One Bright Summer Morning

Chapter Three

On Thursday morning while Kramer was eating ham and eggs and Helene, who never ate breakfast, was pouring him his second cup of coffee, he said casually, “Moe Zegetti is flying down to see me this morning, sweetheart. He’ll be staying for lunch.”

Helene slopped the coffee as she turned to stare at her husband.

“Who?”

“Moe Zegetti. You remember him, don’t you?” Kramer said, not looking at her. He reached for a piece of toast and began to spread butter on it.

“You mean that — that crook? He’s just out of jail, isn’t he?”

“He’s been out close on two years,” Kramer said mildly. “He’s a good guy. You used to like him, Helene.”

Helene sat down abruptly. She had gone a little pale.

“What’s he want?”

“Nothing. He’s running his own business now,” Kramer said, stirring his coffee. “He telephoned me yesterday. He’s coming to Paradise City on business. Knowing I was here, he thought he would look me up. Nice to see him again. He’s a good guy.”

“He’s a crook!” Helene said fiercely. “Jim! You promised to stay clear of those hoods. You’ve got to remember our position! Suppose someone found out an ex-convict has been calling here?”

Kramer controlled his rising temper with difficulty.

“Oh, come on, Helene, relax. He’s an old friend. Just because he’s been in jail doesn’t mean a thing. He’s going straight now. I told you... he’s in business on his own.”

Helene fixed her husband with a long, searching stare. He forced himself to meet her eyes and he smiled.

“What kind of business?”

Kramer shrugged.

“I don’t know. You ask him when you see him.”

“I don’t want to see him! I don’t want him here!” She drew in a deep breath, and then continued. “Look, Jim, you’ve been out of the rackets now for five years: you stay out!”

Kramer finished the last morsel of ham and pushed aside his plate. He lit a cigarette.

There was a long pause, then he said, an edge to his voice, “Nobody tells me what to do, Helene, you know that: not even you. Just relax. Moe’s coming here for lunch. He’s coming because he is an old friend of mine: no other reason... so relax.”

Helene saw the hard light in the slate grey eyes and she flinched. She had always been a little afraid of her husband when he looked this way. She knew she was getting no younger, that she was putting on weight, and when she examined her face in the mirror each morning, she was distressed by her fading looks. Kramer, although sixty, was still vigorous and lusty. So far he hadn’t looked at other women, but she had the growing fear that if she wasn’t careful how she handled him, he might look elsewhere.

As she stood up, she forced a smile.

“All right, darling. I’ll fix something nice for him. I didn’t mean anything. It just worried me that he should turn up here... out of the past.”

Kramer studied her.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said and got to his feet. “Well, I’m off to the airport. We’ll get back around half past twelve. See you, sweetheart.” He patted her behind with a heavy hand, brushed his lips across her cheek and went out of the room.

Helene went back to her chair and sat down. Her legs felt suddenly weak. Moe Zegetti! Her mind went back to those years when Moe was Jim’s right-hand man. She had nothing against Moe personally: it was what he stood for that frightened her. An ex-convict! Here in Paradise City when she and Jim had won their way into Paradise City’s society and were regarded as two nice, respectable people, always wanted when a party was thrown. Suppose someone found out that Moe had had lunch with them? She put her hand to her face. What was Jim thinking of?

Inspector Jay Dennison and Special Agent Tom Harper, both of the F.B.I., were waiting impatiently in the airport lobby for their flight to Washington to be announced.

Dennison, a burly, muscular man with a ginger moustache and a bridge of freckles across his thick nose, was getting on for forty-eight: a sound, hard-working Federal Agent whose headquarters was in Paradise City. Harper looked a stripling beside the inspector. He was tall, lean and some twenty years the inspector’s junior and making his way. Even Dennison, who was a hard taskmaster, was satisfied with the way Harper was shaping. The two men had grown to like each other, and now Harper was planning to marry Dennison’s daughter.

It was while they were sitting away from the swirl of the crowd that Dennison suddenly put his hand on Harper’s arm.

“Look who’s blown in,” he said. “That fat little punk just passing through the arrival gate.”

Harper spotted the short fat man with greying hair and a fat, round, sweating face who had just walked into the lobby. He meant nothing to Harper, who looked inquiringly at his chief.

Dennison got to his feet.

“Play this gently,” he said. “This punk interests me.”

The two men moved casually after the little man who was carrying a brand new suitcase. As he reached the double glass doors leading out into the parking lot where lines of taxis and cars waited, Dennison paused.

“That’s Moe Zegetti,” he said, watching Moe as he stood looking to right and left uncertainly. “Remember him? You wouldn’t have met him... before your time, but you’ll remember his record.”

“So that’s Zegetti,” Harper said, his lean face showing his interest. “Sure, I remember his record. He was Kramer’s stooge and he was one of the top boys in the rackets at one time. He went down for six years and has been out two: since then he has been behaving himself. Looks as if he’s done himself pretty well. That’s a nice suit he’s got on.”

Dennison glanced at Harper and nodded approvingly.

“That’s the punk. Now I wonder what he is doing here.”

“Look... to your left. There’s Kramer himself!”

A voice distorted by the loudspeaker system announced that all passengers for Washington should go at once to Gate 5.

The two Federal Agents paused long enough to see Kramer wave a big hand and Moe Zegetti start towards him before they reluctantly turned away and walked with the crowd to Gate 5.

“Kramer and Zegetti... an unbeatable combination,” Dennison said thoughtfully. “Could mean trouble.”

“You don’t imagine Kramer is coming out of retirement?” Harper said. “He wouldn’t be that crazy with all his money.”

Dennison shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself why Solly Lucas shot himself. He looked after Kramer’s money. Well, we’ll keep tabs on them. I’ll alert the boys when we’re on the plane. I’ve waited twenty-one years to get Kramer. If he’s coming out of retirement. . this could be my chance.”

Unaware that he was being watched, Moe started across the tarmac towards Kramer who came to meet him. As they approached, both men looked searchingly at each other, curious to see any change since last they met some seven years ago.

To Moe, Kramer looked bronze and fit, although a lot heavier. He had lost that restless, springy walk that Moe was familiar with, but this didn’t exactly surprise him. After all, Big Jim must be sixty now, and at that age, you don’t walk like a young man. Kramer was wearing a nigger brown suede golfing jacket, fawn gabardine slacks and a white peak cap. He seemed to be prosperous and relaxed.

Kramer noted that Moe was overweight and pale. He looked unhealthy and soft. This discovery made Kramer look more searchingly at Moe. He then became aware of the uneasy, almost frightened expression in the dark eyes and the nervous way Moe’s lips tightened and slackened. On the credit side, Kramer thought, Moe looked prosperous enough. He couldn’t have slipped too far back to wear a suit like the one he was wearing.

“Good to see you again,” Kramer said, grasping Moe’s hand. “How are you?”

Aware of the iron grip, Moe stiffened his own flabby grip. He said he was fine and how good it was to see Kramer again. The two men walked over to a gleaming black Cadillac.

“This yours, Jim?” Moe asked, impressed.

“Yeah, but I’m trading it in for the new model,” Kramer said, unable to resist boasting. “Get in. Helene is preparing a special lunch for you. I don’t want my ears knocked off for being late.”

Kramer asked after Doll as he drove onto the highway. Moe told him of the situation.

Kramer was shocked. He was fond of Doll.

“She’ll pull through,” he said. “She’s tough, Moe. You see... this kind of thing happens to us all sooner or later, but we come through, and so will she.”

Casually, he asked about San Quentin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Moe’s hands turn into fists. Moe said in a tight strangled voice that it had been pretty rugged.

“I guess,” Kramer said soberly and shook his head. This was something that haunted his dreams. He knew he had escaped San Quentin by the skin of his teeth. “Well, it’s behind you. That’s the way to look at it... it’s behind you.”

During the rest of the twenty-mile drive, the two men chatted about this and that, recalling the past, mentioning names of people they had known, the places they had visited together. There was no talk as to why Kramer wanted to see Moe.

Lunch passed off fairly well. Helene had provided a good meal, if a trifle heavy, but Moe was quick to realize that his visit wasn’t welcome by her, and this upset him a little.

Halfway through the meal, Helene asked him bluntly what he was doing now.

Moe said he had a restaurant and it was doing all right.

“Then what are you doing in Paradise City?” Helene demanded, scarcely concealing her hostility.

As Moe hesitated uneasily, Kramer cut in, “He’s looking for another restaurant. It’s a great idea. We could do with a good Italian restaurant in Paradise City.”

After lunch, Helene said she was going down town and then on to the Bridge Club.

When the two men were alone, Kramer said, “Let’s go into my study, Moe. I want to talk to you.”

Moe, who had been enormously impressed by Kramer’s house, garden, the elaborate furnishing and decor, followed Kramer into the study. He stared through the big window at the rose garden and shook his head enviously.

“You’ve certainly got yourself a place, Jim,” he said as Kramer waved him to a chair. “You must be pretty pleased with it.”

Kramer sat down, pushed a box of cigars towards Moe, before helping himself.

“It’s okay,” he said, paused and then went on, “You remember Solly Lucas?”

Moe frowned, then nodded.

“Sure. What’s he doing these days... still working for you, Jim?”

Kramer sat forward, his fleshy face granite hard.

“He shot himself a couple of weeks ago. He did the job before I could get to him.”

Moe flinched and sat back in his chair, staring at Kramer.

“Yeah,” Kramer went on. “He put me in the hole for four million bucks. This is between you and me, Moe. Helene doesn’t know, and I don’t want her to know.” He grinned mirthlessly. “I guess you have more dollars right now than I have cents.”

Moe was so stunned that he could think of nothing to say. He just stared at Kramer. Big Jim... taken for four million bucks! It was unbelievable!

“I’ve got to make myself another lump of money,” Kramer went on. “It can be done, but I’ll need help. You’re the first guy I thought of. You and I have always worked well together. We can still pull off a big job.”

Still Moe could find nothing to say.

“I have an idea,” Kramer said, after a pause. “It’s worth a heap of dough if we play it right. I’ll organize and handle it, but I need you. Don’t look so scared, Moe. I’ll tell you this: there’s no risk! I promise you that! No risk... understand?” He looked searchingly at Moe. “I wouldn’t have called you in, Moe, if there was any chance of trouble. I know how tough San Quentin must have been. Listen... I give you my word you’ll never go back there if you work with me. There’s no risk in this job, otherwise, at my age, I wouldn’t be sticking my neck out or risking yours.”

Moe suddenly lost all his fears. If Big Jim said he could make him a quarter of a million dollars with no risk, incredible as it sounded, that’s what Big Jim would do. During the fifteen years that Moe had worked with Kramer, he had never had any fear of trouble. He still had utter faith in Kramer: when Kramer promised something with that bleak look in his eyes... it was a promise.

“What’s the deal then?” Moe asked, excitement showing on his face.

Kramer stretched his long legs and blew a cloud of rich smelling smoke towards the ceiling.

“Have you ever heard of John Van Wylie?”

Looking bewildered, Moe shook his head.

“He is a Texas oilman. You may not believe this, for it is hard to believe, but he is worth more than a billion dollars.”

Moe blinked.

“No guy can be worth that much,” he said. “A billion dollars! How can a guy be worth all that dough?”

“His father struck oil back in the nineties,” Kramer said. “The old man bought acres of land in Texas in the pioneer days for a song. Wherever he probed for oil, he found it. He never once hit a dry hole... imagine that! His son took over when the old man died, and he was a much smarter businessman than his father. For every dollar his father made, John Van Wylie had the touch to turn that dollar into ten dollars. I tell you, now he is worth more than a billion dollars.”

Moe mopped his sweating face.

“I’ve heard of such things happening, but I’ve never believed it.”

“I’ve been keeping tabs on Van Wylie for years,” Kramer said. “The guy fascinates me.” He got to his feet and unlocked a drawer in his desk. He lifted out a file of newspaper clippings. “Every one of these clippings refers to the Van Wylie family. I now know nearly as much about them as they know about themselves.” He dropped the file back into the drawer and returned to his chair and sat down. “Now and then, I amuse myself working out schemes to make big money, but I didn’t think I would have to get back into the game again. Well, I have to get back and these ideas of mine are now going to pay off.” He tapped ash off his cigar and then went on, “Van Wylie lost his wife... cancer. There is a daughter. She happens to look like her mother. I know for a fact that, she is the one thing in Van Wylie’s life that means anything.”

Kramer gazed for a long moment at the glowing end of his cigar, then he said, “Van Wylie has everything any man needs. He can’t possibly spend all the money he has made. He values nothing because if he loses something, he has. the money to replace it.” A long pause, then Kramer said, speaking softly, “but he can’t replace his daughter.”

Moe said nothing. He waited, aware that his heart was beginning to thump uneasily.

Kramer leaned forward, his face harsh, his eyes glittering.

“So we snatch his daughter and make a nice, safe private deal with him for four million dollars.”

Moe stiffened. His heart skipped a beat. His dark eyes open very wide.

“Wait a minute, Jim!” His voice shot up a note. “That’s a Federal rap! We could land up in the gas chamber!”

“Do you imagine I haven’t thought of that?” Kramer asked impatiently. “I’ve told you: this is going to be a nice, safe, private deal and that’s what it is going to be. Think about it for a moment. Van Wylie loses his daughter... the only possession he sets any value to. Four million dollars is peanuts to a man like Van Wylie. Imagine what you would do if some hood snatched your daughter and offered to return her, safe and sound, for twenty bucks. You’d pay up, wouldn’t you? You’d be glad to have her back for chick feed. Would you call in the Feds? You damn well wouldn’t! You’d be glad to do a deal. Four million dollars to a man of Van Wylie’s wealth is chick feed! Can’t you see that? He gets his daughter back, no fuss, no trouble and he loses what to you would be twenty bucks.”

But Moe wasn’t convinced. He had a horror of any job that carried the death sentence.

“But when he gets her back, he’ll stick the Feds on to us,” he said, thumping his fists on his fat knees. “A guy like that isn’t going to part with all that money without trying to hit back.”

“You’re wrong,” Kramer said. “I’ll convince him if he tries anything smart like that, no matter how carefully the girl is guarded, one day someone will arrive with a shotgun and that will be the end of his daughter. I’ll put the fear of God into him. I’ll convince him that sooner or later she will be fixed even if it takes a couple of years. He’ll see reason. You can’t guard a girl for years. He’ll see that.”

Moe considered this for a long moment, then he nodded.

“Well, okay, Jim. I’ve always relied on you. If you say so, then it is so.” He hesitated, then asked, “Just what do you want me to do?”

“You’ll have the easy end of it,” Kramer said. “You’ll handle the snatch... not alone, of course. We’ll need two other guys. That’s where I’m relying on you. I used to know plenty of punks who could help out, but I’ve lost touch now. We need a couple of young, tough kids with good nerves. Their cut will be five grand... no need to throw our money around. For five grand, you should be able to dig up someone.”

Moe was as out of touch as Kramer with the shadowy people of the underworld, but he knew this would be fatal to admit. Kramer wasn’t parting with a quarter of a million for nothing. Moe knew Big Jim. So long as you delivered you were in, but if you hesitated or admitted you didn’t know, you were out.

His mind worked swiftly. He had a sudden inspiration.

“I know a couple of kids who might do... the Cranes. Yeah, come to think of it, they’re dead right for this job.”

Kramer sucked in smoke and exhaled it.

“The Cranes? Who are they?”

“They live in the apartment below mine. They are pretty wild. They’re twins: brother and sister. You know these beatnik kids... he runs a gang. They’ll want handling, but they have the nerve.”

Kramer grinned. He had been handling wild ones all his life.

“I’ll handle them,” he said. He flicked ash into the ashtray. “Tell me about them. What do they do for a living?”

“Nothing,” Moe said. “They never have done anything. Like I said, they are wild ones.” He paused to stub out his cigar. “Their father was a gunman, sticking up small shops or out-of-the-way gas stations, caught their mother in bed with some jerk. He was drunk at the time and he killed them both. He was sent away for fifteen years. He hanged himself after three months in a cell. Their mother was one of the smartest shoplifters in the racket. She took the kids along with her and they got better at the game than she did. They were ten years of age when they lost their parents. They lived rough, stole their food and kept clear of the cops and the do-gooders. These kids are smart. They have never been caught. They haven’t a police record. Now they are running this gang of young beatniks. They put the bite on anyone they can blackmail. The girl dangles her sex and when a sucker falls for her, the boy arrives and shakes him down for his last dime... this boy is very tough. Now I guess they’re ripe for a big job. They have nerve, guts and they don’t scare. It’s an idea, Jim, to have a girl in on this caper. She could prove useful.”

Kramer thought for a long moment, then he nodded.

“I’ll come up to Frisco and meet them,” he said. “You fix it, Moe. If I think they’re right, we’ll use them. Okay?”

“I’ll talk to them,” Moe said. “When they hear you’re behind this setup, they’ll fall over themselves to get on the gravy train.”

Kramer grinned.

“Of course they will, but don’t tell them what the setup is, Moe. I want to see them first. Just tell them they have the chance to work for Big Jim Kramer.”

Moe looked admiringly at Kramer.

“I’ll tell them,” he said.

Chita Crane leaned against a lamppost, indifferent to the slight drizzle of rain, a cigarette between her full, red painted lips, her large dark eyes fixed with a concentrated stare at the entrance to the Giza Club, across the street.

The time was a little after three o’clock in the morning. Very soon now, the mugs would be coming out. One of them, and it had only to be one, would notice her and would come over. He would be a little drunk or maybe very drunk. He would offer her a lift in his car.

Chita was above average height with broad shoulders, a bust development that would make any man stare, slim hips and long legs. She wore black leather trousers, shiny and greasy from constant wear, and a black leather wind-cheater, on the back of which was painted in white, a realistic looking Crane fly or to give it its more popular name: a Daddy Longlegs. This outfit was the uniform both she and Riff, her brother, always wore. They were known among the gangs in their district as the Leatherjackets which, as most people know, are the larvae of the Crane fly.

When Chita could be bothered, she bleached her dark hair blonde, but more often than not, her hair was a dirty looking, streaky blonde — black. She had high cheekbones, large blue-black eyes and a well-shaped nose. No one could call her beautiful nor even pretty, but she was sensually attractive to men. Her eyes, old in wickedness and sexual promise, had a magnetic attraction. She was, like her brother, cruel, ruthless and vicious. It is always hard to accept the fact that anyone could have no redeeming feature, but it would be hard to find a redeeming feature in either of the Cranes. Both of them were habitual liars, dishonest and treacherous. They were also selfish, mean and utterly anti-social. Perhaps the one good thing — if you could call it that — in their make-up that someone could point to was their quite extraordinary love for each other. They were identical twins: there was a bond between them that withstood all their quarrelling and their constant fights, and they often fought like animals: Chita giving as good as she got. But if one of them fell ill which was seldom, or got into trouble which was often, the other was always there, giving support no matter how tough the spot. They completely relied on each other: they shared good luck with the bad and it was unthinkable to them if one had a dollar, it wouldn’t be automatically shared with the other.

Across the street, standing out of sight in a dark alley was Riff Crane. He was a few inches taller than his sister. His high cheekbones and his big glittering dark eyes were like those of his sister’s, but he had had his nose broken in a fight when he was a kid, and some months ago, an enemy had caught him unawares and had cut his face open with a razor from his right eye down to his jawbone. These two scars gave him a vicious, frightening appearance of which he was proud. Chita and he had laid a trap for the man who had slashed him. The score had been successfully settled. The man was now being led around by his wife, half-blind and stupid from repeated kicks to his head. Both Chita and Riff always wore skiing boots. They went well with their uniform and were terrible weapons in a street fight.

A man suddenly appeared in the doorway of the nightclub. He looked to right and left, stared at Chita, then started off down the street, his hands in his pockets.

Chita watched him go indifferently. The exodus had begun: sooner or later, some mug would come over to her. She saw her brother flick his glowing cigarette end into the street and move further back into the shadows.

Men and women began to emerge from the nightclub. Car doors slammed: cars drove away. Still Chita waited. Then a small man, wearing a raincoat and a slouch hat came up the stairs from the nightclub and paused in the doorway. Chita eyed him with interest and she lit another cigarette, holding the match cupped in her hand to light her face.

The little guy stared across the street at her, seemed to hesitate, then he came over. Chita’s experienced eyes noted the quality of the raincoat, the handmade shoes and the glitter of a gold strap watch. This could be the mug she was waiting for.

The little guy grinned at her as he approached. He had a cocky, knowing air about him. He moved lightly: his thin, foxy face was suntanned as if he spent much of his time out of doors.

“Hello, baby,” he said, pausing beside her. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Chita let smoke drift down her nostrils. Then she gave him her wide, professional smile.

“Hello, Mac,” she said. “If I’m waiting for someone, looks like I’ve found him, doesn’t it?”

The little guy examined her carefully. What he saw seemed to please him.

“That’s right: suppose we get out of the rain?” he said. “I have a car over there. Suppose you and me go someplace quiet and private? We could have lots to talk about.”

Chita laughed. She arched her breasts at him and lifted her dark eyebrows invitingly.

“Sounds like an idea: how private and where?”

“How’s about a hotel, baby?” The little guy winked. “I have money to burn. Do you know a quiet little joint we could go to?”

This was easy... almost too easy. Chita allowed herself to hesitate before saying, “Well... if that’s what you want, honey, it’s okay with me. I know a place. I’ll show you.”

She flicked her glowing cigarette high into the air. This was a pre-arranged signal to Riff, letting him know where she was taking the mug.

The little guy owned a Buick convertible. They got in and as Chita settled herself beside the little guy, he said, “That’s an offbeat getup you have on. Suits you. What’s the idea of the Daddy Longlegs?”

“It’s my signature tune,” Chita said. She was already bored with this little man. She only hoped he had a wallet full of money. She eyed the gold strap watch. That, at least, would be worth her trouble.

Five minutes later they were booking into a shady hotel on the waterfront. The reception clerk, a dirty, elderly man, gave Chita a sly wink and she winked back. Both knew that within a few minutes, Riff would be arriving.

They went upstairs and into a fair sized room in which was a double bed, two armchairs, a toilet basin and a threadbare carpet.

Chita sat on the bed and smiled at the little guy who took off his raincoat and hat. He hung them on a peg at the back of the door. He wore a custom-made dark suit. He had the appearance of a man of money.

“I’d like my present, honey,” Chita said. “Thirty bucks.”

The little guy gave her an amused smile and moved to the window. He pushed aside the dirty curtain and peered down into the rain-soaked street. He was in time to see Riff get off his motor-cycle, lift it up on to its stand and then start across the street towards the hotel.

“What are you looking at?” Chita asked, her voice sharpening. “Come here... I want my present.”

The little guy gave her an amused smile and moved to the window.

“No present, baby,” he said. “Nothing for you. I want to meet your brother.”

Chita stared at him.

“My brother? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Last week, you picked up a pal of mine,” the little guy said. “You brought him here. You and your brother skinned him and then your jerk of a brother beat him up. Now it’s my turn...”

Chita eyed the little guy with sudden alert interest. He looked harmless enough. He was small boned, lightweight and even fragile. Riff could kill him with one punch.

“Be your age, Sawn-off,” she said contemptuously. “We don’t want trouble, but you’ll have it if you don’t watch out. Riff could handle ten like you. If you don’t want to land up in the casualty ward, hand over your wallet and your watch. I’ll see Riff doesn’t hurt you.”

The little guy sniggered. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“The Leatherjackets! Two dumb vicious kids who can’t earn a dime unless they use force. Baby, this has been piling up for you both for a long, long time. Now you’re going to get it.”

As he spoke the bedroom door swung open and Riff came in. Usually when he entered this sordid room, Chita had taken off her clothes and was lying naked on the bed, and this gave him the chance of acting as the indignant brother. Seeing her sitting on the bed, fully dressed and staring at the little guy who stood in the centre of the room, still smiling, brought Riff to an abrupt standstill.

“Come on in, punk,” the little guy said. “I’ve been sweating to meet you.”

Riff looked at Chita who shrugged impatiently.

“Don’t ask me,” she said, but she was a little uneasy. “I guess he’s nuts.”

Riff moved into the room and shut the door. There was a watchful, alert expression in his eyes. His big fists dangled loosely at his sides.

“Okay, Mac,” he said. “The watch and the wallet. Snap it up. I want some sleep tonight even if you don’t.”

“I’m in no hurry to sleep,” the little guy said and sniggered. He seemed to be having a wonderful time and his lack of fear sparked off Riff’s vicious temper.

“Snap it up!” he snarled and began to move forward.

The little guy backed away quickly until he was against the far wall.

“You want my wallet?” he asked and put his hand inside his coat.

“Watch him!” Chita said sharply.

Riff paused. The little guy had a gun in his hand. He pointed it at Riff.

“Hi, sucker!” the little guy said cheerfully. “You didn’t expect to run into anything like this, did you?”

Riff snarled at him.

“You let off that heater and you’ll be in lots of trouble,” he said.

He made a quick feinting movement to the right and then charged the little guy. Chita caught her breath. It seemed a mad thing to do. She saw Riff reel back and clap his hands to his face as at the same time, she smelt the burning fumes of ammonia.

Riff fell on his knees, his hands scrubbing at his eyes and howling like an animal in pain. Sniggering, the little guy watched him. As Chita started to her feet, he swung around and aimed the ammonia gun at her. She just managed to cover her face with her hands as the burst of ammonia hit her. She saved her eyes, but she drew in a lungful of the scorching fumes. Screaming, she rolled from the bed onto the floor.

The little guy regarded his handiwork with satisfaction. He put the gun back into his pocket. He took his raincoat from the peg and put it on. Then he slapped his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. He paused for a long moment to watch the Cranes writhing like cut worms on the floor, then he let himself out of the room and went jauntily down to his car.

The Cranes never found out who he was. When the news got around how he had fixed them, those who had suffered at their hands regarded this anonymous little guy as a symbol of justice.