The other man began, “Brother, you better watch your …” when the headwaiter and two assistants arrived. “What’s the matter here?” The other man eagerly told them, finishing, “… and it took two of us to get the little lady away from him.”
The two assistants moved toward Crane. “Take him to Mr Tortoni,” said the headwaiter.
They pushed their way through the large crowd surrounding the table, crossed a corner of the dance floor and mounted two flights of heavily carpeted stairs. They went down a long corridor and passed an open door. Crane saw men and women clustered about a roulette wheel and piles of ivory counters behind the barred cage of the cashier. Among the men he saw O’Malley.
“Look,” he said, “this is insane.…”
“Shut up,” said one of the assistants.
They went through a small room with a black marble floor and chairs covered with white leather and halted in front of a door. One of the assistants knocked. There was a buzzing noise and the assistant pushed open the door. The other man took Crane’s left arm with both hands and twisted him into the room. Behind a desk on which sat two french phones and a square electric clock was a thick-jowled man in a cream suit of silk pongee. Bushy above small eyes, his black brows met over his nose. He had on a violet silk shirt and a maroon tie, with a spot near the tie.
“What’s the matter?” he asked the first assistant.
Back of Tortoni, half in shadow, a woman smoked a cigarette through a jade holder. Crane saw it was Imago Paraguay.
“This guy tried t’ grab a dame from tha party at table 11,” said the first assistant. “Damnedest thing I ever seen … he was tryin’ to hold tha dame on his lap and fight two guys at the same time.”
“A stew,” supplemented the other assistant.
Crane had difficulty repressing a giggle.
Imago spoke in her flat, feline voice. “A sudden passion, Mr Cra-ane?” Smoke floated from her red mouth as she talked. “This is Mr Tortoni, Mr Cra-ane.”
“Who’s Mr Crane?” demanded Tortoni.
“Mr Cra-ane is with the Essex party.”
Tortoni’s scowl faded. “Pleased t’meet ya, Mr Crane.” He reached a broad hand over the table. “Now, what’s the trouble?”
Crane ignored the hand. He pretended to be angry. “This is a swell sort of a place … where your thugs can pick out some innocent person and …”
Tortoni looked startled. “Some mistake?”
“All right. All right. Put it this way. I saw a girl with auburn hair.” He leaned over Tortoni, fixed him with his eyes. “Do you know what happens to me when I see a girl with auburn hair?”
“No, Mr Crane,” said Tortoni.
“I see red,” said Crane triumphantly.
Imago Paraguay explained: “Mr Cra-ane makes a joke. He has mu-uch humor.”
Tortoni grunted. Puffy cheeks and bushy brows made his small eyes look like animals peering out of caves. He moistened his lips.
The dancer continued, “I shall be responsible for Mr Cra-ane. I think I can prevent his seeing red again.” She removed the cigarette from the jade holder, squeezed it out in a brass tray on the desk. “Now, Mr Tortoni, if you will just cash my che-eck, we will bother you no longer.”
Tortoni fumbled in a drawer of his desk, produced a metal box. “It was for five …”
“One thousand do-lars, Mr Tortoni.”
His stubby hands counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “Tha-ank you,” she said. “Shall we go, Mr Cra-ane?”
Once in the hall on the other side of the room with the white leather chairs, Crane experienced a strong sensation of relief. He realized he had been frightened, but he was unable to determine exactly why. What could Tortoni do to him?
He felt the dancer’s hand on his arm. “Thanks,” he said.
“It was nothing,” she said.
“Yes, but he could have …”
“It was nothing,” she said. They reached the roulette room. “Shall we gamble?”
Crane blinked in the brightly lighted room. He saw most of the Essex party at the end of the roulette table. The major had a piece of court plaster on the bridge of his nose. Tony Lamphier, standing behind Camelia Essex’ blond head, waved at them. The others were intent on the wheel.
Imago Paraguay, to Crane’s surprise, bought a thousand dollars worth of counters. He had intended to spend a hundred dollars, but instead he gave the man five hundred. He put the counters in his pocket, followed the dancer to the table and found a place for her. Someone touched his shoulder. It was O’Malley. He drew Crane aside.
“Doc and Eddie have lost track of the count.”
“Yeah?”
“He and the three Cuban torpedoes with him must have got out through a back door. Tom’s been watching out in front all the time.”
“Cubans?”
“They look like Cubans.”
Crane thought for a minute. “Well, we’re supposed to be fired, but there’s no use quitting until we make sure. Tell Doc and Tom to go back to the count’s hotel. Maybe they can pick him up.”
“Who fired us?”
“The major.”
O’Malley grinned. “So you were the guy that slugged him.”
“I didn’t, but I might just as well have.” Crane told him of the fight between the count and the major. “… So we’re out in the cold now.”
“It’s not so cold,” said O’Malley. “I’ve knocked down a couple of C-notes on the wheel.”
“You think it’s straight?”
“I’m two Cs ahead, ain’t I?”
“Don’t let Miss Day find out.” Crane winked at O’Malley and went back to Imago Paraguay. She said, “You must bring me luck, Mr Cra-ane.” She had only four hundred dollars worth of counters in front of her.
“Make your bets, please,” the croupier whispered.
Crane leaned between Imago and a large woman glittering with diamonds and put a hundred on red. With a lean hand the croupier spun the wheel, whispered, “No more, please.” His brilliant black eyes were on. Imago.
The ball halted on red and odd. At the end of the table Essex said petulantly, “Damn!” The croupier pushed chips at Crane. He let them stay on red. Imago also put two hundred on red, saying, “We will go down together.”
Red came a second time. “Let it ride,” said Crane.
Red came again, and again. People began to look at them. A hard-faced man in a tuxedo took up a position behind the croupier, watched them through cold blue eyes. Crane let thirty-two hundred ride on red.
The hard-faced man pushed two hundred dollars worth of the counters back. “Three thousand limit,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” Crane said. “Penny ante, hey?”
There was silence as the ivory pea bumbled about the wheel. The cold eyes of the hard-faced man were riveted on Crane. The large woman with the jewels was breathing heavily. The rattle of the ball ceased.
“Red and odd.”
Crane accepted the pile of counters. “We can’t bet them,” he said to Imago Paraguay. “What will we do with them?”
Her sloe eyes were glittering. “This way,” she said. She let the three thousand remain on red. The other three thousand she put on odd.
Crane took the remaining two hundred dollars and put them on thirty-three. “Swing it,” he said to the croupier.
It seemed to Crane the wheel spun for hours. He noticed the eyes of the hard-faced man were almost the color of ice. He noticed Miss Day looking at him with admiration. He felt Imago Paraguay’s cool hand on his wrist.
“Thirty-three, red and uneven,” whispered the croupier.
The hard-faced man said, “The wheel is closed for the night.”
“Yow!” shouted Tony Lamphier from the end of the table. “A toast to the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo.”
Miss Day, breathless, leaned over Crane. “Wasn’t that marvelous?” Waves of perfume floated from her.
The lady with the jewels said, “May I ask you what your system
is?”
“I start with one hundred dollars,” said Crane, “and stop when the bank is broken.”
Imago Paraguay said, “Shall we cash in, Mr Cra-ane?”
Their counters came to nineteen thousand six hundred dollars—nineteen thousand in winnings and the four hundred Crane had left of his original purchase and the two hundred Imago had left of hers. He gave her nine thousand seven hundred dollars and put the rest in his wallet.
“I think we can afford a glass of champagne,” he said.
The entire party went down to their table and drank the champagne Crane bought. Crane danced once with Camelia Essex.
“I wish you’d keep a closer watch on Penn,” she said. “I’m worried about him.”
“He’ll be all right,” Crane said.
Miss Day didn’t think the orchestra was hot enough. She wanted to go to the Club Paris. “They really swing it over there,” she said.
“Let’s do go over there,” said Essex. “It’s only two o’clock.” He got the bill.
They waited for the women in front of the check room. Tony Lamphier was admiring the hat-check blonde.
“Isn’t she a lovely thing?” he said.
“I think she’s a blonde,” said Crane.
The hat-check girl simpered.
“She’s lovely,” said Tony Lamphier. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“Where are those women?” asked Boucher.
“Where is my hat?” asked Crane.
“Dincha have a check?” asked the girl.
“Isn’t she lovely?” said Tony Lamphier.
“I gotta have a check,” said the girl.
“No hat, no check,” said O’Malley.
“I’m going out for some air,” said Major Eastcomb. He went out through the front door.
“Has nobody a check?” Crane repeated. “This lovely little lady has gotta have a check.”
“She is a lovely thing,” said Tony Lamphier.
“They have a lovely wheel here too,” Crane said.
“It’s honest,” O’Malley said.
“It’s lovely and honest,” Crane said.
Mrs Boucher came up to him. “Imago’s been telling us of your—adventure.” She linked her arm with his. “Tell me, are you only affected by redheads?” She smelled the nicest of any of the women. She smelled of English lavender.
Miss Day appeared with Imago Paraguay. For a second the dancer’s eyes were on Crane. Miss Day said, “Come on, let’s go. This joint’s stuffy.”
Essex and O’Malley both went to escort Miss Day to the door. Boucher seemed pleased to get Miss Paraguay.
“I like you,” said Crane to Mrs Boucher.
“And you a rich man,” said Mrs Boucher.
They started to follow Tony Lamphier and Camelia Essex to the door.
“Doncha want yer hat?” asked the hat-check girl.
“No,” said Crane. “Keep it as a memento.”
“You are having a fine time,” said Mrs Boucher.
The Bugatti, black and low, was in front of the door. Essex was standing beside it with his sister and Tony Lamphier. “Where’s the major?” he asked.
Crane was noticing that the doorman was a white man now, not a Negro, when two men with handkerchiefs tied over the lower portions of their faces came around the back of the Bugatti. They both carried automatic pistols.
One of them said, “This is a stick-up. Put ’em up.”
Miss Day started to scream and the other man snarled, “Can it, sister.” He shoved his pistol at O’Malley, beside her.
The first man took hold of Camelia Essex’ arm, jerked her toward him, saying, “Come along, baby.” For an instant he was in the path of light from the door and Crane saw the lobe of his ear was missing.
Tony Lamphier moved to help Camelia and the first man slugged him with the barrel of his pistol. He crumpled against the Bugatti, slid down to the gravel drive. Essex moved forward and the man hit him too. Camelia screamed as her brother staggered backward.
Crane tried to reach the man covering O’Malley, but the doorman hit him on the cheekbone, sent him spinning into Boucher. When he got his balance Camelia, the man with the lobeless ear and the doorman had disappeared. The second masked man, his body crouched, was backing around the Bugatti. “Move, you dudes, move,” he jeered. “See what happens.” He swung his pistol in front of him, like a man using a garden hose.
There was the beep of a horn. “O.K.,” said the man. He scuttled behind the Bugatti and an instant later a black sedan roared down the drive. Miss Day screamed. Crazily the sedan twisted into the street. In the back seat two men fought with Camelia Essex; in the front, beside the driver, the doorman was ripping off his uniform.
Essex scrambled into the Bugatti, pressed the starter. “Come on,” he yelled. His pale face was wild.
Tony Lamphier was trying to get off the ground. Crane pulled him into the back seat of the Bugatti, fell with him against the leather cushion as the car got under way with a roar. O’Malley was already in the front seat.
Far down the street, as they came out of the drive, they could see the taillight of the sedan. It was steady for several seconds; then it curved to the right. An instant later they heard the scream of its tires. “He’s taking the County Causeway,” Crane shouted.
Essex nodded and braked for the turn. The Bugatti’s tires wailed, too, and alarmed householders switched on lights in bedrooms, telephoned police. On the causeway the Bugatti leaped like a greyhound, raced past a sleek roadster. The sedan was still far ahead.
Tony Lamphier moaned and made a gagging noise in his throat.
After a minute Crane asked, “Feel better?”
Tony Lamphier nodded and asked, “They got her?”
O’Malley yelled over the noise of the wind and motor, “A turn!”
Essex, braking, said, “I see it,” and in an instant they were on Biscayne Boulevard, heading for town.
“They got her?” Lamphier asked again.
“Yeah,” said Crane.
They neared the row of big hotels opposite Bay Front Park, gained a little on the sedan, and O’Malley leaned out of the tonneau. Three times his revolver flashed, deafened their ears. The sedan swung to the right.
O’Malley looked back at Crane. “That ought to bring out the cops,” he shouted.
It did, but too late. They had turned right, past part of the business section of Miami, and were turning left toward the bridge over the river when a squad car came out of a side street and joined in the chase. Its spotlight flashed through their rear window; its siren was ululant, but it soon dropped far behind.
“Too bad,” said Crane.
“We’ll catch ’em ourselves,” shouted O’Malley. “We’re on a straight road.”
Back of them the police siren howled plaintively.
“How are we going to handle them?” asked Tony Lamphier. “They had guns, hadn’t they?”
“We’ll have to see,” said Crane.
The Bugatti was now traveling very fast. Hard and tangible, the wind rushed in the open sides of the tonneau, pressed them back against the seat. The cement road, white in the glare of their headlights, swept under them. The whine of the engine, the tires, the wind rose shriller and shriller, piercing their ears.
Essex, jackknifed over the wheel, spoke to O’Malley, who repeated to Crane: “There’s a revolver in the pocket on the left-hand door.”
Crane found it, flicked open the chamber. There were five cartridges in it. “Got it,” he told O’Malley.
The Bugatti’s lights picked up the black bulk of the sedan, outlined the swaying top. They were steadily gaining.
“You better get on the floor,” Crane told Lamphier. “The fireworks are about due.”
“I’m not scared,” Lamphier replied and then asked, “Isn’t there danger of hitting Camelia?”
“They’ll keep her down.”
“It’d be awful …”
With a breathtaking swerve that sent Crane flying again
st Lamphier the Bugatti angled toward the ditch on the left side of the cement, then, as sheerly, as crazily as before, it yawed to the right. Crane ducked his head, held his breath for the crash.…
Instead the Bugatti straightened out, less sickeningly this time, and slackened speed. Cautiously Crane raised his head. O’Malley was leaning across the seat, his hands on the wheel, but Essex was not in sight.
“Oh, my God!” said Crane. “Did he fall out?”
“How do you stop this thing?” asked O’Malley.
“Great Joseph!” Crane yelled. “Did he fall out?”
“Naw,” said O’Malley calmly. “He’s on the floor. Where in hell’s the hand brake?”
Crane sank back on the seat and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He was surprised to find he was sweating. “What happened?” asked Tony Lamphier.
The Bugatti was coming to a stop. Crane said, “God knows,” and opened the door and stepped out on the cement. O’Malley lifted Essex from the floor. “Cold as a haddock,” he observed.
“We better get him to a doctor,” said Crane.
“Are you going to let Camelia go?” asked Tony Lamphier.
“Essex may be dying,” said Crane.
“He’s breathing,” volunteered O’Malley.
“But Camelia …?” Tony Lamphier’s voice was anguished. “Those men—what will they do to her? We have to go on.”
“What can we do now?” Crane looked down the road. “They’re out of sight. Besides, the police will block all roads.”
“Oh, God!” Lamphier sat on the Bugatti’s front fender, hid his face in his hands. “I love her so.”
“I think our guy’s coming to,” said O’Malley.
While a soft, fragrant breeze fingered their faces they watched Essex, listened to his labored breathing. There was an odor of jasmine in the air. It was funny to be smelling jasmine, Crane thought. He saw that it was only two thirty-four by the clock on the Bugatti’s dashboard. He felt surprised that so much could have happened in such a short time.
“You’re all right now, pal,” said O’Malley.
Essex sat up on the seat, looked blankly around him. “Cam! … Cam!” His eyes became normal. “What happened?”
The Dead Don’t Care Page 6