He Won't Need it Now (8 page)

     Duffy nodded. “I said you were just window-dressing,” he said briefly. “I gave you a break. Now go home and look after that wife of yours.”
     Sam scratched his head. “She's probably feeling a little lonesome right now.”
     “Get going.”
     “Ain't you coming?”
     “I'm calling on this Shann broad.”
     Sam leered. “Three being a mob?”
     Duffy nodded. “You got it, soldier,” he said. He watched Sam go over to the parking-place, and then went to the subway on Frankfort Street. Olga Shann had rooms in Brooklyn. He'd never heard of the address, so when he'd got over Brooklyn Bridge he left the subway and flagged a taxi.
     He got to the address just after eleven o'clock. He hesitated to ask the taxi to wait. Then making up his mind, he paid him off.
     The house was a two-storey villa, with identical models either side, stretching right down the street.
     He unlatched the gate and walked up the short gravel path. There was a light showing from one of the second-floor windows. He pressed the buzzer with his thumb, and leant against the wall. He hadn't the vaguest idea what he was going to say.
     About three minutes ticked off, then a light sprang up in the hall. He could hear the chain being slipped and then the front door opened. A woman stood there, holding the door only partly open. He couldn't make out her features, she was standing squarely with her back to the light.
     “Miss Shann?” he said, taking off his hat.
     “Suppose it is,” she said. Her voice had a Garbo tone.
     He thought it was a hell of a welcome, but he let it slide. “It's late for a call,” he said, trying to put his personality across, “but you'll excuse me, I hope?”
     “What is it?”
     “I'm Duffy of the
Tribune.”
He took out his Press pass and flashed it, then he put it back again. “I wanted a word with you about Cattley.”
     He saw her stiffen, then she said, “Let me see that Press card.”
     He dug it out again and handed it over. She pushed the door to and examined the card in the light. Then she opened the door wide, and said, “You'd better come in.”
     He followed her into a small sitting-room. It was modern, but the stuff was cheap. He looked at her with interest. The first thing he noticed about her was her eyebrows. They gave her face an expression of permanent surprise. She was lovely in a hard way. Big eyes with long lashes, a scarlet, full mouth; the top lip was almost bee-stung. Her thick chestnut hair was silky and cared for. Duffy liked her quite a lot.
     She was wearing a nigger-brown silk dress, tight across her firm breasts and her flat hips.
     “Why Cattley?” she said.
     He put his hat down on the table. “This is most unprofessional, but I'm dying for a drink.”
     She shook her head. “Nothing doing.” She was very emphatic. “Say your piece and get going.”
     “My, my,” he said, “you babes get tougher every day.”
     She moved impatiently.
     “Okay,” Duffy said hastily. “I'm looking for Cattley.”
     “Why should I know where he is?”
     “Why, you're his girl friend, ain't you?”
     She shook her head. “I haven't seen him for months.”
     “He thought enough of you to have your name and address in his pocket-book.”
     She shrugged. “Lots of men have girls' names in their pocket-books. It doesn't amount to anything.”
     Duffy thought she was quite right. “Well, well,” he said, “I guess I've come out of my way.”
     She went to the door and opened it. “I won't keep you,” she said.
     Outside, Duffy heard a car drive up. “You got visitors.”
     He saw a startled look come into her eyes, but she said, “Then you'd better go.”
     The buzzer rang loudly. She started a little.
     Duffy said, “Can I go out the back way? I'm feeling I might run into trouble.”
     She stood hesitating, then she said, “Wait here.” Her voice implored him. The buzzer went again, long and insistently.
     Duffy said, “You want me to stay?”
     “Yes—I don't know who it is.”
     She went out of the room, leaving the door open. Duffy glanced round, saw another door and went over and opened it. He found himself in a small kitchen. He pushed the door to, and stood looking into the sitting-room, through the small opening.
     He heard her at the front door; then he heard her say, “Why, hello, Max.”
     “You alone?” the hoarse Voice that spoke made Duffy stiffen. It was familiar. First, he thought it was Joe, but then he knew it wasn't quite like Joe's voice. He'd heard it before.
     She said, “Yes... what is it?”
     Duffy heard footsteps in the hall and he heard the front door close. “What do you want?” her voice was nervy and breathless.
     A broad-shouldered man, wearing a black slouched hat, walked into the sitting-room. Duffy had him at once.
It was the man who had stolen the camera.
     Duffy clenched his fists. Just the bird he was looking for.
     Olga came in and stood by the table. Her face was white and a muscle in her throat fluttered.
     “But, Max...”
     The man glanced round the room suspiciously, then looked at her. His hard eyes raked her from head to foot. “I ain't seen you for a long time,” he said. “You're looking swell.” There was no animation in his voice. He sounded as if he were reciting.
     She tried to smile, but her lips were frozen. She managed to say, “That's nice of you.”
     He sat himself on the edge of the table and looked at his hands. “You know Cattley's been knocked off?” he said.
     She put her hand to her throat. “No... no, I didn't know that,” she said.
     Max raised his head a little and stared at the kitchen door. Duffy stiffened. Then Max said, “You were sweet on that guy at one time, huh?”
     She shook her head. “He meant nothing to me.”
     “So?”
     “We went around together, but that's all.”
     “You went around together?” He pushed his hat over his eyes. He wouldn't look at her.
     “That's right... but why... why are you asking me?”
     “Just curious.” With the flat of his hand he rubbed the short hairs on his nape. “Did he ever tell you things?”
     Duffy could see what a panic she was in. “He didn't tell me anything... he didn't tell me anything....”
     Max got off the table and went over to the mantelpiece. He examined the photos and fingered the small ivory elephants there. He seemed utterly bored. Then he shrugged. “I thought maybe he had talked to you,” he said indifferently. He put his hand in the inside of his coat and took out a short silk cord. It was dark red in colour. He dangled it in his fingers.
     Olga watched him like a rabbit would watch a snake.
     He said, “This is a pretty thing, ain't it?”
     She said, “What is it?”
     “This? Hell, I don't know. I found it.” He continued to swing it in his hand.
     She said, “Did you?”
     “I guess I'll scram.” He wandered to the door.
     “But... but don't you want—-?”
     “I'll scram,” he said, pausing at the door. “I thought maybe you'd be interested to hear Cattley's washed up. I see you ain't.”
     Her relief was obvious. “Of course, I'm sorry,” she said, “but I haven't seen him for so long....”
     “That's all right,” he said. “I liked seeing you.” The flat tone of his voice made the whole thing sound like a badly acted play. He stood on one side at the door and she went ahead to open the front door. When she passed him, he tossed the silk cord over her head with the rapidity of a snake striking, and twisted it round her neck. His knee came up in the small of her back and he threw all his weight on to the cord.
     Duffy slipped out of the kitchen like a shadow, and hit Max on his ear with a roundhouse swing. Max, being only on one leg, went over like a felled tree. Olga went on her hands and knees, making a sort of honking sound in her throat.
     Max rolled over twice until the wall brought him up, then he dizzily clawed inside his coat for a gun. Duffy whipped up a hall chair and smashed it down on Max. The wall took most of the force, and the back of the chair snapped. Max kicked out at Duffy with a long leg, and his boot caught Duffy on the shin. Duffy dropped on one knee, his face twisted, and then Max hit him on the side of the head. The blow had no weight behind it, as Max was lying on his shoulder, but it upset Duffy's balance and he went over.
     Max again went for his gun and this time he got it out, but Duffy lashed out with his foot and caught Max under the chin. The gun went off with a violent noise. The bullet hit the ceiling, bringing a shower of plaster down on the floor. Max dropped the gun and flopped on his face.
     Swearing wildly, Duffy grabbed hold of the gun and scrambled to his feet. He backed away from Max, but the big tough seemed right out. Cautiously, Duffy went over to Olga, who was going blue in the face. He jerked the silk cord loose and helped her to her feet. Her breath still rattled in her throat. He pushed her into the sitting-room.
     “Okay, baby,” he said, “you're all right now.”
     He dropped her into an arm-chair. The slamming of the front door brought him out of the sitting-room with an oath. Max had vanished. Outside, he heard a car start up, and by the time he had got to the front door he just caught a glimpse of a tail light vanishing round the bend of the road. He banged the front door to, and went back into the sitting-room. Olga was sitting up feeling her throat. She was crying a little.
     “You got any liquor here?” he said.
     She pointed to the kitchen. “It's in the pantry,” she said hoarsely.
     Duffy found a big earthenware bottle of apple-jack after a hunt round. He found two glasses and came back into the sitting-room. He tilled both glasses and gave her one. “Put it down,” he said. “You need it.”
     He drained his glass. The apple-jack went down his throat and then when it reached his stomach it exploded. He had to hold on to the table while his head was spinning, and he caught his breath. Just for a moment, he thought he was going to die, then all of a sudden he felt fine.
     He looked at the bottle in amazement. “That's panther's spit okay,” he said.
     He filled up his glass again, but this time he was more cautious. He did it in three. He looked at her with a little squint. “Sister,” he said, “you're coming home with me. This spot ain't going to be healthy any more.”
     The apple-jack was bringing her round. He could see the faint colour coming back to her face. Again she touched her bruised neck. “I can't do that,” she said.
     Duffy went over to her. “Pack a bag and get going,” he said; “you gotta make it fast. That bird might come back again.”
     Her eyes widened with fear and she got up quickly. He had to help her to the door, her legs were weak. Then, when he saw she could make it, he left her to go upstairs. He went back and gave himself another drink.
     By the time she had come down again, he was half cocked. He waved the bottle at her. “This is the best drop of phlegm-cutter I've run into for some time.”
     She stood hesitating on the bottom stair. “Will you get me a taxi?” she said. “I'll go to some hotel.”
     Duffy went over and took her bag. “You're coming home with me,” he said. “For the love of Mike, don't argue.”
     He went out in the road and looked up and down, but he couldn't see a taxi. “We can walk to the end of the road,” he said; “we'll get a lift there.”
     She turned out the lights and slammed the door. They walked down the street together. Duffy felt his feet were pressing into cotton wool. She said nothing until they reached the end of the road, then she said in a small voice, “Thank you.”
     Duffy flagged a cab. He helped her in and gave the driver McGuire's address. Then he got in and sat beside her. He still had the apple-jack in one hand and her suit-case in the other.
     “Don't you worry about that, sister. I was so scared I didn't think about you.” He uncorked the bottle, and took another long swig. Then he looked at her suspiciously and said, “This stuff won't give me Screaming-meemies, will it?”
     She turned her face away from him and began to cry.
     Duffy fell asleep.
      
      
     

     
     WHEN SAM OPENED the door and saw them, his eyes popped.
     Duffy came into the room, pushing past Sam. Olga hesitated, then followed Duffy. Sam shut the door and stood there scratching his head. He was in green pyjamas and a yellow bathrobe.
     Duffy said, “Don't mind him. He ain't so sissy as he looks.”
     Olga gave Sam a scared glance, but said nothing.
     Sam said, “Introduce me, you drunken rat.”
     “Miss Shann, this is Sam McGuire.”
     She still said nothing.
     Alice came out of the bedroom, her dressing-gown wrapped tightly round her. Duffy went over to her. “This is Olga Shann,” he said. “She's in a spot of trouble, so I brought her along.”
     “Why, of course.” Alice put her hand on Olga's arm. “Bill can sleep on the couch, you can have his room.”
     Olga said, “But don't you—?”
     Duffy put the apple-jack on the table. “Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “A nice sleep is what you want, but I've got just a little question to ask you before you go.”
     She turned to face him.
     “Who was that guy that tried to get tough with you?”
     “Max Weidmer. He and Cattley used to work together.”
     Duffy nodded. “Okay; put her to bed, Alice, and be nice to her.”
     As Alice led her from the room, Olga said, “But his face? How did he get so knocked about?”
     Sam jerked his head. “She was talking about you.”
     “Know where this Weidmer hangs out?”
     Sam frowned. “Now what?” he asked.
     “Come on.” Duffy's face was set.
     Sam went to the telephone and spun the dial. While he 'phoned Duffy went into the bathroom and washed his face and hands. Sam came in a moment later. “He's got a room at the Lexingham Hotel.”
     Duffy said, “Thanks,” then he walked into the sitting-room again.
     Sam came in looking lost. “What's breaking now?”
     Duffy said, “Lend me your rod.”
     “Hey! You ain't going to mess around with a heater, for God's sake.”
     “Don't talk; I'm getting action. Come on, give me the gun. I want to get going.”
     Sam sighed and began taking off his dressing-gown. “Okay,” he said, “but I'm coming with you.”
     Duffy touched his arm. “You ain't,” he said. “Things might happen round this burg. You gotta stay and keep an eye on things.”
     Sam screwed up his eyes. “What
is
this?” he demanded.
     “Weidmer tried to twist that dame's neck. He thinks she knows too much. I fancy he might try and get at her here. That's why you stay put.”
     Sam's eyes grew big. “You want to take my gun?” he said. “What about me?”
     “Get going,” Duffy said impatiently, “give me the gun before Alice starts on me. If you drink enough of that panther's breath, you won't need any gun.”
     Sam went over to the hall table and came back with a .38 automatic. Duffy took it, looked at the magazine, then stuck it down the waist-band of his trousers. He adjusted the points of his vest to hide the butt.
     “I may be late,” he said.
     Alice came out just as he stepped into the hall. She just caught a glimpse of him. “Where's that crazy coon going now?” she asked.
     Sam put down the apple-jack hastily. “He's going to get another dame,” he said wildly. “He's going to fill the whole goddam house with 'em.”
     Alice took his arm. “You come along,” she said. “What you need is a good night's sleep.”
     She didn't see the worried look in his eyes, as he followed her into the bedroom.
     Outside in the street, Duffy flagged a taxi. He gave the driver instructions and then got in the cab. He thought he was spending his life in taxis.
     The drive was a long one, and it was just after twelve o'clock when the driver pulled up outside a shabby building.
     Duffy paid him off and walked up the steps. The place looked more like a boarding-house than a hotel. He saw a row of letter-boxes and he examined them carefully. Weidmer's name was on the fourth one. Duffy rang the bell at the top of the row, furthest away from Weidmer's. A moment later he heard the catch being pulled on the front door and he walked in. The hall was lighted by a small gas-burner, and he had just enough light to grope his way upstairs.
     On the second floor, he found Weidmer's rooms. He put his hand on the butt of the gun, and then turned the handle. He was surprised to feel the door give. He looked carefully over his shoulder to right and left,, then drawing the gun, he stepped quietly into the dark room. He stood in the darkness, listening. There was no sound, except the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. He just stood, holding his breath, listening. Then, when he was satisfied that the room was empty, he struck a match and lit the gas-burner.
     It was a large room, full of shabby furniture. Across the far end stood a bed. Duffy jerked up his gun. There was someone lying face downward across the sheets; it was Weidmer. Duffy moved across the room, his gun steady. But Weidmer was dead. Duffy guessed that before he touched him. He turned him over, and then caught his breath; a big, gaping wound showed in Weidmer's throat. Someone had certainly made a job of it, Duffy thought. He released Weidmer, and let him slump back on the bed.
     For several minutes, he stood there thinking furiously. Then he began a systematic search of the room. He guessed it would be useless, but he made his search just the same. He couldn't find the camera anywhere. He found one thing that made him blink his eyes. At the bottom of a drawer, he dug out a large glossy photograph. At first glance he thought it was some movie star, then he recognized Annabel English.
     “Well, by God,” he said.
     Across the photo, scrawled in large sprawling writing, was: “To dear Max, from Annabel.”
     Duffy folded the photo and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he slipped the gun once more down the front of his trousers, and quietly let himself out of the room.
     Once more out in the street, he again flagged a taxi and gave Annabel's address. Lying back against the hard seat of the cab, his eyes closed a little wearily, but his mouth was hard and set. He was going to bust the business right on the chin, he told himself.
     With the key Morgan had given him, he entered the door leading to the organ loft, and quietly walked up the spiral staircase. When he reached the loft, he found the sitting-room was brightly lit, although no one was visible. He swung his leg over the balcony and lowered himself quietly to the floor.
     From across the room he could hear the sound of running water. He thought maybe she was taking a bath. Quietly he began to circulate round the room, opening and shutting drawers. When he came to the wine cupboard he had to kneel down to examine inside. At the back of the cupboard, behind a row of sherry bottles, he found his camera. He took it out and examined it carefully. The first thing he noticed was that the film had been removed. He put the camera in his pocket and shut the cupboard doors carefully.
     The bath water had ceased to run, and there was a heavy silence in the apartment. Walking across to the door, he put his hand on the knob and gently turned it, then he walked in.
     Annabel was lying in the bath, her eyes closed, smoking a cigarette. Duffy thought she looked swell. He shut the door very gently, and put his back against the panels.
     She opened her eyes and looked at him. The only surprise she showed was the way the cigarette slipped out of her mouth. It fell into the water with an angry hiss, then floated down the bath until it rested on her knee. It lay on her knee, looking like some peculiar birthmark. Duffy eyed it with interest.
     She shifted one of her feet, causing the water to ripple. “This calls for a foam bath, don't it?” Duffy said. He went over and sat on the bath stool, that was quite close to the bath. From there he could see the small bruise where he had hit her.
     “Get out of here,” she whispered.
     He said, “We're going to have a little talk.” He took from his pocket the camera and showed it to her. Then he produced the photo and showed that to her as well. She lay quite still, her eyes black with hate.
     “I know who killed Cattley now,” he said. “Whoever had the camera rubbed Cattley, I knew that. I had only to find the camera to burst this open. You played your hand very badly, didn't you?”
     She said, “Get out of here, you sonofabitch.”
     Duffy's mouth set in a hard grin. “When I do,” he said, “the cops are moving in.”
     She sat up suddenly in the bath, slopping the water, over the edge with her violence. “You can't pin this on me,” she said; her breathless voice was shrill. “Find Cattley and see.”
     Duffy raised his eyebrows. “So you shifted him, have you?” he said.
     He watched her hand moving slowly over to a transparent bottle, standing on a shelf just above her. He saw it contained ammonia. He took the gun from his waist and showed it to her. “I'd like to give you another navel,” he said softly. “Make a move like that and you'll be able to play the penny whistle on yourself.”
     Her hand dropped into the water again. He stood up. “Come out of that,” he said. “There's lots we got to talk about.”
     She climbed out of the bath and grabbed a bath-robe, which she hastily wrapped round herself. Her eyes were like pinpoints Duffy said, “I'll give you five minutes to fix yourself up, then come out quietly. Don't start anything I'm leaving the door open.”
     He stepped out of the bathroom backwards. A new voice said, “Drop that gun.”
     Duffy stood quite still. The voice said, “Go on, put the gun on the floor Don't turn round vet until you've got rid of the gun.”
     Duffy put the gun down carefully on the floor at his feet and turned his head. Murray Gleason was standing quite close to him. His hard grey face was cold. He held a Luger in his hand.
     Annabel said, “He knows too much.”
     Gleason nodded. “So it seems,” then he said, “hurry up and come out. I want you to help me with this bird.”
     Duffy stood there, his hands half raised, cursing himself for being so careless. The little note-book burnt in his pocket. It looked as if he were getting into a mighty tight jam.
     Gleason said, “Come away from that gun.”
     Duffy turned slowly. “You don't mind if I sit down?” he said, moving over to an arm-chair. “Something tells me that I'm going to need a little rest.”
     Gleason watched him. “Don't pull anything,” he said.
     Duffy took a cigarette from the box on the table and thumbed the table lighter. He sat down, keeping his hands on the chair arms. He thought Gleason was a trifle jumpy. There was a little twitch going on at the corner of his mouth.
     “You've pointed a gun at me before,” he said.
     “That was unfortunate. We were interrupted.” Gleason sat on the corner of the table, swinging a long thin foot.
     Annabel came out of the bathroom. She stood near Gleason. Her face was very hard, and her eyes were frightened.
     Duffy looked at her, then he said, “What now?”
     Gleason said, “I want that note-book.”
     Duffy nodded. “Sure, I can understand that. I told you before, it's in the mail.”
     Annabel said breathlessly, “He's lying.”
     Duffy shrugged. “You think so? Ask yourself, what would you do? I guessed it was important, so I put it in an envelope and posted it to an address in Canada. When I want it, I just write for it.”
     Gleason's eyes narrowed. “Maybe we could persuade you to write for it.”
     Duffy mashed the cigarette into the tray. “Meaning what?”
     “We've got ways....”
     “Be your age. You can't scare me. Do you think anything you can do to me would pry me loose from something I want? If you want to have that book, talk terms.”
     Gleason let the barrel of the Luger fall a shade. It pointed at Duffy's waistcoat.
     “How much?” he said.
     Annabel said. “You mad?”
     Gleason frowned at her. “Let me handle this.”
     Duffy studied his finger-nails. “What's it worth to you?” he said at last.
     Gleason showed his teeth in a little grin. “I'd pay five hundred dollars for it,” he said casually.
     Duffy got to his feet slowly. “Okay,” he said, “if that's all you rate it, why bother?”
     Gleason jerked up the gun. “Sit down,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh.
     Duffy just looked at him. “Wake up, louse,” he said evenly. “You've got nothing on me. That heater don't mean anything now.”
     Annabel said with a little hiss, “Shoot him low down.”
     Duffy glanced at her. “Hell,” he said. “At one time I got a kick out of looking at you, you murderous little bitch.”
     Gleason got to his feet and stood hesitating. His face was almost bewildered. Duffy said to him, “I'm on my way. When you want that note-book back, give me a ring. I'm in the book.”
     Gleason said, “Wait.”
     Duffy shook his head. He wandered to the door. “You won't get anywhere by letting the gun off. You'll never find the book without me being around.”
     Gleason's arm dropped to his side. “Well, five grand,” he said with an effort.
     Duffy shook his head, he opened the door. “Don't rush it,” he said, “take your time. Think about it. I'll wait.” He pulled the door behind him and walked to the elevator. He suddenly felt very tired and his brain refused to think. He slid the grille and stepped into the elevator and pressed the ground-floor button.
     Outside, he beckoned to a yellow cab, and in a short time he was again climbing the stairs to McGuire's apartment. He opened the door with his key and went in. The clock on the mantelpiece stood at 1.45. He tossed his hat on the sofa and wandered over to the apple-jack, that was still standing on the table. The bottle was light; it was nearly empty. He made a little face. Then he drained the bottle and put it down on the table again. He held his breath for a moment, then gently puffed out his cheeks. The stuff was good.
     He stood perfectly still and listened. The apartment was very silent, except for a faint rumbling of Sam's snores. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the fireplace, then remembering Alice, he went over and picked it up, putting it carefully in the ash-tray.
     With legs that felt rubbery with fatigue, he walked to the spare room and gently opened the door. The room was in darkness. He could hear Olga breathing softly.
     He felt his way cautiously to the bed and flipped on the small reading-lamp, then he sat down on the bed gently.
     Olga started up, her fists clenched and her lips formed into an “O”. Duffy put his hand gently on her mouth. “Okay,” he said softly. “Take it easy.”