The Lock and the Key

Chapter Five

Andy Keels had a sucker. At a dollar a game he had already won three times and the sucker, in desperation, was playing a fourth game, double or nothing. In the sixth frame it looked as if Andy’s score would be well over the two hundred mark. As his victim sized up the beautiful railroad he had left for himself, Andy came back to the bench where Tommy Dancer was seated, skimming through the evening edition of the morning paper.

“Too bad I’m not playing you,” Andy said. “I’d like to go through that bankroll you’re carrying.”

“I can go through it myself.”

“Your boss hears you held out on him you’ll be looking for a new job.”

“Might be a good thing for me. I’m getting fed up with the shop.”

“What’s the difference what shop you work for, Tommy? You don’t spend much time in the shop anyway.” Andy, who was looking off, suddenly uttered a low whistle. “Oh-oh, here comes one of your new friends.”

Tommy craned his head about and saw Herbie the Lugan bearing down on him. As usual, Herbie was attired in a natty, neatly pressed suit, a flaming red necktie and as usual there was an ingratiating smile on his smoothly shaved face.

“Hi, chum!” he said cheerfully as he came up. “How’s tricks?” He looked at Andy and gave him a bare nod. Andy grunted and went back to the job of polishing off his victim.

Herbie the Lugan seated himself beside Tommy and, leaning over, clapped him on the knee. “Where’d you go to so quick last night, pal?”

“Home.”

“Too bad you left so early. The party got lively all of a sudden.” He rolled his eyes. “There was a handsome blonde who began taking off her clothes. Which reminds me, Willis Trent says he called your place today.”

“Twice.” Tommy folded his newspaper. “If he’s got some more locks he wants opened, why doesn’t he tell Mr. Roan?”

“It ain’t that, Tommy. He wants to see you.”

“Why?” Tommy asked bluntly.

“How should I know? He just, well — he told me he wants to see you.”

“You work for Trent?”

“It ain’t that, only, you see...”

“I thought you might be his valet or flunky,” Tommy said in as insulting a tone as he could muster.

The good cheer faded from Herbie the Lugan’s face. “Wise guy, huh?”

“Run along, little man.”

Herbie the Lugan got to his feet and scowled down at Tommy. “You’re making a mistake, chum. Trent ain’t a man you can push around.”

“Trent? Oh, yeah, by the way, just who is Willis Trent? What does he do for a living?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Well, just what is the point, Herbie?”

“The point is that Trent wants to see you. If you’re smart you’ll do what he says.” And then he added, “It’d be healthy.”

“Mmm,” said Tommy. “I’ll tell you what; answer a couple of questions and maybe I’ll run over and see Trent.”

Herbie the Lugan brightened. “Sure, pal, sure.”

“What does Trent do for a living? That’s one of the questions.”

Herbie shrugged. “He’s in business.”

“What kind of business?”

Herbie frowned. “Just business.”

“Monkey business?”

Herbie pursed up his lips and pushed them in and out in a mighty pout. “He’s a right guy. You can ask anybody. They’ll all tell you that Willis Trent is okay.”

“Who’ll tell me?”

“Anybody.” Herbie the Lugan made a vague inclusive gesture that could have included anyone in the bowling alley or anyone in the state of California, for that matter.

Tommy grunted. “Who’s Earl Faraday?”

A quick wince flitted across Herbie’s smooth features but he said blandly: “Faraday? Who’s Faraday?”

“He was at the party last night, a tall lean fellow with a lot of oil on his hair. Trent and he spent quite a little time out on the terrace.”

Herbie the Lugan shook his head, then suddenly brightened and nodded. “Oh, him! I remember now. I don’t know him.”

“You know the girl in the red dress he was hanging around? Flo Randall?”

Herbie looked suddenly, shrewdly at Tommy. “You like her, huh?”

“Not if she’s Faraday’s property.”

“She ain’t exactly, but—” Herbie caught himself. “I mean don’t let this fellow Faraday, or whatever his name is, bother you.” He smiled brightly. “You goin’ up to see Trent, now?”

Tommy hesitated, then throwing down his newspaper got to his feet. “Lead on, chum.”

Herbie the Lugan had no car so they drove to the Lehigh Apartments in Tommy’s old flivver.

Trent was at home, lounging in a big easy chair, wearing a fine brocaded dressing gown and immersed in a Racing Form. He got up and greeted Tommy warmly.

“Ah, Tommy, my boy. Glad you dropped in.”

“I didn’t drop in,” Tommy said sourly. “Your friend here said I had to come or else.”

“Or else what?” Trent smiled at Herbie, but there was ice in the smile. “Always the kidder, aren’t you, Herbie?”

“Sure,” said Herbie the Lugan. “Anything for a laugh.”

“Well, here’s a laugh for you, Herbie. A howl.”

Trent chuckled and walked up to Herbie. His hand flicked out and the palm of it cracked across Herbie’s mouth. Herbie yelped and leaped back. A little trickle of blood seeped from his mouth, down onto his chin. Herbie dabbed at it with a silk handkerchief.

“I gotta be runnin’ along,” he mumbled.

“That’s all right, Herbie,” Trent said.

Herbie shot a quick, anguished look at Tommy and made a quick exit.

When the door closed behind him, Tommy said, “I’m surprised a man’ll take that.”

“Herbie? He’ll take anything. It’s all he understands. But I didn’t ask you here to talk about Herbie the Lugan. As a matter of fact, you can forget Herbie entirely. But you and I have got some things to talk about.”

“What?”

“Sit down. Relax.”

Trent resumed his own seat and folded his Racing Form. Tommy remained standing a moment, then sat down across the room from Trent. Trent studied him a moment, smiling sardonically. Then he suddenly said: “How’d you like to make a thousand dollars?”

“Fine,” said Tommy grimly.

“How about five thousand?”

“I can make five thousand without any trouble. All I’ve got to do is work two years for it.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Trent. “Now you’re talking my language.”

“No,” said Tommy, “I’m not. I’m willing to make five thousand by working. I don’t think you had that in mind.”

“Work? What the hell do you think I do?”

“I don’t think you work.”

“There’s work,” said Trent, “and work. I sit here all day and people call me on the phone and say, Tut me down for two dollars on Silver Slippers,’ or, ‘What do you think of War Goddess in the fifth at Belmont?’ What difference does it make what I think as long as I don’t get too much money on one nag. But don’t ever kid yourself that isn’t work.”

“You’re a bookie, then.” Trent nodded. “That’s what I thought you were.”

“Smart boy.”

“Well, I’m not interested in betting on a sure thing.”

“Who said anything about horses?”

“You asked me if I wanted to make five thousand dollars.”

“You’ll never make five grand playing the nags, Tommy, my lad. That’s a tip right from the feedbox. I tell it to all my clients. You can’t beat the races, but if you’ve got to bet, bet with me. Fair and square. I’ll take your money if you’ve got to put it on something, because if I don’t take it someone else will. But my best advice is to get yourself a safe deposit box at the bank and put your money in it.”

“I put it in barrels,” said Tommy. “Great big wooden barrels and whenever I fill one I take it out to the back yard and bury it in the ground.”

“Play with me, Tommy, and you might do just that.”

Tommy got to his feet. “I’ll think about it.”

“What’s your hurry?” Trent asked sharply. “Sit down. Relax. I haven’t told you the setup yet.”

“I don’t think I’d be interested.”

The door buzzer whirred sharply and a white-jacketed Filipino appeared and went to the hall door. He opened it and Earl Faraday came in.

He grunted when he saw Tommy Dancer. “This Shetland Pony’s the man you were telling me about?”

Trent grimaced a little. “You met him last night?”

“He was stepping on my toes.” Faraday came forward and sized up Tommy with a jaundiced eye. “He doesn’t hardly look smart enough.”

Tommy said: “Any time, Faraday.”

Faraday’s lips curled in a sneer. “I’ll be damned. He wants to fight.”

“Easy, Tommy,” Trent said quickly. “This is Earl Faraday.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Faraday swore. “Dammit, Trent, I like a rib as well as the next man, but I’ll be damned if I take it from a punk.”

Trent beamed ingratiatingly. “Look, fellows, this is a big deal. There’s enough in it for all of us, but we’ve got to stick together. Each of us needs the other and I suggest we don’t let personalities stand in the way of a good thing.”

“There are a million other locksmiths,” Faraday snapped.

“Sure,” said Trent. “And there are a million guys can play a fiddle, but there’s only one Stokowski.”

“I never heard of Stokowski playing a fiddle.”

“All right, so it’s Tommy Dorsey, or Benny Goodman. The point is Tommy Dancer’s the best in his line. Like you are in yours, Earl.”

Faraday’s eyes narrowed. “Are you starting cracks now, Trent?”

Trent groaned. “Cut it out, Earl. I’ve got enough trouble now.”

Faraday glowered for a moment. “All right, get on with it. You’ve told him about the caper?”

“Well, no, we were just nibbling around the edges when you came in.”

“Then how do you know he’s the man for the job?”

“I’m not,” Tommy Dancer said flatly. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll be running along now.”

Faraday strode up to Tommy Dancer, his eyes blazing like polished agates. “Look here, punk, I’ve had just about enough from—” He drew back his right first, but Trent, exclaiming, sprang forward and caught the arm.

“Cut it out, Earl.” He whirled on Tommy. “And you, Dancer, sit down and keep your trap shut for awhile, or by God, I’m going to get sore.” He shoved Tommy back and stepped in between the two belligerents. “I’ve had enough of this. If you two can’t sit down and talk business, the hell with the whole thing.”

“You’re talking pretty big, Trent,” snarled Faraday. But there was less bite in his tone.