by 12 Chinamen
The Cuban saw him as he rounded the bend in the stairway and his hand flew to the inside of his coat. Fenner drew his lips off his teeth and shot him three times in the belly. The noise of the gun crashed through the still house. The Cuban caught his breath in a sob and bent forward,-holding himself low down.
Fenner jumped forward, heaved him out of the way, and dived down the stairway as if he were taking a header into the water.
The short Cuban had no chance to get out of the way. The sudden crash of gun-fire had paralyzed him, and although his hand went unconsciously to his hip, he could not move his feet.
Fenner's two hundred pounds of bone and muscle hit him like a shell. They both crashed down on to the floor, the Cuban underneath. The Cuban had given one high-pitched squeal of terror as he saw something coming at him, then Fenner was on him.
The crash made Fenner's head spin and for a second or two he was so dazed that he could only lie, crushing the Cuban flat. His gun had shot out of his hand as he went down, and as he struggled to his knees he was dimly conscious of a jabbing pain in his arms.
The Cuban didn't move. Fenner cautiously got to his feet and stirred him with his foot. The odd angle of the Cuban's head told him all he wanted to know. He'd broken his neck.
He went on his knee and searched the Cuban's pockets, but he didn't find anything. He looked inside one of the suit-cases, but it was empty. The smear of blood on the lining confirmed his idea that they were taking the body away in bits.
He found his gun and cautiously went upstairs to have a look at the other Cuban. He, too, was as dead as a sausage. He lay twisted in a corner, his mouth drawn up, showing his teeth. Fenner thought he looked like a mad dog. A quick search revealed nothing, and Fenner went downstairs again. He wanted to get out of this fast. He turned off the light in the hall, opened the front door and stepped out into the night.
Outside, the car still waited. There was no one in it, but Fenner let it stay. He walked down the street, keeping in the shadow, and it was only when he got into the Fulton Street crowds that he relaxed at all.
A taxi took him back to his office. During the short ride he had decided on a plan of action. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor and hurried down the passage to his office.
A light was still burning, and for a moment he hesitated before entering. Then, keeping his hand on his gun, he turned the handle and walked in.
Paula was sitting in an arm-chair before the telephone. She jerked up her head quickly as if she'd been asleep.
“Why haven't you gone home?” Fenner said shortly.
Paula indicated the telephone. “She might have rung,” she said quietly.
Fenner sat down beside her wearily.
Paula said, “Dave, I'm sorry about—”
“Skip it,” Dave said, patting her hand. “You were right to blow off. Right now things are happenin'. Those two Cubans got hold of that girl, killed her and carved her up. I caught them cartin' her away. They're dead. I killed 'em both. Don't interrupt. Let me tell you fast. The cops must be kept out of this. This is between me and whoever started it. Those cheap punks are only the dressin'. They ain't the whole salad. Take a look at that.” He gave Paula the letter he'd found in Marian's bag.
Paula read it through. Her face had gone a little pale, but otherwise she was calm. “Key West?” she said.
Fenner's smile was mirthless. “That make you think?” '
Paula puzzled.
“That dame wanted to find her sister. She said she didn't know where she was. Why didn't she tell me Key West? You know, baby, it looks like a plant. There's something very funny about this business.”
“Who's Pio?” Paula said, reading the letter again. “And who's Noolen?”
Fenner shook his head. There was a hard look in his eyes. “I don't know, baby, but I'm goin' to find out. I've got six thousand dollars of that girl's money, an' if I have to spend every dollar of it, I'm goin' to find out.”
He went over to the telephone and dialed a number. While the line was connecting, he said, “Ike's goin' to earn some of that dough I've been slippin' him.”
The line connected with a little plop. Fenner said, “Ike?” He waited, then he said, “Tell him Fenner. Tell him not to be a jerk. Tell him if he don't come to this phone at once, I'll come down and kick his teeth in.” He waited again, his right shoe kicking the desk leg continuously. Then Ike's growl came over the wire.
“All right, all right,” Fenner said. “To hell with your game. This is urgent. I want to find someone I can contact in Key West. Do you know anyone down there? He's gotta have an in with the guys that count.”
“Key West?” Ike grumbled. “I don't know anyone in Key West.”
Fenner showed his teeth. “Then rustle up someone who does. Ring me back right away. I'll wait.” He slammed the receiver down on its cradle.
Paula said, “You going down there?”
Fenner nodded. “It's a long way, but I think that's where it'll finish. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm going to see.”
Paula got to her feet. “Do I go with you?”
“You stick around here, baby. If I think something's goin' to start, I'll have you down. Right now you'll be more of a help here. Grosset's got to be looked after. Tell him I'm out of town for a few days, but you don't know where.”
“I'll go over to your place and pack a bag for you.”
Fenner nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “do that.”
When she had gone, he went over to his reference shelf and checked the air time-table. There was a plane for Florida at 12.30. He glanced at his watch. It was five past eleven. If Ike phoned back quickly, he could just make it.
He sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette. He had to wait twenty minutes before the phone jangled. He snatched the receiver.
“The guy you want is Buck Nightingale,” Ike said. “He's got his finger in most pies down there. Treat him easy, he's gotta brittle temper.”
“So have I,” Fenner said unpleasantly. “Fix it for me, Ike. Tell him that Dave Ross'll be down on the next plane an' wants introductions. Give me a good build up. I'll tell Paula to put a check in the mail for five hundred bucks for your trouble.”
“Sure, sure,” Ike's voice was quite oily. “I'll fix it for you,” and he hung up.
Fenner dialed another number. “Paula?” he said. “Hurry with that packing. I'm catching the 12:30 plane. Meet me at the airport as fast as you can make it.”
He pulled open a drawer, took out a check-book and signed five blank checks quickly. He put his hat and coat on and looked round the office thoughtfully. Then he snapped off the electric light and went out, slamming the door behind him.
II
Fenner arrived at Key West about nine. He checked in at a nearby hotel, got himself a cold bath and went to bed. He was lulled to sleep by the drone of an electric fan that buzzed just above his head.
He had two hours' catnap, then the telephone woke him. The telephone said “Good morning” and he ordered orange juice and toast and told the brittle voice at the other end to send him up a bottle of Scotch. While he was waiting he went into the bathroom and had a cold shower.
It was half past eleven when he left the hotel. He walked south down Roosevelt Boulevard. All the time he walked he kept thinking about the heat. He thought if he was going to stay long in this burg he'd certainly have to do something about the heat.
He stopped a policeman and asked for Buck Nightingale's place.
The cop gaped at him. “You're new here, huh?”
Fenner said, “No, I'm the oldest inhabitant. That's why I come up an' ask you. I wantta see if you know the answer,” and he went on, telling himself that he'd have to be careful. The heat was doing things to his temper already.
He found Nightingale's place by asking a taxi-driver. He got the information and he got civility. He thanked the driver, then spoiled it by not hiring the cab. The driver told him he'd take him all over the town for twenty-five cents. Fenner said that he'd rathe
r walk. He went on, closing his ears to what the driver said. It was too hot to fight, anyway.
By the time he reached Flagler Avenue his feet began to hurt. It was like walking on a red-hot stove. At the corner of Flagler and Thompson he gave up and flagged a cab. When he settled himself in the cab he took off his shoes and gave his feet some air. He'd no sooner got his shoes off than the . cab forced itself against the oncoming traffic and pulled up outside a small shop.
The driver twisted his head. “This is it, boss,” he said.
Fenner squeezed his feet into his shoes and had difficulty in getting his hot hand into his trouser pocket. He gave the driver twenty-five cents and got out of the cab. The shop was very clean and the windows shone. In the right-hand window stood a small white coffin. The back of the window was draped with heavy black curtains. Fenner, fascinated, thought the coffin looked lonely all by itself. He read the card that stood on a small easel by the coffin.
MAY WE
LOOK AFTER YOUR LITTLE ONE
IF THE LORD DOES NOT SPARE HIM?
Fenner thought it was all in very good taste. He went over to the other window and inspected that too. Again it was draped in black curtains, and on a white pedestal stood a silver urn. A card bearing the simple inscription “Dust to Dust”impressed him.
He stepped back and read the facia over the shop:
B. NIGHTINGALE'S FUNERAL PARLOR.
“Well, well,” he said, “quite a joint.”
He walked into the shop. As he opened the door the electric buzzer started, and stopped as soon as the door shut. Inside, the shop was even more impressive. There was a short counter dividing the room exactly in half. This was draped with a white-and-purple velvet cover. Several black leather arm-chairs dotted the purple pile carpet. On the left of the room was a large glass cabinet containing miniature coffins made of every conceivable material, from gold to pine wood.
On the right was a six-foot crucifix cleverly illuminated by concealed lights. The figure was so realistic that it quite startled Fenner. He felt that he'd wandered into a church.
Long white, black and purple drapes hung behind the counter. There was no one in the shop. Fenner wandered over to the cabinet and examined the coffins. He thought that as a permanent home the gold one was a swell job.
A woman came quietly from behind the curtain. She wore a tight-fitting black silk dress, white collar and cuffs. She was a blonde, and her big gashlike mouth was very red with paint. She looked at Fenner and her mouth shaped into a smile. Fenner thought she was quite something.
She said in a low, solemn voice, “Can I help you, please?”
Fenner scratched his chin. “Do you sell these boxes?” he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the glass case.
She blinked. “Why sure,” she said. “They're just models, you know; but was that what you wanted?”
Fenner shook his head. “No,” he said; “I was just curious.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
Fenner went on. “Nightingale in?”
“Did you want to see him particularly?”
“That's why I asked, baby. Tell him Ross.”
She said, “I'll see. He's very busy right now.”
Fenner watched her go away behind the curtain. He thought her shape from behind was pretty good.
She came back after a while and said, “Will you come up?”
He followed her behind the curtain and up the short flight of stairs. He liked the scent she used, and halfway up the stairs he told her so. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. She had big white teeth. “What do I do now?” she said. “Should my face go red?”
He shook his head seriously. “I just like to tell a dame when she's good,” he said.
She pointed to a door. “He's in there,” she said. Then, after a little pause, she said, “I like you. You've got nice eyes,” and she went downstairs, patting her blonde curls with long white fingers.
Fenner fingered his tie. “Some frill,” he thought, and turned the door handle and walked in.
The room was obviously a workshop. Four coffins stood in a line on trestles. Nightingale was screwing a brass plate on one of them.
Nightingale was a little dark man with thick-lensed steel-rimmed glasses. His skin was very white, and two large colorless eyes blinked weakly at Fenner from behind the cheaters.
Fenner said, “I'm Ross.”
Nightingale went on screwing down the plate. “Yes?” he said. “Did you want to see me?”
“Dave Ross,” Fenner repeated, standing by the door. “I think you were expectin' me.”
Nightingale put down the screw-driver and looked at him. “So I was,” he said, as if remembering. “So I was. We'll go upstairs and talk.”
Fenner followed him out of the workshop and up another short flight of stairs. Nightingale showed him into a room which was large and cool. Two big windows opened out to a small balcony. From the window, Fenner could see the Mexican Gulf.
Nightingale said, “Sit down. Take off your coat if you want to.”
Fenner took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He sat by the window.
Nightingale said, “Perhaps a drink?”
“Sure.”
When the drinks were fixed, and Nightingale had settled himself, Fenner sparred for an opening. He knew he'd have to go carefully with this little guy. He didn't know how far he could trust him. It was no use getting him suspicious.
He said at last, “How far you carryin' me?”
Nightingale fingered his glass with his thick weak fingers. He looked a little bewildered. “All the way,” he said. “That's what you want, isn't it?”
Fenner stretched out. “I want to get in with the boys. New York's got too hot for me.”
“I can do that,” Nightingale said simply. “Crotti said you were an all-right guy and I was to help you. Crotti's been good to me; I'm glad to even things up with him.”
Fenner guessed Crotti was the guy Ike got on to. . “Maybe five C's would be more concrete than Win' Crotti,” he said drily.
Nightingale looked a little hurt. “I don't want your dough,” he said simply. “Crotti said 'help this man,' and that's enough for me.”
Fenner twisted in his chair. It quite shocked him to see that the little man was sincere.
“Swell,” he said hastily. “Don't get me wrong. Where I come from there's a different set of morals.”
“I can give you introductions. But what is it exactly that you want?”
Fenner wished he knew. He stalled. “I guess I gotta get into the money again,” he said. “Maybe one of your crowd could use me.”
“Crotti says you've got quite a reputation. He says you've got notches on your gun.”
Fenner tried to look modest and cursed Ike's imagination. “I get along,” he said casually.
“Maybe Carlos could use you.”
Fenner tried a venture. “I thought Noolen might be good to throw in with.”
Nightingale's watery eyes suddenly flashed. “Noolen? Noolen's the south end of a horse.”
“So?”
“Carlos has Noolen with his pants down. You won't get any place with a piker like Noolen.”
Fenner gathered that Noolen was a wash-out. He tried again. “You surprise me. I was told Noolen was quite a big shot around here.”
Nightingale stretched his neck and deliberately spat on the floor. “Nuts,” he said.
“Who's Carlos?”
Nightingale got back his good humor. “He's the boy. Now Pio'll get you somewhere.”
Fenner slopped a little of his Scotch. “That his name—Pio Carlos?”
Nightingale nodded. “He's got this burg like that.” He held out his small squat hand and closed his thick fingers into a small fist. “Like that—see?”
Fenner nodded. “Okay,” he said, “I'll be guided by you.”
Nightingale got up and put his glass on the table. “I've got a little job to do, and then we'll go down and meet the boys. You r
est here. It's too hot to go runnin' around.”
When he had gone, Fenner shut his eyes and thought. The lid was coming off this quicker than he'd imagined. He'd have to watch his step.
He felt a little draught and he opened his eyes. The blonde had come in and was gently shutting the door. Fenner heard her turn the key in the lock. “Jumpin' Jeeze,” he thought, “she's goin' to grab me!”
He swung his legs off the chair Nightingale had sat in, and struggled to his feet.
“Stay put,” she said, coming over. “I want to talk to you.”
Fenner sat down again. “What's your name, honey?” he said, stalling for time.
“Robbins,” she said. “They call me Curly round here.”
“Nice name, Curly,” Fenner said. “What's on your mind?”
She sat down in Nightingale's chair. Fenner could see bare thigh above her stockings. He thought she had a swell pair of gams.
“Take my tip,” she said, keeping her voice low, “an' go home. Imported tough guys don't stand up long in this town.”
Fenner raised his eyebrows. “Who told you I was a tough guy?” he said.
“I don't have to be told. You've come down here to set fire to the place, haven't you? Well, it won't work. These hoods here don't like foreign competition. You'll be cat's meat in a few days if you stick around.”
Fenner was quite touched. “You're bein' a very nice little girl,” he said; “but I'm afraid it's no soap. I'm down here for, a livin', and I'm stickin'.”
She sighed. “I thought you'd take it like that,” she said, getting up. “If you knew what's good for you, you'd take a powder quick. Anyway, watch out. I don't trust any of them. Don't trust Nightingale. He looks a punk, but he isn't. He's a killer, so watch him.”
Fenner climbed out of his chair. “Okay, baby,” he said. “I'll watch him. Now you'd better blow, before he finds you here.” He led her to the door.