Ladies of Chance

Chapter 8

I was lucky to catch Pete Ryan at the City Desk. I said, “Hi mug,” when his raspy voice came over the wire.

“I don’t know any hot-loving blondes looking for a man; I haven’t a tip on Hialeah, and I’m so broke I couldn’t loan my own dear grandmother a fin if she wanted it to shoot craps with.”

“Listen instead of talking so damned much,” I growled. “I’ve got plenty on my mind.”

Pete said, “Shoot.”

“Stick around Lummus Park after dark tonight. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Look for a white glove and an emerald earring somewhere about the body. The guy’ll probably be sweet on a dame hanging out at room 543 of the Covington Arms Hotel. That might be a lead.”

“Imagine who’s giving me a story,” he jeered.

“Hell! I’m not giving it to you. I’m making it for you. Two or three more things. Know anybody you can trust to pick up my car at North Miami Beach about seven-thirty, drive it back and park it in the hotel garage and forget about it?”

“I can fix it.”

“Be damned sure the guy’s got a good forgetter.”

“Yeah. Trust your Uncle Dudley.”

“I’ve got to,” I groaned. “That’s the hell of it.”

“Is that so, guy? When did I ever let you down?”

“Let’s not go into that. Don’t let me down tonight. Who’s the best mouthpiece in the city to represent a dame who’s going to be charged with first degree?”

“U-m-m.” I could almost hear Pete thinking. He was busting to know what it was all about, but pretended to be as blase as hell. “Herman Blattscomb, I’d say.”

“Fix it for an outside party to get hold of him as soon as it breaks. The Bugle will pay the bill but mustn’t show in the deal. This dame is going to shoot a wild story she hasn’t a chance in hell of proving. It’s Blattscomb’s job to convince her she’ll beat the rap easier by admitting she bumped him in a fit of anger because he beat her up this morning. Got that?”

“You’re miles ahead of me,” Pete admitted cheerfully. “But I’ve got it.”

“One thing else. Call Lucile Travers at the Covington Arms at six-thirty. Act mysterious as hell. Tell her you’re a friend of mine and that I’m in a jam. Get her to meet you some place where you won’t be and where there’s not likely to be any witnesses to prove she was there. Got that?”

There was a little silence. Pete’s voice held a new note when he spoke again. “You’re not so far ahead of me now, feller. Are you putting the frame on a dame?”

“What is it to you?” I cracked. “Want a story, don’t you?”

“Sure... but.”

“This,” I told him, “is something that’s got to be done. I’m on the track of something so big that there can’t be any buts. And she’ll beat the rap. Hell, no jury on earth will convict her of rubbing out the rat. Switch me to Grange.”

Pete muttered something and there was a little silence. Then Ellsworth Grange’s voice pussy-footed over the wire. “Yes?”

“Barlow at this end.”

“Indeed? I wondered when you would condescend to communicate with us.”

I yawned into the mouthpiece. “I just got out of bed.”

“Ah. Recuperating from the tea date, I venture.”

“Something like that. You know how it is... one thing leads to another. I dragged the body home at daylight after putting in a strenuous night for the dear old Bugle.”

“I trust you have some definite results to show.”

“I’m not any Man-of-War,” I protested. “Give me time.”

“The man is known by the results he achieves,” Grange informed me sententiously.

“I’ve been working too hard and need a vacation. Believe I’ll run up to Jax for a couple of days.”

“I don’t believe I understand you, Barlow.”

I yawned into the telephone again. “I’m catching the seven o’clock train. Thought I’d tell you so you wouldn’t worry.”

“This has gone far enough,” Grange told me severely. “The Bugle cannot countenance such blatant disregard of duty. I’m quite sure your work will not permit you to afford any such preposterous...”

“Don’t worry about me affording it. It’ll all come to you on the swindle sheet.” I hung up on Grange’s gasp of astonished anger, and took another drink.

Then I dug a tiny .25 automatic out of my trunk, loaded it to the hilt and wiped off all the fingerprints. I had accumulated it from a floosie in Baltimore a couple of years ago. She was trying to get up nerve to use it on herself when I bought her a drink and convinced her that there was a silver lining.

It was pearl-handled and dainty, but deadly as hell at close range.

I had a pair of soft rubber gloves in my pocket when I drove away from the hotel just before dark. I had called Lucile’s hotel and been informed that she was not in.

I had a funny feeling in my stomach as I drove across the causeway. The deck lights of an outgoing liner were brilliant on my right. An orchestra was playing on the upper deck, and the rails were lined with passengers. Lucky fools — not to have anything more important to do. It was getting dark in a hurry, and I stepped on the gas to be not late to the rendezvous.

It was fully dark when I parked the coupe on a side street half a block from the ocean drive.

I pulled on the rubber gloves as I went down a walk toward the beach where long combers were rolling in. The park and beach was practically deserted at this hour. I skirted a crowd of picnickers and went toward a bulky figure standing alone near the water’s edge. He had a felt hat pulled low over his face, but I recognized Green’s stance.

My rubber-gloved right hand went into my pocket and brought out the .25, so small that it fitted snugly in the palm, perfectly concealed.

I strolled toward Green, feeling pretty good to see that there was no one within eyesight of us, and subconsciously realizing that the sound of the combers breaking on shore were enough to cover up any sound I might make.

I went up to him and pushed back my hat so he could see my face. He leaned close and loosed a “Goddamn.”

I said, “It’s me, Green,” softly. “Want to take a walk?”

He grabbed me by the left arm and swung me around. “Not so fast,” he grunted.

I said, “You want to beg my pardon?” and held out my hand.

He screwed up his face into a snarl and stepped closer. “I just want...”

I’ll always wonder what Harry Green “just wanted.” I jammed the muzzle of the baby automatic against his belly and pulled the trigger, kept on pulling the trigger until it was empty.

It was funny how little noise the automatic made. I don’t believe it could have been heard ten feet away. Funny, too, how slowly and easily Green slumped to the sand. Like a slow motion picture. His body just seemed to fold up on itself like an accordion, as though he didn’t have any bones or joints.

I dropped the automatic on top of him, slipped Lucile’s glove underneath his outflung arm, dropped her earring on the sand nearby, then went hell-for-leather to my car and up the beach road.