I'll Get You for This

1

A PACKARD sedan swished to a standstill before one of the air towers. I glanced through the office window to satisfy myself that Bones, the negro help, was on the job. He was there all right. I watched him fussing around the car, gave him full marks for his enthusiasm, returned to work.

I still got a big bang out of seeing a customer arrive although I had now been running the service station for three months. It was a good buy, and after spending money on it, I had already doubled the business the previous owner had got out of it.

Clair had been startled when I had told her I intended to buy a service station. She thought I was planning to get a job with a big company in New York. So I was, but after that ’phone call from Lois Spence I had changed my mind.

I guessed Lois had found out that I had reservations for an air passage to New York, and would follow me there. I decided to duck out of sight. If I had been on my own I’d have waited for them, but Clair complicated things. I couldn’t be with her every minute of the day, and they wouldn’t have had much difficulty in handling her if they ever caught up with her.

So I cancelled the air passage, told Clair I wanted to go into the motor business, and pulled out of Paradise Palms in the Buick for a long haul to California.

I found what I was looking for on the Carmel-San Simeon Highway, within easy reach of San Francisco and Los Angeles. It was a small, bright well-kept station, and the owner was only giving up through ill-health.

It had four pumps, ten thousand gallons of storage, oil lube tanks, two air and water towers, and a good bit of waste land for extra buildings. The thing that really decided us was the house that went with the business. It was only a few yards from the service station, and it had a nice little garden. The house itself was cute, and Clair fell for it the moment she saw it. I fell for it too because she would be close to me all the time, and until I was sure we had lost Lois and Bat that was the way I wanted it.

I began to make alterations to the service station as soon as we moved in. I had it painted red and white. Even the pavements of the driveways were divided into red and white squares. I had a big sign hoisted on the roof which read: THE SQUARE SERVICE STATION.

Clair nearly died laughing when she saw the sign, but I knew it was the kind of thing that pulled in suckers.

I added two more air and water towers. Mechanics put in a new type of hydraulic hoist and a complete high-pressure greasing outfit. Near the rest-room building, startling under its new coat of paint and shining inside with added luxuries, was erected a steel shed to house car-washing and polishing equipment.

I hired Bones and a couple of youths to help, and business went ahead with a bang.

One of the youths, Bradley, was a pretty smart mechanic, and I knew most things about the inside of a car. We didn’t reckon to take on any big repair jobs, but we could handle the day-today adjustments that came in; but once we did handle three cars that got involved in a smash.

All day long cars kept coming in, and I was on the jump from six in the morning to seven at night. I fixed up a night shift as I found I was turning away business by closing down at seven. I got an old man and a youth to handle the night trade, which wasn’t heavy, but kept coming, three or four cars an hour.

I had just finished checking the accounts and I found I’d cleared nine hundred dollars after three months’ work. I ran over to the house to let Clair know we weren’t broke yet.

I found her in the kitchen, a cook-book in her hand, a puzzled expression in her eyes.

She found the job of being a housewife tougher than I found my new job. She had started off with little or no knowledge of how to run a house, how to cook, but she wouldn’t hire a help. She said she wanted to learn to be useful, and it was time she knew how to cook anyway. I didn’t dissuade her, reckoning that after a while she’d get tired of it and throw in her hand. But she didn’t. For the first two or three weeks we ate some pretty awful meals. I have a cast-iron stomach so I didn’t complain, and after a while the meals got better; now they were pretty good, and improving all the time.

She kept the house like a new pin, and I finally persuaded her to let one of the youths do the rough work, but the rest of it she continued to do herself.

Hi, honey,” I said, breezing into the kitchen. “I’ve just audited the books. We’re nine hundred

bucks to the good: that’s clear profit, and we don’t owe a cent.”

She turned, laid down the cook-book, laughed at me.

“I believe you’re really crazy about your old gas station,” she said. “And after all those threats about not settling down.”

I put my arm round her. “I’ve been too busy to realize that this is settling down. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. I had the idea that when a guy settled down, he parked his fanny, and let moss grow over him. I guess I was wrong.”

“Don’t say fanny,” she reproved. “It’s vulgar.”

I grinned at her. “Let’s run into San Francisco tonight, and paint the town red,” I said. “It’s time you and I stepped out. We’ve been working now three months without a break. How about it?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes, let’s do that,” she said, throwing her arms round my neck. “Can you get off early?”

“If we leave just before seven it’ll be time enough. Going to put on your glad rags?”

“Of course, and so are you. It’s time I saw you in something better than those awful old overalls.”

The station buzzer sounded. That told me Bones had someone out front whom he couldn’t handle.

“A little trouble,” I said, kissing Clair. “See how important I am? The moment I turn my back—”

She pushed me out of the kitchen.

“Run away,” she said, “or you won’t have any lunch.”

I beat it back to the station.

There was trouble all right. A big Cadillac had hit the concrete wall of the driveway. Its fender had been pushed in and the bumper was buckled. It was a swell-looking car, and it hurt me to see the damage.

Bones was standing by. His usually smiling face was shiny and dismayed. He rolled his eyes at me as I came up.

“It wasn’t my fault, boss,” he said hurriedly. “The lady got into the wrong gear.”

“Don’t tell such bloody lies, you rotten nigger,” a shrill, hard voice exploded from inside the car. “You waved me on. I thought I had plenty of room.”

I signalled to Bones to scram, then walked up to the car, looked in.

A typical lovely young product of Hollywood sat at the wheel. She was dark, expensively dressed, pretty according to the standard hardness of the Movie colony. She was also very angry, and under her rouge her skin was white as marble.

“See what your blasted nigger’s done to my car,” she stormed as soon as she saw me. “Fetch the manager. I’m going to raise holy hell about this!”

“Start raising it now,” I said quietly. “I’m the owner, manager and office boy all rolled into one. I’m sorry to see such a grand car busted like this.”

She eyed me up and down. “So you’re sorry, are you? What am I supposed to do? Smile and drive away? Let me tell you that you haven’t started to be sorry yet!”

I would have liked to have slapped her, but remembering that customers are always right, I said I’d have the fender fixed for her immediately.

“What?” she snapped. “I wouldn’t let you touch it.” She drummed on the steering wheel. “I must have been crazy to have turned into a hick joint like this. Well, it’ll certainly “be a lesson to me. No more hick joints for me.”

I felt my temper rising, so I walked to the front of the car, inspected the damage. It certainly was pretty bad, and it seemed to me she must have rammed the wall with considerable force.

“Just to get the record straight,” I said, coming back, “just how did this happen?”

“I was reversing … I mean I was coming forward—”

“You were reversing, you mean,” I said. “You couldn’t have come forward from this angle. But you made a mistake in the gears and your car jumped forward.” I glanced inside the car. “If you look, you’ll see your gear is still in bottom.”

She opened the car door, her eyes flashing.

“Are you suggesting I can’t drive a car?” she asked, getting out of the car, facing me.

“It looks that way,” I said, sick of her.

Her mouth tightened, and she swung a slap at my face. I picked it off in mid-air, held her wrist, grinned at her. We were close, and I caught the smell of gin on her breath. I looked at her sharply. She was drunk all right. I wondered I hadn’t noticed it before.

“What goes on?” a flat voice demanded.

I looked around, saw a State Highway cop frowning at me. I let go of the girl’s wrist.

“Arrest that man!” the girl stormed. “He was trying to assault me.”

“Bad for business,” the cop said, eyeing me over.

“Very,” I said.

Clair appeared from nowhere.

I winked at her.

“The lady’s charging me with assault,” I said, and laughed.

Clair took my arm, said nothing. We looked at the cop. The ball seemed to be in his court.

“Why did you try to hit him?” the cop asked the girl. “I saw you do that.”

“Look what he’s done to my car,” she stormed. “Call this a Service Station! My God! I’ll sue this crummy bastard out of business.”

The cop eyed her disapprovingly, walked to the Cadillac, looked at it.

“Tsk, tsk.” He clicked with his tongue, glanced inside the car, spotted the gear lever, gave me an old-fashioned look. “What have you gotta say about this, pal?” he asked.

“My man saw what happened,” I said. “I just tried to smooth things over.” I turned, waved to Bones, who was watching with enormous eyes in the background. “Tell the officer what happended,” I said as he shuffled up.

“If you’re going to take that lousy nigger’s word against mine, I’ll have the coat off your back!” the girl stormed.

“Will you?” the cop said, raising his eyebrows. “You and who else? Come on,” he went on to Bones, “spill it.”

Bones told how the Cadillac had driven into the driveway very fast, and had pulled up dead, narrowly missing the air tower. He had asked the girl to reverse back to the gas pump as she had wanted gas, and she had promptly driven slap into the wall.

“Yeah, I guess that’s about how it did happen,” the cop said. He eyed the girl over. “What’s your name, sister?”

I thought she was going to explode.

“My good man,” she said, after a tense pause. “I am Lydia Hamilton, the Goldfield Production star.”

I had never heard of her, but then I seldom went to the movies. Bones apparently had, because he sucked his teeth and goggled at her.

“I don’t care if you’re George Washington’s grandmother or even Abe Lincoln’s aunt, you’re pinched,” the cop said. “The charge, if it interests you, is being drunk while in charge of a car. Now come on, we’ll all take a trip to the station.”

I thought the girl was going to strike the cop; so did he, because he took a quick step back. But she controlled herself, said, “You’ll be sorry you started this,” walked to the Cadillac.

“Hey, you ain’t fit to drive,” the cop said. He looked at me. “Take her over to the station, pal. You’ll be wanted as a witness, anyway. Better send the dinge over too.”

I didn’t want to go, but there was nothing else I could do. I told Clair I’d be right back, asked Bradley to keep an eye on the station, and went over to the Cadillac.

“I’m not having that rat drive me,” the girl said.

“Look, sister,” the cop said in a bored voice, “I’ll send for the waggon if you like. You’re under arrest, and you can come to the station any way you like, but you’ll come.”

She hesitated, then got into the Cadillac. She threw the ignition keys at me, hitting me in the face. I picked them off the floor, got in beside her, shifted the gear lever from bottom to neutral, trod on the starter.

She began cursing me as soon as we had driven out into the highway. She kept on without a pause for a mile or so, then I got tired of it, told her to shut up.

“I’m not shutting up, you cheap grease monkey,” she said. “I’ll ruin you for this. You and your prissy mouth floozie. When I’m through with you, you’ll be sorry you were born.”

“Someone who doesn’t mind touching you ought to apply a hairbrush to your tail,” I said.

She gave a squeal of fury, flung herself at me and wrenched the wheel to the right. The car, travelling at forty miles an hour, slewed across the road. I stamped on the foot brake, lugged back the parking brake. The car stopped dead, and she was thrown forward. Her head slammed against the dash-board. She passed out.

The cop had skidded to a standstill. He got off his motorcycle, walked over to me.

“For the love of Mike,” he said crossly. “Can’t you drive, either?”

I told him what had happened, and be looked at the unconscious girl.

“Crazy as a bug,” he said. “I’ve heard tales about her. These movie stars give me a pain. This dame is always in a jam, but she buys her way out. This little outing’s going to cost her something. Well, come on, I ain’t got all day.”

We continued on our way to the station.

2

It was our first visit to San Francisco, and neither of us knew where to find the kind of place we were looking for. We took a traffic cop into our confidence and told him we wanted a good meal and some fun. Where did he suggest ?

He put his foot on the running board, pushed his hat to the back of his head, and regarded us with a kindly eye. At least, he regarded Clair with a kindly eye I don’t think he even noticed me.

“Well, miss, if you want a night out you couldn’t do better than Joe’s. It’s the nicest joint in town, and that’s saying a lot.”

“Listen, brother,” I said, leaning over Clair so he could see my tuxedo. “We want class with our fun tonight. Nothing’s too good for us. I’m burning to spend dough, and low dives are off the agenda.”

He gave me a fishy look. “I still say Joe’s,” he said. “It has plenty of class, and you have a good time as well. If you don’t want Joe’s, you can go drive into the harbour Why should I worry my head?”

It seemed as if it had to be Joe’s. We thanked him, asked him the way.

He told us. In fact, he did everything except draw a map.

“Tell Joe I sent you,” he said, winking. “Patrolman O’Brien. Tell him, and you’ll get special treatment.”

After we had driven a block, I said: “Now, we’ll ask someone else. I bet that flatfoot is just a talent scout for Joe’s.”

Clair said she would like to go to Joe’s.

“If it’s no good, we can always go somewhere else,” she argued.

We found Joe’s down a side street. There was nothing gaudy nor deluxe about the place; no doorman to help you out of your car, no one to tell you where to park, no awning, no carpet. It was just a door in the wall with a neon sign: JOE’S.

“Well, here we are, sweetheart,” I said “Do I leave the car here or do we take it inside?”

“You knock on the door and ask,” Clair said severely. “The way you behave you’d imagine you’d never been to a joint before.”

“Not in a tuxedo I haven’t,” I said, getting out of the car. “It makes me kind of shy.” I rapped on the door, waited.

The door was opened by a thickset man with a tin ear, and a broken nose. He had squashed himself into a boiled shirt, and he looked no more comfortable in it than if he’d been wearing a hair shirt.

“Good evening,” I said. “We have come to eat. Patrolman O’Brien recommended this place. How about it?”

“That jerk always recommends us,” the thickset man said, spat past me into the street. “As if we want his lousy recommendations. Well, now you’re here, you’d better come in.”

“What do I do with the car?” I asked, a little startled.

He stared at the Buick, shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Maybe you can trade it in for a fur coat, if you want a fur coat.”

I tapped him on his chest. “Listen, my fine friend,” I said, “I’ve taken bigger guys than you and made tomato juice out of them.”

He looked interested, surprised.

“Who, for instance?”

Clair joined us.

“How are you going?” she asked me.

“Fine,” I said. “I was just about to smack this punk’s ears down. His manners come out of a zoo.”

The thickset man regarded Clair with goggling eyes. He simpered at her.

“Would you please let us in ?” she said, smiling at him. “I’ve heard so much about Joe’s.”

“Sure,” he said, standing aside, “come right in.” He caught my eyes, said: “Put the heep down that alley. If a cop spots it here he’ll have you for obstruction.”

“Wait,” I said to Clair, drove the Buick down the alley, walked back.

Together we mounted stairs.

The thickset man stared after us.

Clair whispered that he was looking at her ankles, and wasn’t he a lamb!

I said if I thought he could see more than her ankles I’d turn him into mutton.

A check girl in peach-bloom Chinese pyjamas came over to take my hat. She gave me a faint leer when Clair wasn’t looking. I leered back.

The lobby had the lush look of a drop curtain for a high-class musical comedy. It was all tinsel and glitter. Even the mirrors that hung on the walls were tinted pink to make you feel better than you looked. To the right of the lobby was the entrance to the dining-room. The captain of waiters stood in the doorway, menu in hand, and officiated like a well-fed Greek god.

On the other side of the lobby was the bar, luxurious under indirect lighting. The rattle of ice cubes in a shaker made sweet music.

“This is really something,” I said, speaking out of the corner of my mouth. “I don’t think there’ll be much of our nine hundred bucks profit left by the time this joint’s through with us.”

“You can always order a glass of milk and tell them you belong to an obscure religious order,” Clair murmured, and drifted away to the ladies’ room.

I stood around, tried to look as if I spent my whole life in this kind of atmosphere, didn’t succeed very well.

A girl who I assumed was out of the cabaret strutted across the lobby. Except for a G-string and two gold saucepan lids where they were most needed she was as bare as the back of my hand. When I gaped at her she sneered in disdain.

As she passed me, I said quietly, “Don’t go sitting on a cane-bottomed chair.”

Her long slinky stride faltered, but she kept on. I tried not to peep at her naked back, but I peeped just the same. I decided I was going to like this place.

Clair came out of the ladies’ room. Her dress looked like sea-water sifted over with gold dust.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” I said, leering at her. “My wife’s left me. Shall we go off together and have fun?”

“Wouldn’t she mind?” Clair asked gravely.

“She’d be wild,” I returned, “but I’m infatuated with your dress. Let’s go and neck in my car.”

“You mean now—this very minute?”

“Why not?” I said.

She slipped her arm through mine. “Don’t let’s pretend I’m not your wife,” she said. “I like being your wife.”

“I’m glad and proud about that, Mrs. Cain,” I said, and meant it. “Shall we talk to that important-looking gentleman with the menus and see what he would like us to eat?”

She nodded.

We presented ourselves to the captain of waiters. He bowed to Clair, bowed to me.

“This is our first visit,” I explained. “We want a good time. Can we leave it to you?”

“Certainly, monsieur,” he returned, his voice was as dry as sand. “Perhaps you would care to decide what you will eat first, and then perhaps you would like to visit our cocktail bar? The cabaret begins at eleven. I will arrange a table near the floor for you.”

I wasn’t kidding myself he was making a fuss of me. He was making a fuss of Clair.

We decided, after some thought and discussion, to have anti-pasto, steaks broiled over charcoal, hashed brown potatoes in cream, combination salads and a bottle of Liebfraumlich.

The captain of waiters wrote the order in a little gold-covered note-book, bowed, said it would be ready for us in half an hour. He personally conducted us to the cocktail bar, signalled to the barman, left us.

“Royal stuff,” I said to Clair. “I believe they’ve all fallen in love with you.”

She shook her head. “It’s your determined chin and blue eyes.”

I knew she was wrong.

The barman waited, admiring Clair without attempting to conceal the fact. He glanced at me; there was respectful envy in his eyes.

I ordered two large, very dry martinis.

We went over to a sofa seat, sat down, lit cigarettes. People looked at us, but we didn’t worry. We were happy enough in our own company. After a while, the barman brought the drinks. I

paid him, tipped him, and he went away silently, as if drawn along on wheels.

We sipped the martinis. They were very good.

There was something about the hard standard of prettiness of the women at the bar that reminded me of Lydia Hamilton. I said as much to Clair.

“Don’t let’s talk about her,” Clair said. “She was ghastly. I was so sorry for Hones. She hurt him terribly.”

“Not half as much as the judge hurt her,” I said with a grin. “Bones is a good lad. I think I’ll give him a raise. Do you think it’d be an idea to give him a uniform as well; a red and white check overall or something? I think all the boys might wear a uniform. It’d give the joint tone.”

She laughed. “Darling, I’m so glad you like your old gas station. There was a time—”

“Forget it,” I said, taking her hand. “It’s fun, but it wouldn’t be fun without you.”

“Honest?”

I nodded. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be still kicking around as a bum.”

“I have an idea,” she said, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes. “Now, don’t say no until I’ve explained. How would it be if we opened a restaurant ? We could use the waste ground by the house. It needn’t be an elaborate building. We could serve meals out of doors. Barbecue cooking: chicken, steaks, spareribs, the way we know how to cook them, salad and things. I’d love to organize it all if you’d let me.”

I stared at her. “It’s a terrific idea,” I exclaimed. “However did you think of it?”

Her face brightened. “Oh, I wanted to help. I know I run the house, but I’d rather make some money. Shall we?”

“We’ll find out how much it’ll cost to put up a suitable building first thing tomorrow,” I said, and we forgot our surroundings in the discussion that followed.

After a while, I noticed Clair wasn’t concentrating. I looked at her, saw she was flushed, said: “What’s on your mind, honey? Got an attack of grippe?”

She didn’t smile, shook her head, looked away. “Promise you won’t make a scene?” she whispered.

“I never make scenes,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a man over the way who hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he came in,” she said. “He’s making me uncomfortable. Now, please …”

I looked across the room, located a man in a white dinner-jacket sitting on his own. He had grey hair. There was nothing unusual about his heavy handsome face except a small puckered scar on his left check that had almost the effect of a dimple.

I gave him the hard eye, and he immediately looked away.

“Well, anyway,” I said, putting down my empty glass, “it’s time we had something to eat. If he really bothers you I’ll talk to him.”

“You’re not to,” she said, walking across the bar at my side. “Those days are over.”

The barman bowed to her as we left. She gave him a nice smile. I was very proud of her.

The captain of waiters personally conducted us to our seats. The table he had reserved for us was on the edge of the dance floor. I noticed a number of the men diners looked at Clair. She was worth looking at.

We sat down. The antipasto was fine. There were salty anchovies bedded on a firm slice of tomato; scarlet peppers soaked in white vinegar; thin bologna sausages; fat white shrimps; transparent slices of ham, and celery stuffed with cottage cheese. We had two large dry martinis to go with it.

Half-way through the meal, the man in the white dinner-jacket wandered in. He seemed to be known. People nodded to him as he stalked between the tables. He passed close to us, and gave Clair a long penetrating stare. She avoided his eyes. I scowled at him, but he didn’t notice. He sat a couple of tables away from us, waved to the waiter, ordered a Rye straight. He lit a cigarette, settled down to stare at Clair.

“I think I’ll drop over and talk to that masher,” I said, suddenly very angry.

Clair gripped my arm. “No, darling, don’t. It’ll spoil everything, and I’m having a lovely time. Please, let’s forget him. I don’t mind.”

She began talking about the restaurant idea, but neither of us had much heart for it now. She was worried, and I was getting madder every moment.

Then suddenly I saw her stiffen. I followed the direction of her eyes. Lydia Hamilton had just entered. She swept down the aisle between the tables before the captain of waiters could escort her, arrived at the table occupied by the man in the white dinner-jacket, sat down. He glanced at her in a bored way, waved to the waiter.

“Now, perhaps we’ll have rest from that guy,” I said. “I’m sorry to see that dame here, but she won’t spoil my dinner.”

The waiter served the broiled steak. It looked very good. For a while we ate. Then I looked up suddenly. The masher was at it again. His half-closed eyes were probing Clair—X-ray eyes.

I looked at Lydia Hamilton. She was on to him. Her face was hard, furious.

“We’re going to have some trouble,” I said to Clair in an undertone. “That dame’s crazy enough to start anything.” I thought it best to warn her.

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when Lydia smacked the man in the white dinnerjacket across his face. He wasn’t expecting anything like that, and he nearly fell off his chair. The sound of the smack cracked through the big dining-room. There was a sudden hush, then Lydia’s strident voice shrilled, “Take your eyes off that whore.”

I found myself on my feet. Clair hung on to my sleeve The grey-haired man cursed Lydia in a loud clear voice, calling her about six’names that are not usually mentioned by handsome men in white dinner-jackets. Then he drew back his fist, punched her in the face.

Lydia fell out of her chair, blood from her nose ran down her chin. People stood up, craned their necks. A woman screamed. The captain of waiters began a slow, cautious walk towards the scene.

The man in the white dinner-jacket stood over Lydia. He continued to curse her; then he drew back his foot to kick her. I jerked my sleeve free from Clair’s clutch, jumped towards him.

There was a sharp crack of gunfire. A spurt of flame came from Lydia’s hand. The man in the white dinner-jacket coughed” once, twice, folded at the knees. He went down. I grabbed the toy gun out of Lydia’s hand. She clawed me down the face with her free hand. I pushed her away, stood back. She stared up at me, her eyes becoming sane again.

“Hello, Hick,” she said. “Why couldn’t you keep your cheap floozie where she belongs?”

I turned from her, looked down at the man lying on the floor. I decided she wouldn’t be able to buy herself out of this jam.

3

Believe me, when a Hollywood movie actress takes it into her head to shoot her boy friend in a swank night club, all hell starts popping.

As soon as it was discovered that the man in the white dinner-jacket was dead, everyone made a dive for the doors. But the captain of waiters was one jump ahead of them. The doors were closed, and the thickset man from downstairs stood with his back against them. He grinned evilly at the crowd, flexed his muscles, invited anyone to try to pass him. The crowd decided that after all they weren’t in a hurry to leave.

“Will you all please take your seats?” the captain of waiters said smoothly. “The police are on the way, and no one may leave without permission.”

People went back to their tables, leaving Lydia alone with her dead. She stood over the body, a serviette held to her bleeding nose. She was still drunk enough not to realize that the man in the white dinner-jacket was dead. She kept stirring him with her foot, saying, “Get up, you swine. You can’t scare me,” but she was beginning to sense the jam she was in, and her voice was going off-key.

It took the police six minutes by my watch to arrive. They came in: three plain-clothes men, four in uniform, a doctor, a photographer and the D.A.’s man.

They went to work in the usual efficient way policemen go to work. It was only when the doctor signed to a couple of the uniformed men to cover the body with a table-cloth that the nicklc dropped in Lydia’s befuddled mind. As they draped the cloth over the body, she let out a screech that set everyone’s teeth on edge.

“Okay, sister,” the Homicide man said, tapping her arm. “Take it easy. It won’t get you anywhere.”

She looked wildly around the room: saw me.

“It’s all your fault, you—” she screamed. “It was you who spoilt my lovely car.”

People stood on chairs to look at me. The Homicide man gave me a hard stare. I sat there, looked back. There was nothing else I could do. It was a pretty nasty moment.

Lydia suddenly made a dive at me, but the cops grabbed her.

“Get her out of here,” the Homicide man said as she began to curse. Even his face registered disgust.

Things quieted down when she had gone. The Homicide man came over to me, asked where I figured in this.

“She’s crazy drunk,” I said. “I don’t figure in it at all. I only grabbed her gun.”

“What’s this about her car?”

“We had a little accident this morning. There was nothing to it.”

He took out his note-book, asked me my name. I told him Jack Cain. My middle name was Jack, anyway. I gave him my address, went into details about the Cadillac, said nothing about the man in the white dinner-jacket trying to mash Clair. I guessed it would come out at the trial, but I wasn’t going to help unnecessarily.

“Any idea why she shot the guy?” the Homicide man demanded.

I shook my head. “I wasn’t watching them,” I lied. “He suddenly punched her, began kicking her. I went to her help; before I could reach the guy, she shot him.”

“Okay,” he said, eyeing me over. I could see he wasn’t entirely satisfied, but he had a lot on his mind. “We’ll be needing you again.”

I said all right, and could we go now?

He sent a cop out to check the licence tag on the Buick. The cop came back, nodded.

“Okay, you can go,” the Homicide man said. “Stick close.”

We made our way out of the dining-room. Eyes followed us. It was nice to get into the lobby. The captain of waiters had Clair’s wrap ready. He dropped it over her shoulders, said he was sorry our evening was spoilt. He sounded as if he was really sorry.

The cigarette girl was standing on a chair, trying to see into the dining-room. Her nakedness had lost its charm for me. She eyed me curiously.

Clair was white and silent. She stood waiting while the check girl found my hat. The peachbloom pyjamas seemed tawdry, out of place in the tense atmosphere. I cursed Patrolman O’Brien. I decided I must have been crazy to have taken a recommendation from a cop.

“Just a second, sweetheart,” I said to Clair, took her chiffon scarf, put it around her head, fixed it so it all but hid her face.

She regarded me with scared eyes. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” I said. “The press are lurking outside.”

I took her arm and we went down the stairs. It was only days after that I remembered I’d forgotten to ask for a check. The captain of waiters either forgot too or else he felt he couldn’t ask payment for such an unsatisfactory evening.

As we stepped into the street, four men came hurrying towards us. I grabbed Clair’s arm, rushed her to the alley.

The men hesitated, stopped, stared after us.

“Get in,” I said, jerking open the Buick door.

A flash-light exploded in our faces. I shoved Clair into the car, turned.

A little guy was standing near me, a press camera in his hand.

“You’re the guy who grabbed the gun?” he asked. “Jack Cain, ain’t it?”

“Not me,” I said, edging towards him. “Cain’s still in there.” I grabbed his camera before he could guess what I was at, whipped out the plate, dropped it on the sidewalk, trod on it.

I handed him back the camera.

“You punk!” he exclaimed. “You can’t do this to me.” He set himself for a swing, but I gave him a quick push, sent him staggering, got into the Buick.

I shot out of the alley.

Clair wanted to know why I had said I was Jack Cain; why

I had smashed the photographer’s plate. She sounded very scared.

There was no point in keeping it from her any longer. I told her about Lois Spence telephoning me on the night before we left Paradise Palms. I gave her an idea what Lois had said.

“I’m not kidding myself,” I said, watching the road unreel beneath the head-lights. “Those two are dangerous, vicious. That’s why I ducked out of sight. Maybe I was a fool. I should have put you somewhere safe and gone after them. Now we’re stuck. This case is going to get a hell of a lot of publicity. We’ll be in the papers. As soon as Lois knows where we are, she and Bat will start something or my guess is all wrong. That’s why I gave a wrong name and smashed that plate. It’ll give us a little time to make up our minds what to do.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” she said in a steady voice, “I’m not giving up our home for them. I’m not scared as long as you’re with me.”

It was what I hoped she would say, but for all that, I had an uneasy feeling that our spell of peace was coming to an end.

4

We read in the morning’s newspaper that Clem Kuntz, the shrewdest criminal lawyer on the Pacific Coast, was handling Lydia Hamilton’s defence. I expected he’d call on us. He did.

He arrived as I was going off duty. I thought he was a customer when I saw the big Lincoln roll up the driveway, but I soon found out different.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, getting out of the car. “I’m Kuntz. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

I had heard of him all right, even before he had taken charge of the Gray Howard Slaying, as the newspapers called it. Gray Howard was the name of the man in the white dinner-jacket. He turned out to be a big-shot movie director.

I eyed Kuntz over. He was a squat square man with a mulberry coloured face. He had the hardest eyes I’d ever seen in a man’s face, and he gave me the full benefit of them. I stared right back at him, said: “Go ahead. I can give you a couple of minutes, then I want my supper.”

He shook his head. “A couple of minutes won’t do,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk. You’d better play with me, Cain. I could put you in a hell of a spot if I felt that way.”

I hesitated, decided that maybe he could put me in a spot, jerked my head to the house.

“Then you’d better come in.”

We went into the house, and I showed him into the front room. He looked round, grunted, took up a position by the window. I sat in the easy chair, yawned, pulled my nose, said, “Shoot.”

“You married?” he asked abruptly.

I nodded. “What of it?”

“I’d like to meet your wife.”

I shook my head. “Not before you tell me what’s on your mind,” I said. “I’m particular whom she meets.”

His eyes snapped. “Scared to let me see her?” he barked.

I laughed at him. “You’re wasting time,” I said; “come off your high horse.”

The door opened and Clair came in. She was wearing a cute frilly apron over a simple little frock in sky blue. She looked a kid, and a pretty one at that.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” she said, backing out.

“Come in,” I said. “This is Mr. Clem Kuntz. The Mr. Kuntz.” I looked at the mulberry coloured face. “This is my wife. Satisfied?”

He was looking narrowly at Clair. There was an expression of startled dismay in his eyes.

I suddenly got what he was driving at. I grinned.

“Not what you expected?” I said. “I bet your client told you she was hard, brassy, and on the make.”

He drew in a deep breath, bowed to Clair.

“I merely wanted to know, Mrs. Cain, if you spoke to Gray Howard on the night of his death,” he said, clinging to the shreds of his dignity.

She looked at me, shook her head.

“Look, Mr. Kuntz,” I said, “I know what you hope to establish. It’s to your client’s advantage if you can prove that Clair was trying to make Howard. She wasn’t, and I don’t think, however hard you try, you’d ever convince a jury she was. Howard was propositioning her. I wanted to fix him, but Clair didn’t want a scene. We had been working hard for three months, and it was our first night out together. It was our hard luck that we should run into Howard. Clair didn’t encourage him. Your client was sore because Howard couldn’t keep his eyes to himself. But that didn’t cause the murder. It touched it off, but it had been coming to a head for some time. A guy doesn’t punch a woman in the lace unless he’s sick to death of her. It was the punch that killed Howard… not Clair.”

Kuntz cleared his throat, grunted.

“I wonder if you always look like that,” he said to Clair, speaking his thoughts out aloud.

“She’ll look like that at the trial, if you decide to call her,” I said. “And she’ll hurt your client’s case if you try to make out she’s a vamp.”

He passed his fat hand over his bald head, frowned. He knew when he was licked.

“I don’t think I’ll call her,” he said. “All right, Cain, I guess I’m wasting time. I thought your wife would be a different type.” He looked wistfully at Clair, shook his head, went.

We breathed again. Maybe it was going to work out all right. Maybe we weren’t going to get any publicity.

The District Attorney’s man was the next to call. He had a report from the State Highway cop who had arrested Lydia on the drunk while driving charge. As soon as he learned that Lydia had tried to wreck the Cadillac with me in it, he hotfooted over to see me. He said it was just the kind of evidence he wanted. It proved that Lydia was a dangerous drunk, and it’d carry a lot of weight with the jury. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was too burned up with the idea.

The next morning the press had the story.

They began arriving before we had breakfast, and they crawled all over us. The little guy who had tried to photograph us on the night of the murder was well in the forefront. He snarled at me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

“Hello, wise guy,” he said. “So you don’t like publicity? My editor will sure fix you for smashing that plate.”

Flash-lights exploded around us for the next hour. We tried to duck out of sight, but it was like a siege. When they had gone, I went upstairs, hunted out Bat’s .38. I sat on the bed, cleaned, oiled and loaded it. It seemed odd to have a gun banging against my side again. I didn’t like the feel of it any more. I was worried too that I was so much slower on the draw than I used to be. It was nearly four months since I pulled a gun, and I knew I’d have to get in some practice if I was going to match Bat.

Clair found me practising.

I pulled her down on the bed beside me.

“I think I’ll send you away,” I said. “If Bat’s going to start anything, he’ll get at me through you. We’ll have to think where you can go.”

She shook her head. “It’s no use running away, darling,” she said. “They may never come after us, and we’d be separated for months, waiting. Besides, they want me at the trial and things could happen then if they’re going to happen at all. Let’s stick together. I’d never have a moment’s peace without you.” She flung her arms around my neck. “I don’t care what you say. I’m not going to leave you.”

I thought for a moment, decided she was right.

“We’ll wait for them,” I said.

I was expecting something pretty bad from the newspapers, but nothing as bad as the front page of the Clarion, the paper my friend the photographer worked on. They had dug up the whole story of Paradise Palms and had smeared it all over the front page with photographs of myself, Clair, the service station, Killeano and even Clairbold, the boy wonder.

I took one look, cursed.

5

As the weeks went by and nothing happened, we gradually relaxed. But we still took precautions. I carried a gun, I continued to practice, and I regained my speed. We had a couple of fierce police dogs around the house, but no one can continue to be keyed up all the time waiting for trouble if trouble doesn’t come.

At first, we both had the jitters, catching each other listening to any unusual sound, breaking off our conversation at an approaching step, looking uneasily at each other whenever the telephone rang. But that kind of tension doesn’t last. After the fourth week we were almost back to normal, although I took care never to approach any car that came into the station unless I could see the driver. If I couldn’t see who was driving, I sent Bones. I never did a night shift either.

Lydia Hamilton’s trial was a three-day sensation. Kuntz knew she hadn’t a chance to beat the rap so he pleaded her guilty, but insane. The D.A. was after her blood, and he didn’t call me, as my evidence would have helped establish the fact that she was insane.

Kuntz got his verdict after a terrific battle, and after the usual ballyhoo from the press the story died a natural death.

A week after the trial, and five weeks after the newspapers had first discovered me, Lois Spence showed her hand.

I had finished for the night, and had handed over to Ben the old guy who handled the night shift, when the telephone in the office rang.

“I’ll answer it,” I said to Ben as a car came up the driveway.

I returned to the office, lifted the receiver.

“Cain?” a woman’s voice asked.

I knew at once who it was. I felt my lips lift off my teeth in a mirthless smile. So it had come at last.

“Hello, Lois,” I said. “I was expecting you to call.”

“Like the wait?” she asked, a jeer in her voice.

“All right. It gave me time to prepare for you. Coming to see me?”

“You bet I am,” she said, “but it’ll have to be a surprise. Don’t be embarrassed, we won’t expect you to dress.”

I laughed, although I didn’t feel like laughing.

“How’s Bat?” I asked.

“He’s fine. I shouldn’t laugh, Cain. You won’t like it when we do come.”

“Why don’t you grow up?” I said. “You always were a dumb red-head. Do you think I care what you do? I can handle Bat and you. Tell him. And don’t forget, Lois, if you slip up, you’ll have a nice stretch in jail ahead of you. Bat’s wanted for murder and that makes you an accessory after the fact. Thought of that?”

“Listen, you heel,” she said, losing her smooth tone. “I’ve waited too long to even things up with you. It’s been fun making you sweat, but I’m through with waiting now.”

“Watch your elastic, sister,” I said. “There’s no need to get excited. Tell me, what do you plan to do, or is that a secret?”

“What do you think? We’ll get that girl of yours, and then we’ll invite you to call and see her. Bat still wants to match his skill against yours.”

“With an empty gun, of course,” I said.

“Not this time,” Lois returned. “He’s been getting ready for you. He’s wise to that loose holster trick now. You won’t pull another gag like that. Well, so long, Cain. We’ll be around, so make hay while there’s a sun.” She hung up.

I stood thinking, then I went out, climbed into the Buick. “Tell Mrs. Cain I won’t be twenty minutes,” I said to Ben, drove on to the highway.

I paid a visit to the police-station, asked to see Lieutenant Mallory.

Mallory and I knew each other well. He was always passing the service station, and he knew where he could get iced beer with a smile from Clair whenever he wanted it.

“What’s on your mind, Cain?” he asked, offering me a cigarette.

I took it. We lit up. “I want protection,” I said.

He gaped at me, burst into a roar of laughter. “That’s rich,” he said. “You want protection. I don’t believe it. Why you’re the original tough egg.”

“I know,” I said, “but this is different. My shooting days are over. Take a pew, Lieutenant, I want to tell you a story.”

I gave him the story, told him Bat was after us, and that Lois had just called me.

“You’re not scared of a punk like Thompson, are you?” he asked, blankly.

“I didn’t say I was scared of anyone,” I said patiently. “I’m respectable now. My wild days are over. I own a wife and a service station. I’m not risking being sent to jail or the chair because you boys can’t do your job.”

He eyed me thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll keep an eye on your place,” he said. “Will that do?”

“That’s what I want, and suppose Bat turns up when your eye isn’t on the place. What then?”

“You deal with him. You’d be within your rights.”

I shook my head. “I’ve killed about six men now and pleaded self defence. That plea is wearing a little thin. A bright lawyer might sway a jury and rail-road me to the chair. I’m through with that stuff. Have me made a deputy sheriff. I haven’t even a permit for this rod.”

“Don’t show me,” he said, hurriedly closing his eyes. “I don’t want to know about it. I can’t make you a deputy sheriff. Maybe the D.A. might play.”

I had an idea. “Say, Bat’s wanted by the Federal Office. Maybe…”

“Try them,” Mallory said. “In the meantime I’ll detail a patrolman to keep an eye on your place.”

I thanked him, drove over to the Federal Bureau, asked to see someone in charge.

It took me an hour, but I came out with a gun permit, and a piece of paper which stated that I was temporarily attached to the Federal Office as special investigator. A long distance call to Hoskiss had got me that.

I was late back for supper, and Clair was worried, but as soon as she saw the light in my eye, she brightened.

“Where have you been?” she asked, leading me into the dining-room where supper was waiting.

I told her about Lois; showed her the gun permit and my authority.

“I’m a G-man now,” I said. “How do you like that?”

She looked a little scared, but tried to hide it.

“I like it fine,” she said. “There’s a cop in the kitchen eating apple pie. He said he had been detailed to keep an eye on me until you returned.”

I laughed. “Swell idea,” I said. “Well, I’m ready for Bat now. I don’t think they’ll come after you, honey. Lois wouldn’t have told me if that was their idea.”

Three days went by, and still nothing happened. Every three hours a patrolman would look in, wink at Clair, say “No trouble?” shrug and go on his way.

I didn’t relax this time. I was sure something would happen before long, and if I didn’t keep on my toes, I’d be surprised.

It happened the following night.

We had gone to bed about eleven. I had locked the bedroom door, bolted it. I had fixed the mesh-wire screen over the open window. No one could get in our room without waking us.

It was a clear moonlight night, and the night air was hot. Ben had been busy up to ten-thirty, and now trade had slackened off.

Clair and I lay side by side in the big double bed. I was half asleep when I heard a car drive up. I thought nothing of it, relaxed, began to drift off. Then suddenly I was wide awake, listening. Clair also sat up, looked at me in the dim light, whispered, “What is it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Did you hear anything?”

“I thought I did,” she said. “But I’m not sure.”

We listened. Silence.

“A car came in a minute or so ago,” I whispered. “It hasn’t gone.” I swung my feet to the floor. “I don’t hear Ben around I”

I went to the window. A big Plymouth sedan stood on the driveway. There was no sign of Ben nor the driver.

I waited, frowning.

Footsteps sounded on the concrete below, feet scraped, paused, came on. A woman’s shadow came into my vision. I couldn’t see the woman unless I moved the screen and leaned out of the window. I wasn’t going to do that. I studied the shadow.

A sudden electric thrill ran down my back. I thought I recognized the shape.

I turned quickly, grabbed my trousers, slipped them on, dragged on socks, shoes, snatched up my gun.

“Have they come?” Clair asked in a small voice.

“I think so,” I said grimly. “There’s a woman down there. I think it’s Lois. Stay here. I’m going to have a look.”

She whipped out of bed, clung to me.

“No, don’t,” she said. “Please, darling. Let’s call the police. They want you to go out there. They’ll be waiting for you.”

I patted her arm. “Okay, we’ll call for the police,” I said. “You better get some clothes on.”

I slipped out of the room, crept down the stairs. It was dark. I moved cautiously, silently. I suddenly remembered what Clairbold had once said about the art of stalking. It occurred to me that I might have put in a little practice in my room the way he had. It wasn’t such a dumb idea after all.

I reached the lobby, crossed to the front room where the telephone was. We had drawn the curtains before going to bed, but I didn’t risk putting the light on. I wanted them to think we hadn’t heard them.

I groped around, trying to find the telephone, found it, lifted the receiver. There was no humming sound on the line. I rattled the cradle once, twice, smiled grimly, hung up. They had cut the wires.

I crossed to the window, lifted the curtain an inch, looked out. The Plymouth still stood deserted on the runway. I couldn’t see the woman, but after peering round I saw a dark shape lying by the office building. It could have been Ben or it might have been one of the dogs.

I went back to the lobby, stood listening.

Clair came to the head of the stairs; she had a flash-light in her hand.

“Keep that light off the curtains,” I said softly.

“Are the police coming?” she asked.

“The line’s cut,” I returned. “Wait here. I’m going to look out the back.”

“Don’t go out,” she said breathlessly. “I know that’s what they expect you to do. They’re watching the doors.”

I thought she was probably right.

“I won’t,” I said, moved along the short passage to the kitchen.

Here, the blinds weren’t drawn. I crawled on hands and knees across the room, raised myself, looked out of the window.

Lois Spence was out there, I saw her distinctly. She was wearing dark slacks and coat. She was looking up at the upper window. I could have shot her easily enough, but I hadn’t the stomach to shoot a woman.

Clair joined me. We squatted on our heels, side by side, watching Lois, who continued to stare up at the upper windows. The moonlight was bright enough for me to see she still favoured Fatal Apple make-up. She looked as coldly disdainful as she had always looked.

“I’d like to give her a fright,” I said, “but as long as Bat keeps out of sight, we’ll play possum.”

“Where is he?” she whispered, her hand on my arm. I was surprised it was so steady.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” I said. “When I do I’m going to make a little hole in his hide. I’m taking no risks with Bat.”

Lois suddenly turned, walked away, heading for the front of the house.

Faintly we could hear through the closed window a clink of metal against metal.

“What’s that?” Clair asked, stiffening.

I listened. Something metal dropped on the concrete, out of sight. It came from the gas-pump section of the station.

“I don’t know,” I said uneasily. “I wish I knew what has happened to Ben. It’s not his fight. If they’ve hurt him…”

Clair’s grip on my arm tightened. “Please don’t do anything rash—”

“I won’t, but I’m getting tired of letting these two roam around as if this is their home,” I said. “I’m going into the front room. Maybe we’ll see something from there.”

She went with me. As we reached the lobby, a wild scream rang out. The sound came from the front of the house.

I darted forward, but Clair hung on to me.

“It’s a trap,” she said- “Wait… listen…”

I paused.

A car engine suddenly roared into life, gears clashed, tyres screeched on the driveway.

I darted into the sitting-room, lifted the curtains, peered out.

The Plymouth sedan was roaring down the driveway. It turned as it reached the highway, belted away into the night.

Lois Spence was lying on the concrete by the air towers.

I jumped to the front door.

“Wait,” I said to Clair, threw off her restraining hand, opened the door.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t!”

I slipped out, waved her back, reached Lois as she struggled to rise.

Her face was ghastly with terror. A red-blue mark showed on her face where she had been struck.

“He’s lit a fuse to the gas dump,” she mouthed at me. “Get me out of here! My God! We’ll be blown to hell! The stinking rat double-crossed me! Get me out of here.”

She grabbed at my pyjama jacket. I wrenched free, leaving a strip of material in her hand.

“Clair!” I yelled frantically. “Quick! Come to me! Clair!”

I dashed towards the house, saw Clair in the doorway, yelled to her again.

The whole sky seemed suddenly to split open; a long tongue of orange flame rushed up into the night, and I was conscious of a tremendous noise.

I saw Clair, her hands before her face, her eyes wide with terror. I couldn’t run any more. I was crouching, my hands over my ears when a blast of suffocating air struck me down.

I struggled up on my knees, saw the house sway, crumble, tried to yell, then the ground kicked up, trembled, and another tremendous explosion ripped open the shattered night sky. Blast picked me up and threw me away as the house came down like a pack of cards.

6

The nurse beckoned. I stood up, braced myself, crossed the corridor. “You can go in now,” she said. “You’ll keep her quiet, won’t you? She’s still suffering from shock.”

I tried to say something, but words stuck in my throat. I nodded, went past her through the open doorway.

Clair was lying in the small bed facing me. Her head was a helmet of white bandages; her right hand was bandaged too.

We looked at each other. Her eyes smiled. I went over, stood beside her.

“Hello,” she said. “We made it, darling.”

“We made it all right,” I said, pulling up a chair. “It was a close call, Clair. Too close. I thought I wasn’t going to see you again.” I sat down, took her left hand.

“I’m tough,” she said. “Did they say if I—I—”

“It’ll be all right,” I assured her. “You’re more scorched than burned. You’ll look as lovely as ever when they’re through with you.”

“I wasn’t worrying for myself,” she said. “I didn’t want you to have an ugly wife…”

“Who said I had a pretty one?” I said, kissing her hand. “Someone’s been kidding yon.”

She fondled my hand, stared at me.

“There’s not much left of our home, is there?” she asked in a small voice.

I shook my head. “It’s all gone,” I said, ran my fingers through my hair, smiled at her. “It was a lovely blaze while it lasted.”

Her eyes darkened. “What are you going to do, darling? You won’t get unsettled?”

I patted her hand. “No. I’m going to build again. As soon as you’re better we’ll talk it over. I have ideas. We can build that restaurant of yours. The joint’s well insured. There won’t be any trouble about money. It’ll take a little time, but maybe it’ll turn out to be a good thing in the long run. I never did like the position of the station. I’ll rebuild it facing the road.”

“What happened to them?” she asked, gripping my hand.

I knew that question had been on her mind ever since she had recovered consciousness.

“Lois is here,” I said. “She was pretty badly burned. The Doc doesn’t think she’ll get over it.”

She shivered. “You mean she’s going to die?”

I nodded.

“And Bat?”

“Yeah… Bat. Well, they got him. He ran into a police car. There’s nothing to worry about, darling. He’s fixed.”

I bent down, pretended to fiddle with my shoe-lace. I knew if she looked at me now I wouldn’t have been able to have met her eyes, and then she’d have known I was lying. Lois was in the hospital, but Bat was still loose. I wasn’t going to tell her that.

“You mean our troubles are really over?” she asked.

“You bet they are,” I said, straightening. “As soon as you’re well enough to leave here, we’ll start right in again. You’ll like that, won’t you? You’ll be able to have your restaurant, and we’ll make a pile of dough.”

She closed her eyes, relaxed.

“I did so hope you would say that, darling,” she said.

The nurse looked in, beckoned.

“Well, here’s the tyrant again,” I said, getting up. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Take it easy. We have a lot to look forward to.” I kissed her lightly, touched her hand, went out.

There was another nurse waiting in the corridor.

“Miss Spence is asking for you,” she said.

“Okay,” I returned, looked at her. “How’s she making out?”

The nurse shook her head. “She was dreadfully burned,” she said. “I don’t think it will be long now.”

I followed her along the corridor to Lois’s room. A cop paced up and down outside. He nodded to me as I went in.

Lois was lying flat. Her face hadn’t been touched. They had told me that hot oil had flowed over her chest. She looked practically done.

I stood over her, waited.

She looked up, her eyes, dark with pain, searched my face.

“Hello, gambler,” she said- “You had all the luck.”

I didn’t say anything.

She chewed her lip, frowned. “I want to talk to you.”

I pulled up a chair, sat down.

“You’d better take it easy,” I said. “You’ll need all your strength. You’re pretty ill, Lois.”

“I know it,” she said, her mouth twisting. “I’m through. But I wanted to see you before…”

“Okay, go ahead,” I said, waited.

“Men have been my bad luck,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “They all let me down except Juan. I was fond of Juan, Cain. I kind of went crazy when I lost him. But I should have left you alone. Evening things up isn’t my strong suit—not against you, anyway. You’re too lucky, Cain.”

“You haven’t done so badly,” I said. “You blew my home and business to hell. What more do you want?”

She sneered. “But you’re still here, and your girl. Juan isn’t, and I’m finished too.”

“Let’s skip it,” I said. “This won’t get us anywhere.”

“Bat double-crossed me,” she said, spitefully.

“What did you expect? The snake would double-cross his own mother.”

“My fault again,” she said. “I wanted to use him to even things with you, but he thought I’d fallen for him. I ought to have played with him until this was over, but I gave him hell.

How could I fall for a filthy brute like him? I told him so, and he fixed me.” She moved her legs restlessly. “They swear they’ve filled me full of dope, but it hurts—it hurts like hell.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I taught Bat how to explode the gas dump, rehearsed him for weeks. God! He was dumb. He couldn’t have done it without me. He wanted to shoot you, but I had to be smart. You see, it didn’t work out. I wanted to see you and your girl go up in flames along with your smug little home.”

I looked away. It was no use hating her; she was dying and she’d paid for what she had done.

“You’re not letting Bat get away?” she asked abruptly.

I shook my head. “Where is he ?”

“What’ll you do to him?”

“Shoot or arrest him,” I said. “I don’t care which. One or the other.”

She grimaced, sweat was running down her face. “I wish he could suffer the way I’m suffering,” she said.

“Where is he?”

“He’ll have cleared out of my apartment by now,” she said, frowning. “He’ll go to Little Louis. I think you’ll find him there. He won’t know where to hide. You’d’ve caught him long ago if it hadn’t been for me. He hasn’t any brains.”

“Where’s Little Louis?” I asked impatiently.

She gave me a downtown address in San Francisco.

“Who is he?”

“Just one of the boys,” she said indifferently. “He holes up anyone on the run. Watch your step, Cain. I want you to catch Bat.”

“I’ll catch him,” I said, standing up.

She closed her eyes.

“Well, I don’t look awful,” she said, “that’s something, I guess. I’d hate to die ugly.”

I couldn’t stand the atmosphere any longer.

“So long,” I said.

“Kill him for me, Cain,” she said.

I went.

Waiting for me in the corridor was Tim Duval. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“What did you expect?” he said, shaking hands. “As soon as we read about it, I flew up. All the boys pooled the fare. They wanted to come too, but they couldn’t get away.”

“Am I glad to see you,” I said, slapping him on the back.

“So you should be,” he said, grinning. “Hetty’ll be along soon. She’s coming by train. How’s the kid?”

“Not so bad,” I said. “She’ll be all right in a month or so. It was a close call, Tim.” T scowled at him, added, “I have a job for you.”

He nodded. “I knew it,” he said. “That’s why I came. Bat, eh?”

“Sure,” I said, “only you’re camping outside Clair’s door. So long as I know she’s safe I can get to work. Now don’t argue,” I went on hurriedly as he began to speak. “Bat’s dangerous. He might come here to finish the job. Stick around, Tim. I know Clair will be safe if you’re here. I have things to do.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “And I was planning to get in on a man-hunt.”

I punched him lightly on his chest.

“You watch Clair,” I said. “This man-hunt is going to be between Bat and me.” I led him to Clair’s door. “Not a word about Bat. I’ve told her he’s in jail. Go in and see her for a minute, then get a chair and park outside. I don’t expect to be long.”

I left him before he could protest.

7

The taxi driver slowed, stopped. “This is as far as I can take you, Bud,” he said. “The joint you want is down that alley, if it is the joint you want.”

I got out of the cab, peered down a narrow alley, blocked by two iron posts.

“I guess it is,” I said, gave him half a buck.

“Want me to stick around?” he asked. “It don’t look like your home.”

“It isn’t, but don’t wait,” I said, and walked towards the alley.

It was dark; mist from the sea softened the gaunt outlines of the buildings. The single street lamp made a yellow pool of light on the slimy sidewalk. Not far away a ship’s siren hooted. The sound of moving water against the harbour walls was distinct.

I lit a cigarette, moved on. Little Louis had selected a lonely spot for a home, I thought. The buildings I passed were warehouses, most of them in disuse. The property, the taxi driver had told me, had been condemned and was going to be pulled down. It should have been pulled down long ago.

A half-starved black cat appeared out of the shadows, twisted itself around my legs. I stooped, scratched its head, went on. The cat followed me.

Little Louis’s place was the last building in a row of battered wooden ruins. I flipped my cigarette into a puddle, stood back, looked up at the house. The cat moved delicately towards the puddle, sniffed at the cigarette, howled dismally.

“Some joint, puss,” I said.

The building was a three-storey job; no lights showed, most of the windows had rotten planks nailed across them. It was a proper dump, the kind of building Hollywood favours when creating a chiller atmosphere.

I tried to get round the back of the building, but found it looked on to a kind of reservoir. The stillness and blackness of the water was deceptive. It looked solid.

I went back to the front of the building, tried the front door. It was locked. I prowled around, found a lower window, tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. I went to the next window, heaved. It creaked loudly. I cursed the plank, took out my gun, forced the barrel backwards and forwards until the plank broke away from its rusty nails. I made less noise than I expected. I hoped no one had heard the first creak, which had been something.

I worked on the next plank, got rid of it, and was ready to squeeze through. I looked into the room beyond, saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing. I fished out an electric torch from my hip pocket, turned the beam into the room. It was unfurnished, dirty; a rat scurried away from the light.

With my gun in my right fist, I stepped over the sill, down into the room.

The cat jumped up on the sill, peered at me. I shooed it away. It seemed reluctant to leave me, but it went eventually, jumping down into the darkness outside.

A full minute of breathless listening got me nowhere. Holding my gun-arm tight against my side, I began exploring the room. There were footprints in the dust on the floor; a hand-print by the door. The place smelt of decay, bad drains.

I reached the door, turned the handle, pulled the door gently towards me. I peeped into a dingy passage, lit by a naked gas-jet. I listened. Nothing.

Sliding my torch back into my pocket, I edged out of the room into the passage. Another door faced me. To my right was the front door; to my left a flight of stairs. They looked rotten and broken, and there were no banisters. It was some hide-out.

I crept across the passage to the opposite door, put my ear against the panel, listened. After a moment or so I heard feet scrape on the wooden floor.

I wondered if Bat was behind the door. My heart was beating steadily; I wasn’t excited. I had come to kill Bat, and I was going to kill him.

My hand slid over the brass door-knob. I squeezed it, turned slowly. It made no sound as it turned. When it wouldn’t turn any further, I pushed.

I looked into a narrow, dimly lit room full of wooden packing-cases stacked up along the unpapered walls. In the centre of the room was a table and chair. Near the rusty stove stood a truckle bed, covered with a grimy blanket.

Little Louis sat at the table. He had a deck of greasy playing-cards in his hand, and he was laying out a complicated patience game. He raised his head as I stepped into the room.

Little Louis was a hunchback. The complexion of his dried-up face looked as if it had been sand-blasted. His hard little eyes glinted under thick black eyebrows. His shapeless mouth, like a pale pink sausage split in two, hung open.

He stared at me, his right hand, hairy and dirty, edged off the table to his lap.

“Hold it,” I said, lifted the .38.

His mouth tightened, snarled, but his hand crept back on to the table again.

I moved further into the room, closed the door with my heel, advanced.

He watched me, puzzled, suspicious.

“What do you want ?” he asked. His voice was high-pitched, effeminate.

“Get away from the table,” I said, pausing within a few feet of him.

He hesitated, pushed back the wooden box on which he was sitting, stood up. Something fell to the floor off his lap. I glanced down. A broad, squat knife lay at his feet. It looked very sharp, deadly.

“Get back to the wall,” I said, advancing on him.

He retreated, his hands raised to his shoulders. There was no shock of fear in his eyes. As I passed the knife I picked it up, dropped it into my pocket.

“Where’s Bat Thompson?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “Who wants him?”

“You’d better talk,” I said. “I’m in a hurry.”

He grinned evilly. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I don’t know any Bat Thompson.”

I edged towards him. “You’d better talk,” I said.

“Who are you? You’re new to the racket, ain’t you? Guys don’t threaten me. I’m everyone’s pal.”

“Not mine,” I said, smacked him across his face with the barrel of my gun.

His head jerked back. A red weal appeared on his harsh skin. His eyes glinted murderously.

“Where’s Bat?” I repeated.

He snarled at me so I hit him again.

“I can keep this up all night,” I told him pleasantly, grinned. “Where’s Bat?”

He pointed to the ceiling. “Top floor; the door facing the stairs.” He began to curse me softly, a mumbling flow of obscenity.

“Alone?” I said, lifting my hand, threatening him.

“Yeah,” he said.

I studied him. He was too dangerous to leave. I decided to provoke him into a fight. It turned out to be a dumb idea.

I nodded, shoved the .38 down the waist-band of my trousers. “Why couldn’t you have said so before?” I asked. “It’d’ve saved you a lot of grief.”

Two terrifying long arms shot out towards me; arms that seemed to stretch like elastic. I thought I was well out of his reach, and was waiting for him to jump me, but the arms came as a surprise. Two hands clamped on my wrists. They felt as if they had been welded to my flesh. He jerked me towards him.

He had twice my strength and the jerk nearly snapped my neck. I cannoned against him, felt his hands whip up to my throat. He was a shade too slow. I got my chin down, so he gripped that; before he could dig his claws into my neck, I sank a punch into his belly with all my weight behind it. He doubled up, snarling, and as I rushed him, he swung his fist, clouted me on the side of the head. It was like being hit with a hammer. I found myself lying on my side, bells ringing in my ears. I twisted over, saw through a red mist the misshapen legs moving towards the door. I grabbed at them, hung on, pulled him down. He fell close, squirmed around and uncorked another sledge-hammer blow. I ducked under it, felt it whizz past my head. My right hand yanked out the .38; holding it in my fist, I punched him in the face with it.

He gibbered with pain, got close, his evil-smelling head under my chin. He clawed at my body with steel fingers. I continued to hit him about his face and head with the gun butt. I couldn’t get much steam into the blows because he was lying on top of me, but I succeeded in making a mess of his face.

He got sick of it before I did, scrambled away, opened his mouth to yell. I rammed the gun barrel into his open mouth.

“Make a sound and I’ll blow your top,” I said.

The cold gun barrel in his mouth terrified him. He gagged, tried to wriggle away, but I forced the barrel further down his throat. He grabbed my wrists, yanked. The barrel shot out of his mouth, but the gun-sight caught his front teeth; they shot out too. He yammered in his throat, flung me off, raised himself up, half crazy with rage and pain, slammed down at me with both fists. If they had landed he would have flattened me, but I rolled against him, stabbed him in his belly with the gun barrel.

He gave a croaking howl, fell back, holding on to himself. Blood oozed between his fingers.

I knelt over him, panting, belted him between the eyes. He passed out.

Getting to my feet I fought to recover my breath. My legs felt weak, my heart thumped furiously. We had only fought for a couple of minutes, but it had been an experience. He had been as strong as an ape.

I left him, made for the stairs. I started up, my hand on the wall, treading cautiously. The stairs were in a bad way, gave under my weight. I kept on, mounted to the first floor, listened.

From one room I heard voices. A woman cursed in a shrill hard tone. A man yelled to her to shut up. I walked along the passage, made for the next flight of stairs.

The door behind me jerked open. I glanced around. A thin, miserable-looking woman half fell into the passage. She wore a dirty kimono, and her hair hung loose.

“Save me, mister,” she gasped, crouching against the wall.

A big, red-faced man, in shirt sleeves, stepped into the passage, grabbed the woman by her hair, dragged her into the room again. The door slammed. The woman began to squeal.

Ignoring her, I mounted the next flight of stairs. I was sweating, uneasy. This was a hell of a joint, I decided.

A naked gas-jet burned at the head of the stairs. It hissed and flickered in the draught. I paused as I reached the landing, looked back. Nothing moved. No one showed.

If Little Louis had been telling the truth I was now facing

Bat’s door. I stepped across the passage, put my ear against the door, listened.

A woman said: “God! I’m sick of this. I was crazy to throw in with a mean jerk like you.”

I frowned, slipped back the safety catch of the .38, put my hand on the door handle.

Bat said: “Aw, the hell with you! I’m sick of you too.” His harsh Brooklyn accent was unmistakable.

I opened the door, went in.

8

A girl, wearing black lace underwear, had her back to me as I entered. Her legs and feet were bare, her blonde hair piled untidily to the top of her head. A cheap imitation tortoise-shell comb failed to capture the straggling ends of hair from her neck. She was standing by a table on which was the remains of a meal and several bottles of whisky.

She turned swiftly as she heard the door open, stared at me. All I could see of Bat was his foot and leg. The girl stood directly in front of him. She was sharp-featured and she stared at me with sultry eyes, one of which was puffed and the other had been socked several days ago. She also had a bruise on her throat and her hand held a tall cool glass of amber fluid.

“Beat it,” she said to me. “You’ve picked the wrong room.”

“I want Bat,” I said between my teeth. “Get out of the way.”

She saw the gun, screamed, dropped the glass.

Bat recognized my voice, grabbed the girl around her waist, crushed her to him. He peered over her shoulder at me, grinned.

“Hello, bub,” he said. His brutal face was the colour of mutton fat.

“Let go of the frail,” I said. “What’s the matter with you. Bat? Milky?”

The girl struggled frantically to get away, but Bat easily held her. I could see his thick fingers sinking into the loose flesh above her hips.

“Shaddap, you,” he snarled in her ear, “or I’ll break your goddamn back.”

She stopped struggling, faced me, her eyes wide with terror, staring at the gun like an idiot child at a moving shadow.

It puzzled me why Bat didn’t go for his gun. I saw his pig eyes glaring, followed the direction. A Luger lay on the mantelpiece, out of his reach.

I laughed. “For God’s sake,” I said, “getting careless, aren’t you, Hat?” I jumped across the room to the gun. It was my own Luger.

Bat shuffled round, still holding the girl in front of him. He cursed softly, vilely, backed.

I had left the door unguarded by my move to the gun. Bat jerked it open, stepped into the passage, dragging the screaming girl with him. The door slammed.

I snatched up the Luger, shoved the .38 into my pocket, ran to the door. The passage outside was in darkness.

A door opened at the end of the passage, a man’s head appeared. I fired above it. The head jerked back, the door slammed. Voices sounded below. A man bawled up to know what was going on. At the head of the stairs the blonde screamed wildly for help. Her scream was throttled back into her throat.

If Bat had been on his own I’d have nailed him then, but I couldn’t see, and I didn’t want to kill the girl. I swore softly, moved out into the passage.

Bat suddenly yelled: “Gimme a gun, Mike. Quick!”

I ran towards the sound of his voice. I could just see him with the girl held in front of him, crouching against the wall at the head of the stairs.

“Come out of it, you yellow rat,” I said, caught hold of the girl’s arm.

She kicked out, screamed like a train whistle.

Bat made himself small behind her, cursed me, hung on.

“Let go of her,” I panted, dodging her kicks. One of them caught me in the stomach, winded me for a moment.

I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs, turned.

The red-faced man from the next landing was rushing up, a gun in his hand. He fired wildly at me. The bullet slapped into the wall above my head. I shot him between the eyes. He went down like a pole-axed bull.

I heard a grunt from Bat, spun around. I hadn’t a chance to get out of the way. Bat had caught up the girl, held her above his head. He flung her at me as I tried to dodge. Screaming frantically, she sailed through the air like a shell. She hit me chest high. I went over, heard her wail, then crash through the rotten banisters and thud to the landing below.

Bat rushed down the stairs, missed his step, jumped. He landed with a crash as I fired after him.

I waited, listened.

A ghastly sobbing sound from the girl drifted up the wall of the staircase.

I peered over the rotten rail into darkness.

A spurt of flame lit the landing below. A slug cut through my coat sleeve, slicing a piece out of my arm. For blind shooting, it was impressive. I fired back, flung myself down as Bat opened up. He fired three times, stopped.

I crawled towards the stairs, began to go down them head first, flat, pulling myself forward with my hands.

“You there, bub?” Bat called. “You won’t get away this time.”

The girl began to scream again.

“Oh, my back!” she gasped. “Bat! Help me. My back—it’s broken. Help me, Bat.”

I heard Bat curse her. I crawled on, the hair on the back of my neck bristling at the whimpering screams from the girl.

“Shaddap,” Bat hissed at her. “I can’t hear him with all this racket. Shaddap!”

“It’s my back,” she sobbed, screamed again.

Half-way down I crawled into the body of the man I had shot. I paused, touched him, tried to satisfy myself that he was dead. He didn’t move as I pawed him over in the sticky darkness. I decided to crawl over him.

Bat said to the girl. “I’ll finish you if you don’t shaddap.”

I was nearly on him now. He couldn’t hear me because of the noise the girl was making.

I heard him curse. The girl suddenly stopped screaming.

“What are you doing?” she moaned. “Take that gun away. Bat!” Her voice shot up in a shrill note of terror.

A single crack of gunfire exploded close to me. There was silence.

I caught a glimpse of Bat as he moved, lifted my gun, fired. He must have seen my movement for he fired at the same time. His bullet ploughed a weal along my cheek. I watched him. He rose up, tottered back, his gun slipping out of his hand. I fired again. The slug socked into him, throwing him back. He fell down, stretched out.

I pulled out my electric torch. The beam lit up a nightmare scene. The girl lay on her side, bent back, half her face was shattered by the heavy bullet from Bat’s gun. Bat lay near her, his hand touched her naked foot. Blood seeped out of him like water from over-boiled cabbage I turned him over. He moved, blinked his eyes, snarled at me.

“So long, Bat,” I said, put the gun to his ear. Before I could squeeze the trigger, his eyes rolled back, fixed. I stood up.

My arm ached. Blood dripped down from my fingers, from my face on to my collar. My side hurt. I didn’t care. It was over—finished. I could go back to Clair now and start afresh.

I walked to the front door, slid back the bolts, stepped into the night. I was still holding the Luger. I looked at it, wondering if I should get rid of it. Maybe I wouldn’t need it again. Maybe I would. It was hard to believe that I was going to settle down. I had tried it for a few months and it hadn’t worked. Well, I was going to try it again, but I was going to be prepared. Some wise guy might try to crowd me again, and I would be ready for him. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. Right now, I wanted to get back to Clair. The future, I decided, as I set off in the darkness, could take care of itself.