He Won't Need it Now (2 page)

     “Listen,” he said tersely, “if you think I'm gettin' drunk, forget it. When I want a drink, I have a drink, see?”
     Morgan shrugged. His face was pale and he gently rubbed his wrist. “Quite a grip you have there,” he said.
     Duffy grinned. “Sure,” he said. He poured the Scotch into the glass and swallowed it. “Go on,” he said.
     Morgan tapped on the table with his thick fingers. “You see, my wife didn't want the musicians tramping through her room. They could come up the back entrance and get fixed without any fuss. All you have to do is to go up the stairs and lie on the floor in the dark and take photos of the room below. You can't be spotted.”
     When he put it like that, Duffy thought it certainly seemed easy. At the same time, something told him that this set-up was not quite on the level. For one thing, Morgan didn't give him any confidence. On the other hand, the dough was good, and he was going to need it. He had another go at him.
     “Let's look on the dark side,” he said; “suppose she takes it into her head to play the organ and finds me up there, what then?”
     Morgan shrugged his fat shoulders. “There's no other way up to the loft, so all you have to do is to slip the bolt. Once you're there, you're safe.” He took out his wallet and pushed five one-hundred-dollar bills over the table. “Besides,” he said with a little oily smile, “you surely expect to earn this money and not just have it given you.”
     Duffy reached over and took the bills. He shoved them in his inside pocket. “Okay,” he said, “when do I start?”
     Morgan pulled out a gold watch and glanced at it. Duffy noticed that his hand shook a little. “It's just after ten now,” he said, “you've got to get your equipment, and then go to the house. I think we could start now.”
     Duffy got to his feet and pushed back the chair with his legs.
     Morgan looked at him and said quietly, “I want to impress on you that this is important....”
     Duffy raised his hand. “Skip it,” he said, “you don't have to tell me all that again. A thousand bucks a picture is more than important to me.”
     Morgan climbed out of his chair. “You can do quite a bit with money like that,” he said.
     Duffy said, “You're telling me.”
     

     
     MORGAN HAD BEEN quite right. The whole set-up was easy. Duffy sat on his heels in the organ loft and felt hilariously at home. The small camera hung round his neck by a strap and the lighting of the room gave him no misgivings. He was going to make some money, he told himself. The organ loft was just as Morgan had described. It had an uninterrupted view of the room below and it was partly screened by heavy magenta curtains. Duffy had bolted himself in, and with the help of a pint of Scotch that he had brought with him, his nerves were calm and he could take a professional interest in his work.
     He set the camera, using a big stop and a fairly fast shutter. Then he settled himself down to wait. Morgan had driven him to his apartment to collect his equipment and then had driven him to the back entrance to the loft. Morgan seemed to have had the whole thing planned carefully and it ran on oiled wheels. He had arranged to meet Duffy at the Princess bar that night, and Morgan was prepared to wait until he came.
     Duffy looked down at the room with appreciation. It was a pretty swell joint, he told himself. The decoration was in magenta and cream. A cream pile carpet on the floor, and the large leather chairs, half cream and half magenta, gave the room a smart modern appearance. Duffy thought he'd like to have a place like this for his own.
     He glanced at his wrist-watch. It was getting on for midnight. He wished that he could smoke, but he thought that that would be too risky. He wondered how long he had to wait. Just then the door below opened and a woman walked in hurriedly. She crossed the room and disappeared through another door. She had moved so quickly that Duffy hadn't had a chance to see what she was like. He cautiously spread himself on the floor, so that he was lying full length, his elbows supporting his arms as he swung the camera into position. He found that he could aim the camera through the narrow slots of the balcony, and he knew that he was completely hidden from the room below. He made himself comfortable by taking out a pint bottle of Scotch from his pocket, which was digging into him, then he settled down to wait.
     A quarter of an hour dragged past, and he began to get fidgety, but suddenly he heard a faint whir of an electric bell. He stiffened and looked towards the door expectantly. The woman came out and crossed the room. He could see her now, and he thought, “O boy! O boy!” She was tall and slender. The pale green wrap of heavy silk which she had changed into set her figure off sharply. Duffy appreciated his private view. He admired her skin, which was pale and lovely, and he told himself that a dame with eyes as large as hers was a menace to weak men. He felt mighty weak himself towards her. Her scarlet lips promised passion, and he thought the red-gold hair was just the right finish to a mighty swell job. He thought Morgan showed a nice taste in women, but at the same time he wondered how a dame like that could have fallen for Morgan in the first place. It didn't surprise him in the least that she had given Morgan the air.
     He watched her go to the door, and when she came back into the room again a man followed her closely. Duffy looked with interest at him. He was short and slight, with dark wavy hair. He seemed nervous and his face was unusually pale. The woman sat on the arm of a chair, quite close to a lamp standard. Duffy noted that the light fell directly on her. He focused his camera and gently pressed the release. The shutter slid with a faint click and Duffy pulled the triggerlike film-changer.
     The man below said in a low voice, “You got it?”
     When she spoke, her voice came drifting up to Duffy in a soft cadence. She had that rather breathless voice with a very faint huskiness that make most men interested. Duffy was more than interested.
     She said, “I have the money.” She spoke with contempt, and the man squirmed under her gaze. “Did you bring the stuff?”
     “I want the dough first,” he said; “make it snappy, lady, it ain't too healthy for me being here.”
     Again she looked at him, then turning to the table she pulled out a drawer. Duffy saw her take out a thick wad of greenbacks. He again pressed the release. The faint click of the shutter seemed to roar in his ears. Down below, they noticed nothing. He saw the woman give the money and then the man, in his turn, hand over a small parcel. Duffy fired off his camera, pulling the film-changer rapidly, intent on what was happening below him. Then he lowered the camera, satisfied that he had got what he wanted. He reckoned he had at least twenty photos, and most of those would be nice ones. He calculated that five thousand bucks would be his by the morning, and he groped on the floor for the Scotch. He still kept his eye on the two in the room, but nothing was happening to get excited about, and he felt that a drink would help him along. At the back of his brain he was trying to place the short man down there in the room. He had seen him somewhere, but where it was, for the moment, escaped him.
     The man was moving to the door now. He sidled like a crab, watching the red-headed woman closely. She followed him out of Duffy's sight and after a short delay she came back again. Duffy watched her. She relaxed into one of the chairs. Her green wrap parted and Duffy could see her long white legs. He raised himself slowly, so that he could see better. This dame was certainly a honey. He wondered if she had anything on under that wrap. The thought disturbed him, and he nearly wrenched his neck muscles trying to see more of her. He felt dispirited leaving her all on her own, but then, Morgan was waiting and so was the dough. He guessed that he wouldn't get to the first base with this dame without dough, and to get it he had to leave her. He rose quietly to his feet and took a step back.
Something hard dug him in the back.
     “Grab a little air, lug,” said a voice in his ear.
     In the ordinary run of things, Duffy's nerves were pretty sound, but this nearly ruined his heart. He felt his long limbs quiver with shock, and he raised his hands quickly.
     “Take it easy,” went on the voice, “don't start anything.”
     Duffy turned his head very slowly and looked over his shoulder. Standing behind him was a broad-shouldered man, wearing a black Fedora, pulled down low. In spite of Duffy's usual nonchalance, he felt his short hairs on his nape bristle. There was something utterly repulsive in the hard white face behind him. It gave Duffy the same feeling he might have got if he turned over a rotten log that had been lying in long grass for some time, and suddenly seen the foul things the log hid. The scurry of beetles and ants, the brown dead grass, and the white fungi, and particularly the long white slug that squirmed away from the sunlight. Down below he heard a door shut, and he guessed that the woman had left the room.
     Keeping his hands raised, he said, “For the love of Mike, where did they find you?”
     The man's eyes were almost closed, but the light in the room was sufficient for Duffy to see that they were mean and hard. He dug the gun into Duffy hard.
     “Stand still,” he said again. His voice was hoarse as if he smoked too much. He put out a hand and snatched the camera hanging from Duffy's neck. The strap snapped, jerking Duffy's head forward.
     “Hi!” Duffy said, in alarm. “You ain't pinching my outfit?”
     “Shaddap,” the man snarled at him.
     A violent rage consumed Duffy. “A frame-up, huh?” he snorted. “Mr. Sonofabitch Morgan wants his pictures for nothing?”
     “If you don't stop yappin', I'll blast your guts,” the other rasped. “What the hell do you think you're doin' in here?”
     Duffy began to lower his hands, but the gun dug into him again. “Listen,” he said, “I'm just doin' a job of work. Come to that, what about yourself?” All the time he was speaking, he was wondering if this tough would shoot him. He began to think he was in a bit of a spot.
     “I guess we'll go for a little walk,” the other said. There was a threat in his voice, but he took a step back, taking the gun from Duffy's side. Duffy didn't hesitate. He took a deep breath and suddenly kicked back with his heel. He hoped to connect with the other's leg. Maybe splinter his shin-bone for him, but his leg shot back meeting nothing, and before he could save himself he toppled over the low balcony and crashed into the room below.
     He came down on his hands, breaking his fall by sliding a little on the carpet. For a moment the shock did things to him, then he sat up.
     A door opened and he looked up gingerly, wondering it his brain had broken loose from its moorings. The red-head was standing there. She crossed her arms over her breasts and screamed. A breathless little scream that made Duffy want to put his arms round her and soothe her; not perhaps quite the same way as a mother might soothe her hurt child, but along those lines. When he saw the .25 in her hand he changed his mind.
     Women with guns made him nervous. He could never believe that they were safe with them. Before now, a woman had held him up with a gun. He remembered one particularly irate blonde who had been so mad with him that she had squeezed the trigger a little too hard. The thought made him sweat a little, and he sat on the floor very still, giving her no cause for alarm.
     Her eyes were large and scared, and her red lips were parted, showing her white even teeth. Duffy thought she was pretty good.
     “Who... who are you?” she stammered breathlessly.
     “Lady,” he said, holding his head in his hands, “I'm asking myself the same question.”
     “What are you doing here?”
     Duffy looked at her through laced fingers. “Would you mind very much putting that rod away? I've just fallen out of that loft and my nerves won't stand any more.”
     “Will you tell me what you are doing here?” She was getting her nerve back, and her voice was steady.
     “For the love of Mike don't start gettin' tough,” he pleaded, “take a look at that hoodlum up there before you get that way.”
     She looked frightened again. “Is there anyone else up there?”
     Duffy laughed shortly. “I should say so,” he said, rubbing the back of his head gingerly, “he's just tossed me out, so I should know.”
     She took a step back hastily and looked up into the loft, then she shook her head. “There's no one there.”
     Duffy groaned. “The so-and-so's pinched my camera,” he said wearily. “Do you mind if I get up? There's a draught round here that ain't doing me much good.”
     “I think you had better stay where you are;” she said firmly. She held the gun steady as she reached for the telephone.
     “Don't do that,” Duffy said in alarm, “you ain't calling the cops, are you?”
     “Isn't that what I ought to do?” she asked, her hand hesitating on the receiver.
     “Listen, Mrs. Morgan, I can explain everything. It's all a big mistake,” Duffy said; then he pondered and went on, “I've heard that crack before. My God, I must be losing my grip or somethin'.”
     She lowered the gun in her astonishment. “Why do you call me that?” she asked quickly.
     Duffy stiffened a little. “Ain't you Mrs. Morgan?”
     “No, of course not.”
     He scrambled to his feet and waved his hands at her as she jerked up the gun. “Okay, okay, skip it,” he said impatiently, “this is important. Who are you?”
     She tapped her foot on the floor. “What
is
this?”
     “I'll tell you what this is,” Duffy said furiously, “I've been taken for a ride. You've got to get this straight. Listen, Toots, I'm Duffy of the
Tribune.
Some guy who called himself Morgan spun me a yarn that you were his wife and you were being blackmailed. He wanted me to take photos of the crook who was putting the screws on you. I fell for this guff and came up to the hen-roost here and took photos of you and the guy you slipped the money to. Just as I am reaching for my hat and calling it a nice day's work, some thug hops up, pinches my camera, and heaves me out on my neck. You tell me you ain't Mrs. Morgan. In your own interests you'd better tell me who you are.”
     She stared at him and then said finally, “I think you must be mad.”
     “Use your head,” Duffy was getting impatient, “can't you see that you're in a spot? Morgan wanted a photo of you with this other guy and he's got it. Ask yourself why.”
     She still stared at him and shook her head “I don't understand... I don't believe...”
     He slid across to her in one movement and pushed the gun away. “For Krizake,” he said roughly, “will you listen to me? Who was the guy you gave that money to?”
     His urgency touched her and she said quickly, “I don't know. I think his name's Cattley...”
     Duffy stepped back. “Cattley... of course. By heck! I
must
be losing my grip. Cattley...” He swung round on her. “What the hell are you doing with a rat like Cattley?”
     Her eyebrows came together. “Will you stop asking me questions—?” she began.
     “Listen, baby.” Duffy came close to her. His voice had a sharp edge to it. “Cattley's got a name that stinks in this town. Everyone knows him. Cattley the pimp. Cattley the dope. Cattley the slaver. I tell you he's poison to dames like you. You... you've let yourself be photographed with him... and someone's got those photos Does that mean anything to you?”
     “But....” she stopped and he saw she had gone pale.
     “Yeah! That's made you think. Sit down and tell me quick. Make it snappy; I've got things to do.”
     She turned on him suddenly with furious eyes. “You started this,” she stormed at him. “If it hadn't been for you—”
     “Forget it!” he snapped at her. “I'm getting those pictures back all right. But you've got to wise me up a hell of a lot before I do.”
     The flash of temper was gone almost before it started. She sat down limply on the large settee and tossed the gun on the table. Duffy winced a little. Women were hell when it came to handling guns. He took a quick glance and saw that the safety catch was still down.
     “Now come on, come on, let's get down to it,” he said, sitting on the edge of the table. “What's your name?”
     “Annabel English,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap.
     “What are you? Just a little dame with plenty of dough, running round lookin' for a good time?”
     She nodded. Duffy lit a cigarette. “Yeah! I bet you are, and I bet you have a pretty nice time of it What's this Cattley to you?”
     Her face flushed and she hesitated. “I—I asked him to get material on the... the underworld.” She stopped. The colour in her face was deep.