"What kind of a guy is Sherrill? "I asked.
"One of those smooth Alecs," Hughson said. "Handsome, slick, tough and bright. The kind of heel women fall for. Curly hair, blue eyes, big muscles, and dresses like a movie star. My idea of a genuine, top-drawer, son-of-a-bitch."
"Any idea why Janet Crosby broke the engagement?"
"That girl had sense. I don't know what happened, but it's my guess she saw the red light. All he was after was her money, and I guess she realized that before it was too late. Any girl who marries a runt like Sherrill is heading for trouble."
Olaf, who was getting bored with this conversation, said, "Do you fellas think the Dixie Kid would make a show against O'Hara? I gotta chance to match him, but I'm not sure it would be much of a fight."
For the next fifteen minutes we argued back and forth about the Dixie Kid's merits, then looking at the clock above the bar I saw it was time I got moving.
"I'll have to leave you guys," I said, and slid off the stool. "I'll be around at the gym one of these days. See you then."
Olaf said he would be glad to see me any time, and would I give his best respects to Paula. Hughson said to tell Paula he dreamed of her most nights. I left them buying more whisky.
As I crossed the room to the exit I spotted the Wop with the dirty shirt cuffs sitting at a table near the door, still engrossed in his newspaper, and as I pushed open the double swing doors, he casually folded the paper, shoved it into his pocket and got to his feet.
I walked swiftly to where I had parked the Buick, got in, started the engine and drove down the dark alley. From somewhere in the rear another car engine roared into life and a set of parking lights swam into my driving-mirror.
I drove along Princess Street, keeping my eye on the driving-mirror. The car following me was a Lincoln. The blue, anti-dazzle windshield prevented me from seeing the driver, but I guessed who it was.
At the bottom of Princess Street I turned right into Felman Street. The traffic was thinning out, and I drove fast, but the Lincoln had no trouble in sitting on my tail. Ahead of me I could see the red neon sign of the cafe where J had arranged to meet John Stevens. Just before I reached the cafe I pulled sharply into the kerb and braked hard. The Lincoln was following me too closely to do anything but drive straight on. It went past, slowing down.
I nipped out of the Buick and dodged into a dark shop doorway. The Lincoln had pulled into the kerb fifty yards ahead. The Wop got out and looked down the street without attempting to conceal his actions. He was quick enough to spot I had left the Buick, and he walked towards my parked car, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.
I stepped back into the shadows and watched him glance into the empty car, look right and left, and then walk on. He didn't seem disconcerted when he couldn't see me, but continued on down the street just like any Spick out for an airing.
I watched him out of sight, then crossed the street by way of the subway and nipped into the cafe.
The wall clock facing me as I entered showed five minutes to nine o'clock. There were only about half a dozen people at the tables: a blonde Bobby-soxer and her boy, two elderly men playing chess, two women with shopping-bags, and a girl with a thin, pinched face at a corner table, drinking milk.
I picked a table away from the door and sat down, opened the Evening Herald and spread it on the table. Then I lit a cigarette and wondered about the Wop. Was he another of Salzer's playmates or was he a new angle in this business? He was tailing me all right, and making a very bad job of it. Either that or he didn't care if I knew he was after me. I had taken a note of his car licence number. Another little job for Mifflin, I thought, and that reminded me. I turned to the sports pages and checked the races. Crab Apple had won her race. Well, that was all right. Mifflin wouldn't mind checking the car number now he had made a little money.
On the stroke of nine the double glass doors pushed open and a tall old man came in. I knew he was Stevens the moment I saw him. He looked like an Archbishop on vacation. He came towards me with that stately walk butlers have when they come in to announce dinner is served. The expression on his face was slightly forbidding, and there was a cautious, distant look in his eyes.
I stood up.
"Mr. Stevens?"
He nodded.
"I'm Malloy. Sit down, will you? Have a coffee?" He put his bowler hat on one of the chairs and sat down. Yes, he would have a coffee.
To save time I went to the counter, ordered two coffees and carried them over. The Bobbysoxer was staring at Stevens and giggling with the bad manners of the very young. She said something to her boy, a fresh-faced youth in a striped jersey and a college cap at the back of his head. He looked over at Stevens and grinned. Maybe they thought it was funny for an Archbishop to come to a Help-Yourself Cafe or maybe the bowler hat amused them. I put the two cups on the table.
"Nice of you to come, Mr. Stevens," I said, and offered him a cigarette. While he was lighting it I studied him. He was all right. The faithful family retainer who could keep his mouth shut. He could be trusted, but the trouble would be to get him to talk. "What I have to say is in strict confidence," I went on, sitting down. "I've been hired to investigate Miss Janet Crosby's death. A certain party isn't entirely satisfied she died of heart failure."
He stiffened and sat bolt upright.
"Who is the certain party?" he asked. "Surely it is a little late for an investigation?"
"I'd rather not say at the moment," I told him. "I agree it is late, but only within the past few days have certain facts come to light that make an investigation necessary. Do you think Janet Crosby died of heart failure?"
He hesitated.
"It's not my business," he said reluctantly. "Since you ask me, I admit it was a great shock to me. She seemed such an active young person. But Dr. Salzer assured me that in her case a sudden stoppage of an artery would cause heart failure without previous symptoms. All the same I found it hard to believe."
"I wonder if you have any idea why Miss Crosby broke off her engagement with Douglas Sherrill?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't tell you that without knowing who is making this investigation," he said primly. "I have heard of your organization and I believe it is well spoken of, but I am not prepared to gossip about my late employer unless I know who I am dealing with."
That was as far as we ever got.
There was a sudden frozen stillness in the cafe that made me look up sharply.
The double glass doors swung open, and four men walked in. Two of them carried Thompson sub-machine-guns, the other two had Colt automatics in their hands. Four darkskinned Wops: one of them was my pal with the dirty shirt cuffs. The two with the Thompsons fanned out and stood either side of the room where they had a clear field of fire. The Wop with the dirty cuffs and a little dago with red-rimmed eyes marched across the room towards my table.
Stevens gave a kind of strangled grunt and started to his feet, but I grabbed him and shoved him back on his chair.
"Take it easy," I hissed at him.
"All right, hold it!" one of the Wops with the Thompson said. His voice cut through the silent room like a bullet through a ton of ice-cream. "Sit still, and keep your yaps shut or we'll put the blast on the lot of you!"
Everyone sat or stood as still as death. The scene looked like a stage set in a waxworks show. There was a bartender with his hand frozen on the soda pump, his eyes goggling. One of the elderly men's fingers rested on his Queen as he was moving it to checkmate his friend. His face was tight with horror. The thin, pinched-looking girl sat with her eyes tight closed and her hands across her mouth. The Bobby-soxer leaned forward, her pretty, painted mouth hanging open and a shrill scream in her eyes.
As the Wop passed her, the scream popped out of her mouth. It made a shrill, jarring sound in the silent room, and cursing, the Wop hit her savagely with his gun barrel across her cute, silly little hat. He hit very hard, and the barrel made an ugly sound as it thudded on the straw of the hat, crushing it
into her skull. She fell out of the chair, and blood began to run from her ears, making a puddle on the floor. The kid with her turned the colour of a fish's belly and began to retch.
"Quiet, everybody!" the guy with the Thompson said, raising his voice.
I could see by the look of these Wops that if anyone made a move they would start shooting. They were ruthless, murderous and trigger-happy. All they wanted was an excuse. There was nothing I could do about it. Even if I had a gun I wouldn't have started anything. A gun against two Thompsons is as useless as a toothpick against a foil, and I wouldn't have been the only one to have got shot up.
The two Wops arrived at my table.
I sat like a stone man, my hands on the table, looking up at them. I could hear Stevens breathing painfully at my side: the breath snored through his nostrils as if he were going to have a stroke.
The Wop with the dirty cuffs grinned evilly at me.
"Make a move, you son-of-a-bitch, and I'll drop your guts on the floor," he said.
Both of them were careful to keep out of the line of fire of the Thompsons.
The Wop reached out and grabbed Stevens by his arm.
"Come on, you. You're going for a little ride."
"Leave him alone," I said through tight lips.
The Wop smacked me across the face with the gun barrel. Not too hard, but hard enough to hurt.
"Shut your yap!" he said.
The other Wop had rammed his gun into Stevens' side and was dragging him out of his chair.
"Don't touch me," Stevens gasped, and feebly tried to break the Wop's hold. Snarling; the Wop clubbed him with his fist, caught him by his collar and hauled him away from the table.
My pal with the dirty cuffs stepped away from me and the guy with the Thompson came a little closer, the gun sight centred on my chest. I sat still, holding the side of my face, feeling blood, hot and sticky, against my fingers.
Stevens fell down.
"Come on; hurry," the Wop with the dirty cuffs said furiously. "Get this dumb old punk out of here." He bent and grabbed hold of one of Stevens' ankles. The other Wop caught hold of the other ankle, and they ran across the room dragging Stevens along on his back with them, upsetting tables and chairs in their progress to the door.
They kicked open the double doors, dragged the old man across the sidewalk to a waiting car. Two other Wops were standing outside with machine-guns, threatening a gaping crowd lined up on either side of the cafe entrance.
It was the coolest, nerviest, most cold-blooded thing I have ever seen.
The two Wops with the Thompsons backed out of the cafe and scrambled into the car. One of the Wops in the street swung round and started firing through the plate-glass window at me. I was expecting that, and even as he swung round I threw myself out of my chair and lay flat under the table, squeezing myself into the floor. Slugs chewed up the wall just above me and brought plaster down on my head and neck. One slug took the heel of my shoe off. Then the firing stopped and I peered around the table in time to see the Wop spring on to the running-board of the car as it shot away from the kerb and went tearing down the street.
I scrambled to my feet and made a dive for the telephone.
IV
The voice sounded like an echo in a tunnel. It crept into the corners of my room: the subdued whisper of a turned-down radio. For the past half-hour I had been waiting for that voice. The jig-saw puzzle spread out on the table before me interested me as much as the dead mouse I had found in the trap this morning: probably a little less. The shaded readinglamp made a pool of lonely light on the carpet. A bottle and glass stood on the floor within easy reach. Already I had had a drink or perhaps even two or three. After an evening like this a drink one way or other doesn't make a great deal of difference.
I was still a little jumpy. No one likes to have a whole magazine of a sub-machine-gun fired at him, and I was no exception. The way those two Wops had dragged that old man out of the cafe haunted me. I felt I should have done something about it. After all, it was my fault he was there.
"At nine o'clock this evening," the announcer said, breaking into my thoughts, "six men, believed to be Italians, armed with machine-guns and automatics, entered the Blue Bird Cafe at the corner of Jefferson and Felman. While two of the gunmen guarded the entrance, and two more terrorized the people in the cafe, the remaining two seized John Stevens and dragged him from the cafe to a waiting car.
"Stevens, who will be remembered by the city's socialities as butler to Mr. Gregory Wainwright, the steel millionaire, was later found dead by the side of the Los Angeles and San Francisco Highway. It is believed he died of a stroke, brought on by the rough handling he received from the kidnappers, and when he was found to be dead, the kidnappers brutally threw his body from the speeding car."
The announcer's voice was as unemotional and as cold as if he were reading the fat stock prices. I should have liked to have been behind him with a machine-gun and livened him up with a burst above his head.
"The police are anxious for any information that will lead to the arrest of the criminals," the announcer went on. "These six men have been described as short, stockily built, darkskinned, and all wearing blue suits and black hats.
"The police are also anxious to question an unknown man who was with John Stevens when the kidnappers arrived. After telephoning Police Headquarters, giving a description of the criminals and the number of their car, he disappeared. Eye-witnesses have described him as tall, powerfully built, dark hair, sallow complexion and sharp-featured. He has a wound on the right side of his face from a blow from one of the kidnappers. Anyone recognizing this man should communicate immediately to Captain of Police Brandon, Police Headquarters, Graham 3444 . . ."
I leaned forward and snapped down the switch.
"Sallow and sharp-featured, but not handsome. No one said he was handsome."
I turned slowly in my chair.
Sergeant MacGraw stood in the open french windows, and behind him lurked Sergeant Hartsell.
I didn't jump more than a foot. It was one of those reflex actions over which I had no control.
"Who told you to blow in?" I asked, getting to my feet.
"He wants to know who told us to blow in," MacGraw said, speaking out of the side of his mouth. "Shall we tell him?"
Hartsell came into the room. There was a cold, bleak look on his thin face, his deep-set eyes were stony.
"Yeah, tell him."
MacGraw closed the french windows without taking his eyes off me.
"A little bird told us," he said, and winked. "There's always a little bird to tell us the things we want to know. And the little bird also told us you were with Stevens to-night."
I sweated gently. Maybe it was because it was a hot night. Maybe I didn't like the look of these two. Maybe I was remembering what Brandon had said about a beating up in a dark alley.
"That's right," I said. "I was with him."
"Now that's what I call being smart," MacGraw said, and beamed. "Wonder Boy tells the truth for a change." He poked a thick finger in my direction. "Why didn't you stick around? The prowl boys would have liked to have talked to you."
"There was nothing I could tell them," I said. "I gave the desk sergeant a description of the car and the men. That let me out, and besides, I had enough for one night so I blew."
MacGraw sat down in one of the armchairs, felt in his inside pocket and hooked out a cigar. He bit off the end, spat the shred of tobacco messily against my wall and lit up.
"I like that," he said, rolling thick smoke around in his mouth before releasing it. "You had enough for one night. Yeah, that's very nice. But, pally, how wrong you are. The night hasn't even started for you yet."
I didn't say anything.
"Let's get going," Hartsell said in a hard voice. "I'm on duty in another hour."
MacGraw frowned at him.
"Take it easy, can't you? What's it matter if you are a little late? We're on duty right now, aren't we?" He glanced a
t me. "What were you talking to Stevens about?"
"I wanted to know if he was satisfied Janet Crosby died of heart failure. He wasn't."
MacGraw chuckled and rubbed his big white hands together. He seemed genuinely pleased to hear this.
"You know the Captain's no fool," he said to Hartsell. "I'm not saying he's everyone's bed-fellow, but he's no fool. Those were his very words. 'I'll bet that son-of-a-bitch was talking to Stevens about the Crosbys.' That's what he said to me as soon as we got the description. And he was right."
Hartsell gave me a long, mean look.
"Yeah," he said.
"Was that all you wanted to know, Wonder Boy?" MacGraw asked. "Or were there other questions you asked Stevens?"
Lay Her Among The Lilies Page 11
