Leon grimaced and squirmed forward on the edge of the seat.
“How much farther have we got to go?”
“Just ahead of you.”
“Okay, stop at the corner.”
The driver drew up and Leon paid him, tipping him liberally.
“Want me to stick around? You’re not likely to get another cab back. This ward doesn’t use many cabs.”
“Well, okay,” Leon said. “I may be a little while. If I don’t show up in half an hour, you’d better blow.”
“I’ll get myself a bite to eat,” the driver said, and climbed out of his cab. “I’ll be right here.”
Eastern Street was no better than a slum. It was flanked on either side by tall tenement buildings, their soot-grimed fronts crawling with rusty iron fire escapes and balconies. Garbage cans stood along the curbs. The street lights were dirty, and threw dim pools of light on the greasy sidewalks. Every few yards men lounged in doorways or against the iron railings, giving the street a somewhat sinister atmosphere.
Toward the end of the street, Leon could see a few shops, their grimy windows still lighted, and he moved briskly toward them.
He passed No. 27, and paused to look up at the shop. The facia bore the legend: Joe Hennessey. General Store. The shop was in darkness, and Leon shook his head as he moved on.
He came upon a walk-up apartment house, and saw it was numbered 23. He paused again. As he did so, a black car slid out of the darkness and slowed down within a few feet of him.
“Hey, you!” a voice called.
Leon turned.
A man was beckoning to him from the car.
“Know where 23A is?” the man asked.
Leon walked toward the car. The man behind the steering wheel was in the shadow, but he leaned forward to look up at Leon and the street light fell directly on his face.
Leon knew at once who he was. The thin white scar running from his right ear to his mouth, the cast in his left eye and the blunt, brutal features were unmistakable. This was the man who had called on Joe Hennessey and had put the screws on him.
Leon was startled, but he seldom allowed himself to be flustered, and he showed no sign that he had recognized the man.
“23A?” he repeated. “Well, I guess it must be at the other end of the street. This is two hundred and twenty-three.”
The man with the scar grunted, engaged gear and drove rapidly down the road. As the car moved away, Leon caught sight of another man, hunched up in the back seat, a slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes.
There could be only one reason why these two men were looking for 23A Eastern Street. English had guessed right. They had silenced Hennessey; now they were going to silence May Mitchell.
Leon wished he had a gun with him. He spun around and ran back to the building and up the steps to the door. By the door was a card rack. Each rack was lettered A. B. C. D. E. and against each letter was the name of the tenant.
A quick glance told him May Mitchell’s apartment was on the top floor. He glanced back down the street. The car had stopped about two hundred yards away, and the man with the scar was standing on the sidewalk, looking toward him.
Leon pushed open the front door of the building and stepped into a dimly lit lobby that smelt like a hen coop. Facing him was an ancient automatic elevator, scarcely large enough to hold three people.
He jerked back the grill door, stepped inside the cage, slammed the grill to and thumbed the button marked “A.” For a second or so nothing happened, then the elevator shuddered as if coming to life, and began a slow, painful crawl upward.
Leon found he was sweating a little. He knew he hadn’t much more than a three-minute start before the man with the scar and his boyfriend would find the building. It would take them perhaps five minutes to walk up to the top floor, and in that time, he had to get the girl into the elevator and downstairs. He hoped that as the two men climbed the stairs they wouldn’t notice the descending elevator. It was going to be a close thing, and if the girl didn’t cooperate, it was going to be just too bad.
The elevator took four minutes to reach the top floor. It came to a creaking standstill as if it were thankful the journey was over.
Leon slid back the grill, and leaving it open, stepped onto a small landing. Facing him was a front door, equipped with a knocker and bell. A light came through the transom above the door.
He dug his thumb into the bell push and kept it there. Somewhere behind the door, he could hear the bell ringing. He waited, breathing quickly, his thumb increasing pressure, his ears cocked for any sound of feet on the stairs. Nothing happened; no one answered the door.
He changed from the bell to the knocker and banged four times as hard as he could, sending a violent wave of sound down the shaft of the staircase.
He began to wonder if the girl had gone out, and had left the light burning.
Leaving the door, he stepped to the banister rail and looked down into the dimly lit well. Far below him, he could see the lobby. It was deserted. Then as he hung over the rail, he heard the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs below—they sounded unpleasantly close.
“Wosamatter?” a voice said behind him.
He jumped around, his nerves twanging like banjo strings.
A girl stood in the open doorway, facing him—a girl with platinum-blond hair that reached to her shoulders. She was wearing a pair of black nylon pyjamas that were as transparent as a sheet of glass. She was around twenty-three or four, and she had big blue eyes, a retroussé nose and high cheekbones. The sight of her slim, young curves made Leon’s hair stand on end.
“Wosamatter?” she repeated, leaning against the doorpost, seemingly unaware of her transparent nakedness. “Is the joint on fire or is it only you, handsome?”
The sound of footsteps were distinct now. The two men were mounting to the fifth floor. There was no time to explain. The thought of taking this girl into the street dressed as she was dismayed Leon, but only for a split second. He had to get her into the elevator and get the elevator moving before the two men came into view. He reckoned he didn’t have much more than five seconds to do it.
“I want you,” he said and grabbed at the girl.
He caught her by the wrist and jerked her forward, but she grabbed hold of the doorway, braced her feet and leaned back.
“Who do you think I am—one of the Sabines?” she said and giggled.
He realized then that she was as drunk as she could ever be, and he was so startled he allowed her to wrench her wrist free.
“Cool down, handsome,” she said. “We’re in the twentieth century now—remember?”
“For the love of Mike, two guys are coming up and they’re after you. Your only chance is to come with me,” Leon blurted out.
“Two more guys? Let them all come! Bring them in and come in yourself. We’ll have a party.”
Leon reached forward to grab her again, but she jumped back.
“If the other two are anything like you I’m going to have a lot of fun,” she said, swaying unsteadily on her feet. “Come on in and stake the first claim.”
Leon stepped to the door, sweat was running down his face.
“Hey, you!”
He had been waiting for that. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man with the scar appear at the head of the stairs. Behind him Leon caught a glimpse of the other man, shorter and fatter.
Leon stepped into the apartment, slammed the door and turned the key. He shot the bolts at the foot and head of the door.
“You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re going to have me all to yourself,” the girl said. “You may not think it to look at me, but I’m not that sort of a girl. Open up, and let those two guys in.”
“Now, listen to me…” Leon began.
“Well, if you’re not going to let them in, then I will!” the girl declared and staggered over to the door.
“Don’t be a fool!” Leon said, shoving her back. “Those two…”
“Who
are you calling a fool?” the girl said shrilly. “Get out of my way!”
“Will you listen to me…?”
She swerved around him and pulled back the top bolt before he could grab her.
There came a loud knocking on the door.
“Don’t start pawing me!” the girl exclaimed, pulling away from Leon.
“Those two guys are going to murder you, you little fool!” Leon snarled, and blocked her rush to the door again. He took her by the shoulders and shook her. “They’re the fellas…” He broke off with a grunt of anguish as she slapped him across the eyes. For a second or so he was blinded. She had pulled the bottom bolt back and her hand was on the key when he dragged her away and threw her into an armchair. He jumped to the door and slammed back the bolts again as a shoulder was driven against the door.
The door bulged under the impact, but held. Leon didn’t think it would withstand much more of that treatment.
The girl scrambled out of the chair and threw herself at him, pounding his chest and face with clenched fists. For a moment he had all he could do to control her flying fists. Finally, he caught her wrists and, holding them against his chest, he shouted to her to stop fighting.
“Will you listen to me, goddamn it! Those are the guys you’re paying blackmail to!”
She seemed too drunk to understand what he was saying, and pushing forward, she butted him under his chin and kicked his shin.
Swearing under his breath, he swept her off her feet and rushed her into the far room.
It was a small room with a narrow bed standing under the window. There was a heavy wardrobe along one side of the wall, and a dressing table along the opposite wall.
He tossed her on the bed, turned, shut the door, twisting the key and taking it out of the lock.
The girl bounced off the bed and came at him again, her eyes furious and face white.
He caught hold of her, smothered her flying arms, carried her back to the bed and slammed her down so hard she would have bounced onto the floor if he hadn’t held her.
She lay gasping for breath, too stunned for the moment to move, and he took the opportunity to run over to the wardrobe and he began to manoeuvre it to the door. It was a solid piece of furniture, and it was as much as he could do to move it.
He struggled with it, panting, moving it inch by inch.
“Don’t you dare touch my things!” the girl wailed from the bed. “Stop it, do you hear?”
Leon ignored her. He got his shoulder against the wardrobe and heaved it across the door. As he was shifting the far end into position, he heard a sharp splintering of wood in the next room. The front door had been forced open.
Well, they wouldn’t force this door open so quickly, he thought.
He opened the wardrobe, snatched out a fur coat and threw it at the girl.
“Put that on, and snap it up!”
“You get out of here!” she stormed and threw the coat on the floor.
He went over to her and jerked her to her feet.
“Put it on!”
She swung at him, her fingers like claws, but he caught her wrist, spun her around and slammed her face down on the bed. He drove his knees in her back to hold her, caught up the coat and tried to get her arms into the sleeves, but she struggled so violently he had to give up.
He was angry now. Every second counted, and he knew those two would get into the room before long.
He released her and stood back, setting himself.
She bounced off the bed, her eyes blazing, and came at him with flying fists.
He swept aside her arms and hit her solidly, turning his wrist as his fist cracked against her jaw.
Her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled and she collapsed into his arms.
He swung her onto the bed and bundled her into the fur coat, then leaving her, he jumped to the window and threw it up.
He gave a gasp of relief when he saw the fire escape platform a few feet below him.
“He’s going out by the window!” he heard the man with the scar growl. “I’m going down. You get this door open.”
Leon didn’t hesitate. The man with the scar had the elevator, but it travelled at a crawl. He would then have to come around to the back of the building. It would be a close race, but it would be better than being trapped in this room.
He caught up the unconscious girl and bundled her out of the window onto the platform. He scrambled out himself as the door creaked ominously.
He paused to look down into the dark alley, trying to see where it led to, but he could see only the dim outline of a high wall fading into darkness. He looked up, but the roof was well out of his reach. He had to go down.
He swung the girl over his shoulder and started down the iron stairs. Holding on to the rusty rail, he went down as fast as his legs could take him. The girl was no light weight, and by the time he reached the third-floor platform he was gasping for breath, but he kept on, nearly falling, grabbing at the rail, slithering down the steps, intent only on reaching the alley before the man with the scar showed up.
He reached the last platform, his breath rasping at the back of his throat and his knees buckling. But he kept on, feeling the end of the escape swing down as he put his weight on it.
He reached the alley and leaned against the wall for a second or so while he struggled to get his breath back. He looked to the right and left. The alley went away into the darkness like a tunnel, and he could see no lights at either end.
He started off to the right, half running, half staggering. He hadn’t gone more than a few yards when a sound behind him made him swing around.
Some distance from him a door had opened and a shaft of light fell into the alley. He could see the broad, tall figure of the man with the scar move swiftly and silently through the open doorway into the alley.
Leon began to move forward slowly, making no sound, and holding his breath.
The man with the scar stood listening, looking from right to left, trying to make up his mind which way Leon had gone.
Moving now at a crawl, Leon edged on into the darkness, ready to break into a run if the man with the scar headed his way.
Suddenly and without warning he collided with a wall. He stumbled, recovered his balance and groped feverishly. His hands slid over the face of a brick wall. The alley was a cul-de-sac. He had come the wrong way, and had walked into a trap!
He leaned against the wall, looking down the long length of the dark alley to the patch of light that came through the open doorway.
He saw the man with the scar look in his direction, then start toward him. As he passed out of the patch of light, Leon saw he had a gun in his hand.
II
The sound of traffic and the haze of light in the sky told Leon he wasn’t all that far from a main street. He reckoned that if he had turned left instead of right he would have come out at the bottom end of Eastern Street.
But now the man with the scar, plus a gun, blocked his exit. He slid the unconscious girl off his shoulder and gently let her down to the ground. He propped her up against the wall.
He could see the man with the scar outlined against the patch of light that lit up the alley and wall opposite the open door.
Leon knew he couldn’t be seen, and the man with the scar was only guessing that this was the way he had come, nor could he know that the alley ended in a cul-de-sac.
Moving silently, Leon crept forward, bent double to meet the man with the scar as he came down the alley. The man moved slowly, not quite sure where he was heading, his ears pricked for any sound that would tell him he was moving in the right direction.
When Leon got about twenty yards from where he had left the girl, he stopped and went down on hands and knees, pressing himself against the wall.
The man with the scar was about fifteen yards from him, moving forward, his gun thrust out, his left hand touching the wall opposite to the one by which Leon was crouching.
As he came nearer, Leon held his breath, ducki
ng his chin down to hide his white collar.
The man with the scar was within a few feet of him now, Leon could hear him breathing softly, and smelt a faint and sickly perfume of hair oil. The looming shadow passed within a foot of him, not seeing him, moving forward with the same slow, steady pace, and Leon had to admire the nerve of the man to walk into such pitch blackness not knowing if a trap was being laid for him.
Leon twisted round on his heels, half stood up, braced himself and threw himself on the broad back as it moved away from him.
The man with the scar gave a startled grunt, stumbled forward and dropped his gun. Leon got his arm round the man’s throat. He caught his own wrist with his right hand, pulling it back into the man’s throat with all his strength.
The man with the scar arched his back and lifted Leon off his feet. Leon gritted his teeth and tightened his grip. He hung on, knowing that if he could retain his grip for a minute or so, his opponent must black out.
The opposition was alarming. It was like trying to hold a wild cat. The man with the scar slammed Leon against the wall, kicked back, bent, straightened and slammed Leon against the wall again.
Leon felt as if his ribs were being crushed, and his breath was driven out of his body, but he hung on, frantically retaining his grip, and making a desperate effort to tighten it.
The man with the scar reached back and groped for Leon’s head. His fingers brushed Leon’s eyes, but before he could screw his thumbs into Leon’s eyeballs, Leon, realizing the danger, had buried his face into the other’s shoulder. Fingers closed around his ears and twisted them, sending white-hot pain tearing into Leon’s skull. He heaved forward, driving the man with the scar onto his knees, forcing him to let go of Leon’s ears to save his own face from hitting concrete.
Leon rammed his knee into the man’s back, and with the extra leverage pulled savagely back onto his arm. For a moment the man with the scar heaved convulsively, but Leon had the grip he wanted now, and he kept increasing the pressure. Then suddenly the man with the scar went limp and flattened out on the ground. Leon retained his pressure for another two or three seconds, then he cautiously eased his grip, straightened and stepped back.
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