He Won't Need it Now (12 page)

     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.
     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.
     He said, “It's going to be a grand finish.” And his face stiffened into a hard mask as he swung the quivering car to the bends.
      
     

     
     ROSS WAS HAVING a snack when Duffy drove in. He waddled out of the office, his little mouth tight with food. He nodded at Duffy, gulped, then said, “Anything wrong?”
     Ross always expected trouble. Duffy got out of the car and said, “The wagon's hot. Gimme new plates.”
     For his size, Ross moved amazingly quickly. He went back to the office, and returned with a new set of plates. Duffy helped him change them. Ross said, “You jammed?”
     “Listen, pal, ask nothing and hear nothing. I'm buying this box. Maybe, you won't see me any more.”
     Ross raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his enormous buttocks. “Okay,” he said, “keep her you've looked after me before now.”
     Duffy took out the roll of notes and peeled some off. He stuck them in Ross's belt. “Buy yourself a yacht with that,” he said. Then he climbed back in the car. Ross put his head through the window. “If you want a good hide-out,” he said, “go to the Bronx on Maddiston and tell Gilroy I sent you.”
     Duffy repeated, “Bronx on Maddiston.”
     Ross took his head from the window, glanced out into the street. “It's clear, “he said. “I'm sorry about this.”
     Duffy showed his teeth. “Me too,” he said. “Others are going to share our grief.”
     He raised his hand in a salute, then rolled the Buick into the street again. He drove carefully up Lafayette Street, cut across Broadway to Washington Square and headed for Greenwich Village. He parked outside a drug store and went in.
     Several men were eating at the quick-lunch bar, and Duffy sat on an empty stool. He had a chicken sandwich. He washed it down with three quick drags from the pint flask he had taken from the car. The whisky was rough, but there was plenty of life in it. When he had finished the sandwich, he crossed over to the telephone booths and shut himself in. He dialled the
Tribune
number and asked for Sam. When Sam came to the 'phone, Duffy said, “Sam? Got any news?”
     Sam said in a low voice, “I gotta see you.”
     Duffy said, “Can you come out to Dinty's? I'll go straight there.”
     Sam said, “Yeah,” and hung up.
     Duffy walked out of the drug store, looked up and down the street before he crossed the pavement, then climbed into the Buick. He let in his clutch and drove over to Dinty's. He parked the car in the underground garage, took the lift to the top floor, asked for a private room.
     The waiter who served him said, “A lady is coming?”
     Duffy shook his head. “Get the room ready, have some rum, absinthe and dressing up there, and some Club sandwiches. I'm waiting downstairs for a friend.”
     Sam came in the hall a little while after. They went up together in the lift. Neither of them said anything, but Sam kept wiping off his hands and face with a large handkerchief. They went into the room and Duffy shut the door.
     Sam said, “You gone crazy?”
     Duffy went over to the table and began to fix the drinks. “Has it broken yet?” he asked.
     “They're printing it now. I was down at the station when the report came in.” Sam was trying to be casual, but he was as jittery as a hophead.
     Duffy poured the drinks from the shaker, and silently pushed one of the glasses over.
     Sam said, “You're in a hell of a spot.”
     “Annabel's playing this,” Duffy said savagely. “She's pulling strings behind the scene.”
     “What happened, for God's sake?”
     Duffy drained his glass, and immediately filled up again. “We were set to pull out. I went down to the bank to get the book out. When I got back, I found the joint in pieces and Olga dead. Some rat had stuck a knife in her. I must have been crazy. Instead of grabbing the 'phone and reporting it right away, I ran round in circles. Then a couple of cops moved in. They had the story pat. I'd killed Olga for her roll. They even found the dough on me. One of 'em palmed it, put his hand in my pocket and seemed surprised to find it clinging to his hand.”
     Sam stared. “Why the frame? They had you sewed up tight enough without that.”
     Duffy shrugged. “You telling me? The sweet part of the set-up was they intended to iron me out. I could see them getting set for it. Resisting arrest, closing the case, and slapping the murder rap on a corpse. Save the State plenty. It was nice planning, but they were slow on it. One cop shot the other, and I ducked out as the patrol wagon arrived.”
     Sam fidgeted with his glass. “You're it,” he said.
     “Annabel knocked her off.” Duffy sat on the edge of the cable, he held his glass a little on one side, so that the liquor slopped slightly on the carpet. “They thought they'd get the list without paying. Well, they won't. It's going to be just too bad for them.”
     “You better skip while the going's good. You can't stand up against this outfit. It's too big for you.”
     Duffy said evenly, “I'm finishing this. They've had all the fun up to now. Olga said I'd never get anywhere with those rats till I took a gun, and by God, she's right.”
     Sam said, “You liked that Jane, didn't you?”
     Duffy's mouth set in a thin line. He kept his eyes on the floor. “I was getting used to her,” he said at last. “She had all the bad breaks.”
     “I still say skip. You can't buck the cops, as well as Morgan. They're too big for you.”
     Duffy said, “You keep out of this, Sam. I'm going out to the Bronx on Maddiston. Ross's got a hide-out there. If things begin to break wrong, you can find me there. I'll wait until the heat cools off, then I'll start something.”
     Sam said, “I got to go. I'm on my way to the Villa. All the boys are down there.”
     Duffy went over to him. “Tell Alice to keep her pants on. I guess this's bound to happen sometime. I wasn't cut out for a soft life.”
     Sam moved to the door. “If you want some jack, I can stake you.”
     Duffy grinned. “You'd be surprised just how much dough's coming my way.”
     They didn't shake hands, they just looked at each other. Sam gave a worried smile, it hadn't much heart in it, but he smiled. Duffy nodded. “You'll hear from me,” he said.
     He waited until Sam had gone downstairs, poured himself another drink, lit a cigarette, then went out and down to the Buick.
     Rain was beginning to fall in heavy drops. Duffy leant over and rolled up the off-side window, then he drove the Buick on to the street. As he threaded his way through the traffic, the rain drummed hard on the car roof. It was splashing knee-high off the pavement.
     Duffy drove carefully. It took him quite a time to get to the Bronx, which was a basement club, with a convenient garage over the way. Duffy left the Buick at the garage and walked down the steps into the club.
     “Gilroy around?” he asked.
     The thin man who opened the door looked at him suspiciously, said, “Who wants him?”
     “Tell him a friend of Ross.”
     The thin man pulled the door open. “Come in,” he said. When Duffy stepped into the dimly-lit passage, the thin man ran his hands down Duffy's suit. He stepped back. “You can't bring a rod in here,” he said.
     “Tell Gilroy,” Duffy snapped, “and shut up.”
     The thin man looked at him, hesitated, then walked down the passage. He disappeared through a dirty green baize door, and Duffy leant against the wall, waiting. After a short delay the door opened again and a very light-coloured negro came out. He was tall and slender, with a heavy wave in his oily hair. He gave Duffy a hard look. “You want me?”
     Duffy said, “Ross sent me here I want to keep under cover for a few days.”
     Gilroy passed a long thin hand over his hair. “Okay,” he said. “A hundred bucks a day.”
     Duffy sidled close. “Forget it,” he said. “You don't make profit out of me.”
     Gilroy looked at him, then his large lips smiled. “No,” he said, “that was bad. Ross's a good friend of mine. Make it twenty-five.”
     Duffy took out his roll, peeled ten saw bucks and handed them over. “That'll hold you for a few days,” he said.
     Gilroy moved near the light, counted the bills, put them in his pocket, and grinned some more.
     He said, “How low do you want to stay, mister?”
     “When you read the papers, you'll see,” Duffy told him. “I want a meal, plenty to drink and a telephone.”
     Gilroy led him through the baize door, down three stairs, past a bead-curtained door and through another door at the end of a dimly-lit passage. The room was small. It contained a bed, table, two arm-chairs, and a small radio.
     “I'll get you some chuck right away.”
     Duffy said, “How safe's this joint?”
     Gilroy rolled his eyes. “It's okay. I'm paying plenty for protection. The bulls won't worry you here.”
     He left Duffy and shut the door behind him. In the corner of the room, standing on a small table, was a telephone Duffy looked at it, his mouth pursed thoughtfully. Then he walked over and dialled.
     He recognized Gleason's voice. “Too bad you didn't get the list when you knocked my girl-friend off,” he said, biting off each word.
     There was a startled gasp as Gleason caught his breath. “Why, you double-crossing rat,” he jerked out. “What's the big idea? I'm just back from the 'Red Ribbon'. I had the dough and you never showed up.”
     Duffy said, “Cut the comedy. You killed Olga and you pinned it on me. Okay, wise guy, you ain't getting away with it....”
     Gleason broke in. “What the hell is this? Who's Olga?”
     Duffy stared at the wall for a full minute, then he said, “I'm coming over. You got that dough still?”
     Gleason said, “Sure.”
     And Duffy hung up.
     Gilroy walked in with a bottle of whisky, three bottles of ginger ale and a glass. “Your chuck's coming right now.”
     Duffy took the whisky from him and poured out a long shot. He shook his head at the ginger ale, and drank quickly. Just then a knock came on the door, and the thin man came in carrying a tray. He put it on the table, and glanced at Duffy before going out.
     Duffy sat down and began to cat. Gilroy hung around, fidgeting by the radio. He said at last, “I knew that dame.”
     Duffy looked up, a fork full of food suspended before his mouth. “Huh?”
     Gilroy said, “I guess you'd better get moving.”
     Duffy laid the fork down. “What the hell's this?”
     “Olga Shann, I knew her.”
     Duffy picked up the fork again. “She was a swell kid,” he said. “I didn't kill her, if that's what's biting you.”
     Gilroy stirred restlessly, beads of sweat hung on his top lip. “It looks that way,” his voice was exceedingly hostile.
     Duffy went on eating. “A little judy called Annabel English shoved that knife into her,” he said. “This is a frame-up. I'm it.”
     Gilroy took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his mouth. He stood still, looking at his bright yellow shoes.
     Duffy finished the meal in silence. Then he drank some more whisky and sat back. He lit a cigarette, and forced two thin jets of smoke down his nostrils. “If you like that dame as much as I did,” he said, “I know how you feel.”
     Gilroy relaxed a little and came over to the table. “Ross's never sent me a bum yet,” he said. “I guess I was wrong.”
     Duffy nodded. “Sure, that's okay.”
     “I'd like to make this a personal matter.” Gilroy studied his pinkish nails. “If you want any help, I've a nice little outfit.”
     Duffy grinned. “I've gotta see this through myself.”
     “Sure, sure,” Gilroy nodded his head. “Still, you can't always beat the rap.”
     Getting to his feet, Duffy said, “I'll file that offer away. I might have to use it.”
     He moved to the door, then looked over his shoulder. “It's on the street now?”
     Gilroy nodded. “Yeah, the heat's on good.”
     A hard little smile came to Duffy's lips. “I ain't starting anything just yet,” he said. “I'll be back some time.”
     He went over to the garage, got into the Buick and drove over to Annabel's apartment. He parked up a side street and walked back. At the entrance to the organ loft, he paused At the corner he could see a flat cap, standing under a street light. He turned quickly and walked once more back to the Buick. He got in and sat there, watching the cop. The rain had ceased, but the pavements were still wet and shiny in the street lights. The cop moved on after a bit, and Duffy went back to the entrance. He opened the door with the key he still had with him, and silently went up the stairs.
     When he got into the loft, he saw Gleason sitting in the room below, nursing an automatic. Sinking on his knee, so that his head did not appear over the balcony, he watched Gleason for several minutes. Then he said in a hard voice: “Put your rod on the floor, or you'll get it.”
     Gleason started, hastily put the gun at his feet, and looked up.
     Duffy stood up and leant over the rail. He kept the Colt steady. “Where's Annabel?” he asked.
     Gleason said in a dry, strangled voice, “She ain't in.”
     Duffy swung his legs over the balcony and sat there. “I'm coming down,” he said. “Don't start anything. I'm itching to blast you.”
     He pushed himself off, breaking his fall with one hand. Gleason's face was a little drawn. He kept both hands folded in his lap.
     Duffy walked over and sat on the edge of the table. He held the Colt down by his side. He reached out a foot and kicked Gleason's gun under a chair, away from Gleason. He said, “I gotta lot to talk to you about.”
     Gleason looked at him, twitched his mouth a little, but said nothing.
     Duffy said, “You've double-crossed me once. You've pulled a fast one at my joint, and another at the Villa. You tried to slap a murder rap on me. Well, you've had fun. Now I'm going to have some.”
     Gleason said in a thin voice, “I don't know what you're talking about.”
     His race was so blank that Duffy stopped talking and stared at him. “Okay, you don't know anything about it,” he said. “What
do
you know?”
     “I'm dealing it off the top deck,” Gleason said. “I want the book, you got it, and I'm paying for it. I went to the 'Red Ribbon' with the dough as arranged, but you didn't show up. I came back here and you 'phoned. That's all.”
     Duffy rubbed the short hairs on his nape with the flat of his hand. Then he said, “Who killed Weidmer?”
     Gleason shifted his eyes. “That doesn't get you anywhere.”
     “You're wrong. Who killed him? Come on! If you know you'll let yourself out of this.” Gleason said, “But, I don't know.”
     Duffy raised the Colt. “This is my first killing.” He spoke very harshly. His face had gone oyster colour. Two thin lines ran down the sides of his mouth. “I hope I do it right.”