Nelson’s eyes were wide as he looked at my face, the thin line of red down it, the dig behind the ear, for I turned my head so he could see it. Then he saw the sudden blaze in the tray, said: “What the hell! Want to burn up the place?” He stepped forward and reached for that ashtray, but I was before him and had awkwardly knocked it from the desk.
Jerry dropped to his knees, was picking up the white sheets, grinding in the partly burnt edges—and I had a real break. Sergeant O’Rourke stamped into the room, stood there in the doorway with a couple of city dicks behind him as Jerry walked by him with the papers. Good old Jerry! Walking out with a bit of writing that would have given Nelson the happiest moment of his life, and O’Rourke—well, friend or no friend, I’d have been in plenty of trouble. But the cops were ready for an argument between themselves. Nelson always was. O’Rourke gave him the chance this time.
“Now look here, Nelson”—O’Rourke worked close to the commissioner and didn’t have to take guff from any cop, not even an inspector—“I tipped you to this lay, and you go in the back way alone.”
“What lay?” I cut in as Nelson said something about O’Rourke being too friendly with a “private dick” and making those two words stink to high heaven.
O’Rourke began to explain then. “Why—Spats Willis. Wanted here ten or twelve years ago for murder, went to the Orient—Singapore last time we heard of him—and mixed up in some dope-smuggling. We think he’s Raftner’s man—Nick Raftner.”
“Who’s Raftner?” I wanted to know.
“Who knows?” said Nelson. “No one has ever seen him. However, he’s real. Sits pretty in the Malay States and has a big idea about filling America with dope.”
“Yeah?” I said. “But why would he come here? I mean this other bloke—Spats Willis.”
“We don’t know, Race.” And when I just stared at him, “It’s not a hunch or anything like that. We had a call Willis would be found here at your office, and to come up right after one o’clock. No suspicion of you—nothing like that, Race.”
“No? That’s just O’Rourke’s opinion,” Nelson sneered. “We got a good description of Willis. He was seen entering this building, and it’s fairly well established that he came to this floor. He’s got a face that isn’t hard to place.”
I shrugged. “Who told you he was here?”
“We don’t know. You didn’t anyway!” Nelson blasted. “What’s that got to do with it? We got to search the place—maybe take you down for a little questioning.”
I looked at O’Rourke. He looked back very soberly, said: “He’s wanted for at least one murder we can lay on him. It’s serious business, Race, if you let him come and go.”
“What would you do with him?”
Though I spoke to O’Rourke I got the answer where I hoped I’d get it—from Nelson. “We’d fry him. Or better still lay a couple of slugs in his head.”
“Oh, you want him dead.” I tried putting on a child-like wonder which I knew always infuriated Nelson.
“Of course, we want him dead. If Raftner’s money’s behind him it’ll take a couple of years to get a conviction—if we get one even then. Now, Race, what do you know about—”
He stopped, followed the direction of my jerking thumb—first with his eyes, then with his head, and finally with his moving feet. His bellow of surprise as he spotted the body was pleasant to my ears. Then O’Rourke was on his knees beside him and I saw them swing the dead head around.
“It’s Spats Willis all right. I remember him years back,” Nelson said and I liked the awe in his voice. “And what a mess!”
“That’s right—a mess,” I told him. “Get him out of here. He’s all yours.”
Nelson came to his feet, turned on me viciously. He accused me of everything right up to the murder of a poor unfortunate traveler named Willis, who had returned to his native shores after these many years. Maybe those weren’t his exact words, but they’re close enough. And they made me mad; damned good and mad. I let him have it.
“By God!” I said. “You pound in here hollering for Willis’s death. And me—am I paid to sit around and wait until someone you happen to approve of knocks over your wanted man? Then you give me abuse, accuse me of about everything in the calendar.” And going to the cooler and taking a drink, “Look at my rug! That’s the thanks I get for spilling a public enemy’s guts all over it. He’s yours. Take him out of here. I’ll complain to the commissioner that you got word I was to be shot to death and waited until you thought the job was done.”
Nelson started toward me as I turned to leave the room, but O’Rourke reached me first. “All right. All right. How did it happen, Race?”
“How did it happen!” I flared back. “Why, he just talked himself to death.” And I banged on into the outer office.
Mad? Well, not now. I went to the rear of the room and laughed for a good five minutes.
O’Rourke came out and stood looking at me. He shook his head. “I can’t understand you, Race. I’ve been twenty-five years in this business—and I have never yet been able to see anything funny in death.”
“Funny!” I told him. “Of course, it’s funny. Damn it, O’Rourke! If you couldn’t get an occasional laugh in this business, you’d go nuts. But I’ve got to go out and eat. Haven’t had lunch yet.”
I swung back into my private office, hopped over the late lamented Mr. Spats Willis, swung both my shoulder holsters into place and put on my jacket.
“Don’t scowl like that, Nelson.” I winked at the sour-pussed inspector. “They don’t come much deader than that one. I’ll expect the city to pay for the rug at the cleaner’s. There, there—not a word of thanks. That corpse is on me.”
CHAPTER TWO
Table for Three
I hit my favorite restaurant, ready for a thick steak, and I saw the girl; the woman, if you like—for the Flame could be either one—a sort of flesh-and-blood Doctor Jekyll and Miss Hyde, if you get what I mean. There were times when she was young and lovely, the sparkle of youth in her eyes—and times, too, when she was hard, cold, cruel, a woman of the night. Beautiful—sure, but in a sinister way.
I couldn’t tell which was she now, as I walked down the room. She was tapping a cigarette on the table, looking toward the door, and suddenly she saw me. Her eyes brightened, her head moved slightly, and I went toward her. What a coincidence finding the Flame occupying my special booth in my special restaurant? Well, if you’re young and in love you might look on it like that. But the Flame has no coincidence in her life—and I have none in mine. I knew she was waiting for me.
She didn’t show surprise and neither did I as she started to move over to make room for me beside her. My surprise came when I saw that the seat across from her was occupied. Long, slender, neatly manicured fingers lay upon the whiteness of the table cloth. Sleek black hair, soft oily skin—I don’t have to tell you. It was Armin Loring—One Man Armin—the most dangerous man in the city of New York.
The Flame moved further into the booth. Armin just looked at me, smiled pleasantly enough when I sat down beside her.
I didn’t let the Flame talk first. I said: “I suppose you wish me to sit down—right?”
“Right. Would you believe me, Race, if I said I’m surprised to see you—but delighted?”
“Maybe you are surprised to see me—alive, but I rather doubt the delighted part.”
“And you may well doubt that, Williams.” Armin Loring showed more of his even white teeth, watched the Flame open her purse. He took the five hundred-dollar bills she stretched across to him. “Will we tell Williams about the bet, honey?” And when the Flame stiffened, “It’s too good to keep. You see, Race, Florence bet me those five centuries that I’d never see you alive again.” And twisting up his lips as he pocketed the money, “Even money, too, Race. You must be slipping.”
Graceful shoulders went up and down. The Flame turned, blew a smoke ring at me, said: “You always did let me down, Race. Seriously, Armin, you’re not really jealous because Race
was once madly in love with me?” She looked at me steadily. “Sometimes I think he still is.”
“That’s the way it goes.” Armin beckoned a waiter and I ordered. And then, “They say that once a man loves the Flame he always loves her.”
I said: “And they say also that to love the Flame is to die.”
“Yet,” said Armin, “you and I are both alive. There, Williams, you can be the first to congratulate me. Florence and I have given up the racket, discovered that underneath it all we are both very conventional people. We are going to be married—and sail away on our honeymoon.”
“Not to Singapore by any chance?” I asked.
Armin Loring jerked erect. I had hit him a wallop all right. He showed it and knew that he showed it. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“Well”—I stuck my tongue in my cheek—“I had a visitor from Singapore today. He said you sent him.”
Armin Loring looked straight at me. He seemed puzzled. I knew he spoke the truth when he said: “I never sent anyone.” He looked at the Flame; back to me.
“Race”—he spoke very slowly, very distinctly, and without any dramatics—“you have never really crossed me yet.” He scowled. “Except for that one time when you took Miss Morse from the Royal Hotel. Forget me—forget Singapore. I haven’t got an enemy in the world—a dangerous enemy—that is a live one. Don’t make me think I have.” He leaned forward now and I believe he meant every word he said. “You’ve walked up and down the Avenue for years, Race. Lads fear you because they fear death. They recognize you as one of their own kind. A man who has no interest in courts of justice, no interest in stupidly gathering evidence that won’t stand up. You’re a killer, just like—”
“Just like you’re a killer,” I finished for him.
“No.” He was deadly serious. “Speed with a gun like speed in everything else is only relative. You don’t know it, don’t believe it, but I can draw and shoot in less than one second.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Right now?”
“Right now—one second. What do you say to that?”
I said: “Armin, you’d be exactly one-half second too late.”
And Armin did it. I had heard about his speed and was interested to see it operate. Now I did. He just swept the handkerchief from his outside jacket pocket and I saw plainly the nose of the tiny gun beneath it.
“By God!” Armin said, and I didn’t like his eyes. “I’ve a good mind to do it here.” And his eyes shifting up and down the room, “I will, too—unless you give me your word that you will never mention my name and Singapore. Poor sap, you never even raised a hand to save yourself.”
I said easily: “Be your age, Armin. You don’t think I go around letting guys pull guns on me—at least not twice in one day. Put that handkerchief away or comes it a sudden pain in your stomach.”
His eyes narrowed. His thin lips tightened. I saw the Flame half rise in the booth.
I said: “There’s a gun covering you under the table, Armin.” And when doubt came into his eyes I added lightly: “A nice conventional guy like you wouldn’t want a lot of strangers to know what you had for lunch.”
“I don’t believe you.” Those were Armin Loring’s words, but he did believe me just the same. And he was right. Why, a gun fell into my hand almost the moment I sat down.
I shrugged my shoulders and told him what was on my chest. “We sat like this once before, Armin. Remember? I do. Only that time both our guns were under the table. But have it your own way. Press the trigger of that toy gun—” I leaned forward suddenly, spat the words at him. “Park that gun, Armin; park it damn quick or I’ll blow hell out of your insides!”
Armin’s eyes brightened to twin beads of fire. For a moment I thought he was going to do his stuff and my finger tightened on the trigger. I could feel the hammer of my forty-four slipping back.
Armin smiled suddenly and said his well known line. “No fooling, Race?”
“No fooling, Armin,” I answered.
Three things happened. His handkerchief twirled back into his pocket. My gun slipped back into its holster. The waiter brought my steak. And—I’m not sure—but I think the Flame opened the bag that lay on her lap and slipped something stubby and black into it. Was I ungentlemanly enough to think it was a gun? Yeah, I guess I was. But the steak was good and I was hungry.
There were several minutes of silence then—that is conversational silence. I like my steak and I don’t care who hears it.
After a while the Flame said: “You run along if you want, Armin. I’d like to talk to Race—of our old love.” And damn it, she put a hand across the table and patted the back of his.
He took a dumb look and pulled his hand away—but he liked it. He said: “All right, kitten. Just a word with Race first.” And to me, “Now about this Mary Morse case and the unfortunate fact that unscrupulous people have been using her jewelry firm for dishonest acts.” He grinned at his own cleverness in the wording. “You haven’t made a nickel on the deal. I have been offered a big fee—a very big fee to keep you out of this case. Because of your old friendship with Florence, my future wife, and my dislike for trouble just before our honeymoon, I’ll give you half of this fee to stay out of your own accord.”
“The laugh’s on you, Armin,” I told him. “I am out of it.”
“Certain?”
“As certain as a man can be.” I shrugged. “I have no intention of seeing Mary Morse.”
“That’s a promise—your word?”
“That’s nothing to you,” I told him flat. “It simply means that I don’t want to see her—don’t want to go to her if she sends for me. But I would go in a minute if I felt like it. Threat from you—or no threat from you.”
The Flame clapped her hands. “Waving the old flag, eh Race? You have to understand him, Armin. He’s free, white and twenty-one, and he just won’t be threatened.”
“Threatened, hell!” Armin drew a small case from his pocket, flipped it open, tossed a cigarette into his mouth and popped a match to the end of it. “This, Race, is a plain statement of the facts. You never bluff; I never bluff. If you’re seen with Mary Morse again—so much as talk to her in a hotel or restaurant—you’ll be shot to death at once.”
“By you?” was all I asked.
“By me the second time.”
“You expect to kill me twice, eh?”
“I expect to kill you if the first attempt fails, though I can hardly see failure.” He was tossing his napkin on the table now. “This man I have in mind would shoot you even in a crowded restaurant.”
“Restaurant, eh?” I rubbed my chin as he pulled that “restaurant” line the second time, watched him start to slide out of the booth. I looked at the check for the meal beside his plate, said quickly: “It’s you who are going to marry the girl, Armin. I’m damned if I’ll pay the check.”
It was strange to see the sudden color come into Armin’s face, but he fished out a five-spot and tossed it on the table. I turned over the check, took a squint and nodded, said: “The Flame must be trying to reduce. On your way. Nothing else I should know, is there?”
Armin didn’t like my light banter. His teeth showed when he leaned over and spoke to me, but there was nothing of a smile on his face—just the baring of his teeth which was anything but pleasant. “I’m going to pay you a great compliment, Race,” he said. “I’m going to steal your line. If you so much as see or speak to Mary Morse again and live—then I’ll shoot you to death the first time we meet.”
I shook my head, smiled and filled in the missing words for him. He had left my favorite line out. “Any place, any time—at Forty-Second Street and Broadway during the lunch hour. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Armin?”
“That,” said Armin, “is exactly what I mean.” Without another word he turned and left the table. I watched him walk slowly down the length of the room toward the door. Then I turned to the Flame.
For a long moment I looked steadily into those brown eyes
. They looked steadily back, didn’t even blink slightly. I tried: “Too bad about the bet you lost, Florence. So you sent Spats Willis to kill me.”
“To kill the man I used to love—do love?” She leaned forward.
“You bet Armin he’d never see me alive again. And Willis was fast with a gun.”
“So”—arched eyebrows went up—“you admit that others can be fast with a gun. Willis—What happened to him?”
“In this hot weather they’ll bury him quickly.”
Red ran in and out of her face; her right hand tapped the table. If that was emotion, it was all she showed. She said simply: “It’s part of the price men must pay who want to make money—a lot of money.”
“And women, too,” I told her.
“Mary Morse, for instance.” She pretended to miss my crack. And then, “How do you know I sent him—to kill you?” And after a pause, “Maybe I sent him for you to kill.”
“But why—why?” I’d had that thought, too. But I was never sure that it was an honest thought or a wish—something I wanted to believe, yet really didn’t.
“I saved your life once, and you believed that I did it because I was more anxious for someone else to die. Perhaps I sent Willis to you that you might kill him.”
“Yeah.” I looked at her. “You’ve lined up with a dope outfit so you can set guys up for me to shoot down. Let me tell you something. This Willis boy very nearly got your intentions mixed and gave me the dose. After this when you set a lad up for me, give me a ring he’s coming. Hell, Florence, you wouldn’t expect a child to believe that!”
“I’m not expecting you to believe anything; certainly not as much as a child. A child has a clean honest mind.” And suddenly sticking out a hand and gripping mine tightly; gripping it while her fingers against my skin went colder and colder, “Let’s chuck it all, Race. Let’s go away together—”
I jerked my hand away, put hard eyes on her—then lowered them slightly. Damn it, the woman was a marvel of—well, maybe deceit. I could have sworn her eyes were wet and warm. But I said: “I thought you were going to marry Armin Loring.”
A Century of Noir Page 3