by Jerry eBooks
I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay, baby.”
I started for the door, but I had to pass her in order to reach it. It was simple.
I just grabbed for her wrist, wrenched it sharply and the toy clattered to the floor.
WHEN I stooped for it, she kicked me in the head. She tried to grab the gun out of my hand but I dropped it in my pocket and got hold of her two wrists and held them tightly.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt you, so cut it out.”
She got my knuckles between short white teeth and bit so hard I let out a yell. I shoved her away and she skidded backward and plopped down on the edge of the bed.
“I should have shot you,” she said. “Nobody would have blamed me.”
I wrapped my handkerchief around my knuckles. I was lucky she hadn’t taken a shot at me. Chicago is not my bailiwick and I wouldn’t like to be caught here prowling in a strange room. It might jam me up good. “Behave yourself,” I said, “and—”
I dived across the bed in a long lunge and knocked the phone out of her hand. She had edged toward the night table and had suddenly caught it up in an attempt to get the operator.
“Come now,” I told her. “You wouldn’t want the manager finding you up here all alone with a strange man.”
Her eyes flashed. “Just what do you want?”
I sighed deeply. “To take you back to New York.”
Her lips thinned. “Who sent you?”
“Your papa,” I said, and smiled.
“What does he think I am—a baby?”
“To tell the truth,” I confessed, “he just sent me out here to check up on you, see what you were up to, find out why you suddenly ran away to Chicago. I was looking through your stuff for a clue when you walked in on me and jammed up the works.”
She stared at me and I could see the fear blossoming in her sea-green eyes, growing, building up inside her. Her face started to lose color under the make-up and she kept twisting her fingers together.
“They call me Trouble-shooter Petrie back in New York,” I told her. “What’s eating you? Maybe I can help.”
Her voice was very small.
“Please,” she said, “go back. Leave me alone. There’s nothing you can do.”
I shook my head. “From the looks of things, there’s plenty I can do. Besides, I’m getting paid for it.”
She shook her head hopelessly. “Maybe you’re right. Listen. I know you won’t believe this, but about—”
There was a short tussle and I threw her back on the bed. I had to give her credit. She had made another attempt, this time jumping up and trying to grab the gun out of my pocket. I was getting a little sore. I got out the little toy, took the derby off my head, placed the .22 inside it and clamped the derby back in place.
She was a little over five feet tall, and I top six by a few inches, so she would never be able to reach that high without getting up on a chair, and that would give me plenty of warning.
“Now, what were you saying?” I asked.
A voice behind me spoke, a cold, hard, toneless voice.
“She wasn’t saying anything, buddy.”
I turned. The man standing there was wearing a dark blue Chesterfield with a velvet collar, and a light gray Homburg. He was heavy-set and you could sense the latent power of bulging muscles. His eyes were like two black marbles, but that was all you could tell about his face, for he was wearing an almost skin-tight mask. And he was holding the squat blue automatic as if he knew how to use it and had used it plenty.
“Up, buddy, up!” he said, jerking the automatic.
I REACHED for two handfuls of air and hung onto them. You don’t make any grandstand plays with a customer like this, not even in front of a beautiful heiress.
“Out,” he said. “You know where the door is.”
I had started to obey, just like that, but somehow or other my feet got tangled up in a chair. Before I could catch my balance I slipped, and chair and me went tumbling. Which was a blessed thing for me, for the minute I’d grabbed the chair the big guy had taken a swipe at my head with that big gun—and missed when I slipped.
“Out,” he growled again, as I scrambled to my feet and stood there teetering.
I glanced at Justine Squire. Her brow was furrowed, her lips parted, her small chin dropped in surprise. She hadn’t expected this guy any more than I had. And he didn’t even look at her, or even talk to her, so before she had a chance to say anything I marched right through the door, across the living room, and out into the hall.
He was right behind me and he jammed the automatic against the small of my back, told me to hold still, and stuck his hand around me and under my lapel, relieving me of the Colt.
It’s funny, but you get mighty used to a thing like a gun in my profession. I felt sort of naked without mine.
He pushed his finger against the elevator button, put the automatic in his pocket, kept his hand there with it, letting me feel its outline and the direction of its muzzle.
“One silly move, buddy,” he said, “and—”
“Don’t worry, friend,” I told him, putting a quaver into my voice. “I heard plenty about you Chicago guys. I’m smart enough not to—”
“Okay. Stay that way. Get your hands down.”
The elevator door opened and we stepped in. I got a look at him then, for in the upstairs hall he had yanked off the mask and shoved it into his pocket, him not seeming to mind now whether I saw his face or not—now that he had me where he wanted me. It wasn’t a pretty face. I’d seen many I liked better. In fact, I didn’t like the type of countenance at all—wedge-shaped, dark-skinned and expressionless.
We dropped down to the lobby and I walked across it to the revolving door. This, I thought to myself, is a good chance for a break.
It was dark outside, but a yellow bulb glowed from a street lamp on the curb and I could see the little guy who stood just in front of the revolving doors waiting for me. He made no attempt to hide the gun in his hand that was hanging by his side.
So these guys were smart and they weren’t taking any chances. I pushed through the door and the little underslung cockroach nodded his head toward a sedan parked at the curb, its motor purring softly.
“Hop in, pal,” he invited in a peculiar, high, strained voice.
The lad behind me prodded me with the flat of his free hand. The car door swung open and I climbed into the rear. The cockroach jumped behind the wheel. The heavy guy got in beside me. His gun was out now, resting on his lap, not negligently, just braced there, with his finger ready, inside the trigger guard.
The cockroach tooled the car away, and we rolled. He turned his head.
“You snag his rod, Mickey?” he asked.
“Shut up,” Mickey snarled, “and drive the car.”
“I am drivin’, ain’t I?” snapped the cockroach.
I settled back against the lush, rich upholstery, as far from Mickey as I could.
“Nice bus you have here,” I said in a friendly manner.
The cockroach guffawed. “He likes our car, Mickey. Ain’t that nice?”
Mickey didn’t say anything. He just sat still, with both those black eyes on me.
“Where we going?” I asked. That got a buzz out of him.
“What do you care?” he droned. “Wherever it is, you’re not gonna enjoy it.”
“Now, look, fellows,” I said, whining, “maybe we can talk this thing over. Maybe—”
“Listen to him,” the cockroach sneered. “What did I tell you, Mickey? These New York sleuths—yellow—”
“Shut up!” Mickey told him.
CHAPTER II
A FINE FIX FOR THE COCKROACH
THE car careened around a corner and we were driving along Lake Michigan. A cool breeze floated through the windows. Against the dark sky a number of cruising lights flickered, dotting the lake where boats were slowly gliding along.
“How much are you boys getting for this job?” I asked.
&n
bsp; “One million bucks,” gurgled Cockroach. “Hmm,” I said. “Who’s paying it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Maybe we can make a deal,” I said to Mickey. “I haven’t got a million bucks, but I can lay my hands on—”
“How much?” the driver asked eagerly. “Shut up,” Mickey snapped. To me he said: “No deals. We got a job to do. I get paid plenty and I ain’t never failed. You poked your nose into something that’s none of your business, so I got to bump you.”
He said it casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. And there was no more feeling in his voice than there was in that flat blue automatic on his lap.
The car stopped short for a traffic light and my heart jumped violently. My head snapped forward and for a brief instant I thought the derby was going to fall off—and with it my last and only chance of making a play.
By some stroke of good luck it just jiggled around on top of my skull and stayed put. My heart settled slowly, and I sucked in a nice cool breath.
The cockroach started grumbling.
“What’s eating you?” Mickey cracked.
“I always get all the dirty work,” the little driver complained. “I suppose I got to mix the cement again.”
“Can you beat that!” Mickey exclaimed to the world. “The only hard work the little punk ever has to do—and he makes a holler about it.”
I swallowed. “Mix the cement, did he say?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Mickey carelessly. “What d’you think we’re gonna do with your carcass?”
That was nice. That was just lovely. So they meant for me to end up at the bottom of Lake Michigan, frozen stiff in a barrel of concrete. Me, Chris Petrie, who’s supposed to make them tremble back in New York, being shanghaied by a couple of cheap hoods. Did they think they were going to knock me off without even an argument?
The car slowed up. We were on a dark and deserted street on the waterfront. There were a few old warehouses and some rotting docks, not the trace of another living soul. Just the spot for a nice quiet murder.
Mickey stiffened. A street lamp down the block threw an anemic yellow light into the car, glinted on the blue steel of his gun.
“Last stop,” Mickey said flatly. “Hop out, buddy. I don’t want to dirty this heap.”
Cockroach had swiveled his neck and he was watching us, his face screwed seriously.
“Out, buddy, out,” Mickey ordered.
This was it.
I had to hinge forward at the waist in order to leave the car. I made believe the derby was going to fall off my head and I put my hands up to catch it. Instead I actually loosened it, let it drop, brim upward, into my hands.
MICKEY nudged me roughly with his automatic.
Considering the position I was in, it was a fine shot. I was leaning way forward, twisted sideward, my right hand stuck inside the derby and around the little French .22. It did not make the devil of a lot of noise, no more than the smacking together of two pieces of wood.
The bullet caught Mickey between his teeth with the softest plop you can imagine.
He swayed unsteadily on the fulcrum of his spine, just gawping at me, eyes unbelieving, bulging out of their sockets. Then his fingers opened loosely and the automatic dropped from his twitching fingers, bounced on the floor at my feet.
Slowly—very slowly—almost like a slow motion movie he crumpled forward, blood and saliva bubbling at the corners of his lips. He was deader than a paving block.
Sure. I’ll grant you a .22 is not much of a gun, but when one of those little slugs ventilate the proper spot it will do as much damage as a six-inch shell any day. You can only get just so dead, and no more. And Mickey was as dead as Finegan’s false tooth before he hit the floor.
By now Cockroach was dragging under his arm for a gun. At first he hadn’t known who had fired the shot and that wasted him a lot of time. He had to face front in his seat in order to get his arm free and I jammed the barrel of the little Frenchy into the back of his neck.
“Reach!” I snarled.
His hands flew into the air and he turned a fear-contorted face toward me.
“All right,” I bit out. “Who hired you?”
The muscles on his face tightened. The jaws clamped.
“Who?” I whispered.
He spat out a string of curses. I raked the gun across his face.
“Tsk, tsk, such language.”
His cheek began bleeding. I gave him one more chance to talk, but the little goon was tight as a clam. I stabbed out with my left hand, hooked my fingers around his scrawny neck and squeezed until his eyeballs started popping and his face took on the greenish color of moldy cheese. I was sore. If he’d had a gun in his hand I wouldn’t have minded shooting it out with him. My voice was choked, harsh.
“Talk, you! Talk!”
He started to sag. I let go. He drew in deep gulps of air. His eyes were red-rimmed, ridden with terror. He thought sure I’d kill him. He was staring at Mickey who had slipped down along the door and turned over so that his face was visible. Only the upper half looked like anything. The lower part was a red mess, but he still had his eyes open, glazed and mocking.
The Adam’s apple in Cockroach’s throat bobbed up and down. He was breathing hard.
“You’ll be as dead as Mickey in a minute,” I said ominously. “I’ll spill your brains all over the car and toss you into the lake. The boats will come along and their screws will rip you to little shreds so the fish can eat you.”
“Listen, boss—” he croaked. “I swear I don’t know who—”
I jabbed the little gun into his chin.
“I’ll help freshen your memory. Who hired you?”
His mouth was a triangle of fear.
“Mickey gets all the jobs,” he whispered hoarsely. “I only work for him. I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout it.”
Somehow I had a feeling he didn’t, that he was leveling with me. If ever a guy was certain he was staring death in the face it was Cockroach at that moment. And his type would rat on his own mother to save his skin.
So I replevined the big Colt from Mickey’s side pocket. It was heavier, and better served the purpose for which I now meant to use it. Which was to put Cockroach to sleep. Besides it was mine and had a serial number traceable to me.
Cockroach saw the blow coming, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. I didn’t conk him hard enough to fracture his skull, but I did put him to sleep for a good long time.
The butt of the .45 made a soft whoosh against his skull and his loose mouth slid into a silly grin and he gave a soft sigh and sank over against the wheel.
I wiped my digit signatures from the tiny French heater, hooked it neatly between Cockroach’s fingers. Then I got a pin from my lapel and stuck it in the horn button and jumped out. The horn was blowing like the bellows of the inferno.
I spied a red lamp on a fire-signal box across the street. I hopped over, yanked the switch and ran. I couldn’t help laughing. That would bring a couple of hook and ladder trucks and a couple of squads of cops—and what would they find? Cockroach with a gun in his hand—the very gun in fact which had killed the man in the back of his car. Let him try to explain that!
When I got back to the hotel I went up to my room, washed, looked glumly into the empty bottle of Irish, and then sauntered across the corridor to see if the pass-key still worked on Suite 620.
It did. But the rooms were empty. No sign of Miss Justine Squire. The evening gown, the sable jacket, the slippers, everything was gone.
I went back to my own room and called the clerk. I asked him about it, and he told me that she had checked out about twenty minutes ago. Asked where she had gone, he said she was leaving for New York.
Downstairs I found the cabby who had driven her to the terminal. There was no help for it. I entered a booth and had the operator get me Mr. Anton Squire, long distance.
His voice was sharp, abrupt, with the impatience of a man who has m
ade a couple of million bucks, and wants things done his way and quickly. I gave him the story.
“Come back,” he snapped. “Something important has turned up.”
“I’ll catch the morning train,” I told him.
“Charter a plane,” he said. “I’ll have my man meet you at the station. . . .”
THE sun was skidding across the East in bleak gray ribbons when we sailed down the runway at La Guardia Field. I cabbed to Grand Central, hopped the first rattler out to Westchester, and less than an hour later I was shivering on a station platform, waiting for Durell, the Squire’s chauffeur.
I craned my neck, saw the powder-blue touring car come walloping down the road. It slowed to a stop beside the platform.
Durell jumped out, snapped to attention like a second lieutenant in front of a brigadier general, touched his cap smartly, and swung open the rear door. He was a tall, straight chap with black hair, shining like polished gun-metal, and keen steel eyes.
I sank back against the rich red leather and he tooled that car along the highway as easily as if he had been driving a bike.
He turned his head slightly. “That was a short trip, wasn’t it, Mr. Petrie?”
Durell had driven me to the airport the day before, just after Anton Squire had hired me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I cleaned everything up in Chicago.”
Durell was inquisitive. “Did you find Miss Justine?”
I frowned. “How’d you know what I was going for?”
I could see him smile through the rear vision mirror.
“The boss told me,” he said. “The old gent gets rather communicative on our drives into town.”
We lapsed into silence as the car wheeled between two stone posts and rolled slowly down a winding pebbled driveway lined on both sides with tall hedges and fuchsia bushes.
The house, a great stone pile, built like a medieval fort, sprang out of the ground on a little knoll just ahead. The sun was now a golden ball, drenching naked tree branches with yellow light.
But I never reached the house—at least not right then, and in the touring car.
Behind us there was the sudden roar of a powerful motor, the harsh sound of spinning pebbles, and the blast of a horn.