"All right," I said. "The answer is no. I'm not buying."
She clucked her tongue sympathetically. "And you were such a damned good-looking guy. You know how to kiss a girl, too. Good-by, Sloan."
She walked across the outer office and I stood there, leaning against the door frame and watching her. Her face may have deteriorated some, but not her shape. She opened the hallway door and the two guys quickly moved up beside her. They all went away, and the slamming door sounded forlorn and final. I went back to my desk, smoked half a dozen cigarettes thoughtfully, had a couple of drinks and then decided to call it a day.
I already had some definite ideas about this weird set-up. Certainly Maxine didn't run it. She was merely a decorative front. Maybe she gave some of the boys a little encouragement by swinging her hips and brought them into line that way. I wanted no part of it.
I thought about taking the .45 with me but decided against it. They'd hardly have time to get set this fast, and I doubted they'd take a pot shot at me tomorrow in broad daylight. But I wasn't denying the fact that I might be in considerable danger.
When I hit the street, I took a careful look around. Nobody was watching me. It was ten o'clock, too early to go home, there was no Mona to call on, and I doubted that Sheila would be at the bar and grill. But I could try, so I shook off Kane's boys without much trouble and without letting them know they'd been deliberately shaken. I took a cab downtown and was pleasantly surprised to find Sheila at the same booth. I slid onto the seat and we held hands for a couple of minutes, not saying a word. A waiter came along and we ordered and then held hands some more.
"I didn't think you'd get here," she said. "I was almost ready to leave and I can't stay long. Jack is in a vicious mood today."
I grinned a little. "It's to be expected. Did he tell you I sued him and he was served with the papers today?"
"So that's it. No, he didn't tell me." She stopped to let the waiter put our drinks down. Then she resumed. "He came home early—around four-thirty. He growled worse than usual and all of a sudden, for no reason I knew of then, he smashed a chair. He just picked it up—one of the wooden kitchen chairs—and tore it to pieces."
"He didn't touch you?"
"No, but he kept glowering at me. Almost as if I were to blame for his troubles. Mike, he can't possibly know we meet like this, can he?"
I shook my head. "If he did, I think he'd have shown up before now and tried to take me apart like he did the chair. Sheila, is it very clear in your mind that you intend to leave him?"
"Yes—oh, yes, Mike. I want to."
"But you were in love with him once."
"Very much. He was so different in those-days. Now all he wants is money and power. Essentially I think he's an honest cop and a good one, too, but there are sides to him that are black and vicious."
"It won't be long now," I said. "Just a few little matters to clean up and then we're off. I'm afraid Kane will bust everything in the apartment when he finds out."
"He mustn't," she said quickly. “I’ve been thinking this all out, Mike. I'll leave a note, saying I can't stand living with him any longer and that I'm going away. That's all he'll know. If he knew I went with you, he'd never stop until he found us. Mike, he might kill you."
"He might at that, baby. Or try to, at any rate. Still, he's been a cop for a long time and a cop learns just how futile murder is."
We drank, chatted awhile longer and then she had to go home. She didn't want me to even accompany her to the street. I sat there, nursing another drink. There were a lot of questions in my mind, but none of them could be answered as clearly as what Sheila meant to me and what I intended to do about it.
This goofy organization Maxine was supposed to head didn't add. Jewel thievery is a solo or, at best, a two-man stunt. It can't be done well with brute force and it takes brains and skill. A hell of a lot more than Maxine had. I wanted to get to the inside of that outfit and find out what it was composed of.
I paid the tab, went out and rode a cab home. I took the elevator up to my floor, walked down the corridor and passed the fire stairway door. I fished keys out of my pocket, turned the lock to my suite and had the door half open when somebody stuck a gun into the small of my back.
I didn't say a word. I couldn't have if I'd wanted to. All I could think of was my own foolishness. I should have known that Maxine wouldn't wait.
The man behind me said, "Walk in, pal. Do it easy. This is a big gun I got."
The voice was vaguely familiar, but I didn't turn my head. Not right then. I walked into the living room and stood there while the guy closed the door with his foot. The gun never budged out of my back. He patted my pockets, under my arms, ran his hand down my pants legs and even checked for a belly gun. When he was satisfied that I wasn't armed, he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. Like that! I was a toy top. I could no more have resisted that muscular power than transport myself somewhere else.
His size was familiar enough, but I'd only seen Spike Tate in the dark. The voice and the size was identification enough, but I looked him over anyway so that I'd know him again on sight—if I was destined to ever see anything again. He had a broad flat face with bulging eyes like a lizard's. His skin was coarse, like that of a man who'd drunk too much for too many years. For the size of his face he had a small mouth, not wide and just a thin gash in an ugly frame.
"Where you been?" he demanded. "You been talking to the cops?"
I said, "Hello, Spike." I couldn't think of anything else and it was a dumb remark.
"I asked you a question, pal. I like to get answers. Remember? When I don't get answers, I get sore. You oughta know."
I knew all right. I said, "No cops, Spike."
"I think you're lying. I think you went to see 'em."
"I didn't talk to the cops. I never mentioned you to anyone."
"You're a wise guy. I hate wise guys. I like to smear 'em all up. I think that's what I'm gonna do to you, pal. Smear you up."
I didn't answer him or make a move. He had the muzzle of the gun right between my eyes. It looked five times as big as my .45, which was reposing nicely in the big office vault.
Spike smiled thinly. "You don't scare easy, do you, pal? You're washed up, you know that?"
"What's it going to get you, Spike?"
"A hell of a lot of satisfaction, for one thing. For another, Paul Stoker told you I knocked off Marty Carroll and that other crook. I don't like people walking around who can put the finger on me. Paul don't count because he was in on both deals and they'll fry him too. But you're different. You're the smart type. If the cops nail you, there'd be a good chance you'd make a deal with them and turn me in so you'd get off easy. I gotta fix you, pal. There just ain't no other answer."
I had to say something. Any second this big lug would fasten his fingers around my throat and start hammering me to death.
"You're playing with the wrong mob, Spike. They're using you for a sucker."
"You think so, huh?" He didn't believe it at all. Neither did I, which hardly made me sound very convincing. I tried another angle.
"If that blonde dish promised you anything, forget it. She's like a post-dated check—they never turn out the way you expect.”
The mention of Maxine got him. He rolled his frog eyes and ran a fat tongue around his thin lips. "Yeah—but ain't she somethin', pal? Imagine rolling in the hay with her. And you're all wrong. She makes a promise and she keeps it."
"Did she promise you a roll in the hay, Spike?"
"It ain't right to talk about things like that," he said. "Besides, all I'm doing is wasting time. You're scared, ain't you, pal? The big moment is here. That scares you, don't it?"
I said I wasn't scared, but I hoped he didn’t notice me shaking. This moron was a good killer because he never bothered to figure the odds. A kill to him was just a small piece of business. Besides, he didn't need a gun to scare people. One look at him was enough.
My voice sounded like a twenty-year-
old radio with a couple of cracked tubes. "Well, get it over with if you're going to."
He'd looked at his watch about five times in the last three minutes and he acted as if he expected someone or something. Ordinarily, a stupid punk like this, with orders to kill a man, simply does what he's told. I should have been dead minutes ago. A ray of hope was born. Slim enough to hide behind a thread, but I hadn't had even that a second before.
"All in good time," he said. "Hell, you ain't in a rush to get knocked off, are you?"
I started using propaganda again. A man with a gun poking his nose has no other weapon. "The blonde is stringing you. She doesn't go for mugs like you, Spike. I know, because I talked to her a little while ago."
"So maybe you made her, huh?"
I think if I'd said yes, he would have blown my fool head off. I said, instead, "She can't see me either. We're small fry in her book."
"Small, hell," he said. "She likes my build."
I couldn't stand it any longer. "What are you waiting for? Is there going to be an audience?"
He smiled that killer's smile again. "I think you are scared. Yeah, I bet your knees are shaking. Anyway, I wouldn't be a sucker and shoot. Somebody would hear that. All I'm going to do is bust you up in little pieces—quiet. If you yell, I'll wring your goddamn neck. And I'll do it when I get good and ready."
So he didn't intend to use the gun. That wasn't his thinking—somebody had warned him a shot could be easily heard in a hotel and maybe the place would be difficult to get out of. In that thick skull of his, the idea was strongly planted. If only I had a break, any kind of a break, he'd hesitate before pulling the trigger. Maybe he wouldn't even pull it at all. A break—just one little break. He glanced at his watch again.
"It ain't going to be long now, paL" he said. "I'm being fixed up with an alibi. In a minute or two, a friend of mine is going to call here. You're going to answer the phone. That'll prove you was alive at—" He looked at his watch again—"exactly twelve-fifteen. And if the cops take me for the job. I'll prove I was some place else at twelve-fifteen. Smart, ain't it?'"
A minute or two. That was all I had left
The phone rang. It clamored. It sounded as if the bells were installed inside my head. It rang so loud the instrument and its base should have jumped all over the table. Spike didn't even glance at it
"Okay, pal, answer it and don't try no tricks. Hurry up, I ain't got all night"
I had a lifetime. A very brief lifetime. I moved toward the phone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Pick it up," he said.
I reached for the phone, and he pulled the gun back,-holding it aside a bit. I wasn't covered, but he could move that gun back into position so fast I wouldn't have been able to much more than lift a finger.
I said, "Hello."
"How you feeling, Sloan?"
It was a man's voice. It should have been familiar, but it wasn’t. I didn't happen to be in a mood to recognize voices at that moment.
I said, "All right, I guess."
"Yeah—wait'll Spike starts working you over, boy. This is Paul Stoker. Remember me?"
I muttered something, then took the phone away from my ear glanced at Spike. "He wants to talk to you."
Spike reached for the phone with his left hand. That put his right just below the phone I was still holding—and he was gripping the gun with that hand. He had orders not to shoot. He wouldn't, unless it was absolutely necessary. Well, he was going to have to shoot in about one second, but would he hesitate long enough? There was one way to find out. It might cost me my life, but that was forfeit, anyway.
I let the phone slide down until my fingers were clutching the end of it and I brought this down as hard as I could against Spike's right wrist. The blow must have paralyzed his finger nerves for a few seconds. Either that—or the command not to shoot held back the proper functioning of his brain, which should have been flashing a message to pull the trigger.
At the same instant I threw up my left hand and sent his head back. Then I brought up a knee, using all my strength. He went deathly pale, and the gun tumbled to the floor. He tried to yell but was in too much pain. He made a half punch, half grabbing gesture toward me, and I waltzed out of the way. I knew he'd snap out of it quickly enough, so I bent down and grabbed the gun. I rapped him with the muzzle just over the eyes. Blood spurted, blinding him. He turned away, groaning now, spread-legged, so pale that the blood seemed redder than it really was. I lifted the gun, holding it by the barrel and brought it down on top of his skull with every ounce of force I could muster. It must have been enough, though you couldn't have proven it by me—not right then. All I knew was that I had to knock this man out, even kill him, or I'd die under a barrage of blows and kicks.
Spike went down on his knees. I clouted him again with the gun butt and he fell on his face. I picked up the phone. Nobody was on the wire. I hurried to the bathroom and found some adhesive tape. I started peeling it off, but the stuff was old and dry. It wouldn't hold Spike for more than a minute. I went back with a roll of sterilized gauze. I turned him over on his stomach, pulled his left hand behind him and untangled his right from under his body. I lashed the wrists with half the roll of gauze and tied a tight knot. Then I felt better. I started walking toward a chair, but I didn't quite make it. My knees gave way, and I had to grab at the edge of a table for support. Spike was beginning to groan. I sat down and lit a cigarette and wondered what the hell I was going to do with him.
Whatever came into mind had to be done fast. Paul Stoker knew something had gone wrong. This gang of hoods, ostensibly controlled by Maxine, might even dare to storm this fashionable hotel. Then I had a happy thought. I arose slowly, testing my legs before I put much weight on them. I was still clutching the gun. Spike, if he got free of that gauze and tape, was going to get one smack through his chest if he came at me. I wasn't buying any more of that.
I picked up the phone and asked the girl on the switchboard to get me Police Headquarters. I asked for Captain Kane. The chances were he wouldn't be there, but, on the outside chance he was, I wanted him. He was there—and I cursed him silently. Sheila had been so afraid he'd be home early.
I said, "This is Mike Sloan, Captain."
He said, "Yes," as if his mouth was full of hot buckshot.
"Have you found the murderer of Marty Carroll yet?"
"I wouldn't tell you if we had," he said curtly. "Furthermore, I don't even want to talk to a lousy bastard like you."
"You'd better send someone else up here then, because I've got Marty's killer sprawled out on my floor and I hate to have my place cluttered up."
I dropped the phone, hoping it banged in his ear. He'd come. Kane wouldn't pass up a chance like this.
While I waited, Spike woke up. He gave some mighty tugs at the gauze, and I wasn't sure the stuff would hold so I went over to him, bent down and laid the muzzle of his gun against the tip of his nose.
"How does it feel, Spike?"
He called me a few names I was familiar with, a few I hadn't heard in years and some that were absolutely new to me.
"Stop squirming around," I said. "If you do bust the stuff holding your wrists, I’ll only shoot you."
"Next time," Spike said, "I won't wait I'll give it to you on sight"
"There won't be a next time, Spike. They may have trouble fitting you into the electric chair, but they'll manage. You killed Marty. You told me so, remember? And I'm betting you left enough prints around to tie you in even without the confession. How do you feel, pal?"
"Lousy. Would you listen to a deal?"
"The only deal you know is a double-cross. I'm sorry, Spike. I'm as sorry as hell."
"You buzzed the cops, huh?"
"I called Captain Kane."
"Kane, huh? Listen, wise guy, I'm not in any death cell yet. I'm telling you now—you'd better go far away and dig yourself a deep hole because I'm looking for you the minute I get out"
"You worry me, Spike."
&
nbsp; He cursed some more and then lay back with his mouth wide open. He had yellow stumps for teeth. I wondered what he chewed to make them that yellow. He rolled his head to look at me again.
"I got me a few grand stashed away, pal."
"You'll need it for lawyers."
"Damn you. Listen, Paul Stoker knows something happened. He'll get you for me."
"I can handle Stoker. I did once already. Got any more bright ideas?"
He had some. They weren't bright—but they were very dirty. There was a pained silence for a while, and then somebody banged on the door. I took a firmer grip on the gun, turned the latch, put my back against the wall just inside the door and said, "Come in."
Kane threw the door wide as he always did. I lowered the gun just a trifle and peered over his shoulder. There was nobody in the corridor. I kicked the door shut, but I didn't put the gun away. Kane went over and stood looking down at Spike.
"This him?" he asked.
I said, "No, that's a special friend who just dropped in. He likes to lie around that way."
"You don't have to be a smart alec, Sloan. Who is he?"
"Spike Tate, a cheap hood with big muscles. He told me he killed Marty Carroll."
"In front of witnesses?"
"Hell no, but you could get the truth out of him. You couldn't detect his brain under a microscope. Besides, there must have been prints."
"How do you know?" Kane turned on me fast.
I’d made a mistake there. I wasn't supposed to have been at the scene of the crime. I said, "There were gory details in the newspapers, Captain."
"Prints," he said. "Yeah—there were prints. Of big thumbs and fingers. Cut him loose, Sloan."
"It's on your own head," I warned.
"While you're at it, give me that rod. Is it yours?"
"I took it away from him. I’ll give it to you as you leave, Captain. You and I are not exactly friends."
"This is police business," he said harshly. "Get him up."
I hauled Spike to his feet. It was impossible to untie the knots in the gauze because he'd pulled them too tight, so I got a pair of scissors from a table drawer.
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