words ran into each other.

“Can’t you see what a spot you’re in?” he asked patiently. “Look, let me wise you up. Cattley calls on you to sell you something. You say it’s material for a book; okay, it’s material for a book. You show him the door and then, there he is on the elevator roof smashed to bits.”

“That doesn’t prove that I killed him,” she said breathlessly.

Duffy shrugged. “It helps,” he said; “let me have a look at that material he sold you.”

She slid off the table and walked into her bedroom. Duffy sat down in an arm-chair. He gave her a few minutes, then he called, “I guess the killer pinched it.”

She came out of the bedroom, her face white. She stood in the doorway, one hand at her throat, the other gripping the door-handle.

“I… I can’t find it,” she whispered.

Duffy pursed his lips. “I bet you can’t,” he said. Then he got to his feet. He walked over to her and took both her elbows in his hands, he drew her towards him. “You’re a goddam silly little loon,” he said evenly, “you think you can play this out on your own. Well, you can’t. You’ve put on the thinnest act I’ve ever struck. That writing a book on the underworld went out with the Ark. Get wise to yourself, redhead.”

She drew away from him. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice a little flat and toneless.

Duffy scratched his head. “This is a hell of a night,” he said, then he stood very still, his fingers spread through his hair. “I wonder…” he broke off, looking at Annabel. “It looks to me that Morgan wants you to take the rap for Cattley’s murder,” he said, speaking rapidly, “it fits, by God!” He was getting quite excited. “Listen, baby, how’s this for a theory? Morgan gets me to photograph you and Cattley. Cattley gets smacked down by one of Morgan’s mob just outside your door and tossed down the shaft. I get my camera pinched containing the photos. All Morgan has to do is to threaten to turn the pictures over to the cops for you to dive into your deposit account and fork out plenty.”

Annabel was scarcely breathing. “Will you help me?”

Duffy said, “I can’t help myself, can I?”

“You’re being nice, aren’t you?”

“Nice, hell! I took the photos, didn’t I? I’ve got to do something to square that.”

She dropped into the arm-chair, and held her hand over her eyes. Duffy looked at her and then fetched another glass from the wagon. He poured in three fingers of Scotch and then filled his own glass. He came over to her. “Can you drink this stuff?” he said.

She took the glass from him. “I don’t want it,” she said.

“You’d better get a little drunk,” he said, “you’ve got a nasty job on your hands.”

She looked at him and he jerked his head at the door. “J guess we’ve got to get rid of Cattley.”

She said, “Can’t you do it?”

He grinned mirthlessly. “You’re in on this, too, sister,” he said. “I’m helping you, but I ain’t taking any rap.”

She drank the whisky neat and he gave her a cigarette.

“In a couple of hours that bird’s going to get as stiff as a board. I guess he won’t be too nice to handle like that. Now, we could pack him in a bag without much fuss.”

She shuddered.

“It beats me where the hell we’re going to plant him.” Duffy began to pace the floor. “He’s got to remain planted and he ain’t going to be found. As soon as they turn him up, then those photos will come into the market. It’s the only way we can beat their game ”

He looked at her. “Go and get dressed,” he said.

She got out of the chair and moved over to the bedroom. “Give me a trunk, if you’ve got one,” he said.

She paused. “There’s one in here,” she said.

He followed her into the bedroom. She pointed to a large wall cupboard and he opened the door. In the corner was a small black cabin trunk. It was covered with labels. There seemed to be every hotel under the sun advertised on its black shiny sides. He looked at it and then he said, “You’ve got about.” She didn’t say anything. He hauled the trunk out and dragged it into the sitting-room.

“You got a sheet of mackintosh that I could wrap him in?” he called.

She came to the door. “Mackintosh?”

“He’s going to mess this trunk without it.”

She went across to another door and disappeared. He could hear her rummaging about, then she came out with a large luggage wrap. “Will this do?”

“Yeah.” He took it from her.

“Don’t say ‘yeah’,” she said.

He stood holding the mackintosh. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s tough.”

He stood staring at her. “Suppose it is tough,” he said, “isn’t this a hell of a time to start a crack like that?”

“Do you think so?”

He let the luggage wrap slide out of his hands on to the floor. He could see her eyes were completely blank. She was hissing a little through her teeth. She fumbled with the girdle round her waist until she had it undone. The green wrap fell open and he saw she was naked. She stood a little on her toes, her hands clenched at her sides.

“Take me,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, “take me, take me, take me.”

Duffy smacked her face. He could see the marks of his fingers on her white skin. Then he smacked her face again. She blinked twice. Her eyes became human again, and she stood looking at him, a surprised and frightened look on her face.

“Get dressed,” Duffy said thickly. He could only think of Cattley.

She turned away from him and walked limply into the bedroom, then she shut the door.

Duffy blotted his face with his handkerchief. He picked up the mackintosh sheet and walked into the hall. All the time he was telling himself what a sweet spot he had got himself into. It was bad enough to have to handle Cattley in the state he was in, but a dame as screwy as Annabel flattened him. He looked at Cattley in disgust. “If you weren’t going to stiffen on me, I’d be having fun right now,” he said viciously.

He spread the sheet flat by Cattley’s side, then he picked up the walking-stick and hooked hold of Cattley’s armpit. He couldn’t quite bring himself to touch him with his hands. With a little maneuvering he rolled him on to the sheet. Then he knelt down and made a neat parcel of the body.

By the time he had done that he felt so low that he went back into the sitting-room and gave himself another shot of Scotch. His legs were feeling light, and he guessed he was getting pretty high. His head was clear, and he felt just reckless enough to go on with it.

He poured out a stiff dose in Annabel’s glass and went into the bedroom. When he got in the room, he nearly dropped the whisky. She was lying on her side on the bed. She was in her birthday suit, and it was a pretty good birthday suit at that.

He put the glass on the small table by the bed, and then he backed out of the room. There was only one driving thought in his mind. He had to plant Cattley before his muscles went like a board. Once he got that way, Duffy knew he’d be sunk.

He went into the kitchen and flicked on the light. The kitchen was large, with white tiles half-way up the walls, and yellow varnished paint on the other half. The floor was covered with large black and white checks. He thought it was a swell kitchen. He hunted about until he found a length of cord, then he went back to Cattley, lying snug in his parcel. He knelt, down and made the parcel secure with the cord. Then he walked back to the sitting-room and dragged the trunk into the hall and wedged Cattley into it.

Half-way through he had to stop and sit on a chair. There was no resistance in the parcel at all. Cattley was just pulp. He sat there staring at the trunk and at the bulge of the mackintosh, that overlapped the sides of the trunk. Then he got up and wedged the overlapping parts in with the stick. The lid wouldn’t quite close, so he stood on it. That made him feel bad, but he got the locks fastened somehow.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped off his palms and patted his face.

While he was standing there Annabel came out of the bedroom. She was wearing a black skirt, a white silk blouse, and a black three-quarter coat. She held a pair of magpie gauntlets in her hand. She moved slowly, with just a little sway on. He could see that the whisky was hitting her.

She peered at him.

“He’s packed up,” he said harshly.

She said nothing, but he was surprised to see how her eyes hated him. He thought about it for a moment, then agreed that she had reason to be sore.

“I never was good with a corpse lying around,” he said.

She ignored that and stood, her head turned away from him, by the table.. “What now?” she said.

“Can you get your car?”

“The garage is in the basement.”

Duffy went outside and pressed the buzzer for the elevator. It came up steadily and he found himself looking for more corpses. There weren’t any. He slid the grille, then walked into the apartment. She made no move to help him drag the trunk into the cage. It was heavy, but he did it all right.

She followed him into the elevator and they both stood beside the trunk. Neither of them looked at it. He put his thumb on the basement button and the cage sank. He counted the floors as they went by. By the time they got to the basement, he counted twelve. He thought Cattley was lucky to have any skin left at all.

The attendant came up with a run. He was a little runt, with wire-like black hair. When he saw Annabel he nearly fell over himself. He looked just like an excited puppy.

“You takin’ the bus out tonight?” he asked, wiping his oily hands on a bit of waste.

She managed to look fairly bright, and to say, “Yes, please,” nicely, but it cost her a lot.

Duffy stood just inside the elevator, watching. The little runt bounced off into the darkness, and they heard him start up an engine. Duffy told himself that the engine was powerful all right. A minute later, the attendant brought round a big Cadillac, just with the parkers on. He brought the car round in a sweep, nailing it just where Annabel was standing. Duffy thought it was a nice piece of driving. It was.

The attendant dusted off the seat and held the door open for Annabel. Duffy might not have been there. He polished the wind-screen.

Annabel got in and slammed the door to. Duffy took hold of the trunk and looked at the attendant.

“Lend me some of your muscle,” he said.

The little runt was willing enough, but he was not much help. Duffy was sweating by the time they had fixed the trunk to the grid.

“She goin’ away?” the attendant asked.

“Naw,” Duffy returned, testing the straps. “Just getting rid of some books.”

“It’s mighty late.”

Duffy looked at him sharply. Perhaps he wasn’t so dumb as he looked. “You mind?” he asked curtly.

The attendant blinked. He hastily said, “I didn’t mean anythin’.”

Duffy gave him a couple of bucks, then he went round the car and got in beside Annabel. She engaged the gear and the Cadillac rolled up the slipway.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Duffy had already thought that one out. “There’s a little burial ground on the East side, beyond Greenwich Village,” he said, “we’re going there.”

She shot a quick glance at him. “That’s cute,” she said.

Duffy leant back against the leather. “You’re a swell kid,” he said quietly, “this is my unlucky day.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I’ll never bring this up again,” he said, “but I can’t leave it like that. I want you to know that I appreciate what you offered me, but that guy would have stiffened up by the time we were through, so I had to pass it up. You got plenty of reason to be sore at me.”

She said nothing for a few moments. “I’m not sore at you,” she said at last. “I think you’re cute to throw me back at myself.”

Just like that. Duffy sighed and groped for a cigarette. “Let’s not fight,” he said, “we’ve got enough on our hands.”

“I’m not fighting,” was all she said.

They rode the next three blocks in silence, then Duffy said, “You turn right here.”

She swung the wheel. Duffy thought she handled the big Cadillac as if she were part of it. She judged distance to the closeness of the paint on her fender and the car threaded its way through the traffic without losing speed at any time. By uncanny anticipation she beat the lights most times. The Cadillac had plenty under the hood, and a touch on the pedal was enough to make it sweep forward like an arrow.

They came upon the burial ground as the clocks were striking two. Duffy leant forward. “Take it easy,” he said, “this is a lonely burg, but someone may be here.”

She stopped the car by the iron gates. Duffy opened the off door and got out. There were no lights to be seen in the burial ground; it was a pretty dark night.

Duffy was glad he wasn’t Irish. The place was creepy. He turned to the car. “You wait here,” he said. “I’m just going to take a look round.”

She opened the door and stepped into the road. “I’m not staying here alone,” she said.

Duffy wasn’t surprised. He walked to the iron gates and pushed, they yielded, and swung open.

“Suppose you back the bus in,” he suggested, “then we’ll be off the road.”

She got in the Cadillac again and started the engine. Duffy let her run the car well down the centre lane of the graveyard and then signalled her to stop. He closed the iron gates again.

When she got out of the car, she was holding a small flashlight. The night air was close, and Duffy hooked a finger in his collar and jerked at it. He looked round the dim place. He didn’t like it at all. She stood quite close to him, and he felt her shivering when he touched her.

Up above, the moon hung like a dead face, just visible through the mist. Duffy thought it was likely to rain any time.

“I want to find an old mausoleum,” he said. “If we can park Cattley in one of them, he ain’t likely to be turned up for some time, if ever.”

He began to walk slowly down the lane. Annabel kept close beside him. The white stones on each side of them looked ghostly. “What a spot to be in,” Duffy thought.

As they penetrated further into the burial ground it got darker. The trees overhead began to get more dense.

“Nice spot this, ain’t it?” Duffy said.

The heavy scent of graveyard flowers hung in the air. Underfoot, the cinders crunched and sounded to Duffy like firecrackers.

“I wish we could get away from here,” Annabel said nervously, “this scares me.”

“Me, I’m quaking,” Duffy said. “I guess we’re far enough off the road to chance having a little light.”

He swung the beam of the flash-light. It lit up the tombstones, making them look startlingly white in the darkness.

“I think this looks like it.” Duffy paused and pointed the beam.

Over on the left stood a mausoleum in black marble. It was almost invisible until the beam showed it up. They went over and examined it carefully. The marble door was locked.

“This is Cattley’s new home,” Duffy said, running his hand down the smooth cold door. “But how the hell do we get him in?”

He put his shoulder against the door and heaved. He made his shoulder sore, but the door remained solid.

“What’s that number there?” Annabel asked. She was holding the flash so that he could push against the door.

Duffy followed her eye. There was a small plate let in on the side of the door with a number 7 printed on it. Duffy said he didn’t know.

“Do you think they keep the keys of these places at the porter’s place?” she asked.

Duffy grinned at her. “That’s a grand idea,” he said. “Let’s go an’ see.”

The porter’s lodge, by the gates, was locked and deserted but Duffy got a window open without much difficulty and looked round. He found a rack of keys by the front door, each key had a wooden tab hanging from it, with a number burned into the wood. He looked for number 7 and found it.

“I believe you’ve got something,” he said. “Suppose you drive the car up to the crypt while I go on and test the key.”

She got into the Cadillac and began to back it down the lane. He had to come back and help her with the flash, as she ran off the lane once or twice. They got back to the mausoleum at last and Duffy tried the key. The lock turned all right with some heavy pressure from Duffy, and he forced the door back. The air was bad down there, and he stepped away from the open door.

“That guy’s going to have good company,” was all he said.

He went to the back of the car and wrestled with the straps that held the trunk. Annabel stood, holding the flash steady. He got the straps off and then levered the trunk to the ground. It was heavy, but he managed to get it down without making any noise. Then he stood up and wiped off his palms with his handkerchief.

“I guess I could do with a drink,” he said heavily.

“There’s a pint flask in the driving-pocket.”

Duffy slipped round to the door pretty quick. He belted that pint hard. He thought it would be safer not to give Annabel any of it. Whisky seemed to take her in the wrong way. He didn’t like to think of turning her down again.

“I guess I can tackle anything now,” he said, putting the flask in his hip pocket.

He took off his coat and undid his collar, pulling his tie loose. Then he walked over to the trunk and dragged it into the mausoleum. Annabel stood just outside the door, shining the flash. The beam jerked about. Her hand was shaking like a barman at work.

Duffy got the trunk inside and then paused.

“For God’s sake gimme that light,” he said.

She seemed glad to do so. “I’m going to be sick,” she said.

“No you ain’t,” he said sharply. “Go and sit in the car quick.”

When she had gone he opened the trunk and turned it on its side. The mackintosh parcel was jammed tight and he had to pull at it. The sheet suddenly tore in his hand and he went over backwards. He landed against a shelf, and his hand touched a cold metal strip. He fingered it, then he snatched his hand away. It was a handle of a coffin. His face oozed water as if it had been squeezed.

He went to the door and took a deep breath of the dank air, then he went back to the trunk. Savagely he pulled Cattley out, pulled away the cord, and jerked off the mackintosh sheet. Cattley sprawled at his feet. He didn’t look at him. Dumping the sheet into the trunk, he pulled the trunk out of the crypt.

The whisky was hitting him all ends up now, and he lurched as he walked. He went back to get the flash, but he still didn’t look at Cattley. Then he pulled the door of the mausoleum shut and shot the lock.

His shirt was sticking to his chest, and his legs were a little wobbly. Annabel called from the car, “Are you all right?”

Duffy said he was fine, but that was because he was drunk. He didn’t feel so good. He’d have liked to get so drunk right now that the whole of the evening could be washed out in sleep. He had had enough of it for one night.

She came out of the car and stood near him.

“What about the trunk?” she asked.

“Back at the lodge, there’s a tap and hose for filling cans. I noticed it when I went in. I’ll take these things over and wash ’em up, then we can go home.”

She sat on the running-board of the car and smoked a cigarette. She sat there the whole time with her eyes tight shut. She was so scared of being alone, that if it hadn’t been for the cigarette between her lips she would have screamed and screamed.

On his way back, Duffy called to her when he was some distance away. He didn’t want to come on her suddenly.

“It’s okay,” he said, hoisting the trunk on to the grid again. “There ain’t no mess now. Cattley’s planted good, so I guess that lets you out.”

She got into the Cadillac and drove slowly down to the gates. He walked beside the car.. Opening the gates, he looked cautiously up and down the road, but it was dark and deserted. He shut the gates when she had driven into the road and climbed in beside her.

She drove at a furious pace without a word. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, and Duffy leant back, breathing heavily, his eyes heavy with sleep.

When they began to run into traffic again he raised his head. “You can drop me off here,” he said. “I’m going home.”

“I’ll drive you there,” she said.

“No.”

She stopped the car.

“I’m sorry I…”she began.

“I’m going home,” Duffy said firmly. He had had a bellyful. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, no.”

He opened the door and lurched on to the street. He stood there, holding the door in his hand. “I’ve got to get those pictures back,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

He slammed the door hard. He had a swift vision of her great eyes, wide with hate, her white teeth gleaming in the dark, then the Cadillac shot away from him.

He looked up and down the street for a taxi.

“I guess that honey hates my guts,” he said sadly, as a yellow taxi slid up to him.

CHAPTER IV

DUFFY’S PLACE WAS a three-room affair on the top storey of an old-fashioned apartment house.

The taxi-driver drew up at the kerb, just under the street light. Duffy got out of the cab, letting the door swing on its hinges.

“This it?” the taxi-driver asked.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

The taxi-driver looked at him. “You been havin’ a good time?”

Duffy shifted his head a little so that he didn’t breath over the taxi-driver.

He said, “You don’t know the half of it.”

The taxi-driver said, “The first half’s good enough for me.” One of those smart guys.

Duffy paid him off and slammed the door for him. He slammed the door so hard that the cab rocked. The taxi-driver scowled, but said nothing. He was smart all right, but he wasn’t dumb. He rolled the cab away.

Duffy walked up the steps, fumbled for his key and fumbled at the lock. “Jeeze, that Scotch was dynamite,” he said, as he poked at the lock. The key sank suddenly, and he turned it. I he hall was in darkness, but he knew his way up. He started to climb the stairs as the wall-clock struck four. The wall-clock hung in the hall. It had a little brittle chime that always irritated Duffy. Treading carefully, one hand on the rail and the other just touching the opposite wall, he went up silently. He had to go up four flights, but he was used to that. When he reached his landing he paused. A light was burning in his apartment. He could see the bright light coming from under the door.

Two things crossed his mind. First, the cleaner had forgotten to turn the light off; and second, McGuire was waiting for him. It gave him quite a shock when he remembered McGuire. He had forgotten all about the poor guy. Too bad. He wagged his head. Maybe he’d be as sore as hell. He fumbled for his key again, and opened the door. The light quite blinded him for a second.

Two men were sitting in his room, facing the door. Another one was standing by the window, looking into the street, peeping round the blind.

Duffy jumped.

“I bet you’ve been stealing my whisky,” he said.

The man who was looking out of the window turned his head quickly. He was big. He had Mongolian eyes and a loose mouth. He had that battered, brutal face of an unsuccessful prize-fighter.

Duffy looked at him, then he looked at the two sitting in the chairs. The nearest one was a little guy with tight lips and cold,, hard eyes. His face was white as cold mutton fat, and he just sat, with his hands folded across his stomach.

The other one, sitting on the little guy’s right, was young. He had down on his cheeks and his skin had that peculiar rosy tint that most girls want, but don’t have. He looked tough, because he had screwed up his eyes and drawn down the corners of his mouth. Duffy thought he was just movie-tough.

The little guy said, “He’s here at last.”

Duffy shut the door and leant against it. “If I’d known you were coming,” he said, “I’d been here sooner.”

The little guy said, “Did you hear that? The bright boy said if he’d known we were coming, he’d been here sooner.”

The other two said nothing.

Duffy said, “Now you’re here, what’s it all about?”

“He wants to know what’s it all about,” the little guy said again.

Duffy slowly closed his fists. “Must you repeat everything I say?” he asked. “Can’t these two birds understand what I say?”

The little guy eased himself back in his chair. “You understand him, don’t you, Clive?” he said to the youth.

“Clive?” Duffy was getting annoyed. “That’s the name for a daffodil, ain’t it?”.

The youth sat up. “Listen, you long stick of ”

The little guy giggled. “How do you think of such things?” he said.

“What is this?” Duffy demanded. He looked across at the tough bird by the window.

“Come on, come on,” the little guy said, suddenly looking bleak again. “Give it up.”

“Give what up, for God’s sake?” Duffy demanded.

“Did you hear him, Clive, he wants to know what to give up?”

The youth called Clive slouched out of his chair. He stood over the little guy, his face viciously angry. “You won’t get anywhere with this stuff,” he said. “Turn Joe loose on him.”

The big bird on the corner took a step forward. He seemed to be holding himself in with difficulty. The little guy waved his hand at him. “Not so fast,” he said, “we ain’t got to get rough with this lug.”

Duffy thought they were all screwy, and he wished he hadn’t socked that pint away. Clive stood away from the little guy and glared at Duffy.

The little guy looked at Duffy with stony eyes. “Get wise, bright boy,” he said. “We’ve come for the camera.”

Duffy pushed his hat to the back of his head and blew out his cheeks. So that was it, he thought. He wandered over to the wagon and picked up a bottle of Scotch. “You gentlemen want any of this?” he asked.

Clive had a gun in his hand. Duffy looked at it surprised, then he said to the little guy, “Tell that fairy to put his rod away, he might hurt someone.”

The little guy said, “I should care. What’s it to me?”

Duffy said very sharply, “Tell that punk to put his popgun down, or I’ll do it for him, and smack his ears down.”

Clive made a high whinny sound like a horse. He looked as though he was going to have some sort of a fit. He stood there, his face white, and his eyes dark with hate. Duffy went a little cold at the sight of him.

The little guy said, “Put it away.”

The youth turned his head slowly and looked at the little guy. “I’m going to pop him…” he said shrilly, all his words tumbling out of his mouth in a bunch.

“I said, put it away.” The little guy was quite shocked that he had to speak twice.

Clive hesitated, blinked, then pushed the gun into his hip pocket. He stood undecided, his hands fluttering at his coat. Then quite suddenly, he began to cry. His face puckered up like a little indiarubber mask that someone had squeezed. He sat himself on a chair and covered his face with his thin bony hands and cried.

The little guy sighed. He said to Duffy, “See, you’ve upset him now.”

Duffy threw his hat on the settee and ran his fingers through his hair.

The big tough came over from the window and patted Clive’s head. He didn’t say anything, but just patted the youth quite heavily on his head.

The little guy shifted uncomfortably. “Aw, I didn’t mean anything,” he said. “We ain’t supposed to pop this guy, so I couldn’t let you do it, could I?”

Clive took his hands away and said with a snivel, “But look how you spoke to me.”

“Sure, sure, I know,” the little guy smiled with his tight mouth. “I’m sorry. There, I can’t say more, can I? I’ve said I’m sorry, that’s pretty generous.”

Clive looked at the little guy earnestly. “It wasn’t what you said that upset me,” he said, “it was how you said it.”

“I know, it was the way I said it, wasn’t it?”

Clive began to cry again. He didn’t cover his face this time, but screwed up his eyes, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he said, “it was the way you said it.”

“Quite a big shot, ain’t he?” Duffy said, leaning against the wall, watching with extraordinary interest.

“You leave him alone,” the little guy said. “He’s all right, but he upsets himself.”

Clive stopped crying and shot Duffy a look of hate. The other two followed his glance, as if just remembering Duffy.

The little guy said to Clive, “You all right now?”

Clive said he was fine.

“Come on,” the little guy said to Duffy, “we’re wasting time.”

Duffy said, “I’m disappointed. I thought we were all going to let down our hair and have a good cry.”

The little guy giggled, then stopped and looked annoyed. “Let’s have the camera, we got to blow soon.”

Duffy lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “I ain’t got it,” he said.

The three stayed very still.

“Listen,” the little guy said patiently, “we’ve come for the camera, and we’re going to have it, see?”

Duffy shrugged. “I can’t help that,” he said shortly, “I ain’t got it.”

The little guy said, “You ain’t got this right. I said we want that camera and we are going to have it.”

“Sure, I heard you the first time. I tell you I ain’t got it.”

The little guy looked at the other two and said, “He ain’t got it.”

The youth drew his top lip off his teeth. “I told you you weren’t getting anywhere with this bastard.”

Duffy pushed himself away from the wall. He began to wander slowly round the room. He didn’t take his eyes off the three, watching him.

“You be careful,” he said to Clive, “you’ll be getting some false teeth mighty soon.”

Clive looked at the little guy. “Turn Joe on him,” he said excitedly. “Go on, beat the sonofabitch to hell.”

Duffy was quite close to him now. He seemed to be carelessly looking for something. “Don’t call me that,” he said viciously, and his right fist came up from his waist slap in Clive’s mouth. Duffy was nervous of the big bird. He thought with the other two out of the way, he might stand a chance with him, but he wasn’t sure.

Clive went over, taking the chair with him. He lay on his side, hissing through his hand, that he had clapped to his mouth.

The other two were too startled to move. Duffy hit the little guy on the bridge of his nose. It was an awkward punch because the little guy was sitting, but it had plenty of steam behind it. The little guy tossed back in his chair and went over with a crash. He lay there completely stunned.

Duffy stood, his hands a little advanced, his elbows pressed into his waist.

The big bird looked at Clive and then he looked at the little guy. Then he grinned, showing very white even little teeth. “Jeeze!” he said hoarsely, “you’re going to get it now.”

He came in, weaving and bobbing. Duffy saw at once that he was right out of this fellow’s class. He jumped away, and retreated until his heel thudded against the Wall. The big bird came flat-footed but sure. His head was down, with his chin well tucked into his shoulder. Duffy let one go. It was a good one, coming up with a whistling sound. The big bird shifted a little, not much, but just a little, and Duffy’s fist hit the air. Then the big bird hit Duffy under the heart. It sounded like a cleaver going into a side of beef. Duffy thought the house had fallen on him. He felt his knees sag and the big bird let him come into a clinch. Duffy wound his arms round him, holding him so he couldn’t hit him.

The big bird let him recover. He said, “That was a good smack, huh?”

Duffy broke from the clinch, stepped back quickly, collided with a small table and went over backwards. He scrambled to his feet, hurriedly. The big bird gave him plenty of time, then he came in with that flat-footed shuffle, slipped Duffy’s punch and banged Duffy in the ribs again. That punch hurt like hell. Again Duffy sagged at the knees; this time the big bird swung one to the side of his head and Duffy went over on his side and lay there. He landed quite close to the little guy, who was just sitting up. The little guy took a gun from inside his coat, holding it by the barrel, he lent forward and hit Duffy in the groin, hitting very hard.

Duffy curled into a ball, but he didn’t yell. He bit his lip right through, but he didn’t yell. Then he felt his inside coming up into his throat and he vomited.

The little guy shifted hastily. “Look,” he said, “the bastard nearly had me.” He got quite excited about it.

Clive said with approval, “Now you’re doing something.”

They stood round Duffy, watching him. The little guy pressing the bridge of his nose tenderly with his fingers, his eyes watering. Clive knelt on the floor with his lips swelling. He could feel that his front teeth moved a little when he touched them with his tongue. Joe stood with his hands hanging loose, like a dog deprived of its bone.

Duffy raised his head slowly. His face glistened with sweat. The shaded light from the ceiling lit his greenish skin. He was feeling awfully bad, but he held on to himself low down and rode with the pain. The blood ran down his chin from his lip. He could feel the salty taste in his mouth.

The little guy said, “Give.”

Duffy didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust his voice. He lay there, his eyes on the little guy, hating him.

The little guy said, “Ain’t you had enough?”

Duffy still said nothing.

The little guy raised his hand. “Soften him a little,” he said to Joe.

Joe smiled. He really took a pleasure in being tough. He put out an arm and his hand closed on Duffy’s shirt front, then he heaved a little. Duffy came up, like a cork out of a bottle. He gave a little grunt of anguish. His open hand smacked Joe across the eyes. Joe blinked. “Did you see what he did to me?” he said.

The little guy said, “Full of fight, ain’t he?”

Duffy swung at Joe feebly, his punch wouldn’t have knocked down a child. Joe grinned. “Get wise to yourself, bright boy,” he said. “You ain’t hurting no one.”

The little guy said, “Just pat him around a bit, will you, Joe? We ain’t got much time.”

Joe said, “Sure.” He held Duffy at arm’s length and hit him between the eyes. His fist traveled at a tremendous speed. Duffy could see it coming, but he couldn’t avoid it. Something exploded in his brain, and a bright flash of brightness blinded him. He wanted to lie down, but something was holding on to him.

The little guy said, “Now don’t hit him too hard, just pat him around.” His voice sounded a long way away to Duffy.

“I know just what you want,” the big bird said, and he started to slap Duffy’s face with heavy resounding blows with his open hand.

The little guy said to Clive, “If this makes you feel bad, you can turn your head.”

Clive said, “I’m feeling fine. I wish I was as big as Joe.”

The little guy patted his arm. “I don’t,” he said.

When Joe got tired, he said, “Shall we try him now?”

The little guy said, “I think so.”

Joe let go of Duffy, who fell in a heap on the floor. His face was a sight. The little guy knelt down. “Where’s the camera, bright boy?”

Duffy mumbled something, but his mouth was so swollen that the little guy couldn’t hear what he said.

“Lay him up on the couch, Joe, we’ll have to get him into shape.”

Joe pulled Duffy across the floor by his arm and dumped him on to the over-stuffed couch.

“Get some water, Clive, and a towel,” the little guy said.

Clive went out of the room into the bathroom. Duffy lay with his eyes shut, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

Joe went over to the wagon and poured himself out a drink. He took it neat, then punched himself on the chest with his fist.

Clive came back with a wet towel. The little guy held out his hand, but Clive walked over to Duffy. “Let me do it.”

“Well, well, did you hear, Joe?” the little guy was surprised. “Clive wants to do it.”

Clive went on one knee beside Duffy and mopped his swollen bruised face with the towel. Duffy looked at him through a puffy eye. Then Clive put his hand on the side of Duffy’s head, made his fingers into claws and dragged his nails down Duffy’s face.

The little guy ran across the room and pulled Clive away. Clive had flecks of foam at the sides of his mouth. “That’ll teach him,” he said shrilly. “He won’t hit me again in a hurry.”

“You might have broken your nice nails,” the little guy said sharply. “That ain’t the way to go on.”

Duffy pushed himself up on the couch and lowered his legs to the floor. Joe watched him, a big grin on his face. “Ain’t he a pip?” he said, admiringly.

The other two turned and watched him too. Duffy was sitting up now, his head sunk on his chest. He remained like that for several minutes, then he put both hands on the couch and levered himself to his feet. His face was a mask of blood. Swaying, he made a little tottering run at Clive, who hastily got behind the little guy.

Joe stepped in front of Duffy. He said, “Still looking for trouble?”

Duffy swung a leaden arm, but Joe hit him in the ribs again, stepping in close and driving at Duffy a jarring jolt. Duffy opened his mouth and said “O!”, then he fell on his knees.

Just then the telephone bell rang. The three started and looked at the telephone. It continued to ring.

“That’s bad,” the little guy said, looking worried.

They waited, all concentrated on the sound of the bell. It rang for several seconds, then it stopped.

Joe dragged Duffy on to the couch again. He heaved him up and looked at the little guy.

“Bring him round,” the little guy said.

Joe pulled Duffy’s ears. He took them in each hand and tugged as if he were milking a cow. Duffy groaned and tried to get his head away.

“He’s here now,” Joe said.

The little guy stood quite close to Duffy. “Come on,” he said loudly, “spill it. Where’s that goddam camera?”

“Somebody stole it,” Duffy mumbled only half conscious.

The little guy stood back. “Christ!” he said. “Did you hear that? He said someone stole it. This bird must be nuts to hang on so long.”

The telephone bell began to ring again. Clive said suddenly, “Perhaps it’s Mr. Morgan.”

The little guy said, “Quiet,” and looked at Duffy. Duffy lay with his eyes shut, but he had heard all right. His brain wouldn’t think, but he remembered all right. The little guy hesitated, then went over to the ’phone. He unhooked the receiver from its prong.

“Hello?” he said in his tight voice.

He stood listening. Then he said, “You got a wrong number, buddy,” and hung up. He shook his head. “Some guy wanting this bird,” he jerked his thumb at Duffy. “Suppose you try him again, Joe?”

Clive took a step forward. “Why don’t you burn him a little?” he demanded. “This is wasting time.”

The little guy looked at Joe. “Do you think you can shake him loose?” he said.

Joe grinned. “Yeah,” he said; “give me a little time. This pip thinks I am playing with him, don’t you, bright boy.”

Duffy was getting light-headed, but he felt a little strength stealing into his legs. “Wait a minute,” he said with difficulty.

“Can’t you believe what I tell you? Some bird stole the camera before I left the dame’s house. I’ve just come back. I ain’t got it on me, have I?”

The little guy put his hand on Joe’s arm.

“Maybe he’s telling it straight,” he said.

Joe shook his head. “That guy couldn’t tell it straight to a priest,” he said.

The little guy looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Look at the time,” he said.

Clive said, “It’s all talk… talk… talk… talk!”

The little guy patted him on his arm. “If he ain’t got the camera, what can I do?”

Duffy sat up slowly and passed a hand over his face gently. Near by, on the arm of the couch, was an ashtray. One of those affairs with a leather spring that gripped the arm. It was quite a heavy thing. Duffy put his hand on it, then with one movement, he picked it off the arm of the couch and tossed it through the window. The glass shattered, making a high tinkling sound. Some of the glass fell in the street below.

The little guy said, “Clever, ain’t he?”

Clive ran to the door. “Let’s skip before the cops come up,” he said.

The little guy said, “Sure we’ll go.” Then he looked at Puffy. “We’ll be back, bright boy.”

He followed Clive out of the room.

Joe clouted Duffy on the side of the head. The blow knocked him off the couch on to the floor. “We’ll get together by’n by,” he said, and went to the door hurriedly, then he paused, looking at Duffy lying there. He came back and kicked Duffy very hard in the ribs.

The little guy put his head round the door.

“Come on, Joe,” he said, “we gotta get out of this.”

Joe followed him from the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Duffy lay on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chin. After they had been gone some time, he began to sob a little.

CHAPTER V

A VOICE SAID, “What a guy!”

Duffy forced one swollen eyelid back and tried to see who it was. A blurred figure was standing over him. He thought it might be Joe again, so he shut his eye and lay still.

“Bill!”

That wasn’t Joe, he thought; it sounded like McGuire. Duffy raised his head painfully. “I think you’ve come a little late,” he said with a faint groan.

McGuire said, “My Gawd!” and meant it. “What the hell have you been doing with yourself?”

Duffy turned a little to the wall.. He wasn’t quite ready for any bright talk. “Gimme a break,” he said faintly.

McGuire was so upset and astonished, he just stood gaping at Duffy. Then he looked round the room, seeing the overturned furniture, the mess of the blood, and the blood-smears on the wall. “What’s been going on round here? Jeeze! This looks as if a massacre came off not so long ago.”

Duffy said through his clenched teeth, “ME, I’m it.”

McGuire took another look at him, then hurried into the bathroom. He found a small bowl and a towel. He filled the bowl with tepid water, and came back to Duffy again.

“Come on, soldier,” he said. “Let’s make you look a bit shipshape.”

“Suppose you go take a pill,” Duffy said with difficulty.

“Now come on.” McGuire put the bowl on the floor and dropped the towel into the water. He squeezed the towel and began wiping Duffy’s face with awkward care. He was as tender as a woman to Duffy.

Duffy said suddenly, “Hi, you rat, be careful of my nose.”

McGuire said, “You don’t call that a nose any more, do you?”

When he cleared the dried blood away, he took the bowl into the bathroom and changed the water. Deep down, a burning anger smouldered against those who had done this to Duffy. McGuire was one of those guys who made few friends, but when he had picked one, he stuck. He was, on the surface, casual and a great kidder, but he’d stick like a burr and fight once he had found a friend. Duffy and he had knocked along together on the Tribune for some little while. They had quarrelled, kidded and doubled-crossed each other, but let anyone else start anything then they’d side up together and beat hell out of the intruder.

He filled the bowl with water again and walked back to Duffy.

“For God’s sake, you must be losing your grip or something,” Duffy mumbled from the couch.

“What now?”

“Listen, dimwit, instead of pulling this Flo Nightingale act, what the hell’s wrong in giving me a drink?”

McGuire put the bowl down on the table. “You’re right,” he said. “This business startled me.” He went over to the wagon and poured out two stiff Scotches. He was going to hold the glass to Duffy’s mouth, but Duffy took the glass from him roughly. “For the love of Mike,” Duffy said, “don’t you think I can help myself to Scotch?”

They both felt better after the drink. McGuire said, “Was that some woman you brought home who set about you like that?”

Duffy put his glass on the floor and sat up very slowly. He put his hands over his groin and his mouth twisted. McGuire watched him uneasily. “You all right?”

“Sure, I’m all right,” Duffy said. “I’m fine.”

“All right, tough guy, but you can take it easy for a moment. Here, lie back, will you?”

Duffy swung his feet over the side of the couch, then he stood up. As soon as his legs had to take his weight, he bent in half. He would have fallen forward if McGuire hadn’t taken his arm.

“I’m getting soft, I guess,” Duffy said, sweat starting out on his face.

McGuire led him back to the couch and sat him down.

“Quit this stuff,” he said impatiently. “Lie down, or I’ll smack your ears for you.”

Duffy sank back on the couch. He was glad to.

McGuire poured him out another Scotch, and after that he felt his strength coming back.

“Suppose you tell me what happened?”

“Sure. I ran into three toughs who pushed me around.”

McGuire shook his head.

“Do you want me to call in the cops?”

“This ain’t for the cops.”

“Okay, what now?”

“What’s the time?”

“It’s getting on for ten o’clock.”

Duffy groaned. “What a hell of a night I had,” he said, resting his head on his hands.

McGuire went over to the telephone and dialled a number. Duffy watched him curiously. He heard the line connect with a little plop, then McGuire said, “Sam here, honey.” Then, after a pause he went on. “This crazy loon’s got himself into a jam. You ought to see him. Gee! He look’s terrible. Yeah, someone pushed him around. Well, I don’t think he’s capable of taking care of himself, so I’m bringing him right round to you. Fix up the spare bed for him, will you?” He stood listening for quite a while, then he said, “Coming right now,” and he hung up.

Duffy said heatedly, “If you think you’re going to turn that wife of yours loose on me….”

“Pipe down,” McGuire said sharply, “you’re doing what you’re told. Listen, you small-time prizefighter, you come on your feet or you come on your ear, it’s all the same to me.”

“Okay, I’ll come.”

McGuire had quite a job getting him over to his place, but he did it. The taxi-driver who brought them took an extraordinary interest in Duffy. He helped McGuire get him out of the cab and up the steps. Then he stood there, shaking his head.

McGuire got a little heated about it. “All right, all right,” he said; “ain’t you seen someone pushed around before.”

“He ain’t been pushed around,” the taxi-driver said, looking Duffy over, “someone’s been making love to him.”

McGuire shut the door in his face.

On the third floor Alice was waiting for them in the passage. A tall, dark girl, with black hair dressed low that set off her olive complexion, and gave her just a slight foreign look. Her large eyes, alight with life, were now large and scared.

It didn’t matter how low Duffy felt, Alice always made him feel good. When she saw him, she put her hand quickly to her mouth. Her skin went a little paler, so that it looked almost oyster colour in the sunlit corridor. Her eyes filled with tears, but that was as far as she would show her feelings.

“Bill Duffy!” she said, “how could you?”

McGuire said, “A real fighting drunk, ain’t he?”

Duffy tried a grin, but it was so painful to him and to look at, he hastily took it off his face. “This ain’t anything,” he kidded; “you ought to’ve seen me when I put Dempsey to sleep.”

“He’s light-headed,” Alice said,, but she put her hand on his arm. “Get him inside quickly, Sam.”

McGuire said, “I’ll be glad to. The way he’s leaning on me, you’d think he’s hurt.”

They took him into McGuire’s little flat. A pleasant four-room box of a place, bright and comfortable. Everywhere, Alice had left something of herself. The neatness, the sweet-smelling flowers, the shine of the stained boards, showed the woman’s hand. Duffy looked round the sitting-room regretfully. Whenever he saw it, he felt a faint hunger. He had never made a secret about it. If McGuire hadn’t married Alice, he would have. The three of them were close linked.

When McGuire got him undressed and into the cool sheets, he relaxed, and the pain that was riding his body gradually began to ease. Alice came in a moment later, fixed his pillow, fussed round him with a scent bottle, and Duffy loved it.

McGuire looked at his watch. “Let the animal sleep,” he said to Alice. “I gotta go and work. Keep away from him. If he gets fresh, call a cop.” Then looking at Duffy, he said, “Take a nap, soldier, I’ll have a little chin with you later.”

Duffy said, “I’ll steal your wife from you.”

Alice and Sam exchanged glances, Duffy watched them through his swollen eyes. He thought they looked a swell pair. He shut his eyes for a moment, then found it was too much trouble to open them again.

Alice looked down at him. “What can have happened to the poor dear?” she said, keeping her voice very low.

McGuire put his arm round her and they left the room together. “He said three toughs set about him,” he said, when they were in the living-room. “Let him have a good sleep, then we’ll hear something more. I’ll get back early tonight.”

“Sam!” Duffy’s voice was urgent.

McGuire went back into the bedroom. “Go to sleep, you big loon,” he commanded.

“Listen, Sam.” Duffy raised his head. “I want you to find out all you can about a girl called Annabel English, a guy called Daniel Morgan and whoever works for him. Dig in and get the lowdown on them. Don’t miss a thing. Also find out what you can about Cattley the dope-peddler. Get that, and I’ll rest all right.”

McGuire took out a note-book and jotted down the names. “All right,” he said; “it all sounds screwy to me, and I’m bursting with curiosity, but I’ll get you the dope, but in the meantime, take it easy.”

When McGuire got back in the evening, Duffy was still sleeping.

Alice said, “He’s been that way all day.”

“Sure, that’s the best thing that could happen to him. Suppose we eat, and then maybe he’ll be ready to talk.”

While Alice was serving up, Duffy woke. He got into a dressing-gown and came out into the sitting-room. He looked a lot worse than he felt.

Alice said, “Bill Duffy, go straight back to bed!”

“I wish you two wouldn’t pick on me,” Duffy said, sitting in an easy chair, “I’m feeling good. Hi, Sam, what about a drink?”

The other two looked at each other helplessly.

“A hopeless soak,” Sam said sadly. “You better go back.” Duffy shook his head. “You two birds had better be careful,” he said, “I’ve just had a little fast training, and I’ll get tough.”

McGuire settled the argument by producing a bottle of rum, a squeezer, some fresh limes, and a bottle of absinthe. He set about making up some Bacardi Crustas.

“Make ’em big and strong,” Duffy said, “I want to get cockeyed tonight.”

Alice looked round the kitchen door. “I’ve been waiting for that all day,” she said.

“My wife’s an awful drunkard,” Sam said.

“You’re telling me?” Duffy stood up to look at himself in the mirror. He took one glance, grimaced and sat down again. “I remember, before you knew her, when she got so stewed that it took ten cops to handle her.”

Sam poured out the drinks. “That’s old stuff,” he said, “you don’t know what she’s like now. Give her a few shots of rum, and it takes an army to handle her.”

Alice came in. “When you two loafers’ve finished pulling my reputation to bits, come on in and eat.”

They followed her into the kitchen, Duffy walking slowly, careful not to touch anything, and Sam with the big shaker in his hands.

They sat round the table Duffy found it was difficult to eat, but he made a good show. They talked about general things until the meal was over. Both Alice and Sam were burning with curiosity, but they let Duffy have his head. When they had finished, they went back into the sitting-room. Alice sat herself on the arm of Duffy’s chair, and McGuire stood in front of the empty fire-grate.

Duffy said, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I guess you’d better have it from the start, and then we’ll go into the whys and whats after.”

He told them everything. How he met Morgan, what Morgan wanted him to do, how he went to the house and took the photographs, how the camera was stolen, how he found Cattley on the lift-shaft, how he got rid of the body, the meeting with the three toughs. He gave them the whole works.

When he had finished, there was a long silence. Then McGuire said, “You’ve started something this time.”

“I’ve not only started something, but it’s something I’m going to finish.”

Alice ran her long fingers through his hair. “I know it’s no good me saying anything, but don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

Duffy put his fingers tenderly on his face, his eyes were suddenly very bleak. “No one can push me around like this and not know something about it,” he said softly.

Alice got off the arm of his chair and walked over to the fireplace. She stood looking down at Duffy, her big eyes were sad. “You men are all alike,” she said; there was a faint undertone of bitterness in her voice. “All tough guys, who come home hurt!”

Duffy looked over at Sam. “Suppose we forget that for a moment,” he said; “tell me what you found out about Annabel English.”

Sam began to fill a pipe. “That dame’s going to get herself into trouble one of these days,” he said, fumbling around for some matches. Alice took a box off the mantelshelf and gave them to him. “One of these days, she going to be stuck for a sucker, and then she’ll be landed in the cooler.”

Duffy said, “I want facts, not an extract from True.”

“Well, in brief, she’s Edwin English’s daughter. I supposed you guessed that?”

Duffy looked startled. “No,” he said seriously, “I should have thought of that, but I didn’t.”

“Do you mean Edwin English, the politician?” Alice asked.

Sam nodded shortly. “Yeah,” he said, “Annabel’s the wild one of the family. English stands for anti-vice, you know all about his racket. Annabel’s his big thorn. I guess she about crucifies the old man. About three years ago they agreed to part. He set her up in a swell apartment, and gave her a big allowance, on condition that she behaved herself, and didn’t give him any cause for getting in bad with his voters.”

Duffy said, “I’d just hate to be an anti-vice candidate with a daughter like that.”

Sam nodded. “You bet,” he said, “this little dame’s a nympho-something or other, I forget the word. You know, she’s hot for anything in pants.”

“You mean nymphomaniac?” Alice said, “isn’t that rather strong?”

“Strong?” Duffy broke in. “Say listen…” He paused, changed his mind, and went on, “never mind. It ain’t too strong. Go on, Sam.”

“The old man’s for ever steaming himself in case she breaks out, and stains the family name. You know the type of thing. The other politicians are just praying that she does start something. They all hate English like hell. I don’t wonder at it. That guy’s mind is so narrow, he overbalances everytime he uses it.”

“Anything more?”

Sam shrugged. “A lot of hushed-up scandal that won’t help you much,” he said. “English has paid plenty during the last two years, keeping her out of gaol and out of the papers. She goes to every smut night-club in town. She’s on the list for getting smut cine-films for private exhibition. She’s had three or four fancy boys who’ve been mixed up in shady business. And so on. Not a nice little girl.”

Duffy brooded. “Somehow,” he said, “I guessed as much.”

“Now you know all this,” Alice said quietly, “you are not going to do anything further?”

“You’re a swell kid.” Duffy got up and went over to her. Quit worrying, can’t you? I don’t care how bad that dame is, I started this damn business. I was sucker enough to take those photos, and I guess I’m getting them back.”

Alice sighed. “Worthless women always seem to get help from men,” she said. I suppose it is so easy to fool a really fine man.”

Duffy exchanged glances with Sam. “Skip it, Alice,” Sam said. “You know what Bill is. You’re holding us up.”

Alice forced a little smile. “I’m sorry,” she said and sat down in Duffy’s chair. Duffy came and sat on the arm.

“What about Morgan?”

Sam blew out a cloud of smoke. “Now Morgan, he’s a cagey bird to nail. He’s got some racket in connection with a chain of night-clubs. I’d say at a guess, he’s a boss behind the scene, and he’s controlling vice in a big way. Anyway, I can’t get a proper line on him, except rumours. They know him down at headquarters, but they’ve never pinned anything to him yet. Still, they’re always hoping. He’s got plenty of dough, runs a big house, and has a tough mob working for him.”

“If Morgan’s got that sort of a background, I guess he’d want those pictures of that girl. It might give him enough pull to scare English off closing his joints.” Duffy was looking thoughtful.

Sam nodded. “That’s just it,” he said. “Morgan would be sitting very pretty if he could close English down.”

“Cattley? Did you find out anything fresh about him?” Duffy asked.

Sam shrugged. “There’s not much you don’t know about that rat,” he said, “you know what he did. Dope, women, and white slaving. Cattley’s certainly been making plenty of dough these last months. No one’s sure of where he got it. He’s moved up a lot since we knew him. Does, or rather did, everything on a big scale. The cops can’t get a line on him, but they watch him from time to time.”

“Is he going to be missed?”

Sam shrugged. “Not unless someone who knows him gets worried and blows to the police. That ain’t likely.”

Duffy brooded some more. “You done a swell job of work,” he said at last. “What I want to know, is where do I go from here?”

Sam said, “I’d take it easy for a bit.”

Duffy shook his head. “I got to get those pictures,” he said, “and I’ve got to get ’em fast.”

Alice said, “Has Morgan got them, do you think?”

“No. Morgan hasn’t got them. It was Morgan’s crowd who pushed me around. It looks to me that some other party has horned in and helped themselves. Just as long as Cattley remains in that vault, trouble will stay still. As soon as he pokes up his head, the balloon will go up.”

“Don’t you run a risk of being made an accessory after the fact or something?” Alice asked, her brow wrinkled.

Duffy said, “I guess I’ve been in worse spots than accessory charges.”

Sam got up and began to pile the plates in the kitchen. Alice went out to help him. Duffy sat in the arm-chair and brooded. His body was one dull ache, but he wouldn’t let his mind dwell on it. There was a bitter angry feeling smoldering inside him. Furious with Morgan, revengeful against those three toughs, and determined to get those photos back, he thought of Annabel. Then he got up and went over to the telephone. He dialled a number, after consulting the book.

He recognized her voice at once.

“This is Duffy here,” he said.

“Have you got them?” her voice was eager.

“Listen, baby,” he said, speaking low and fast, “you don’t know half what happened last night.”

“What is it?”

“For one thing Morgan ain’t got those pictures. For another, he wants them mighty bad. When I got home last night, three birds were waiting for me and they beat me silly when I couldn’t give them the camera.”

She was silent for a moment. “But who has got it?” she said at last.

“I don’t know,” he had to admit it; “this is a line up against your Pa. Why the hell didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“Well, who am I?”

“You’re Edwin English’s daughter.”

“I prefer to say I am Annabel English.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “I’ve been looking up your record, baby, it ain’t so hot.”

“You think so?” She sounded very cool. “I thought you’d appreciate me.”

“I think you ought to go very slow for a bit,” he said, .”you just lie low, and don’t start anything. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to get out of town for a little while.”

“Oh no,” she was very definite, “I won’t do that.”

“Okay, but watch your step from now on.”

“When am I seeing you?”

He grinned, but he felt no mirth. “Sooner than you think,” he said quietly, and hung up.

CHAPTER VI

IT TOOK DUFFY TWO impatient days to shake himself loose. Sam and Alice, their nerves frayed, were at last forced to give way to his insistence.

In a new suit, his face still battered, his temper vile, Duffy walked into the street. Sam came along at his heels.

“I feel,” said Sam, “that you’re going to run into trouble so fast we ain’t going to have any time to stick you together again.”

Duffy was walking fast. “You don’t know nothing,” he said shortly; “I feel fine, and I ain’t going to find trouble.”

Sam swung along at his side. “What’s the hurry, for God’s sake? You got a date with someone?”

“No, but I got to get me some exercise. Come on, get going.”

“You ain’t said where you’re going,” Sam said.

“First I’m going back to my joint, then I’m going to find out something about Cattley.”

“Why Cattley, for the love of mike?”

“Just that; I don’t know. Maybe, I’ve got a hunch. Cattley’s at the bottom of this, and I want to find out quite a bit about him. I want to find out why he was rubbed out. When I find that out, I guess I’ll be pretty close to his killer. Okay, when I find his killer, I’ll find the camera.”

Sam stopped at the corner. “Well, I can’t run around with you all day. I’ve got a living to make. Now, soldier, you’re coming back to us tonight, ain’t you?”

“Listen, Sam, you’re swell, and Alice’s swell. You’re both swell, but from now on, you keep out of this. I’m going my own little way, without you two popping your heads into anything I might stir up.”

Sam groaned. “I love you like this; just a big selfish playboy. You have the fun and we’re just to sit round to put on the adhesive tape. Listen, mug, we’re both in this, get it?”

Duffy grinned. It still hurt him to grin, but he grinned. “I’ll be along,” he said, “I get it.”

Sam looked pleased. “Bounce ’em, brother, bounce ’em,” he said.

“They’ll take some bouncing,” Duffy said ruefully, as he watched McGuire’s long frame disappearing through the crowded traffic.

He walked down the street, conscious of quick furtive glances at his battered face. He felt suddenly angry, his eyebrows coming down, making his face even more unattractive.

When he reached his apartment he was glad to find the place had been cleaned up. He made a little grimace at the faint stains on the walls. He wandered through the rooms, looking at everything carefully. Then he returned to the sitting-room. He sat on the edge of the table and thought a little while.

Cattley must have an apartment somewhere. The telephone directory gave him the information. He dialled the number opposite Cattley’s name, but there was no answer.

Going down once more into the street, he flagged a taxi and gave an address on the East side. After he had gone a little way, he glanced out of the small rear window. A big Packard was rolling along behind him.

He thought, “Maybe I’m just jumpy,” but he watched the Packard closely. After he had been riding for several minutes he leant forward. “A bird’s sitting on our tail,” he said abruptly. “It makes me nervous.”

The taxi-driver was a big beefy Irishman. He turned his head and grinned. “Watch me shake ’em,” he said.

Duffy gave him five minutes, then said again. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

The driver pushed the cab until it began to rattle, but the Packard just sat behind them.

Duffy said, “He’s too big for you.”

“What you want me to do, boss?”

Duffy fumbled for some money. He gave the driver a couple of bucks. “Drop me at the first boozer you see,” he said; “don’t stop, just slow down. If they come after you you don’t know where you were taking me.”

“Like the movies, huh?”

“Sure, you got it. Like the movies.”

The driver suddenly crowded on his brakes and swung to the kerb. Duffy bundled out, slamming the door. He stood on the pavement, watching the cab drive on. The Packard slowed down, hesitated, then shot away at right angles, turning a corner, disappearing quickly. Duffy didn’t see who was in it. He flagged another cab and told the driver to drive on for a while. When he was sure that he hadn’t got the Packard on his tail, he gave the apartment address again.

Cattley’s apartment was big and showy. It was on the second floor of a large block. Duffy didn’t take the elevator up, he walked. On the front door, was a small metal plate bearing Cattley’s name. Duffy rang the bell. No one answered. He stood waiting. Then he rang the bell again. While he was standing there, he heard the elevator coming up. He stepped away from the door quickly and went up three stairs of the next flight. He was just out of sight from the elevator. He heard the grille slide back, and he looked round cautiously. A woman was standing in front of Cattley’s door. He couldn’t see who she was, but he watched her closely. There was something very familiar in her slim figure. She took a key from her handbag and opened the door. He came down the three stairs silently and walked into the room behind her.

“Hello, baby,” he said.

She stood quite still for a moment, then turned and faced him. Her face was a little drawn, and her eyes big.

“You frightened me.”

Duffy thought she had an iron nerve. “Nice to see you again,” he said.

Annabel English looked at him. Then she put a hand quickly on his arm. “But your face,” she said, “what has happened?”

Duffy touched his face with his finger-tips, then smiled; it was a very bleak smile. “I told you,” he said, “some toughs pushed me around.”

“It’s horrible.” She came closer to him. “They must have hurt you so.”

Duffy shrugged. “Forget it,” he said; “what brings you up here?”

She turned from him and wandered away across the room to the window. It was a shabby room. Duffy was quite surprised. The address was good enough, but Cattley had let the place run to seed. The furniture was old and battered and the walls needed attention. There was dust everywhere.

Duffy stood watching her. “What brings you up here?” he repeated.

When she reached the window she turned, so that the light was behind her. “I wanted to look round,” she said; “why are you here?”

He lit a cigarette. “You know, baby,” he said, moving further into the room and sitting on the corner of the table. “I don’t think we’re going to get along so well together.”

“Oh, but yes.”

He shook his head. “I guess I got you into a spot the other night, but you ain’t doing anything to help me get you out of it. You’re holding back on me.”

She came over to him. “May I smoke?” she said.

He took out his case and she took one. He lit it for her. “Your poor face,” she said softly.

“Quit stalling,” he said impatiently. “You know, if you don’t play ball, I’m going to ditch you.”

“Please don’t get that way.” She went and sat down in a low, overstuffed chair. She crossed her legs, and Duffy grinned.

“You women,” he said, “you think you’ve only got to show what you’ve got, and a man will roll over on his back, with his paws raised. Now, listen, this is important. What are you doing up here? How did you get a key to this joint?”

She studied her red finger-nails. “Suppose I said that I can’t tell you?”

“Okay, you can’t tell me. Well, those photos can take care of themselves.”

She raised her heavy lashes and looked at him. “Honest, Bill, just now I can’t tell you.”

He slid off the table. “I’m going to look round this joint,” he said shortly, “you sit there.”

He went into the bedroom and began a systematic search. Patiently he went through every drawer, examined the sides of the arm-chair, looked behind the few pictures of doubtful taste hanging on the walls, took the grubby bed to pieces, but he found nothing to interest him. He went into the small kitchen and hunted about there. Then he stood still and scratched his head. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he had hoped that he would have found something to give him a lead. He went to the kitchen door. Then his eyes narrowed. Annabel was sitting quite still, but he knew that she had moved from the chair whilst he was in the kitchen. Her elaborate calmness, her frank smile when he came into the room, told him.

“Have you found anything?” she said, with a great show of interest.

He began wandering round the room. “Not yet,” he said, “but I’m getting hot.”

She got out of the chair. “Where’s the Johnny?”

He stood quite still, then he jerked his head.

“Just through the bedroom,” he said.

“I won’t be a minute.”

He didn’t say anything, but watched her go into the bedroom, then he heard her shoot the bolt on the bathroom door.

He saw that she had left her bag on the table, and he went over quickly and scooped it up. He pressed on the paste diamond clasp and opened it. Quickly he emptied the contents on the table. There was the usual collection of junk that most women carry. A powder compactum, cigarette-case and lighter, a lipstick in a gold case, a small phial of scent, some letters, and a roll of greenbacks. Nothing to interest him.

Making a little grimace of annoyance, he pushed the stuff back into the bag.

Then he began to examine the room carefully. The drawers yielded nothing, but on the sideboard he noticed a cigarette box had been moved. He could see the outline of dust had been disturbed. He opened the box, but it was empty. He took it over to the window and examined it carefully. Putting his fingers inside, he gently pushed. The bottom of the box suddenly sprang up. There was nothing in the false bottom. He took the box back and put it on the sideboard again.

Annabel came into the room again, touching her red hair with her finger-tips. She was quite calm. He looked her over thoughtfully.

“Finished?” she asked, going over to the table and picking up her bag. “Suppose you come and have some coffee with me?”

Duffy mashed his cigarette out in the tray. He held out his hand. “Give,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Now don’t start being silly,” she said, there was a faint note of anger in her voice.

Duffy walked over to her. “Come on,” he said roughly. “Hand it over.”

“What is this?” She turned impatiently to the door.

Duffy said evenly, “Wait a minute, sister, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were stormy. “We’re going right out of this place,” she said. “I’ll talk to you over coffee.”

Duffy wandered over to the door and set his broad back against it. “We’ll talk right here,” he said briefly.

She shrugged and leant against the table. “Well, what is it?”

“I want you to get this business straight,” he said; “up to now you’ve been acting like a dimwit all along. Well, you gotta wake up to things. You and I are in a murder mix-up. You stand a sweet chance of getting fried, and I’m in line for an accessory rap. You’re playing it like an afternoon tumble with the curtains drawn. Get wise to it, Redhead.”

She tapped on the floor with her shoe. “I know all that, she said, “but that gets me nowhere.”

The smile on his face was hard. “You’re holding back on me, baby, and you know it,” he said. “If I weren’t in this as an accessory, I’d let it ride. I’m in this for two reasons. One, I’m in it, if you get pinched, and two, I’ve got a little score to settle with Morgan. I’m easy enough if you play ball, but I’ll get goddam’ hard if you don’t.”

She said suddenly in a sharp voice, “Let me out of here.”

Duffy didn’t move. “You’re in a spot, sister,” he said, “there is only one way you can get out of here. You can open your pretty mouth and start squawking, and that’ll bring the cops arunnin’, asking questions. You’ll have a sweet twenty minutes, explaining why you’re here, and how you got the key to this joint. Then they’ll start looking for Cattley, and suppose they find him, what then?”

She looked at him thoughtfully, then a little smile broke on her lips. “All right,” she said, “if that’s the way you feel, let’s talk.”

Duffy shook his head sadly. “My, my,” he said. “You’re like an eel, ain’t you? Tough one minute, then the soft pedal. It ain’t getting you anywhere, sister. You came here to find something and you’ve found it. Okay, you and me are going to share it.”

She swung herself on the table, so that her skirt rode above her knees. Duffy looked at them, and thought they were nice. “You know everything,” she said; “you’re quite right, I did come here to find something. I suppose I’d better tell you all about it.”

Duffy grinned. “And with perfect grace, she confessed the truth,” he said.

“Well, I’ve been a fool,” she said, studying her nails; “naturally, I wanted to keep it to myself. You’ve guessed by now that I lied to you about writing a book?”

Duffy said, “You’d be surprised how much I do know.”

“Cattley was blackmailing me,” her voice was suddenly weary; “I’ve had to pay and pay. I did something crazy once and Cattley was there. My father would have been in a hopeless position to run for election if it got out, and Cattley was smart enough to know this. He put the screws on, and I had to pay. It’s awful of me to say this, but his death was a great relief to me.”

Duffy said, “You’re giving me a grand motive for his killing.”

She slid off the table and came over to him. “You know I didn’t kill him,” she said, “you believe that, don’t you?”

“Go on,” he said, “it don’t matter a damn what I think, it’s what the jury would think that counts.”

She moved away again, and began wandering round the room, fingering the furniture aimlessly as she moved. “Cattley was a brute. He made me visit him. He gave me the key of his apartment. I had to go to him whenever he called. I knew he had some proof of what I did, so when he was killed, I came down to find it. That’s the truth, you do believe that?”

“Sure,” Duffy beamed, “a hophead would believe it.”

She sat down suddenly in the arm-chair and hid her face in her hands. “I’m so unhappy,” she said, her voice breaking; “please be kind to me.”

Duffy came over and sat on the arm of her chair. “When you went into the Johnny just now,” he said casually, “you smuggled something in your pants or some place. You can now go right back to the Johnny and dig it out again. Then you can give it to me.”

She took her hands from her face and leant back. Her face was set. “You’ve got no right to ask for that,” she said, “it is nothing to do with you. It is entirely personal.”

Duffy put his arm round the back of the chair and patted her shoulder. “Go into the Johnny,” he said.

She got out of the chair. Her eyes were very angry. Duffy thought she looked swell. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said, speaking very fast; “I’ve told you the truth, and I’m not giving you anything. Now, understand that.”

Duffy still sat on the chair-arm. He looked her over slowly, his mouth pursed, and his eyebrows raised. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said; “I want whatever you found in this joint, and I’m going to have it.”

She started to say something, but he held up his hand. “Quiet,” he said, “if you don’t like to give it to me, I’ll take it, how’s that?”

Slowly, she began to back to the door. He could see that she was getting scared. He left his seat quickly as she reached the door, and swung her round. She struck him across his nose with her clenched fist. Duffy was quite hurt. He put his hand to his face, felt his nose gingerly, looked at his fingers to see if his nose was bleeding, then he grinned. “Well, of course,” he said, “if that’s the way you want it.”

She struck at him again, but he caught her wrist, then she closed with him, a kicking, biting, scratching handful of outraged loveliness. For a moment, Duffy was busy keeping her nails out of his eyes. He smothered her arms with difficulty, turned her. Crossing her arms across her chest, and holding them tightly by the wrists behind her, he ran into the bedroom and slammed her face down on the bed.

“You Redhead,” he said, panting a little with his exertion. “You going to play ball, or do I have to get rough?”

She said, her voice muffled, “Oh! How I hate you!”

“Come on.”

She remained silent for a minute, then she said, “All right, I’ll give it to you.”

“That a promise?”

“Yes… yes, you beast.”

He grunted and released her. She sat up, her face white and drawn. Her eyes were glittering with hate. He was quite startled to see how vicious she could look.

“Get going,” he said, suddenly losing his good temper.

She said, “Get out of the room. I have to undress.”

He shook his head. “Be your age,” he said, “I don’t trust you.

She got off the bed, and stood, her hair ruffled, her green silk dress crumpled, and battle in her eye.

“I’m not getting undressed with a heel like you looking on,” she said.

Duffy went over to the door and turned the key. He took the key out and put it in his pocket.

“You surprise me,” he said, “fancy you being coy. Sure, I’ll turn my back, but get going.”

He went and looked out of the window. A very faint sound made him jerk round again. She was almost on top of him. In her hand she was holding an empty carafe by the neck. The look in her eyes made him catch his breath. He slid along the wall away from her fast, as she smashed the carafe at him. The glass exploded all round him. The paper on the wall split, where the carafe had struck, sending a stream of plaster running to the floor.

Her face was contorted with murderous fury. He saw tiny white flecks of foam on her lips. She began to call him filthy names. Hurling them at him, through her twisted mouth.

Duffy thought she must be in a kind of fit. He was so startled that he backed away from her. She advanced slowly towards him, her hands held out in front of her, opening and closing. Every time she closed them, her knuckles stood out white. Then she came at him, like a coiled spring unleashed.

Her body struck him with her full weight, and he went back, reeling, off his balance. Her hand shot out and gripped his throat. He could feel the hot burning pain as her long nails dug into his flesh.

Swinging his fist up hard, he hit her on the side of the jaw. He didn’t put any weight behind the blow, but it was a nice smack, all the same. She sagged, fell on her knees, her hands running down his coat front, feebly trying for a grip, then she went forward on her face.

Duffy stepped back and took out his handkerchief. He carefully wiped off his palms, then put the handkerchief back. “For crying out loud,” he said.

He picked her up and put her carefully on the bed. She lay limp, her eyes closed, breathing hard. He made sure that she was right out, before he began to search her. He didn’t like the job, it made him feel like a snake, but he went through with it. Pushed down the top of her girdle, he found what he was looking for. A little red leather note-book. He didn’t wait to examine it there and then, he just put it carefully in his inside pocket, rearranged her dress and left her. He let himself out of the apartment, and brought the elevator up from the ground floor. While he waited for it to come up, he kept an ear cocked for any sound from the flat. It was only when he got into the street that he felt at ease. He noticed, across the road, a big Packard was standing. No one was in it. He crossed the road and glanced inside. He recognized the car as the one that had followed him. It belonged to Annabel English.

“Well, well,” he said. This was getting quite beyond him. He walked a little way down the road, then he flagged a cruising taxi. He gave McGuire’s address. When the cab jerked off, he settled himself back on the shiny leather, and took out the note-book. It was very neat, each page covered with minute writing. Just names and addresses, and against each name was a number of small denominations. He turned the pages, carefully reading each name, hoping to get some clue. At the fifth page he realized that he was reading down a list of New York’s top-liners. He went on.

There was no doubt of that. Well-known names began to jump out of the pages. Wives of bankers, stockbrokers, rich playboys, daughters of millionaires, actors and actresses, councillors, a judge here and there, quite a complete list of people in the public eye and who mattered. Duffy looked for Annabel English’s name, but he couldn’t find it. He held the book in his hand and scratched his head. He thought probably the key lay in the numbers against the names. But it had him beat. He counted the names for something better to do. They totaled just over three hundred. At the end of the book, written faintly in pencil, was a name and address, set apart from the other names. He made it out with difficulty: “Olga Shann, Plaza Wonderland Club”. He put the note-book in his pocket, and leant back brooding. Perhaps, he thought, he’d get a line from this Olga dame.

The taxi swung to the kerb, and he got out. There was something familiar in the taxi-driver’s face. Duffy looked at him hard. The taxi-driver grinned at him.

“You must love that dame,” he observed. “The last time I brought you to this joint you had to be carried, and now, God love me, she’s scratched you to hell again.”

Duffy gave him some money. “One of these days,” he said evenly, “someone’s going to take a dislike to you.”

The taxi-driver grinned some more. “T should worry,” he said.

Duffy left him and walked up the steps to the apartment.

CHAPTER VII

WHEN MCGUIRE GOT in from work, he found Duffy and Alice in the kitchen. Duffy was standing over the stove, a heavy frown on his face, watching a large steak grilling.

McGuire took one look at him and said, “For God’s sake, he’s been at it again.”

Alice looked up with a mischievous smile. She was peeling potatoes at the sink. “He won’t say a word.”

Duffy scowled. “For the love of Mike, pipe down,” he said. “What if my girl friend did get tough?”

McGuire shook his head sadly. He leant himself up against the wall. “I never met such a guy,” he said. “Can’t you take care of yourself once in a while?”

Duffy said, “Know the Plaza Wonderland Club?”

Sam shot a look at Alice. “I’ve heard of it.”

Alice said, “I knew you would. You know all the low clubs.”

Sam protested. “You got me wrong there,” he said violently; “I’ve never been there. I just heard of it from the boys.”

“I know.”

Sam groaned, “She’s always imagining things,” he complained to Duffy. “As if I’d be seen dead in one of those burgs.”

“You’re going to this one tonight,” Duffy said, turning the steak carefully.

Sam cocked his head. “Is that so?” he said. Again he looked at Alice.

She shrugged. “I suppose I’ll have to say yes,” she said.

Duffy went over and gave her a pat. “Be nice,” he said. “This is strictly business. You got to stay home.”

“You men,” she said, but she wasn’t mad. Duffy knew she’d take it all right. She was like that. “Don’t get him into trouble,” she said, looking at Sam.

“Me?” Sam laughed. “I like that. Get him into trouble? It’s me that’s going to run into that, I bet.”

Duffy shook his head. “You’re just window-dressing,” he said. “You’ll see.”

After the meal, McGuire pushed his chair back and looked inquiringly at Duffy. “You want to get going?” he said.

Duffy nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Might as well.”

Sam lit a cigarette and went over to get his hat. He slapped it on the back of his head and turned to Alice. “We ain’t going to be late,” he glanced at Duffy, who shook his head. “Keep the bed warm for me, honey.”

She raised her face to his for a kiss, and Duffy looked on with approval. “You must’ve been screwy to marry a tramp like that,” he said to Alice.

Sam grinned. “There was a shortage of men at the time.”

Alice threatened him with a roll of bread, and he ducked out to get the car.

She said in a small voice, “You’ll be careful?”

Duffy turned his head, and said with elaborate astonishment, “Why, sure, we’re going to have a good time.”

She got from her chair and walked over to him. “Save it, Bill. You’re poking your nose into this murder business.”

Duffy shrugged. “This won’t amount to much,” he explained. “I’ve got a line on Cattley’s girl friend. She might turn in some information. This business puzzles me. There is a lot I don’t get. Maybe I’ve been a bit hasty, hiding up that rat. I don’t know. This Annabel broad ain’t nice. She’s dangerous.”

“I wish you hadn’t anything to do with it. Sam’s worried too.”

Duffy put on his hat. “I gotta see it through now. Don’t you worry about Sam, I won’t get him into anything.”

“I’m worrying about you.”

“Forget it,” he pleaded; “it’s going to come out okay.”

She went with him to the door. “I don’t want to be a fuss.”

He patted her shoulder. “You’re swell,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

He found Sam sitting at the wheel of a small tourer that had seen better days. Duffy climbed in beside him. “Where’s this joint, anyway?” he asked.

Sam let in the clutch with a bang, the car jerked forward, and then stalled. Duffy didn’t say anything, he was used to it. Sam pulled the starter, reversed the engine, and let the clutch in again. The car pulled away from the kerb, making a noise like a beehive.

“The Plaza?” Sam said; “it’s near Manhattan Bridge.”

“Know the place?” Duffy asked.

“Sure,” Sam said. “This is a hot joint. I used to go there a bit in the old days.” Sam always called the time he was single ‘the old days’. “It’s tough, and packed with hot pants. You wait.”

Duffy leant back. “Sounds all right,” he said.

Sam drove two blocks in silence, then he said, “You telling me the news?”

Duffy gave him a cigarette. “I looked up Cattley’s dump today. Annabel turned up. She was looking for something. She found it, and so did I.” He touched the scratches with his fingers and grinned. “I bet that honey’s as mad as a hornet right now.”

Sam swerved to avoid a big Cadillac, grabbed his handbrake and shouted, “You street pushover,” to the fat driver.

Duffy took no notice; he had driven with Sam before. “What did you find?” Sam asked.

“It’s a little note-book, full of ritzy names, and it don’t mean a thing to me.”

“So?”

“Yeah.” Duffy frowned at his reflection in the driving-screen. “It’s important. I know because I had to get tough with Annabel to get her to part. That dame scares me. She ain’t normal.”

“I thought you liked ’em that way.” Sam looked at him in surprise.

“Watch the road, dimwit,” Duffy said shortly. “You ought to see that dame. When she gets mad, she foams at the mouth.”

“Yeah?”

“She tried to knock me off,” Duffy said. “She’s screwy. There can’t be any other answer.”

Sam went past the City Hall slowly, then he swung into Park Row and pushed the pedal down again. “She needn’t be nuts to want to knock you off,” he said. “Suppose we stop for a drink?”

Duffy glanced at the time. It was barely nine o’clock.

“You’ll get a drink when we get there,” he said.

The Plaza Wonderland Club was situated on the second floor, over a hardware store. The entrance was down an alley, lit with neon lighting. They parked the car and walked up the alley and went in. At the top of the stairs tickets were being sold for the taxi-dancers. Duffy bought half a dozen, then they pushed aside the bead curtains and went into the hall.

There was nothing original about the place. It was dirty and shabby. The dance floor was small, and you had to step down to get on to it. Round the floor, tables were crammed together, and at the far end the girls sat behind a pen. Sam looked across the room at them and thought they were a pretty swell bunch.

There were very few people at the tables. Just a handful. They all looked up as Duffy squeezed himself past the tables and got on to the floor. They watched him cross the floor, with Sam behind him, and select a table against the wall, opposite the entrance. He sat down and Sam took the other chair.

The band of three were playing swing music without much enthusiasm. They plugged away, staring with vacant eyes into space.

“You call this a hot joint?” Duffy said.

“Maybe the depression’s hit ’em,” Sam said.

Duffy made frantic signs to a waiter, who came over to them with a flat-footed shuffle.

“Let’s have a bottle of rum,” Sam said.

“Yeah.” Duffy thought that a good idea. “Make it a bottle of rum.”

The waiter went off. Duffy said, “Take a look at this,” he slid the little note-book across the table.

Sam picked it up and studied it carefully. After a little while he handed it back. “No,” he said, “that don’t mean anything to me. There’s plenty of money in that list. I’d say at a guess that little lot’s worth a million each. They all belong to the hot set, but that’s all I get from it.”

Duffy put the note-book back in his pocket. “Maybe I’ll get a line on it later,” he said.

The waiter brought the rum and set it down on the table with a crisp bang. Sam said, “This joint’s changed.”

The waiter glanced at him. “Buddy,” he said, “it’s early yet.”

Sam turned to Duffy. “See?” he said; “it’s early.”

“Okay, it’s early. Let’s grab a couple of girls, and show them how it’s done.”

There was no one dancing on the floor. Sam poured himself out a shot of rum and drank it hurriedly. “Heck!” he said, “I believe I’m nervous.”

Duffy looked at him. “You’re kidding yourself, you want to get stewed.”

Sam got up from his chair and wandered across the room to the pen. He stood looking at each girl carefully, until they began to giggle at him. He found a blonde that pleased him and he began to rush her round the empty floor. Duffy picked his girl from where he was sitting, then he went over and dated her up. She was a chestnut red, with a pert little nose and a big, humorous smile. She had a plump, hard little belly that he could feel against his vest. He thought she was cute.

Duffy could dance when he liked, and the rum had made him fairly happy. He swung her round in big smooth circles, and she just seemed to float with him. They didn’t say a word through the dance, but when the band cut out, he said, “You’re good.”

She gave him her flashing smile. “You ain’t so bad either.” She’d got an accent like a heap of tins being tossed downstairs.

He said, “Come on over and get tight.”

Sam was already there with his blonde. Duffy fancied she smelt, and he sat away from her. Sam liked her a lot. He was showing signs of considerable interest.

Duffy said, “You girls like rum?”

They both began to protest. They wanted champagne.

Sam shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “We’re God’s gift to womanhood; if rum won’t keep you, you can both take a walk.”

Duffy said it was okay with him too.

So they had rum.

The place was crowding up. People kept squeezing between tables. One big chestnut, with large curves, tried to pass Sam, but she couldn’t quite make it. Sam looked up, gaped and said, “Hi, Bill! It’s the covered wagon.”

Duffy started to sweat. He guessed Sam was getting drunk.

The chestnut screwed her head round and took a look at Sam, then she laughed. “You’re cute,” she said.

Sam got up and made an elaborate bow. “Sister,” he said, “you’ve got it all.”

The chestnut squeezed by, now that Sam stood up. Her escort, a little runt, glared at Sam, who raised two fingers of his right hand.

Duffy said, “Can’t you behave yourself?”

Sam looked grieved. “She liked it,” he said.

His blonde was looking across the room, tapping her foot. She was annoyed.

Duffy said to the girl with the big mouth, “Let’s dance.”

When they got on the floor he said, “Olga ain’t here tonight?”

She looked up at him, a little frown creasing her brow. “Olga?” she said.

“Sure, Olga Shann. I’d like to meet her again.”

“She’s not here tonight.”

Duffy said, “Hell, I wanted to talk to that dame.”

They danced in silence for several minutes, then he said, “Would you like to earn twenty bucks?”

“It’s going to cost you a lot more than that.”

Duffy said, “We’re on a different set of rails. I’m offering you twenty bucks for Olga’s address.”

She looked disappointed. “Gee!” she said with a pout, “I thought we were getting on fine.”

“I’m out on business. I just gotta talk with her.”

She went the length of the room before she said, “I’ll get it for you.”

At the end of the dance she left him. Duffy glanced over at Sam, who was making up to his blonde, so he turned into the toilet. He ran the water and washed his hands. The toilet was empty. It was a small room with cracked tiles half-way up the walls. He dried his hands and dropped the towel into the basket. The door pushed open and a tall man came in. The first thing Duffy noticed about him was his hair. It was jet black, with a broad white streak, running from his forehead to his right ear. It gave his hard face a look of distinction. He wore a close-clipped moustache, and his skin was grey.

Duffy just glanced at him, then made to walk out of the room.

The man said, “Wait a minute.”

Duffy paused. “You speaking to me?” he said, surprised.

The man held out his hand Duffy looked and saw he .. was holding a .25 automatic.

“You just bought it or something?” Duffy said, suddenly very cautious.

“You got the note-book on you, hand it over.” The man had a curious voice. It was deep-pitched with a little buzz in it.

Duffy said, “I did have, but it’s in the mail now.”

Just then the door opened and Sam came in. The man put his gun away. He didn’t seem to hurry, but the gun just disappeared.

Sam said, “There you are.”

The man looked at Duffy. His pale eyes were very threatening. Then he walked out of the toilet.

Duffy said, “Who’s that guy?”

Sam shrugged. “Search me,” he said, “my girl might know.”

Duffy stepped to the door quickly and Sam, a puzzled look on his face, followed him. “Did you see that guy come out just now?” Duffy asked the blonde.

She said, “Sure I did. That’s Murray Gleason. Ain’t he cute?”

Duffy blotted his lace with his handkerchief. “I couldn’t say,” he said, “we were a bit shy with each other.”

Sam put his arms round the blonde. “Ain’t this a grand place?” he said. He was pretty drunk.

Duffy said, “I want to get out of here.”

A white-headed little guy came through the hall, heading for the toilet. Sam took the blonde over to him. “Take care of this baby,” he said. “Show her round. She’s learning in a big way.”

The blonde wrapped the little guy in her arms and began to cry. The rum had her all ends up. Duffy walked out with Sam. The little guy’s face was a picture.

Outside, Duffy said, “You’re just hell to go places with.”

Sam waved his hands. “I guess I’m a little tight,” he said.

They walked into the dance-hall again. Sam said suddenly, “Did that blonde smell a little, or is my nose wrong?”

Duffy said his nose was fine.

The girl with the big mouth was standing by the entrance looking for them. Duffy went over. “Did you get it?” he asked.

She nodded and gave him a slip of paper, on it was an address. Duffy gave her twenty bucks. She rolled the notes and tucked them in the top of her stocking. Sam leant forward with interest. “I’m having a swell time,” he said.

Duffy said to the girl, “I’ll be back one of these nights. We’ll have a fine time.”

She looked at him wistfully. “I’ve heard that before.”

Sam said, “You’re young yet. You’ll hear it dozens of times.”

They went downstairs into the street. Duffy stopped at the end of the alley.

“Go home, Sam,” he said. “Be careful how you drive.”

Sam blinked at him. “The fun over so soon?” he asked.

Duffy nodded. “I said you were just window-dressing,” he said briefly. “I gave you a break. Now go home and look after that wife of yours.”

Sam scratched his head. “She’s probably feeling a little lonesome right now.”

“Get going.”

“Ain’t you coming?”

“I’m calling on this Shann broad.”

Sam leered. “Three being a mob?”

Duffy nodded. “You got it, soldier,” he said. He watched Sam go over to the parking-place, and then went to the subway on Frankfort Street. Olga Shann had rooms in Brooklyn. He’d never heard of the address, so when he’d got over Brooklyn Bridge he left the subway and flagged a taxi.

He got to the address just after eleven o’clock. He hesitated to ask the taxi to wait. Then making up his mind, he paid him off.

The house was a two-storey villa, with identical models either side, stretching right down the street.

He unlatched the gate and walked up the short gravel path. There was a light showing from one of the second-floor windows. He pressed the buzzer with his thumb, and leant against the wall. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was going to say.

About three minutes ticked off, then a light sprang up in the hall. He could hear the chain being slipped and then the front door opened. A woman stood there, holding the door only partly open. He couldn’t make out her features, she was standing squarely with her back to the light.

“Miss Shann?” he said, taking off his hat.

“Suppose it is,” she said. Her voice had a Garbo tone.

He thought it was a hell of a welcome, but he let it slide. “It’s late for a call,” he said, trying to put his personality across, “but you’ll excuse me, I hope?”

“What is it?”

“I’m Duffy of the Tribune.” He took out his Press pass and flashed it, then he put it back again. “I wanted a word with you about Cattley.”

He saw her stiffen, then she said, “Let me see that Press card.”

He dug it out again and handed it over. She pushed the door to and examined the card in the light. Then she opened the door wide, and said, “You’d better come in.”

He followed her into a small sitting-room. It was modern, but the stuff was cheap. He looked at her with interest. The first thing he noticed about her was her eyebrows. They gave her face an expression of permanent surprise. She was lovely in a hard way. Big eyes with long lashes, a scarlet, full mouth; the top lip was almost bee-stung. Her thick chestnut hair was silky and cared for. Duffy liked her quite a lot.

She was wearing a nigger-brown silk dress, tight across her firm breasts and her flat hips.

“Why Cattley?” she said.

He put his hat down on the table. “This is most unprofessional, but I’m dying for a drink.”

She shook her head. “Nothing doing.” She was very emphatic. “Say your piece and get going.”

“My, my,” he said, “you babes get tougher every day.”

She moved impatiently.

“Okay,” Duffy said hastily. “I’m looking for Cattley.”

“Why should I know where he is?”

“Why, you’re his girl friend, ain’t you?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him for months.”

“He thought enough of you to have your name and address in his pocket-book.”

She shrugged. “Lots of men have girls’ names in their pocket-books. It doesn’t amount to anything.”

Duffy thought she was quite right. “Well, well,” he said, “I guess I’ve come out of my way.”

She went to the door and opened it. “I won’t keep you,” she said.

Outside, Duffy heard a car drive up. “You got visitors.”

He saw a startled look come into her eyes, but she said, “Then you’d better go.”

The buzzer rang loudly. She started a little.

Duffy said, “Can I go out the back way? I’m feeling I might run into trouble.”

She stood hesitating, then she said, “Wait here.” Her voice implored him. The buzzer went again, long and insistently.

Duffy said, “You want me to stay?”

“Yes—I don’t know who it is.”

She went out of the room, leaving the door open. Duffy glanced round, saw another door and went over and opened it. He found himself in a small kitchen. He pushed the door to, and stood looking into the sitting-room, through the small opening.

He heard her at the front door; then he heard her say, “Why, hello, Max.”

“You alone?” the hoarse Voice that spoke made Duffy stiffen. It was familiar. First, he thought it was Joe, but then he knew it wasn’t quite like Joe’s voice. He’d heard it before.

She said, “Yes… what is it?”

Duffy heard footsteps in the hall and he heard the front door close. “What do you want?” her voice was nervy and breathless.

A broad-shouldered man, wearing a black slouched hat, walked into the sitting-room. Duffy had him at once. It was the man who had stolen the camera.

Duffy clenched his fists. Just the bird he was looking for.

Olga came in and stood by the table. Her face was white and a muscle in her throat fluttered.

“But, Max…”

The man glanced round the room suspiciously, then looked at her. His hard eyes raked her from head to foot. “I ain’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “You’re looking swell.” There was no animation in his voice. He sounded as if he were reciting.

She tried to smile, but her lips were frozen. She managed to say, “That’s nice of you.”

He sat himself on the edge of the table and looked at his hands. “You know Cattley’s been knocked off?” he said.

She put her hand to her throat. “No… no, I didn’t know that,” she said.

Max raised his head a little and stared at the kitchen door. Duffy stiffened. Then Max said, “You were sweet on that guy at one time, huh?”

She shook her head. “He meant nothing to me.”

“So?”

“We went around together, but that’s all.”

“You went around together?” He pushed his hat over his eyes. He wouldn’t look at her.

“That’s right… but why… why are you asking me?”

“Just curious.” With the flat of his hand he rubbed the short hairs on his nape. “Did he ever tell you things?”

Duffy could see what a panic she was in. “He didn’t tell me anything… he didn’t tell me anything….”

Max got off the table and went over to the mantelpiece. He examined the photos and fingered the small ivory elephants there. He seemed utterly bored. Then he shrugged. “I thought maybe he had talked to you,” he said indifferently. He put his hand in the inside of his coat and took out a short silk cord. It was dark red in colour. He dangled it in his fingers.

Olga watched him like a rabbit would watch a snake.

He said, “This is a pretty thing, ain’t it?”

She said, “What is it?”

“This? Hell, I don’t know. I found it.” He continued to swing it in his hand.

She said, “Did you?”

“I guess I’ll scram.” He wandered to the door.

“But… but don’t you want—-?”

“I’ll scram,” he said, pausing at the door. “I thought maybe you’d be interested to hear Cattley’s washed up. I see you ain’t.”

Her relief was obvious. “Of course, I’m sorry,” she said, “but I haven’t seen him for so long….”

“That’s all right,” he said. “I liked seeing you.” The flat tone of his voice made the whole thing sound like a badly acted play. He stood on one side at the door and she went ahead to open the front door. When she passed him, he tossed the silk cord over her head with the rapidity of a snake striking, and twisted it round her neck. His knee came up in the small of her back and he threw all his weight on to the cord.

Duffy slipped out of the kitchen like a shadow, and hit Max on his ear with a roundhouse swing. Max, being only on one leg, went over like a felled tree. Olga went on her hands and knees, making a sort of honking sound in her throat.

Max rolled over twice until the wall brought him up, then he dizzily clawed inside his coat for a gun. Duffy whipped up a hall chair and smashed it down on Max. The wall took most of the force, and the back of the chair snapped. Max kicked out at Duffy with a long leg, and his boot caught Duffy on the shin. Duffy dropped on one knee, his face twisted, and then Max hit him on the side of the head. The blow had no weight behind it, as Max was lying on his shoulder, but it upset Duffy’s balance and he went over.

Max again went for his gun and this time he got it out, but Duffy lashed out with his foot and caught Max under the chin. The gun went off with a violent noise. The bullet hit the ceiling, bringing a shower of plaster down on the floor. Max dropped the gun and flopped on his face.

Swearing wildly, Duffy grabbed hold of the gun and scrambled to his feet. He backed away from Max, but the big tough seemed right out. Cautiously, Duffy went over to Olga, who was going blue in the face. He jerked the silk cord loose and helped her to her feet. Her breath still rattled in her throat. He pushed her into the sitting-room.

“Okay, baby,” he said, “you’re all right now.”

He dropped her into an arm-chair. The slamming of the front door brought him out of the sitting-room with an oath. Max had vanished. Outside, he heard a car start up, and by the time he had got to the front door he just caught a glimpse of a tail light vanishing round the bend of the road. He banged the front door to, and went back into the sitting-room. Olga was sitting up feeling her throat. She was crying a little.

“You got any liquor here?” he said.

She pointed to the kitchen. “It’s in the pantry,” she said hoarsely.

Duffy found a big earthenware bottle of apple-jack after a hunt round. He found two glasses and came back into the sitting-room. He tilled both glasses and gave her one. “Put it down,” he said. “You need it.”

He drained his glass. The apple-jack went down his throat and then when it reached his stomach it exploded. He had to hold on to the table while his head was spinning, and he caught his breath. Just for a moment, he thought he was going to die, then all of a sudden he felt fine.

He looked at the bottle in amazement. “That’s panther’s spit okay,” he said.

He filled up his glass again, but this time he was more cautious. He did it in three. He looked at her with a little squint. “Sister,” he said, “you’re coming home with me. This spot ain’t going to be healthy any more.”

The apple-jack was bringing her round. He could see the faint colour coming back to her face. Again she touched her bruised neck. “I can’t do that,” she said.

Duffy went over to her. “Pack a bag and get going,” he said; “you gotta make it fast. That bird might come back again.”

Her eyes widened with fear and she got up quickly. He had to help her to the door, her legs were weak. Then, when he saw she could make it, he left her to go upstairs. He went back and gave himself another drink.

By the time she had come down again, he was half cocked. He waved the bottle at her. “This is the best drop of phlegm-cutter I’ve run into for some time.”

She stood hesitating on the bottom stair. “Will you get me a taxi?” she said. “I’ll go to some hotel.”

Duffy went over and took her bag. “You’re coming home with me,” he said. “For the love of Mike, don’t argue.”

He went out in the road and looked up and down, but he couldn’t see a taxi. “We can walk to the end of the road,” he said; “we’ll get a lift there.”

She turned out the lights and slammed the door. They walked down the street together. Duffy felt his feet were pressing into cotton wool. She said nothing until they reached the end of the road, then she said in a small voice, “Thank you.”

Duffy flagged a cab. He helped her in and gave the driver McGuire’s address. Then he got in and sat beside her. He still had the apple-jack in one hand and her suit-case in the other.

“Don’t you worry about that, sister. I was so scared I didn’t think about you.” He uncorked the bottle, and took another long swig. Then he looked at her suspiciously and said, “This stuff won’t give me Screaming-meemies, will it?”

She turned her face away from him and began to cry.

Duffy fell asleep.

CHAPTER VIII

WHEN SAM OPENED the door and saw them, his eyes popped.

Duffy came into the room, pushing past Sam. Olga hesitated, then followed Duffy. Sam shut the door and stood there scratching his head. He was in green pyjamas and a yellow bathrobe.

Duffy said, “Don’t mind him. He ain’t so sissy as he looks.”

Olga gave Sam a scared glance, but said nothing.

Sam said, “Introduce me, you drunken rat.”

“Miss Shann, this is Sam McGuire.”

She still said nothing.

Alice came out of the bedroom, her dressing-gown wrapped tightly round her. Duffy went over to her. “This is Olga Shann,” he said. “She’s in a spot of trouble, so I brought her along.”

“Why, of course.” Alice put her hand on Olga’s arm. “Bill can sleep on the couch, you can have his room.”

Olga said, “But don’t you—?”

Duffy put the apple-jack on the table. “Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “A nice sleep is what you want, but I’ve got just a little question to ask you before you go.”

She turned to face him.

“Who was that guy that tried to get tough with you?”

“Max Weidmer. He and Cattley used to work together.”

Duffy nodded. “Okay; put her to bed, Alice, and be nice to her.”

As Alice led her from the room, Olga said, “But his face? How did he get so knocked about?”

Sam jerked his head. “She was talking about you.”

“Know where this Weidmer hangs out?”

Sam frowned. “Now what?” he asked.

“Come on.” Duffy’s face was set.

Sam went to the telephone and spun the dial. While he ’phoned Duffy went into the bathroom and washed his face and hands. Sam came in a moment later. “He’s got a room at the Lexingham Hotel.”

Duffy said, “Thanks,” then he walked into the sitting-room again.

Sam came in looking lost. “What’s breaking now?”

Duffy said, “Lend me your rod.”

“Hey! You ain’t going to mess around with a heater, for God’s sake.”

“Don’t talk; I’m getting action. Come on, give me the gun. I want to get going.”

Sam sighed and began taking off his dressing-gown. “Okay,” he said, “but I’m coming with you.”

Duffy touched his arm. “You ain’t,” he said. “Things might happen round this burg. You gotta stay and keep an eye on things.”

Sam screwed up his eyes. “What is this?” he demanded.

“Weidmer tried to twist that dame’s neck. He thinks she knows too much. I fancy he might try and get at her here. That’s why you stay put.”

Sam’s eyes grew big. “You want to take my gun?” he said. “What about me?”

“Get going,” Duffy said impatiently, “give me the gun before Alice starts on me. If you drink enough of that panther’s breath, you won’t need any gun.”

Sam went over to the hall table and came back with a .38 automatic. Duffy took it, looked at the magazine, then stuck it down the waist-band of his trousers. He adjusted the points of his vest to hide the butt.

“I may be late,” he said.

Alice came out just as he stepped into the hall. She just caught a glimpse of him. “Where’s that crazy coon going now?” she asked.

Sam put down the apple-jack hastily. “He’s going to get another dame,” he said wildly. “He’s going to fill the whole goddam house with ’em.”

Alice took his arm. “You come along,” she said. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

She didn’t see the worried look in his eyes, as he followed her into the bedroom.

Outside in the street, Duffy flagged a taxi. He gave the driver instructions and then got in the cab. He thought he was spending his life in taxis.

The drive was a long one, and it was just after twelve o’clock when the driver pulled up outside a shabby building.

Duffy paid him off and walked up the steps. The place looked more like a boarding-house than a hotel. He saw a row of letter-boxes and he examined them carefully. Weidmer’s name was on the fourth one. Duffy rang the bell at the top of the row, furthest away from Weidmer’s. A moment later he heard the catch being pulled on the front door and he walked in. The hall was lighted by a small gas-burner, and he had just enough light to grope his way upstairs.

On the second floor, he found Weidmer’s rooms. He put his hand on the butt of the gun, and then turned the handle. He was surprised to feel the door give. He looked carefully over his shoulder to right and left,, then drawing the gun, he stepped quietly into the dark room. He stood in the darkness, listening. There was no sound, except the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. He just stood, holding his breath, listening. Then, when he was satisfied that the room was empty, he struck a match and lit the gas-burner.

It was a large room, full of shabby furniture. Across the far end stood a bed. Duffy jerked up his gun. There was someone lying face downward across the sheets; it was Weidmer. Duffy moved across the room, his gun steady. But Weidmer was dead. Duffy guessed that before he touched him. He turned him over, and then caught his breath; a big, gaping wound showed in Weidmer’s throat. Someone had certainly made a job of it, Duffy thought. He released Weidmer, and let him slump back on the bed.

For several minutes, he stood there thinking furiously. Then he began a systematic search of the room. He guessed it would be useless, but he made his search just the same. He couldn’t find the camera anywhere. He found one thing that made him blink his eyes. At the bottom of a drawer, he dug out a large glossy photograph. At first glance he thought it was some movie star, then he recognized Annabel English.

“Well, by God,” he said.

Across the photo, scrawled in large sprawling writing, was: “To dear Max, from Annabel.”

Duffy folded the photo and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he slipped the gun once more down the front of his trousers, and quietly let himself out of the room.

Once more out in the street, he again flagged a taxi and gave Annabel’s address. Lying back against the hard seat of the cab, his eyes closed a little wearily, but his mouth was hard and set. He was going to bust the business right on the chin, he told himself.

With the key Morgan had given him, he entered the door leading to the organ loft, and quietly walked up the spiral staircase. When he reached the loft, he found the sitting-room was brightly lit, although no one was visible. He swung his leg over the balcony and lowered himself quietly to the floor.

From across the room he could hear the sound of running water. He thought maybe she was taking a bath. Quietly he began to circulate round the room, opening and shutting drawers. When he came to the wine cupboard he had to kneel down to examine inside. At the back of the cupboard, behind a row of sherry bottles, he found his camera. He took it out and examined it carefully. The first thing he noticed was that the film had been removed. He put the camera in his pocket and shut the cupboard doors carefully.

The bath water had ceased to run, and there was a heavy silence in the apartment. Walking across to the door, he put his hand on the knob and gently turned it, then he walked in.

Annabel was lying in the bath, her eyes closed, smoking a cigarette. Duffy thought she looked swell. He shut the door very gently, and put his back against the panels.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. The only surprise she showed was the way the cigarette slipped out of her mouth. It fell into the water with an angry hiss, then floated down the bath until it rested on her knee. It lay on her knee, looking like some peculiar birthmark. Duffy eyed it with interest.

She shifted one of her feet, causing the water to ripple. “This calls for a foam bath, don’t it?” Duffy said. He went over and sat on the bath stool, that was quite close to the bath. From there he could see the small bruise where he had hit her.

“Get out of here,” she whispered.

He said, “We’re going to have a little talk.” He took from his pocket the camera and showed it to her. Then he produced the photo and showed that to her as well. She lay quite still, her eyes black with hate.

“I know who killed Cattley now,” he said. “Whoever had the camera rubbed Cattley, I knew that. I had only to find the camera to burst this open. You played your hand very badly, didn’t you?”

She said, “Get out of here, you sonofabitch.”

Duffy’s mouth set in a hard grin. “When I do,” he said, “the cops are moving in.”

She sat up suddenly in the bath, slopping the water, over the edge with her violence. “You can’t pin this on me,” she said; her breathless voice was shrill. “Find Cattley and see.”

Duffy raised his eyebrows. “So you shifted him, have you?” he said.

He watched her hand moving slowly over to a transparent bottle, standing on a shelf just above her. He saw it contained ammonia. He took the gun from his waist and showed it to her. “I’d like to give you another navel,” he said softly. “Make a move like that and you’ll be able to play the penny whistle on yourself.”

Her hand dropped into the water again. He stood up. “Come out of that,” he said. “There’s lots we got to talk about.”

She climbed out of the bath and grabbed a bath-robe, which she hastily wrapped round herself. Her eyes were like pinpoints Duffy said, “I’ll give you five minutes to fix yourself up, then come out quietly. Don’t start anything I’m leaving the door open.”

He stepped out of the bathroom backwards. A new voice said, “Drop that gun.”

Duffy stood quite still. The voice said, “Go on, put the gun on the floor Don’t turn round vet until you’ve got rid of the gun.”

Duffy put the gun down carefully on the floor at his feet and turned his head. Murray Gleason was standing quite close to him. His hard grey face was cold. He held a Luger in his hand.

Annabel said, “He knows too much.”

Gleason nodded. “So it seems,” then he said, “hurry up and come out. I want you to help me with this bird.”

Duffy stood there, his hands half raised, cursing himself for being so careless. The little note-book burnt in his pocket. It looked as if he were getting into a mighty tight jam.

Gleason said, “Come away from that gun.”

Duffy turned slowly. “You don’t mind if I sit down?” he said, moving over to an arm-chair. “Something tells me that I’m going to need a little rest.”

Gleason watched him. “Don’t pull anything,” he said.

Duffy took a cigarette from the box on the table and thumbed the table lighter. He sat down, keeping his hands on the chair arms. He thought Gleason was a trifle jumpy. There was a little twitch going on at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve pointed a gun at me before,” he said.

“That was unfortunate. We were interrupted.” Gleason sat on the corner of the table, swinging a long thin foot.

Annabel came out of the bathroom. She stood near Gleason. Her face was very hard, and her eyes were frightened.

Duffy looked at her, then he said, “What now?”

Gleason said, “I want that note-book.”

Duffy nodded. “Sure, I can understand that. I told you before, it’s in the mail.”

Annabel said breathlessly, “He’s lying.”

Duffy shrugged. “You think so? Ask yourself, what would you do? I guessed it was important, so I put it in an envelope and posted it to an address in Canada. When I want it, I just write for it.”

Gleason’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe we could persuade you to write for it.”

Duffy mashed the cigarette into the tray. “Meaning what?”

“We’ve got ways….”

“Be your age. You can’t scare me. Do you think anything you can do to me would pry me loose from something I want? If you want to have that book, talk terms.”

Gleason let the barrel of the Luger fall a shade. It pointed at Duffy’s waistcoat.

“How much?” he said.

Annabel said. “You mad?”

Gleason frowned at her. “Let me handle this.”

Duffy studied his finger-nails. “What’s it worth to you?” he said at last.

Gleason showed his teeth in a little grin. “I’d pay five hundred dollars for it,” he said casually.

Duffy got to his feet slowly. “Okay,” he said, “if that’s all you rate it, why bother?”

Gleason jerked up the gun. “Sit down,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh.

Duffy just looked at him. “Wake up, louse,” he said evenly. “You’ve got nothing on me. That heater don’t mean anything now.”

Annabel said with a little hiss, “Shoot him low down.”

Duffy glanced at her. “Hell,” he said. “At one time I got a kick out of looking at you, you murderous little bitch.”

Gleason got to his feet and stood hesitating. His face was almost bewildered. Duffy said to him, “I’m on my way. When you want that note-book back, give me a ring. I’m in the book.”

Gleason said, “Wait.”

Duffy shook his head. He wandered to the door. “You won’t get anywhere by letting the gun off. You’ll never find the book without me being around.”

Gleason’s arm dropped to his side. “Well, five grand,” he said with an effort.

Duffy shook his head, he opened the door. “Don’t rush it,” he said, “take your time. Think about it. I’ll wait.” He pulled the door behind him and walked to the elevator. He suddenly felt very tired and his brain refused to think. He slid the grille and stepped into the elevator and pressed the ground-floor button.

Outside, he beckoned to a yellow cab, and in a short time he was again climbing the stairs to McGuire’s apartment. He opened the door with his key and went in. The clock on the mantelpiece stood at 1.45. He tossed his hat on the sofa and wandered over to the apple-jack, that was still standing on the table. The bottle was light; it was nearly empty. He made a little face. Then he drained the bottle and put it down on the table again. He held his breath for a moment, then gently puffed out his cheeks. The stuff was good.

He stood perfectly still and listened. The apartment was very silent, except for a faint rumbling of Sam’s snores. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the fireplace, then remembering Alice, he went over and picked it up, putting it carefully in the ash-tray.

With legs that felt rubbery with fatigue, he walked to the spare room and gently opened the door. The room was in darkness. He could hear Olga breathing softly.

He felt his way cautiously to the bed and flipped on the small reading-lamp, then he sat down on the bed gently.

Olga started up, her fists clenched and her lips formed into an “O”. Duffy put his hand gently on her mouth. “Okay,” he said softly. “Take it easy.”

She looked at him and then lay back. “You scared me silly,” she said.

“Quiet,” he said, “I don’t want the others to wake.”

She looked from him to the clock and then back at him again. “It’s so late… what is it?”

“Things are happening,” he said. “I gotta talk to you. You know the spot you’re in, don’t you? Max has been knocked off. Someone paid him a visit and slit his throat for him.”

The pupils of her eyes became very big. “You mean—?”

“I’m going to start from the beginning. Then you gotta fill in the gaps.” He lay back a little, resting on his elbow. His battered face was drawn with fatigue. She suddenly felt a little pang of compassion for him.

“Take off your shoes and lie here beside me.”

He shook his head. “I’d go to sleep,” he said. “Now listen. There’s a redhead called Annabel English, she’s the daughter of Edwin English, the politician. She’s wild and bad. One of her boy friends is this guy Weidmer. She has dealings with Cattley. This punk called on her and she tossed him down the elevator shaft. Right, before we go any further, you gotta tell me all you know about Cattley.”

She said in a low voice, “Cattley was mixed up in a big dope traffic. He started off in a small way, peddling the stuff and taking a rake-off. That was when I knew him. Then he got big and began to make money. Weidmer was his boss. Gleason was the big shot. Cattley got tired of taking orders and he stole the list of customers——”

“Stop!” Duffy’s voice sounded like the snap of a steel trap. He took the little note-book from his pocket and put it on the coverlet before her. “Is this the list?”

Her startled face told him. “So that’s it,” he said. He thumbed the book through. “Why, these guys can’t operate without this list… the dope buyers must be hopping mad.” He shut his eyes and tried to think.

“How… how did you get that?” she asked.

He opened his eyes. “I got it from Cattley’s joint. Annabel came down to look for it, and I took it off her. This makes things pretty clear. Hell! They certainly operated in a big way. Look at those names, for God’s sake.”

She put her hand on his arm. “They’ll get it away from you,” she said, fear coming into her eyes. “It means millions to them.”

Duffy turned on his elbow and looked at her. His tired eyes searched her face. “You know,” he said, speaking slowly, “years ago, I used to think of being in a spot like this. To have the chance of grabbing a million dollars from a bunch of toughs. Well, I’ve got my chance. I’m going to play the ends against the middle.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they find you’ve squawked, you’re going to be washed up. I like you, honey. Will you come in on this with me?”

Her eyes became shrewd again. “How?”

“This guy Morgan,” Duffy said, “you ain’t heard about him. I can’t quite see how he fits, except he’s looking for easy dough.”

She looked blank. “Morgan?”

Quickly and with economy, he told her about Morgan and the three toughs. “They thought they’d blackmail Annabel. It’d be good enough to publish a photo of Cattley and Annabel to upset old man English. I thought it was deeper than that. Gee! I gave her the benefit and thought they killed Cattley to pin it on her. All the time she had killed Cattley herself, and I was sucker enough to help her shift the body. Anyway, that’s her funeral now. I’m selling the book to the highest bidder.”

Olga said, “Why should Morgan want to buy it?”

Duffy grinned. “Use your head,” he said. “This crowd here,” he tapped the note-book, “is lousy with dough. They’d pay anything to hush up scandal. How’d it look if it got round that they traded in dope?”

She leant back in the bed and brooded. Then she said, “I believe you’ve got something.”

Duffy put the note-book away. “You bet I’ve got something,” he said. “Why not? Why the hell shouldn’t I make a little dough out of these punks? Why shouldn’t you?”

“How much will it be?” she asked.

“Fifty grand, hundred grand, anything.”

She lay back flat, and ran her fingers through her thick hair. Duffy thought she was a very nice broad indeed. “We could do a lot with that money, couldn’t we?” she said, her voice thrilling.

Duffy patted her hand. “Yeah,” he said, “we could do a lot.” He glanced at the clock and got stiffly to his feet. “I’m going to have a little sleep. There’s action coming.”

She put her hand on his arm. “You look so tired,” she said.

He dug up a grin. “You’re dead right, sister.”

She lay there, her eyes very bright, and he could see the sudden rising and falling of her breasts under the sheet. She said, looking into his eyes, “I could make you better. Won’t you come?”

He sat down on the bed again. “You’re swell,” he said. “Not tonight. Tomorrow we’ll get out of here.” He paused, then he nodded his head to the next room. “They’re nice people. It wouldn’t be fair on them. Tomorrow.”

He put his hand against her face. “Didn’t you think Alice was swell?” He stepped away from the bed. “They mustn’t know about this. This is between you and me.”

She watched him go from the room, then turned out the light. She lay in the dark a long time, before she fell asleep.