by Unknown
“You mean any more of mine?”
Again the shrug, as he pushed the check towards Lennox. Someone behind him snickered. A voice said: “Did you hear that Sol was getting himself a new office boy?” Several people laughed.
Lennox apparently had not heard. He said: “Is French here?”
The cashier shrugged for the third time. Lennox picked up the check, folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket as he crossed one corner of the room, went around the end of the metal bar and through a curtained doorway. Before him was a wide hallway with a door at the end. A young man with too black hair was seated on a chair in the bare hall, reading a confession magazine. He dropped the magazine and came to his feet with cat-like grace. “You can’t come in here, you.”
Lennox said softly: “I’m coming in, lousy. Out of the way.”
For the space of a half-minute neither moved. The black-haired one’s hand was in his pocket. He said, slowly, distinctly: “You don’t rate around here any more, Lennox. Take a tip and get out.”
Bill’s smile was very thin. “That’s where you have your cues mixed, handsome. I still rate, plenty. I’m seeing French, and he’s going to like seeing me.”
The other’s voice was confidential. “Why don’t you get wise? When you’re through in this town, you’re through. Go out easy, pal. I wouldn’t like to throw you out.”
Lennox hesitated, shrugged, and half turned. The other relaxed slightly. Suddenly Lennox’s right shoulder sagged, his left came up, and his right fist crossed to the gunman’s jaw. The black-haired one went down with a look of surprise and pain. Lennox caught him, eased him to the floor, knelt on his chest, pulled the gun from the side pocket and got another from the shoulder-harness. There hadn’t been much noise.
“Now I’ll give you a tip,” he said, in a low, grim tone. “This town isn’t healthy for you. Remember that killing at San Clemente? The D.A.’s office might hear something about that if you aren’t out of the village before morning.”
He straightened his coat, pocketed the two guns, and went on down the hall to the door. Looking back, he saw the gunman get slowly to his feet. Lennox stuck a hand into his pocket. The man looked at him once, then disappeared into the gambling room.
There were voices in the room beyond the door. One that Lennox knew said: “But, French. How was I to know they had a list of the numbers?”
“You fool! That’s what you should have found out. A hell of a help you are. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because I couldn’t get away sooner. My uncle kept me at the studio until late. He’s half-crazy.”
“Yeah.” French’s voice had a biting quality. “Now get out of here and don’t let anyone see you go. I’ll call you when I want you.”
A door closed somewhere within the room, and Lennox retreated down the passage towards the gambling room. His eyes were narrow, but there was a thin, half-mocking smile about his lips. The voice he had heard belonged to Stan Braun, Sol Spurck’s nephew.
He came back along the passage, taking pains to walk heavily.
“Hello, handsome,” he said to the empty hall. He didn’t shout, but his voice was loud enough to carry to the room beyond. “The boss in? Yeah, well, don’t move, rat. This thing in my hand isn’t an ornament.”
He covered the remaining distance to the door in quick strides. It wasn’t locked and he pushed it inward, only far enough to slip through. A man was just stepping around the flat-topped desk, a man with a young, cold face, and gray hair. He stopped when he saw Bill, his face showing no emotion, his eyes very narrow.
“Hello, Lennox! Didn’t Toni tell you that you weren’t wanted?”
Lennox’s smile was almost child-like. “He did mention something like that, but I didn’t believe him.”
The gambler took a step backwards and sat down in the desk chair. “Maybe you’ll believe me?” The direct, prominent eyes measured Lennox carefully.
Bill walked slowly towards the desk. He took his hand from his coat pocket, calling attention to the fact by doing so very slowly. “The cashier turned down my check. I got the idea that it was your orders.”
The man at the desk shifted his weight slightly. “We’ve had plenty of trouble with your paper, Bill. That bank account of yours is like a sieve, a rubber one.”
Lennox said: “You never howled about my paper before. It’s always been covered.”
The other shrugged expressively. “Spurck always took care of that. I hear that he isn’t taking care of it any longer.”
“Meaning?”
“Just that. You’re off the gold standard as far as Spurck is concerned. Sorry, Bill. If ten will help you?” He drew a large roll from his pocket and hunted through the big bills slowly, insultingly.
Lennox grinned. “Thanks, French, but I’ll eat tomorrow.” He turned towards the door, then said, across his shoulder: “Don’t mind if I hang around a while? I always did like raids.”
The man at the desk laughed. “So you’ll have me raided. Your mind’s getting twisted. You’ve got yourself mixed with someone important. There isn’t a cop in town that would dare touch this joint.”
“Like that?” Lennox’s voice sounded interested.
“Like that,” French told him, blandly.
9
ennox went back into the main room. Toni, the slick-haired gunman, was not in sight. Lennox stopped before the bar and spun a half dollar on the polished surface. The white-coated bartender shoved across a scotch and soda, with a twisted bit of lemon peel in the bottom. Lennox tasted his drink; then, hooking his elbows on the edge of the bar, he considered his next move. The blonde, who had given him her back when he first came in, swept past with a black-haired youth in tow. She turned her head.
“Why, it’s Mr. Lennox. My dear, I didn’t recognize you.”
He said, sourly: “It’s your age, sweetheart. Age dulls the eyes.”
Her face reddened beneath the rouge and she moved hastily away. Someone tugged at Bill’s arm. He turned to see Frank Howe. He’d gotten Howe a job in the publicity department six months before. Howe was a little drunk, but it affected neither his speech nor actions.
“Listen, Bill.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I heard that lousy cashier hand you the runaround. This is my lucky night. Beat the wheel, I did.” His hand disappeared into his pants pocket and came out with a crumpled stack of bills. “Money’s no use to me. Never had any, don’t know how to handle it—hey, bartender, a drink. I’m burning up.”
Lennox said: “Thanks, kid.” He was genuinely touched. Out of a hundred people in the room that he had helped at one time or another, Howe was the only one who seemed to remember. “No can do. Get you in trouble with Spurck.”
Howe said: “To hell with Spurck. To hell with the whole lousy industry. Swell job. You take some tramp from behind a lunch counter and build her up until she’s writing autographs instead of orders.”
He shoved the bills into Lennox’s hand and went away from the bar, his drink forgotten. Lennox watched him go. The bartender brought the glasses. Lennox drew a crumpled bill from the wad in his hand and started to hand it over. Then he stopped, stared for an instant at the number on the bill and put it into his pocket. He found some loose silver, paid for the drinks and drank both of them.
That done, he crossed the room and disappeared into the men’s lounge. There was a shine stand in the wash-room. He crawled onto the stand and watched the kinky head bob as the boy applied the brush. After a moment, he drew a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and compared the numbers on the bills with those on his list. Five of them tallied. He put the five bills into his breast coat pocket, and shoved his white silk handkerchief on top of them, then thumbed through the rest of the roll.
As he counted them he whistled softly. There were four hundred dollars left. Certainly Howe had been lucky. Lennox knew him well enough to know that the ex-reporter seldom had four dollars at any one time. He paid the shine-boy and climbed from the stand. As he e
merged into the main room a newspaperman with two girls walked past.
Lennox said: “Know Frank Howe?”
The man nodded.
“Didn’t notice which table he was playing at a little while ago?”
The man nodded again. “Yeah, the center one. He was on thirteen and it came up. He let the money ride and she repeated.”
Lennox said: “Thanks,” and looked about.
A man came out of the passage which led to French’s room. Play stopped at the first table while the man exchanged cases of money with the croupier. This was repeated at the other tables. Lennox frowned. He started forward, then stopped. For perhaps a minute, he stood, undecided, then moved towards the center table. He had the idea French was withdrawing the bills which bore numbers that were on Lennox’s list.
As he stepped to the table, the rat-eyed croupier glanced at him sharply. Lennox apparently did not notice. He watched for several minutes, then bet twenty dollars on black. Red came up and he bet forty, only to be rewarded by double-O. He switched and played the middle group of numbers, won and let it ride. He won again, and shoved the whole pile onto black. Black appeared. He gathered up his winnings and moved towards the crap table.
The lone woman had the dice when he reached the table. He put twenty on the line and watched the green cubes dance across the cloth to turn up a five and six. He picked up his winnings and transferred them to no-pass. She threw snake-eyes.
French came through the curtained door at the end of the bar. He stood for a moment just inside the door, a striking figure, his shirtfront gleaming, his gray hair carefully brushed; then he walked across to the crap layout, just as Lennox picked up the dice.
“You’re through, Bill.”
Lennox turned slowly, deliberately to face him. The room was suddenly quiet. Everyone was watching, breathlessly. Lennox said: “Meaning?”
“Just that.” French’s voice held a flat quality which was almost metallic. “We don’t want your play here. We don’t even want you.”
The dice rattled in Lennox’s hand. He shoved the whole pile of currency onto the line and sent the green cubes dancing across the table with a twist of his wrist. They turned up six and one. Lennox’s eyes met the croupier’s. “Pay off, mister.”
The man hesitated, his eyes went to French. The owner nodded imperceptibly and the man counted out bills beside those which Lennox had laid on the board. Bill gathered them up slowly, stripped two tens from the pile and tossed them to the croupier, then folded the rest and slipped them into his pocket.
“Okey, French. I thought that you were yellow.” His voice carried across the silent room. “Now I know.”
He walked calmly towards the door. No one said anything, no one moved. He got his hat from the check girl, slipped into his overcoat and tossed her a folded bill, then he rode down in the elevator. The elevator man said:
“Take it easy, Mr. Lennox.” There was a gun in his hand.
Lennox grinned, “You, too, Mac?”
The man shrugged. “Orders.” He stopped the car at the second floor and opened the door. Two men stepped in, one of them was Toni. He smiled when he saw Lennox. “If it isn’t my little boy-friend.” He ran quick hands over the other’s coat and removed the guns. “Come on, mug. This is where you get off.”
Lennox obeyed. They went along a poorly lighted passage and down a flight of stairs. Lennox said: “I never knew how French got rid of people he doesn’t like.”
Toni grinned. “There’s lots of things you don’t know. One of them is how to keep your mouth buttoned. In there.” He pushed open a steel door and shoved Lennox into a curtained touring car. “Hey, Frank!” he called to the driver. Lennox turned his head a little and the gunman brought the barrel of his automatic crashing down on Lennox’s skull. “That’s for clipping me on the jaw,” he muttered, as he shoved his way into the car.
10
Consciousness came back slowly. Lennox groaned, moved slightly, then lay still for several minutes, his eyes open, staring about the dark room. To the right, a window gave an oblong of lighter sky. Morning could not be far away. He raised a hand to the side of his aching head, felt the knob there, the hair, matted with dry blood. Sounds from another room reached him indistinctly. A cry, a thump as if a heavy object had been thrown against the wall, then the door opened. Instinctively, Lennox closed his eyes. Light showed against his lids.
French’s voice said, from a distance. “Take the——in there and let him think it over.”
Heavy feet made noise in the room. There was a groan, a hoarse laugh, and the door slammed. The groans continued. Lennox opened his eyes. The room was again in darkness. Cautiously he swung his feet from the couch and sat for a moment, his head in his hands. Then he rose, swayed and looked about. There was a huddled shape in the chair beside the window. Lennox blinked at it and said, cautiously:
“Who’re you?”
The groans ceased. The room was quiet except for the labored breathing from the chair. Lennox moved closer. His head was clearing.
“Come on!” His voice was louder than he intended. “Who are you?”
His hand fumbled in his pocket and found a box of matches. He struck one with fingers that shook. The match flared, and Lennox stared at the battered features of Red Girkin. He said: “My——!” and let the match drop to the floor. “They don’t play nice, do they?”
Girkin swore heavily, tonelessly. “Let me alone.”
Lennox’s voice got sharp. “Your playmates will be back in a few minutes to give you another dose. What do you want?”
The gangster said: “Go to hell!” He said it indistinctly, as if his lip got in the way.
Lennox managed a laugh. “Boy, you love punishment. Come on! Who decorated Charley with the chiv?”
“Charley?” There was a new note in Girkin’s voice. “What about Charley?”
“Only that he’s dead.”
“Say, who are you?”
“A pal of Charley’s. Don’t you remember? Bill Lennox. I was up at your place the other day.”
The man in the chair said slowly: “Yeah, I remember, and Charley’s dead. You sure?”
“I found him on the rug with the chiv in his side.”
“That damned French.”
“So it was French?”
“I’m not talking.”
Lennox got mad. “Listen, sucker! Why don’t you get next to yourself? Do you think that they’ve been pounding your pan because they love you? It’s a wonder that you aren’t in a ditch by now.”
The man in the chair found a laugh somewhere and managed to turn it on. It was a poor effort. “They’ll keep me until they find out what I did with the ten grand, the dirty—— They can beat me, but I don’t talk.”
Lennox tried a shot in the dark. “Still figuring that Meyer will help you?”
The gangster started to swear again. “That tramp! She got me into this; then she tied a can to me.”
It seemed that the floodgates had opened. He talked and talked; finally he got to repeating himself. Lennox turned away and walked towards the window, his lips very thin, his eyes bright.
Suddenly the door opened, a light switch clicked, and Lennox swung about to see Toni. The gunman said, with surprise: “Look who’s come to. Hey, chief! The boy scout’s awake.”
French’s voice growled: “Bring him in.”
Lennox took a quick step towards the window. Toni seized his shoulder, forcing him towards the door. With a shrug, Lennox relaxed. “Okey! You win.”
Toni said: “We win every time, mug. Start walking.”
French sat in a leather chair. His coat was off and the gray hair mussed. There were pouches under his eyes and he looked very tired.
“Well, Bill—”
Lennox said: “Not so hot. Your boy-friend here swings a mean gun.”
French said: “Little boys who play outside their own yards get hurt sometimes. Why the hell can’t you keep your nose clean?”
Lennox shrugged.
“Mind if I sit down?” He moved towards a chair.
The gambler’s voice cracked. “Stand still.”
Lennox let his eyes widen slowly. “What is this?”
French said: “It’s your show-down.” He came out of his chair, and they faced each other. Toni shifted his feet, grinning loosely. “What did you tell Frank Howe?”
Lennox hid his start of surprise. “What did I tell Howe? When?”
The gambler growled: “Don’t stall, Lennox. You and Howe talked it over last night at the bar. You gave him something and he went away fast. The boys didn’t tell me about it until later. They haven’t found him yet, but they will. Come on! What did you tell him?”
Lennox grinned. He was beginning to understand why he was still alive. French thought that he had told Howe something at the club, something about the money, perhaps. Lennox said: “I gave him some dough to take home for me, some dough to put in a safe place.”
“You—” The gambler took a step forward, his hands clenching at his sides. “Where is he?”
“That’s a little mystery you can solve for yourself.” Lennox grinned carelessly, much more carelessly than he felt. There was a desk in the corner of the room. He stepped sidewise towards it. French said:
“Stand still, you.”
Lennox nodded. “Okey, French, I wouldn’t try anything with you.” He took another step. “I’m in a jam; I know it. I’ve been around long enough to know when my number is coming up. What’s it worth to you for me to get Howe on the phone and call him off? Does it buy me a ticket to New York?”
French said: “Yes,” quickly. He said it too quickly. Lennox knew that New York meant a wash in San Fernando Valley, but—
“Okey! Gimme the phone.”
French’s eyes searched his. “Don’t try any funny stuff,” he warned.
“Would I try any funny stuff when Toni has his gun on me.”
He crossed to the desk and, picking up the phone, called the first number that came into his head. As he waited, his hand toyed with a heavy glass inkwell hidden by his body from the other men. Toni still stood beside the door. He had his gun, but he let it hang carelessly at his side.
