He Won't Need it Now (7 page)

     Duffy put his arm round the back of the chair and patted her shoulder. “Go into the Johnny,” he said.
     She got out of the chair. Her eyes were very angry. Duffy thought she looked swell. “I've had enough of this,” she said, speaking very fast; “I've told you the truth, and I'm not giving you anything. Now, understand that.”
     Duffy still sat on the chair-arm. He looked her over slowly, his mouth pursed, and his eyebrows raised. “You don't seem to understand,” he said; “I want whatever you found in this joint, and I'm going to have it.”
     She started to say something, but he held up his hand. “Quiet,” he said, “if you don't like to give it to me, I'll take it, how's that?”
     Slowly, she began to back to the door. He could see that she was getting scared. He left his seat quickly as she reached the door, and swung her round. She struck him across his nose with her clenched fist. Duffy was quite hurt. He put his hand to his face, felt his nose gingerly, looked at his fingers to see if his nose was bleeding, then he grinned. “Well, of course,” he said, “if that's the way you want it.”
     She struck at him again, but he caught her wrist, then she closed with him, a kicking, biting, scratching handful of outraged loveliness. For a moment, Duffy was busy keeping her nails out of his eyes. He smothered her arms with difficulty, turned her. Crossing her arms across her chest, and holding them tightly by the wrists behind her, he ran into the bedroom and slammed her face down on the bed.
     “You Redhead,” he said, panting a little with his exertion. “You going to play ball, or do I have to get rough?”
     She said, her voice muffled, “Oh! How I hate you!”
     “Come on.”
     She remained silent for a minute, then she said, “All right, I'll give it to you.”
     “That a promise?”
     “Yes... yes, you beast.”
     He grunted and released her. She sat up, her face white and drawn. Her eyes were glittering with hate. He was quite startled to see how vicious she could look.
     “Get going,” he said, suddenly losing his good temper.
     She said, “Get out of the room. I have to undress.”
     He shook his head. “Be your age,” he said, “I don't trust you.
     She got off the bed, and stood, her hair ruffled, her green silk dress crumpled, and battle in her eye.
     “I'm not getting undressed with a heel like you looking on,” she said.
     Duffy went over to the door and turned the key. He took the key out and put it in his pocket.
     “You surprise me,” he said, “fancy you being coy. Sure, I'll turn my back, but get going.”
     He went and looked out of the window. A very faint sound made him jerk round again. She was almost on top of him. In her hand she was holding an empty carafe by the neck. The look in her eyes made him catch his breath. He slid along the wall away from her fast, as she smashed the carafe at him. The glass exploded all round him. The paper on the wall split, where the carafe had struck, sending a stream of plaster running to the floor.
     Her face was contorted with murderous fury. He saw tiny white flecks of foam on her lips. She began to call him filthy names. Hurling them at him, through her twisted mouth.
     Duffy thought she must be in a kind of fit. He was so startled that he backed away from her. She advanced slowly towards him, her hands held out in front of her, opening and closing. Every time she closed them, her knuckles stood out white. Then she came at him, like a coiled spring unleashed.
     Her body struck him with her full weight, and he went back, reeling, off his balance. Her hand shot out and gripped his throat. He could feel the hot burning pain as her long nails dug into his flesh.
     Swinging his fist up hard, he hit her on the side of the jaw. He didn't put any weight behind the blow, but it was a nice smack, all the same. She sagged, fell on her knees, her hands running down his coat front, feebly trying for a grip, then she went forward on her face.
     Duffy stepped back and took out his handkerchief. He carefully wiped off his palms, then put the handkerchief back. “For crying out loud,” he said.
     He picked her up and put her carefully on the bed. She lay limp, her eyes closed, breathing hard. He made sure that she was right out, before he began to search her. He didn't like the job, it made him feel like a snake, but he went through with it. Pushed down the top of her girdle, he found what he was looking for. A little red leather note-book. He didn't wait to examine it there and then, he just put it carefully in his inside pocket, rearranged her dress and left her. He let himself out of the apartment, and brought the elevator up from the ground floor. While he waited for it to come up, he kept an ear cocked for any sound from the flat. It was only when he got into the street that he felt at ease. He noticed, across the road, a big Packard was standing. No one was in it. He crossed the road and glanced inside. He recognized the car as the one that had followed him. It belonged to Annabel English.
     “Well, well,” he said. This was getting quite beyond him. He walked a little way down the road, then he flagged a cruising taxi. He gave McGuire's address. When the cab jerked off, he settled himself back on the shiny leather, and took out the note-book. It was very neat, each page covered with minute writing. Just names and addresses, and against each name was a number of small denominations. He turned the pages, carefully reading each name, hoping to get some clue. At the fifth page he realized that he was reading down a list of New York's top-liners. He went on.
     There was no doubt of that. Well-known names began to jump out of the pages. Wives of bankers, stockbrokers, rich playboys, daughters of millionaires, actors and actresses, councillors, a judge here and there, quite a complete list of people in the public eye and who mattered. Duffy looked for Annabel English's name, but he couldn't find it. He held the book in his hand and scratched his head. He thought probably the key lay in the numbers against the names. But it had him beat. He counted the names for something better to do. They totaled just over three hundred. At the end of the book, written faintly in pencil, was a name and address, set apart from the other names. He made it out with difficulty: “Olga Shann, Plaza Wonderland Club”. He put the note-book in his pocket, and leant back brooding. Perhaps, he thought, he'd get a line from this Olga dame.
     The taxi swung to the kerb, and he got out. There was something familiar in the taxi-driver's face. Duffy looked at him hard. The taxi-driver grinned at him.
     “You must love that dame,” he observed. “The last time I brought you to this joint you had to be carried, and now, God love me, she's scratched you to hell again.”
     Duffy gave him some money. “One of these days,” he said evenly, “someone's going to take a dislike to you.”
     The taxi-driver grinned some more. “T should worry,” he said.
     Duffy left him and walked up the steps to the apartment.
      
      
     

     
     WHEN MCGUIRE GOT in from work, he found Duffy and Alice in the kitchen. Duffy was standing over the stove, a heavy frown on his face, watching a large steak grilling.
     McGuire took one look at him and said, “For God's sake, he's been at it again.”
     Alice looked up with a mischievous smile. She was peeling potatoes at the sink. “He won't say a word.”
     Duffy scowled. “For the love of Mike, pipe down,” he said. “What if my girl friend did get tough?”
     McGuire shook his head sadly. He leant himself up against the wall. “I never met such a guy,” he said. “Can't you take care of yourself once in a while?”
     Duffy said, “Know the Plaza Wonderland Club?”
     Sam shot a look at Alice. “I've heard of it.”
     Alice said, “I knew you would. You know all the low clubs.”
     Sam protested. “You got me wrong there,” he said violently; “I've never been there. I just heard of it from the boys.”
     “I know.”
     Sam groaned, “She's always imagining things,” he complained to Duffy. “As if I'd be seen dead in one of those burgs.”
     “You're going to this one tonight,” Duffy said, turning the steak carefully.
     Sam cocked his head. “Is that so?” he said. Again he looked at Alice.
     She shrugged. “I suppose I'll have to say yes,” she said.
     Duffy went over and gave her a pat. “Be nice,” he said. “This is strictly business. You got to stay home.”
     “You men,” she said, but she wasn't mad. Duffy knew she'd take it all right. She was like that. “Don't get him into trouble,” she said, looking at Sam.
     “Me?” Sam laughed. “I like that. Get him into trouble? It's me that's going to run into that, I bet.”
     Duffy shook his head. “You're just window-dressing,” he said. “You'll see.”
     After the meal, McGuire pushed his chair back and looked inquiringly at Duffy. “You want to get going?” he said.
     Duffy nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Might as well.”
     Sam lit a cigarette and went over to get his hat. He slapped it on the back of his head and turned to Alice. “We ain't going to be late,” he glanced at Duffy, who shook his head. “Keep the bed warm for me, honey.”
     She raised her face to his for a kiss, and Duffy looked on with approval. “You must've been screwy to marry a tramp like that,” he said to Alice.
     Sam grinned. “There was a shortage of men at the time.”
     Alice threatened him with a roll of bread, and he ducked out to get the car.
     She said in a small voice, “You'll be careful?”
     Duffy turned his head, and said with elaborate astonishment, “Why, sure, we're going to have a good time.”
     She got from her chair and walked over to him. “Save it, Bill. You're poking your nose into this murder business.”
     Duffy shrugged. “This won't amount to much,” he explained. “I've got a line on Cattley's girl friend. She might turn in some information. This business puzzles me. There is a lot I don't get. Maybe I've been a bit hasty, hiding up that rat. I don't know. This Annabel broad ain't nice. She's dangerous.”
     “I wish you hadn't anything to do with it. Sam's worried too.”
     Duffy put on his hat. “I gotta see it through now. Don't you worry about Sam, I won't get him into anything.”
     “I'm worrying about you.”
     “Forget it,” he pleaded; “it's going to come out okay.”
     She went with him to the door. “I don't want to be a fuss.”
     He patted her shoulder. “You're swell,” he said. “It'll be all right.”
     He found Sam sitting at the wheel of a small tourer that had seen better days. Duffy climbed in beside him. “Where's this joint, anyway?” he asked.
     Sam let in the clutch with a bang, the car jerked forward, and then stalled. Duffy didn't say anything, he was used to it. Sam pulled the starter, reversed the engine, and let the clutch in again. The car pulled away from the kerb, making a noise like a beehive.
     “The Plaza?” Sam said; “it's near Manhattan Bridge.”
     “Know the place?” Duffy asked.
     “Sure,” Sam said. “This is a hot joint. I used to go there a bit in the old days.” Sam always called the time he was single 'the old days'. “It's tough, and packed with hot pants. You wait.”
     Duffy leant back. “Sounds all right,” he said.
     Sam drove two blocks in silence, then he said, “You telling me the news?”
     Duffy gave him a cigarette. “I looked up Cattley's dump today. Annabel turned up. She was looking for something. She found it, and so did I.” He touched the scratches with his fingers and grinned. “I bet that honey's as mad as a hornet right now.”
     Sam swerved to avoid a big Cadillac, grabbed his handbrake and shouted, “You street pushover,” to the fat driver.
     Duffy took no notice; he had driven with Sam before. “What did you find?” Sam asked.
     “It's a little note-book, full of ritzy names, and it don't mean a thing to me.”
     “So?”
     “Yeah.” Duffy frowned at his reflection in the driving-screen. “It's important. I know because I had to get tough with Annabel to get her to part. That dame scares me. She ain't normal.”
     “I thought you liked 'em that way.” Sam looked at him in surprise.
     “Watch the road, dimwit,” Duffy said shortly. “You ought to see that dame. When she gets mad, she foams at the mouth.”
     “Yeah?”
     “She tried to knock me off,” Duffy said. “She's screwy. There can't be any other answer.”
     Sam went past the City Hall slowly, then he swung into Park Row and pushed the pedal down again. “She needn't be nuts to want to knock you off,” he said. “Suppose we stop for a drink?”
     Duffy glanced at the time. It was barely nine o'clock.
     “You'll get a drink when we get there,” he said.
      
     The Plaza Wonderland Club was situated on the second floor, over a hardware store. The entrance was down an alley, lit with neon lighting. They parked the car and walked up the alley and went in. At the top of the stairs tickets were being sold for the taxi-dancers. Duffy bought half a dozen, then they pushed aside the bead curtains and went into the hall.
     There was nothing original about the place. It was dirty and shabby. The dance floor was small, and you had to step down to get on to it. Round the floor, tables were crammed together, and at the far end the girls sat behind a pen. Sam looked across the room at them and thought they were a pretty swell bunch.
     There were very few people at the tables. Just a handful. They all looked up as Duffy squeezed himself past the tables and got on to the floor. They watched him cross the floor, with Sam behind him, and select a table against the wall, opposite the entrance. He sat down and Sam took the other chair.
     The band of three were playing swing music without much enthusiasm. They plugged away, staring with vacant eyes into space.
     “You call this a hot joint?” Duffy said.
     “Maybe the depression's hit 'em,” Sam said.
     Duffy made frantic signs to a waiter, who came over to them with a flat-footed shuffle.
     “Let's have a bottle of rum,” Sam said.
     “Yeah.” Duffy thought that a good idea. “Make it a bottle of rum.”
     The waiter went off. Duffy said, “Take a look at this,” he slid the little note-book across the table.
     Sam picked it up and studied it carefully. After a little while he handed it back. “No,” he said, “that don't mean anything to me. There's plenty of money in that list. I'd say at a guess that little lot's worth a million each. They all belong to the hot set, but that's all I get from it.”
     Duffy put the note-book back in his pocket. “Maybe I'll get a line on it later,” he said.
     The waiter brought the rum and set it down on the table with a crisp bang. Sam said, “This joint's changed.”
     The waiter glanced at him. “Buddy,” he said, “it's early yet.”
     Sam turned to Duffy. “See?” he said; “it's early.”
     “Okay, it's early. Let's grab a couple of girls, and show them how it's done.”
     There was no one dancing on the floor. Sam poured himself out a shot of rum and drank it hurriedly. “Heck!” he said, “I believe I'm nervous.”
     Duffy looked at him. “You're kidding yourself, you want to get stewed.”
     Sam got up from his chair and wandered across the room to the pen. He stood looking at each girl carefully, until they began to giggle at him. He found a blonde that pleased him and he began to rush her round the empty floor. Duffy picked his girl from where he was sitting, then he went over and dated her up. She was a chestnut red, with a pert little nose and a big, humorous smile. She had a plump, hard little belly that he could feel against his vest. He thought she was cute.
     Duffy could dance when he liked, and the rum had made him fairly happy. He swung her round in big smooth circles, and she just seemed to float with him. They didn't say a word through the dance, but when the band cut out, he said, “You're good.”
     She gave him her flashing smile. “You ain't so bad either.” She'd got an accent like a heap of tins being tossed downstairs.
     He said, “Come on over and get tight.”
     Sam was already there with his blonde. Duffy fancied she smelt, and he sat away from her. Sam liked her a lot. He was showing signs of considerable interest.
     Duffy said, “You girls like rum?”
     They both began to protest. They wanted champagne.
     Sam shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “We're God's gift to womanhood; if rum won't keep you, you can both take a walk.”
     Duffy said it was okay with him too.
     So they had rum.
     The place was crowding up. People kept squeezing between tables. One big chestnut, with large curves, tried to pass Sam, but she couldn't quite make it. Sam looked up, gaped and said, “Hi, Bill! It's the covered wagon.”
     Duffy started to sweat. He guessed Sam was getting drunk.
     The chestnut screwed her head round and took a look at Sam, then she laughed. “You're cute,” she said.
     Sam got up and made an elaborate bow. “Sister,” he said, “you've got it all.”
     The chestnut squeezed by, now that Sam stood up. Her escort, a little runt, glared at Sam, who raised two fingers of his right hand.
     Duffy said, “Can't you behave yourself?”
     Sam looked grieved. “She liked it,” he said.
     His blonde was looking across the room, tapping her foot. She was annoyed.
     Duffy said to the girl with the big mouth, “Let's dance.”
     When they got on the floor he said, “Olga ain't here tonight?”
     She looked up at him, a little frown creasing her brow. “Olga?” she said.
     “Sure, Olga Shann. I'd like to meet her again.”
     “She's not here tonight.”
     Duffy said, “Hell, I wanted to talk to that dame.”
     They danced in silence for several minutes, then he said, “Would you like to earn twenty bucks?”
     “It's going to cost you a lot more than that.”
     Duffy said, “We're on a different set of rails. I'm offering you twenty bucks for Olga's address.”
     She looked disappointed. “Gee!” she said with a pout, “I thought we were getting on fine.”
     “I'm out on business. I just gotta talk with her.”
     She went the length of the room before she said, “I'll get it for you.”
     At the end of the dance she left him. Duffy glanced over at Sam, who was making up to his blonde, so he turned into the toilet. He ran the water and washed his hands. The toilet was empty. It was a small room with cracked tiles half-way up the walls. He dried his hands and dropped the towel into the basket. The door pushed open and a tall man came in. The first thing Duffy noticed about him was his hair. It was jet black, with a broad white streak, running from his forehead to his right ear. It gave his hard face a look of distinction. He wore a close-clipped moustache, and his skin was grey.
     Duffy just glanced at him, then made to walk out of the room.
     The man said, “Wait a minute.”
     Duffy paused. “You speaking to me?” he said, surprised.
     The man held out his hand Duffy looked and saw he .. was holding a .25 automatic.
     “You just bought it or something?” Duffy said, suddenly very cautious.
     “You got the note-book on you, hand it over.” The man had a curious voice. It was deep-pitched with a little buzz in it.
     Duffy said, “I did have, but it's in the mail now.”
     Just then the door opened and Sam came in. The man put his gun away. He didn't seem to hurry, but the gun just disappeared.
     Sam said, “There you are.”
     The man looked at Duffy. His pale eyes were very threatening. Then he walked out of the toilet.
     Duffy said, “Who's that guy?”
     Sam shrugged. “Search me,” he said, “my girl might know.”
     Duffy stepped to the door quickly and Sam, a puzzled look on his face, followed him. “Did you see that guy come out just now?” Duffy asked the blonde.
     She said, “Sure I did. That's Murray Gleason. Ain't he cute?”
     Duffy blotted his lace with his handkerchief. “I couldn't say,” he said, “we were a bit shy with each other.”
     Sam put his arms round the blonde. “Ain't this a grand place?” he said. He was pretty drunk.
     Duffy said, “I want to get out of here.”
     A white-headed little guy came through the hall, heading for the toilet. Sam took the blonde over to him. “Take care of this baby,” he said. “Show her round. She's learning in a big way.”
     The blonde wrapped the little guy in her arms and began to cry. The rum had her all ends up. Duffy walked out with Sam. The little guy's face was a picture.
     Outside, Duffy said, “You're just hell to go places with.”
     Sam waved his hands. “I guess I'm a little tight,” he said.
     They walked into the dance-hall again. Sam said suddenly, “Did that blonde smell a little, or is my nose wrong?”
     Duffy said his nose was fine.
     The girl with the big mouth was standing by the entrance looking for them. Duffy went over. “Did you get it?” he asked.
     She nodded and gave him a slip of paper, on it was an address. Duffy gave her twenty bucks. She rolled the notes and tucked them in the top of her stocking. Sam leant forward with interest. “I'm having a swell time,” he said.
     Duffy said to the girl, “I'll be back one of these nights. We'll have a fine time.”
     She looked at him wistfully. “I've heard that before.”
     Sam said, “You're young yet. You'll hear it dozens of times.”
     They went downstairs into the street. Duffy stopped at the end of the alley.
     “Go home, Sam,” he said. “Be careful how you drive.”
     Sam blinked at him. “The fun over so soon?” he asked.