12 Chinamen and a Woman

by 12 Chinamen

  She looked away from him, her face suddenly blank, then she gave a little giggle that finished on a gasp of pain. “I haven't got a home,” she said, putting her hand on her side.

  “Where did you live before you threw in with Thayler?”

  She looked at him sharply, then looked away again. “I didn't throw in with Harry—”

  Fenner knelt beside her. “You're a rotten liar,” he said. “You said last night you and Thayler were doing a trip to New York together. Then, before that, you said you didn't know him very well. Now you say you didn't throw in with him. Give it to me straight.”

  She said jerkily, “I believe you're a detective.”

  Fenner snorted. “Listen, redhead, you can't lie about floors all day. I've gotta get you somewhere. Either you tell me where you live, or else I'll send for an ambulance.”

  She said, “I want to stay here.”

  Fenner smiled unpleasantly. “I'm not going to be your nursemaid,” he said. “I gotta lot to do.”

  She said, “I'm safer here.”

  Fenner paused, thought, and then said, “I see.” He went over to the bed and pulled the sheet down. Then he picked her up very gently, sitting her in a chair. She chewed her lip while he did this. He took the scalpel and cut the dress down each side. One side of her white shorts showed very red.

  She said, “What a mess,” and went so white he thought she was going to faint.

  “Hold it,” he said sharply, and stood her up. “Get your pants off,” he said; “it ain't as if you and I are exactly strangers.”

  She put her face against his and nibbled his ear. “You're cute,” she mumbled in his neck.

  He jerked his head away. “For God's sake, cut that!” When she had stepped out of the shorts, he sat her down and wiped the blood on her thigh, then he carried her over to the bed and put her under the sheet. He was glad to get her covered up.

  She lay with her red-gold head on the pillow and looked up at him. She looked suddenly very young and defenseless. She said, “I want to whisper.”

  Fenner shook his head. “Try another one. That's got whiskers on it.”

  She reached up her two arms. “Please!”

  He bent his head and she kissed him. Her lips felt very soft against his. It was just a youthful kiss, and Fenner quite liked it. He straightened and rumpled his hair. “Take it easy,” he said. “I'm going to fix things.” He pulled up the sheet to her chin, cleared her clothes and the rest of the mess into the bathroom and went downstairs.

  The hotel manager looked at him with an odd expression. Fenner felt a little embarrassed. He said, “My girl friend's run into a little accident. She'll have to stay in bed. I want you to send someone out an' get her a sleeping suit an' whatever else she wants. Put it all on the bill.”

  The manager said quite seriously, “This is a little irregular—”

  Fenner interrupted him, “I'll say it's irregular,” he said shortly, “but it ain't so irregular that it calls for a fan dance from you, so snap to it.”

  He went over to a telephone booth and dialed a number. A hoarse voice floated over the wire.

  “Bugsey?” Fenner asked. “Listen, Bugsey. I gotta job for you. Yeah, just the job you've been wantin'. Come on over to my dump an' bring a rod.”

  He went into the bar and ordered two fingers of rye. He felt he wanted a drink after all the excitement. While he waited for Bugsey, he remembered something. He took out his wallet. When he opened the wallet, a frown came to his eyes. He said, “That's a very funny thing.”

  His money and his papers were all on the right-hand side of the wallet, and he knew that yesterday they had been some on the right and some on the left. He went through the papers carefully and counted his money. Nothing was missing so far as he could remember. Then he said, “Well, well,” because Curly's photo wasn't there any more. He went through the wallet more carefully, but it wasn't there. He put the wallet back in his pocket thoughtfully and finished the rye.

  Unless someone had come in while he slept, someone other than Glorie, he knew he hadn't far to look for the photo. He wasn't going to get away as Ross any more. She or whoever it was must have seen his license papers. He lit a cigarette and waited for Bugsey. He knew it would be a waste of time to try and get anything out of Glorie right now. She'd just pretend she felt bad, and that would be the end of that.

  Bugsey came into the bar with a look on his face a dog gets when he thinks there's a bone around. He was wearing a stained suit of grey herringbone, and a greasy light felt hat. A red flower decorated his buttonhole. Fenner found himself wondering if it had grown there.

  Bugsey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the row of bottles with a smile of expectation. Fenner bought him a large beer and took him to the far end of the room. When they had settled, Fenner said, “Listen, pal, how would you like to work for me?”

  Bugsey's gooseberry eyes opened. “I don't get it,” he said.

  I gotta little job you might like to handle. Nothing very much, but it's worth fifty bucks. If you an' me get along, I might put you on my pay-roll, but it'd mean kissin' good-bye to Carlos.”

  “Ain't you workin' for Carlos no more?”

  Fenner shook his head. “Naw,” he said, “I don't like his game. It stinks.”

  Bugsey scratched his head. “Carlos won't like it,” he said uneasily.

  “Never mind Carlos,” Fenner said. “If I don't wantta play, I don't.”

  Bugsey wagged his head. “How do I earn fifty bucks?” he asked eagerly.

  “This is a sweet job that means no work and not much worry. You remember the jane on the Nancy W? The one with the swell stems and fancy front?”

  Bugsey passed his tongue over his lips. “Am I likely to forget her?” he said. “What a number!”

  “She's upstairs in my bed, right now.”

  Bugsey slopped his beer. His moonlike face showed his surprise. He said, “In your bed?”

  Fenner nodded.

  “What a guy!” Bugsey was almost overwhelmed with admiration. “I bet it cost you a heap of jack to get her in there.”

  Fenner shook his head again. “Fact was, Bugsey, I had to fight to keep her out. She's hot for me.”

  Bugsey put the beer down on the table with a click. “You ain't kiddin'?” he said. “You wouldn't tell a lie about a thing like that?”

  “No, she's up there all right.”

  Bugsey brooded, then he said in a hoarse, confidential whisper, “When she, you know, does she bite?”

  Fenner thought it was time to get down to business. “Never mind about the details, pal,” he said. “Some guy pulled a rod on this dame and took a little meat out of her side. This guy might look in again and make a better job. I want you to sit around with a rod an' see he doesn't.”

  Bugsey said in a faint, strangled voice, “An' you're payin' fifty bucks for a job like that?”

  Fenner looked startled. “Ain't it enough?”

  “That's a laugh. I'd do it for nothin'. Maybe she'd go for me.”

  Fenner got up. “Okay, come on up, I'll introduce you. Only don't go gettin' ideas. You sit outside the door, get it? A dame like that hasn't any time for hoods. That's what you said, wasn't it?”

  A little crestfallen, Bugsey followed him upstairs. Fenner knocked on the door and went in. Glorie was lying in a pink satin nightdress, all ribbons and frills. She gave a little giggle when Fenner paused, staring at her.

  “Isn't it a dream?” she said. “Did you choose it yourself?”

  Fenner shook his head. “I've got a bodyguard for you. This is Bugsey. He's goin' to hang around to keep off the nasty men.”

  Glorie looked Bugsey over with surprised eyes. “He looks nasty himself,” she said. “Come in Bugsey, and meet a lovely lady.”

  Bugsey said, “Jeeze!” and stood in the doorway gaping.

  Fenner reached forward and pulled a chair out into the passage. “This suv's goin' to sit outside and work,” he said grimly. “That's what I'm pa
yin' him for.”

  He pushed Bugsey out of the room again and nodded to her. “I've got a little job to do, then I'll be back for a talk. Take it easy, won't you?” Then, before she could say anything, he drew the door shut. “Get busy,” he said to Bugsey, “and keep outta that room. No funny business. Get it?”

  Bugsey shook his head. “I couldn't start anythin' with a dame like that. Gee! She makes my head spin.”

  “As long as that's the only thing that starts spinning, you'll be my favorite son,” Fenner said, and went on down the stairs.

  Away from the hotel, Fenner shut himself in a telephone booth and got the Federal Building. Hosskiss came on the line after a delay. He said, “Were you the guy who slung a bomb at one of my boats?” He sounded angry.

  Fenner said, “Never mind about that. Your boys asked for it. They're old-fashioned. This guy Carlos's got all sorts of modern ideas. He'll be usin' poison gas soon.”

  Hosskiss made growling noises, but Fenner broke in, “I want to locate a big black sedan with three C's and two sevens in the make-up of the license plate. Can you get me that information quick?”

  Hosskiss said, “You'd better come round. There's a lot I want to talk to you about.”

  Fenner glanced over his shoulder, through the dirty glass of the booth into the street. “I'm playin' the game too close,” he said. “I ain't showin' up at your place any more. Maybe we'll fix somewhere to meet later on. What about that sedan?”

  Hosskiss said, “Hang on.”

  Fenner leant against the wall of the booth and read the various scribblings on the white paintwork. When Hosskiss came over the line again, Fenner said, “This town wants cleanin' up. The things you guys write in these booths—”

  Hosskiss cut in, “Never mind about that. I think I've found your car. Would it be Harry Thayler's bus, do you think?”

  Fenner screwed up his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “it could be.”

  “There are others in the list, of course, but Thayler seems to be the best bet.”

  “Never mind about the others. That'll do to go on with. Listen, Hoss—”

  How long he'd been standing there Fenner didn't know. The light on his glasses hid his eyes, but Fenner could see some sweat beads on his face.

  Fenner said, “Why didn't you pick the punk up if he means all that to you?”

  Nightingale showed his white sharp teeth. “He means nothing to me,” he said, his voice trailing off to a squeak. “All the same, it was a hell of a—”

  “Skip it,” Fenner broke in. “It's time someone slapped that hophead down. He thinks he's the kingpin in this joint.”

  “He is.”

  “How far in are you with him?”

  Nightingale made an expressive gesture. He waved his hand round the room and shrugged. “All this is his. I'm just his front.”

  Fenner grunted. “You keep pluggin' because you've got nothing else?”

  Nightingale nodded. “Sure,” he said; “I gotta live.”

  “Curly? Where does she come in on this?”

  The weak eyes snapped behind the lenses. “You leave her outta this.”

  Fenner said, “She's gone soft on Carlos.”

  Nightingale took two little shuffling steps forward. He swung over a left that caught Fenner flush on the chin. It was meant to be a socker, but a man like Nightingale hadn't any iron in his bones. Fenner didn't even rock. _He said, “You're under my weight. Forget it.” Nightingale started another punch, then switched to his pocket. Fenner sunk his fist in his ribs. Nightingale went down on his knees with a sigh, rolled over on his side and got his gun out. Fenner stepped forward and stamped on his wrist. The gun clattered on the parquet, then bounced on to the pile carpet. Fenner knelt down and jerked Nightingale round by his coat collar.

  “I said, forget it.” He shook the little man. “If you don't believe me, then you'll believe someone else some other time, but I ain't fighting with you over any dame.”

  Nightingale drew his lips off his teeth, started to say something, stopped and looked beyond Fenner, over his shoulder. His anger changed to alarm. Fenner saw a man standing behind him. He saw the miniature of the man in Nightingale's glasses. He saw an arm come up, and he tried to turn. Something exploded inside his head and he fell forward. He scraped the skin off his nose on Nightingale's coat buttons.

  IV

  Fenner's first reaction was to the naked light, hanging in a wire basket from the ceiling. Then he noticed that the room had no windows. After that he shut his eyes again and drifted to the steady throb inside his skull. The light burned through his eyelids, and he tried to roll over away from it. When he found he couldn't move, he raised his head and looked. The movement exploded something behind his eyes, and he had to lie still again. Then, after a while, the throb went away, and he tried again.

  He found he was lying on an old mattress, and his hands were tied to the ironwork of the rusty bedstead. The room was completely bare except for the bed. The floor-boards were littered with cigarette butts and tobacco ash. The dust was thick. Several pages of a scattered newspaper lay about, and the fireplace contained a pile of black ashes, as if someone had recently been burning a lot of papers. It was a nasty room, full of the smell of decay, damp and stale sweat.

  Fenner rested. He made no effort to free his hands. He lay quietly, his eyes screwed up a little to avoid the rays of the light, and he breathed gently. He listened with an intentness that caught at every whispered sound. By lying like that and by listening hard, he heard sounds which at first meant nothing to him, but which he later distinguished as footsteps, the murmur of voices and the distant breaking of the rollers on the shore.

  He went to sleep finally because he knew that sleep was the only thing for him at the moment. He was in no shape to try to escape. He had lost all sense of time, so when he woke he knew only that the sleep had been a good one, because he felt well again. His head ached only dully, and his brain no longer rolled around inside his skull. He woke because someone was coming down the passage outside his door. He could hear the heavy footfalls on the bare boards. A key rattled in the lock and the door was kicked open. He closed his eyes. He thought it was too early to take an interest in visitors.

  Someone walked over to him, and the light in his eyes went away as that someone got between him and the light. There was a long silence, then a grunt and the light began to irritate him once more. Footsteps walked to the door. Fenner opened his eyes and looked. The small squat back and short legs of the man going out of the door told him nothing, but the thick oily black hair and the coffee skin made it a good guess that he was a Cuban. He went out and locked the door again.

  Fenner drew a deep breath and began to work his hands. The cords holding him were tight, but not impossibly tight. He strained and pulled, chewing on his underlip as he did so. The effort made the light go black and he had to stop. He lay still, panting a little. The only ventilation came from the transom over the door. The room was very hot and close. Fenner could feel the sweat gumming his shirt to his back. He gently wiggled his wrists. He thought, “I've shifted them. Yes, I've done something. If I could only stop this damn headache, maybe I'd get somewhere. Now, once more.” He pulled and twisted again. His right hand, made slippery with sweat, gradually slid through the circle of cord, but he couldn't do anything about his left hand. He was caught there all right.

  Slowly he sat up and felt his head with his fingers very gently. The back of his skull was tender, but there was no lump or bruise. He smiled bleakly. Then he twisted round and examined the knot that was holding his left hand. It was knotted under the bed in such a way that he could only feel it, but he couldn't see it. The knot defied all the effort he made to loosen it, and he lay back on the bed, swearing softly.

  He thought, “Only one up. I wonder who smacked me.” Carlos? He could have gone out, watched through the door and come back quietly when Nightingale was getting tough. Or was it someone else? Where was he? More important, what was going to happen to him?<
br />
  He sat up on the bed again and swung his feet to the floor. Then he stood up shakily, his left hand preventing him from standing entirely upright. His head ached a lot when he stood up, but it began to pass as he moved to the door, dragging the bed with him. He satisfied himself that the door was locked, and then, pushing the bed back to the wall, he sat down again.

  He'd got to get his hand free somehow, he told himself. He lay down and began to tear at the knot feverishly. His damp fingers slid off the cord, making no impression.

  The sound of footfalls made him pause, and he hastily rolled on his back and slipped his wrist through the circle of cord. He'd barely done so when the door opened and Carlos came in. Reiger and Miller stood just inside the door. Carlos came over and stood by Fenner's bed. Fenner looked up and their eyes met.

  Carlos said, “Well, the punk's awake.”

  Reiger and Miller came further into the room, and Reiger shut the door. They came around the bed. Fenner looked at each man slowly. He said casually, “What's the idea?”

  Carlos was shivering a little. He was doped to his ears. Fenner could see the pin-point pupils. Carlos said, “We're goin' to have a little talk.' He drew back his fist and hit Fenner with his small bony knuckles just below his nose. Fenner had his head moving when he saw the blow coming, but it only took a little of the steam out of the punch. He felt his teeth creak as the blow thudded home.

  Carlos said, “I owe you that one, don't I?”

  Fenner said nothing. He hated Carlos with his eyes, but he knew that with his left hand pinned, he wouldn't stand much chance with three of them.

  Carlos said, “So you're a private dick.” He took from his pocket Fenner's papers and scattered them over the bed. “You certainly pulled a fast one that time.”

  There was a moment's silence. Carlos sat on the bed. Fenner knew that he could nail him now. If the other two cleared off, he could grab Carlos by his neck and settle with him. Maybe the other two would clear off. He'd have to wait.