Gleason must have taken the ’phone from her. Duffy heard him say, “Pipe down, for Gawd’s sake.”
“Gleason?” Duffy asked.
“Yeah. You ready to play ball?”
“Sure, I’m ready to trade. Competition wasn’t so hot. They offered forty grand, no more, no less. It’s yours for fifty.”
Gleason raved, “How the hell can I get fifty grand together?”
Duffy’s mouth shaped into a smile, but his eyes were mirthless. “I’m moving out tomorrow first thing,” he said. “I don’t care who has the list, but I want somebody’s cash tonight. Fifty grand ain’t all that big, for an outfit like yours.”
Gleason said, “You’re going to pay for this, you sonofabitch.”
Duffy said, “Not until I get the dough and you get the book. After that, we’ll all have to watch out.”
Gleason was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I can’t bring cash; I’ll make it a certified cheque.”
“Cash,” Duffy’s voice was hard. “I’m feeding at the ‘Red Ribbon’ tonight around eight-thirty. If you ain’t there by the time I’m through, the deal’s off. And it’s gotta be cash.” He dropped the receiver back and went upstairs.
Olga was kneeling before a large cabin trunk. The floor was strewn with her clothes.
Duffy said, “For God’s sake…”
She turned her head and smiled at him. “Come and help,” she said.
He looked at the small clock on the mantelshelf. From where he stood he could just make out the tiny hands. It was six-thirty. He put his hands under her elbows and brought her to her feet.
“Listen, baby,” he said patiently, “this is going to be a quick journey. Leave all this junk. Just pack a bag. I’ll buy you the world when we’re out of this.”
She made a little face. “They’re so lovely.” She turned and looked at the things lying about.
“Come on,” he urged, “time’s moving.”
Together, they packed two large grips. Then Duffy went downstairs. He went into the kitchen and found a full bottle of Scotch. Taking two glasses, he went upstairs again. Putting the bottle on the small table by the bed he said, “Let’s have a drink.”
Olga came over and tore off the tissue wrapping round the bottle and flipped up the patent stopper. She splashed three inches of whisky into each glass.
Duffy said, “To us,” and they drank.
“We’re feeding at the ‘Red Ribbon’ tonight.”
She added some ginger ale to the whisky.
“And then…?”
“Gleason might bring the dough. I think he will. If he does, we get in the Buick and get out of town quick.”
“And the lists?”
He nodded. “Sure, I ain’t forgotten them. I’m going to collect right now. I’ll be gone about half an hour. You change. Put on something you can travel in.”
She came over to him and put her arms tightly round his neck.
“What’s this?” he asked.
She raised herself on her toes and whispered urgently in his ear.
He looked at the clock, then he shook his head. “Not now,” he said gently.
Her cool arms tightened, pulling his head down. “Please…” she said, very low. “Now.”
He put his lips gently on hers and pressed her to him, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of Gleason, of Morgan, of the money, of how he was going to slip out of town. He was surprised at her. He thought this was a hell of a time to start a thing like this.
Then he put up his hands and took her arms from his neck, and pushed her away, still holding her arms.
“Tonight,” he said firmly. “Look at the time. I’ve gotta get to the bank.”
A faint colour came to her face, and she didn’t look at him. She turned away. “The bank will be shut, won’t it?” she said, still keeping her back to him. He noticed how toneless her voice was.
“Yeah, but I fixed that. There’s an audit that’s keeping ’em late. The teller there’s a pal of mine. I warned him I might want the list late.”
He wandered over to her. “You ain’t sore with me?” he said gently, putting his arms round her.
She turned her head. She was still flushed. “No. I’m not sore.” Then she said fiercely, “If only it were all over. If only we were out of this with the money, and safe.”
Duffy said, “Now don’t go into a spin. It’s going to work out okay, you see.”
“But you don’t know,” she said, her breasts suddenly rising and falling. “Bill, you don’t know. I’ve been through so much… and—and now I’ve found you. I’m frightened it won’t be all right.”
Duffy said, “Hey! You don’t want to get worked up. I tell you, we’ll get away with it. We’re going to have a fine time. We’re going to be in the dough. You and me. We’re going to have dough to burn… you see.”
She said quite quietly, “I feel something horrible’s going to happen.”
Duffy said, “Skip it, honey. The Scotch’s got hold of you.” He kissed her and he had to push her gently from him. Then he walked to the door. “I shan’t be long,” he said over his shoulder, and shut the door behind him.
She stood motionless where he had left her, then she suddenly said in a low voice, “Come back, I’m scared. Bill, come back….”
Out in the street, Duffy paused to light a cigarette. He threw the match from him and climbed into the Buick. As he started the engine he saw in his driving-mirror a big Packard turn into the street and drive slowly towards him. He glanced at it and then engaged his gear. His mind was still brooding on his future plans.
Pushing the pedal down, he drove the Buick fast. The Packard vanished from his mirror, and he thought no more about it.
At the bank there was a slight delay. Duffy had trouble in convincing the watchman that he had arranged to speak to the teller. The watchman was a stolid Irishman, with a big, beefy face, and not much brain.
Duffy took him through the explanation slowly again.
“Sure,” the watchman nodded his head, “but this joint’s closed see?” He said the last word with obvious triumph.
Duffy said bleakly, “Listen, punk, get going and tell Anscombe I’m here, or I’ll get you fired.”
The watchman blinked at him, then thinking it wouldn’t hurt him to inquire, he grumblingly left Duffy to cool his heels in the street. He came back again, after a delay that infuriated Duffy, and opened the iron-studded door.
“Come in,” he said shortly. “This is mighty irregular.”
Duffy stepped in and stood waiting. A flustered clerk came over to him and Duffy nodded at him. “I want that note-book I deposited,” he said shortly.
“Sure,” the clerk said. “Mr. Anscombe’s getting it for you.”
Anscombe came out of his office at the end of the hall and waved. He walked towards Duffy with a springy step. In his hand was the note-book.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he said. “I got it out as soon as the janitor brought me your name. Take it and give me a receipt. I’m doing you a favour. We oughtn’t to do business as late as this.”
Duffy took the note-book, glanced at it, put it in his pocket and scribbled his name on the slip of paper Anscombe held out to him.
“Much obliged,” he said. “I want this in a hurry, and it’s worth something.”
Anscombe came with him to the door. He seemed in a hurry to get rid of him. Duffy stepped into the street. The air was very close. He cocked his eye at the sky. “Looks like a storm,” he said.
Anscombe said it did; then he said good night, and shut the door. Duffy grinned a little, found that he was sweating, and blotted his face with his handkerchief. Then he walked over to the Buick and climbed in. He pressed the spring in the panel that held the guns, took one of the automatics out, glanced at the clip and shoved it down the waist of his trousers. He took out the note-book and put it in the panel. Then he pressed the spring and snapped it shut. It would be safe there, he thought.
; The clock on the dashboard stood at seven twenty-five when he pulled up again at Olga’s villa. He got out of the car and noticed that the light was still burning in her bedroom.
He said, “I bet she’s fretting over those dresses still.” He walked up the path, feeling the gravel through his thin soles. Then he opened the door with the key she had given him and entered the hall, shutting the door behind him.
He said, raising his voice, “You dressed yet?” He didn’t wait for her reply, but went into the sitting-room to get some cigarettes. He stopped at the doorway, feeling suddenly cold. Then he said, “For God’s sake…”
The room had been torn to pieces in the same way as his apartment had been. He just took one quick glance, then he blundered up the stairs, his legs curiously weak. At the top of the stairs he hesitated, then he called, “Honey!” The sound of his voice quite startled him. It was hoarse and quavering.
“If those lugs have touched her,” he thought. He took a step forward, then stopped again. “Honey,” he shouted. “You there?”
The silence in the house mocked him. He put his hand or the gun butt and pulled the gun out. Then he began to slide forward silently, his feet making no sound on the carpet. He reached the bedroom door and put his hand on the knob. Then he gently turned the handle, holding the gun waist-high. He walked in.
Olga was lying on the floor, with a knife in her left breast. The knife had been driven in so hard that it had sealed the wound. She hadn’t bled at all. The wrap she had put on just before Duffy had left had been torn from her, and was lying at the other end of the room, where it had been thrown. Her large eyes were open and her lips were parted, showing a little of her small white teeth. She didn’t look scared, just surprised.
Duffy stood looking at her for a long time. The only sound in the room was the sharp busy ticking of the clock. Duffy didn’t have to touch her to know she was dead.
For moment the only thing that Duffy could think of was that she had offered herself to him not an hour ago, and he had refused.
A little trickle of sweat ran from under his hat, down his nose to his chin. He still stood looking at Olga. The telephone began to ring downstairs insistently. Duffy raised his head and listened. Then he turned and went down into the sitting-room. He pulled the telephone to him and said, “Yes?”
The dry, brittle voice of the little guy said, “We’re waiting for that list. Zero hour’s eleven o’clock. Then we come and get it.”
Duffy said through his teeth, “Go and —— yourself,” and hung up.
He climbed the stairs once more and went into the bedroom. He picked up the wrap from the floor and covered Olga with it. His hands shook when he touched her flesh. He said, “I’m sorry about this, honey,” just as if she could hear him, and he picked her up and carried her to the bed. Then he touched her hair very gently with his finger-tips, letting them move slowly down her face. “You’ve had all the bad breaks, ain’t you?” He stooped and kissed her full lips, feeling them growing cold against his. Then he stood up, examined his clothes for bloodstains, satisfied himself that there weren’t any, and walked to the door.
“Take it easy, buddy,” a hard voice said.
Duffy raised his eyes. He felt no shock. Standing in the door was a cop, holding a gun in his hand. Just behind him, Duffy could see another flat cap.
Duffy said. “I’m glad you’ve come. They’ve killed my girl friend.”
The first cop said, “Keep your hands still.” The other cop came round and walked slowly towards Duffy, watching him carefully.
Duffy said, “What’s this?”
The first cop said, “Frisk him. He’ll have a rod.”
Duffy said, “You’re dead wrong.” He had left his gun on the settee, when he had carried Olga to the bed. It was lying there, half hidden by a cushion.
The second cop stepped round him cautiously, just as if he were a wild animal that might snap any time. When he got behind him, he ran his hands down Duffy’s clothing, patting firmly. Then he stood back and shook his head. “He ain’t carryin’ one,” he said.
Duffy said, “Listen, you’re wasting time.”
“Just a minute,” the first cop said, “you’re Duffy, ain’t that right?”
Duffy said, “Sure.”
They both looked at him as if surprised that he admitted it. Then the second cop wandered over to the bed and had a look at Olga. He pulled off the wrapper and gaped at her.
Duffy said savagely, “Cover her up, you heel.”
The second cop jerked round. “Keep your trap shut, punk,” he snarled. “Another crack like that and I’ll smack you down.”
The first cop said, glancing at the bed, “She dead?”
“Yeah, this guy used a knife.”
Duffy said, “I came back and found her like that.”
“You hear that? He came back and found her like that!” The first cop grinned. “You’re coming with us… come on.”
“You ain’t charging me with killing her?” Duffy was incredulous.
“Get wise to yourself.” The first cop liked the sound of his voice. “We’ve been tipped off.”
Duffy felt a restricting hand across his chest. “I don’t get that,” he said slowly.
“That dame had a hidden roll salted away in this joint, and you knew it. You made up to her and tried to get the roll away, but it didn’t work. So you rubbed her out, and took the joint to pieces. The roll is on you, now, ain’t that right, Gus?”
The second cop nodded. He walked over to Duffy and put his hand in Duffy’s inside pocket. He pulled out a flat packet of currency.
Duffy said, very evenly, “A frame-up, huh?”
Gus looked at him and grinned. “Between you and me, you’re right. You’re bucking the wrong outfit, mug,” he said.
Duffy said, “You ain’t making this stick.”
The first copper shrugged. “You don’t know the half of it. You’re going for a little ride right now.”
“There’s a bottle of Scotch somewhere,” Duffy said, looking round the room. “Mind if I cut the phlegm?”
Gus passed the end of a thick finger round the inside of his collar. “We’ll cut it, too.”
Duffy walked across the room, conscious of the hard unwavering watchfulness of the cop with the gun. His brain was ice-cold. If they were ready to frame him by such a clumsy method of palming money and planting it on him, they might even knock him off resisting arrest.
He picked up the whisky and filled the two glasses that Olga arid he had used, half full.
As he turned, he intercepted a quick glance between the two cops. He felt himself go very cold. It told him what he suspected. He gave Gus one of the glasses and then wandered over to the other. “I guess I can use the bottle,” he said carelessly.
The gun looked as big as a cannon trained on his vest, but he showed no sign of jumping nerves as he held out the glass. He was just about five feet away from the cop. Then he moved with incredible rapidity. He stepped quickly aside. At the same time he tossed the whisky into the cop’s face.
The cop gave a howl, clapped one of his hands to his eyes, stepped back, and blindly pulled the trigger. The gun crashed. Duffy jumped in, threw himself on the cop’s gun arm, and jerked the gun out of his hand.
The next sound he was conscious of was the breaking of glass; The cop was behaving like a madman, trying to get the whisky out of his eyes. Duffy had no time. He hit the cop, holding the gun by the barrel, between the eyes. Then he whirled round, expecting to run into a blast from the other cop.
Gus was standing with his hands on his belly, staring at his highly polished boots. Duffy saw blood oozing between his fingers. Gus fell on his knees, hesitated, his body swaying. Then he straightened out on his face.
Duffy said, “I hope you liked it.” He went quickly to the luggage that was piled on the floor, selected a long strap from one of the grips, and bound the first cop’s arms tightly. Then he went over to Olga, picked up the wrap, and covered her with it.<
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He moved silently and swiftly. All the time at the back of his brain he could see the jam he was in. He went back to the cop who was coming round. Duffy hauled him on to the settee, retrieved his gun from under the cushion, and stuck it down his waist-band. Then he slapped the cop across the face twice with his open hand.
The cop opened his eyes, gave a grunt, and then tried to sit up. Duffy said, “Who’s behind this frame-up?”
The cop glared, but didn’t say anything.
Duffy drew his gun and put it close to the cop’s face. “I’m in a hurry,” he said, his eyes like chips of ice. “Spill it quick, or I’ll hook your eyes out with this gun-sight.”
The cop suddenly went limp and began to sweat. He mumbled, “Miss English tipped us off. She gave us a nice slice to knock you, resisting arrest. We’ve worked for her before.”
Duffy said, “Her father in this racket?”
The cop shook his head. “He don’t know nothing.”
Duffy went over to Gus, turned him over with his foot, searched in his pockets, and found the roll of notes. He counted them carefully. Then he looked up. “There’s ten grand here,” he said. “Was that your cut?”
The cop shook his head. “That was evidence against you,” he said. “That dame sure wants you out of the way.”
In the street, Duffy heard a car draw up. He ran to the window in time to see four uniformed police officers tumbling out. Two quick steps took him to the door. Then he slid down the flight of stairs, darted into the kitchen as the front door burst open. Quietly, he let himself out the back door. He could hear the cop upstairs yelling his head off. He told himself that he’d got to make the Buick. He ran round the small garden, paused when he reached the front, and peered carefully round the corner of the house. He could see the police car, and a little way further on was the Buick. He ran hard, not caring how much noise he made. As he reached the Buick and pulled open the heavy door he heard a shout, but he didn’t stop. He scrambled into the car, swearing softly and continuously. The cold sweat ran down his face, and he expected to feel the jagged pain of a hot slug smash into him. As he slammed the door to, a gun roared from the bedroom window.
He started the engine, revved hard, engaged his gear, and shot the Buick down the road. He heard three distinct thuds on the back of the car before he jerked round the corner.
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