He could see the girl was growing tense, and her trembling increased.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said in a tight small voice. “Please stop asking me questions. I – I’m not feeling well. I want to go home.”
“That’s all right, Miss Coleman,” he said and smiled. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance. You have some sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“But I don’t want to!” she cried fiercely. “I want to be left alone. I don’t want to go to sleep! I want to go home!”
“I’m afraid you will have to stay here until tomorrow,” Conrad said as gently as he could. “One of the gunmen who tried to shoot you is still at large. We can’t let you go until he is caught.”
“But he wouldn’t hurt me,” she blurted out, sitting bolt upright. “He said he wouldn’t and I believe him. This is just an excuse to keep me here! I’m not going to stay! You can’t keep me here! You’ve no right to keep me here!” Her voice was rising hysterically, and Conrad got to his feet, a little alarmed at the wild trapped look in her eyes.
The door opened and the nurse came in quickly.
“Perhaps you had better leave her to me,” she said, crossing the room.
Frances threw the rug off and struggled to her feet.
“I won’t stay here! You can’t make me stay!” she cried wildly, and took a few tottering steps to the door.
Conrad saw all trace of colour suddenly leave her face and her eyes rolled back. He jumped forward and caught her as she crumpled to the floor in a faint.
V
Sam’s street saloon was an old-fashioned honky-tonk on the waterfront, frequented by dockers, sailors and prostitutes. Its long, low-ceilinged room had high-backed booths along one side where Sam’s clients could talk and drink without being seen or disturbed. The other side of the room was given up to a long S-shaped bar that glittered with mirrors and lighted advertising signs.
Pete Weiner sat in the last booth at the far end of the room where he could watch the swing doors of the saloon. A bottle of Scotch and a glass stood before him and an ashtray piled high with butts indicated the time he had been in the booth.
Pete felt cold, frightened and sick. Already he was regretting what he had done. In Frances’s company he had been brave enough, but now he was on his own, a slow chill of terror was creeping over him.
He knew the word would have gone out by now, and the streets would be death traps. But what was he to do? He was short of money, and he thought longingly of the five hundred dollars he had in his room. He dared not go back there to collect the money. His room would be the first place they would go to, and one of them would be waiting for him at this very moment.
He pulled out a few crumpled bills from his trousers pocket and checked them. He had fifteen dollars and a few cents. He hadn’t even a car. The railroad depot would be watched. If only he knew of some place where he could hole up for a few days! Without money he was helpless.
He shifted his mind away from his immediate troubles and thought of Frances. He had gone after her when she had run away from him, but he had quickly lost himself in the maze, and lost her, too. He had run on and on blindly until suddenly he had found himself at the exit. He had had no intention of getting out. He had wanted to kill Moe, but instead he had found himself out among a vast crowd that instantly hemmed him in as they gaped at the arriving police who swarmed up the walls of the maze and spread out, guns in hand.
Pete had heard the shooting, and had stood in the crowd, waiting, sure Moe had killed Frances. It wasn’t until he had seen an ambulance arrive and watched Moe’s dead body loaded on board and had seen Frances carried to a waiting police car that he had thought of his own safety.
He got away from the amusement park as quickly as he could, and knowing how quickly the mob swung into action, he had taken refuge in Sam’s saloon.
The odds were he had only a few hours longer to live. The moment he showed himself on the streets he would be done for. He knew the technique well enough. A fast-moving car would pass him, and he would go down under a hail of bullets.
He lit a cigarette, drank a little of the whisky and wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand. He couldn’t stay in the saloon all day. If only he could find somewhere to hide until darkness came! It was just possible, under the cloak of darkness, he might get out of town, but in broad daylight with this accursed birthmark to give him away, he wouldn’t last ten minutes before they were on to him.
A shadow fell across the table, and he felt his heart leap in his chest. His right hand remained as if paralysed on the table, although his mind was frantically willing it to flash to his gun. He looked up.
A young girl, corn-coloured hair piled high on top of her head, wearing a red sweater and a white skirt, smiled down at him.
“Hello, bright eyes,” she said, leaning forward, her hands on the table and her breasts heavy against the thin casing of her sweater. “Want a little company?”
He stared at her, trying to recover from the shock. What was the matter with him? He hadn’t even seen her approach. Suppose it had been Dutch or one of the mob? He would have been dead by now without even having a chance to hit back.
“I have a place just around the corner,” the girl went on. “We could have fun.” She smiled, showing small white teeth, but her eyes were hard and calculating as she looked down at him.
Pete realized the advantages of going with her. Once in her place he could hold a gun on her and wait until darkness came. But dare he leave the saloon? What did she mean: just round the corner? It might be a few yards or it might be a few hundred yards. These girls said anything to get you to go with them.
“Where’s your place?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Just across the street, darling,” she said. “Just at the corner. Will you come?”
“Well, all right,” he said, and stood up. He went over to the bar and paid for his drinks.
The barman gave him a long hard stare. There was something in the way the barman eyed him that frightened Pete. He walked quickly down the long room with the girl who held his arm.
“You seem nervous, honey,” the girl said, smiling at him. “Don’t tell me I’m your first?”
He didn’t bother to answer as he stepped into the hot sunshine, feeling suddenly naked and horribly vulnerable on the bright, noisy waterfront.
“Where do we go?” he asked anxiously, his eyes searching the crowded scene, hunting for a familiar face.
“Just down here,” the girl said. She walked at his side with small mincing steps, balancing herself unsteadily on her three-inch heels. “You’ll like it. I’ve got a radio. If you make it worth my while I’ll dance for you. Most of my friends like to watch me dance.”
She was leading him away from the waterfront towards a narrow dark street of tall sordid-looking houses.
He hurried her along, looking back from time to time over his shoulder, ready to break into a run at the slightest suspicious movement.
“Here we are,” the girl said, pausing outside a house at the corner of the street. “I said it wasn’t far, didn’t I?”
She climbed the steps, opened her handbag and took out her latch key.
He followed her into a dimly lit, shabby hall, and as he shut the front door he drew in a tight gasping breath of relief. He had made it! He was at least safe now until dark. He had no qualms about handling the girl. She wouldn’t start anything when he showed her his gun.
She began to climb the stairs, and he followed closely. When they reached the second-floor landing, she stopped outside a door facing the head of the stairs.
“This is it,” she said, and turned the handle of the door. “Oh, damn! My fool maid has locked me out again. She’s always doing it. Just wait here, darling, while I run down and get the spare key. I keep it in my mailbox.”
She patted his arm, giving him a bright, fixed smile, then she started down the stairs.
Pete took out his handkerchie
f and wiped his face and neck. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it and flicked out the match. Then he moved over to the banister rail and looked down into the hall, two flights below.
The girl had just reached the hall. She paused and looked up. Their eyes met, and Pete felt a cold wave of fear sweep through him when he saw the scared look on the girl’s face. Instinctively he realized he had walked into a trap.
What a mad fool he had been to have accepted her on her face value!
The mob wouldn’t want to walk into Sam’s bar and kill him in front of witnesses. They would fix it to get him somewhere alone, and through her they had got him alone!
His hand flew to the inside of his coat as he heard a key turn in the lock behind him. He spun round in time to see the door to the girl’s apartment was opening slowly.
He didn’t hesitate. Swinging up the gun, he fired, aiming to the right and just a little above the door handle. The slug smashed through the door, spraying wood splinters, and Pete heard a gasping groan, then the sound of a heavy fall behind the door.
He spun around and threw himself down the stairs, taking three stairs at a time. He ran blindly along the short passage to the head of the stairs leading to the hall. He took these in two jumps, arriving in the hall with a crash that shook the house.
The girl, her eyes wide with fright, crouched against the wall, her hands crossed over her breasts, her painted mouth wide open in a soundless scream.
He jumped to the front door, stopped as he saw through the glass panels, two men coming up the steps.
He recognized them: Goetz and Buzz Conforti, two of Maurer’s expert killers. He sprang back, his heart contracting, then turned and retreated down the passage that ran to the right of the hall.
He reached the girl as she dived for the stairs, grabbed hold of her, turned her so her back was to him, and keeping her against him, his left arm round her waist so she was shielding his body, he continued to back down the passage.
“Scream or try to get away and I’ll kill you,” he panted. “Is there a way out at the back?”
“Let me go!” she gasped, digging her nails into his wrist.
He gave her a chopping blow on her shoulder with the gun barrel, making her squeal.
“Is there a way out at the back ?”
“Yes.”
The front door burst open and Goetz jumped into the hall.
Pete took a hurried shot at him. The girl screamed wildly as she felt the heat of the gunflash. Goetz dropped down on one knee, his dark, vicious face creased in a snarl.
“Don’t shoot!” the girl screamed, waving her hands imploringly as Goetz swung up a .45.
Pete continued to back away, dragging the girl with him. He saw Goetz trying to get the sight of his gun on to him, but Pete kept his head down, hoisting the girl higher so she completely concealed him.
She kicked out wildly, her shoes flying off and her white skirt riding above her thighs.
Pete’s back thudded against a door. He fired again at Goetz, a near miss this time, for Goetz’s hat flew off.
Goetz’s finger squeezed the trigger and the heavy gun went off. He fired three times. The bullets slammed into the girl’s writhing body. Pete could feel the shock of them.
The girl stiffened so violently she nearly jerked herself out of his grip, then she went limp; the sudden dead weight almost pulling him off balance.
He groped behind him, found a door handle, turned it and pulled the door open.
Conforti had crawled into the hall by now. As he lifted his gun, Pete fired at him. Not waiting to see the result of his shot, he threw the body of the girl from him, jumped back through the open doorway, slammed the door and ran madly down a small yard, heaved himself over a wooden fence and landed, sobbing for breath, in a twisting, narrow alley.
He sprinted down the alley, hearing the sound of footfalls behind him. He ran for some hundred yards, following the twisting alley, keeping close to the wooden fence.
Ahead of him he could see the main street with its traffic and crowds. He somehow managed to increase his speed and reached the street just as Goetz turned the last bend in the alley.
Goetz half raised his gun as he caught sight of Pete, but lowered it as Pete vanished round the corner.
Pete dashed through the crowds that thronged the street, pushing people out of his way. He had concealed his gun in his coat pocket, but people stared after him, sensing something was wrong, startled by his sweating, frightened face.
He was out in the open now. Any second a car would overtake him, and he would be cut down. He paused at the edge of the kerb, his chest heaving, while he looked to right and left. He saw a taxi, and he waved frantically. The taxi swung, to the kerb and pulled up beside him.
“The park,” Pete gasped, and wrenched open the cab door.
Hands grabbed his arms from behind and he gave a cry of terror as he looked around. Two big patrolmen had hold of him.
“Take it easy,” one of them said. “We want you, Weiner. Get his rod, Jack.”
The other cop expertly found Pete’s gun and shoved it into his hip pocket.
“We’ll take the cab,” the first cop said. “Headquarters, bud, and snap it up.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete caught sight of a big black car bearing down on the taxi.
“Look out!” he yelled, and wrenched himself free from the cop who was holding him. He flung himself face down on the floor of the cab as the black car swept past.
Above the noise of the traffic came the violent hammering of a machine gun.
The cab rocked crazily under the impact of the hail of bullets. One of the cops was caught across his face by a burst from the machine gun. His head and face dissolved into a mess of blood and smashed bone.
The other cop threw himself down on top of Pete. The taxi driver was caught by the tail end of the burst. The shock of the bullets smashing into him lifted him out of the cab and flung him on the sidewalk.
The crowd on the street broke and ran in all directions, yelling and screaming. Several of them were caught by the burst and lay in huddled heaps on the sidewalk and the street.
The black car swept on and disappeared around the corner. The big cop covering Pete got unsteadily to his feet.
“The bastards!” he said through clenched teeth. “The goddamn bastards!”
He dragged Pete out of the cab.
“Come on, you!” he snarled, and ran Pete across the sidewalk into the sheltering porch of a store. He wedged Pete into a corner between two plateglass windows and stood in front of him, gun in hand.
“Get me inside!” Pete shouted excitedly. “You goddamn fool! Do you imagine glass’ll stop bullets?”
“Shut your trap!” the cop snarled. “There ain’t going to be no bullets.”
Even as he spoke the black car made its second run. The crowds on the street, seeing it coming, flattened on the sidewalks or dashed madly into the shops and stores for shelter.
Cars, swerving to avoid the black car that came straight down the middle of the street, mounted the kerbs. One car crashed through a plateglass window.
“Look out!” Pete screamed, and shoving the cop with all his strength gained enough room to lie fiat.
The cop, as brave and as stupid as a charging rhino, started firing at the car as it swept past. The answering burst of fire from the concealed machine gun was devastating. The cop seemed to fly to pieces as the whip lash of bullets tore open his chest and flung him back on to Pete.
The car braked and pulled up. Goetz and Conforti spilled out of the car, their faces glistening with sweat, their mouths wide open with soundless yelling.
They had been told to get Pete at all costs, and they were carrying out orders.
Somewhere in the porch of the shop, under the dead cop and the heap of smashed glass, was Pete, and they knew it.
Conforti held the Thompson. Goetz had a gun in each hand.
Conforti started spraying the porch with bullets as he ran towards it.
Pete saw the line of bullets hammering into the sidewalk, spraying chips of concrete, and advancing like a carpet of death towards him.
He pulled the dead cop over him, held on to his belt, feeling the dead cop’s blood dripping on his face, and he shut his eyes.
He felt the dead body kick and jerk as bullets smashed across the dead legs. Then a new sound started his heart beating again: the sound of police sirens and the sharp crisp crack of police automatics.
Goetz, swearing, spun around as three police cars screamed down the street towards him. He raised his gun, but the first car, accelerating, hit him like an express train and flung him high into the Mr. He dropped like a half-filled sack of corn on to the sidewalk.
Conforti didn’t look back. He ran into the porch.
Pete caught a glimpse of Conforti’s legs as he bent over the dead cop. He tried to squeeze himself into the ground, clinging with all his strength to the dead cop’s belt.
Conforti spotted him and his teeth showed in a triumphant grinning snarl. He dragged the cop away with Pete still clinging to the cop’s belt.
“Get away!” Pete screamed, trying to hide himself behind the cop’s body. “Don’t do it!”
Conforti lifted the Thompson. The barrel swung up. Pete stared at the sight as it covered his face. His eyes started out of his head. He saw Conforti’s finger whiten as Conforti took in the slack on the trigger.
Then guns cracked behind Conforti.
Pete saw the sudden look of agony come over the thin ratlike face. He saw the eyes go lifeless. The Thompson jerked up as the dying hand stiffened and began firing as the dying finger automatically tightened on the trigger.
Then Conforti dropped the gun, took one step and pitched forward on his face.
A moment later Pete was surrounded by grim-faced policemen.
chapter six
I
The fat desk sergeant shifted his bulk on his creaking chair and nodded his bullet-shaped head.
“The Lieutenant’s questioning him now,” he said. “He’s expecting you, isn’t he?”
1953 - This Way for a Shroud Page 13
