I groaned. “Didn’t I stand you a getaway from the house next to the Widow’s?” I muttered. “I got you clear of Butman, didn’t I?”
She smiled with her lips. “So you could frame us later,” she said. “Or maybe so you could get Butman.”
I started to get up from the chair. But Virgie said no sharply and shifted the angle of the rod’s muzzle. I sat back and argued. Carrie was still in the bathroom, and the water was still running. No one was bothering us from outside.
“You know damned well I didn’t get Butman,” I said. “And how did I try to frame you?”
She laughed throatily. “You want to know,” she mocked. “You can’t guess. Well, maybe you tried to give Steiner the idea we had the green stuff.”
I stared at her. “Me—give Steiner the idea—”
I broke off and chuckled. Virgie did the same thing, imitating me. It was a cold imitation. Her features looked sharper than ever—the light in the room didn’t help her face any. But her eyes didn’t look too dopey.
“Who you working for, Mal?” she asked suddenly. “Come through—and maybe you’ll get walking outside again. If you don’t come through—well, it’s just too bad.”
I smiled. Carrie Donner came out and leaned up against the closet door. She looked sick. Down in the street a truck backfired, and she jerked her arms up, bared her teeth. She’d been crying; her eyes were red.
“You talked as if we were going to split a hundred grand,” Virgie said slowly. “What was that idea?”
“I was bluffing Herb,” I said.
She nodded, but she didn’t smile. Without turning her head she called to Carrie.
“We’ve got Ourney right,” she said when the redhead reached her side. “You were nervous on the trigger—but he was a rat, anyway. We can give this baby the same dose—and ten to one we’ll get clear—”
“The odds are too high,” I cut in, but she didn’t pay any attention to my words. Her eyes were on mine; she talked in a low voice to the red-haired one.
“—or we can let him finger the rod—and fix it so that we go out, he stays—and the bulls come in—”
“That’ll be tougher,” I said.
“—or we can call a number and get Jake to come over. Maybe he can patch Herb up. He’s quiet.”
I nodded. “You’ve got to do that in a hurry,” I reminded. “Steiner’s not getting much of a break, jammed in that closet.”
Carrie swore at me. She looked toward the closet, spoke to Virgie.
“If you hadn’t of yelled at me to let Ourney have the dose—”
“Shut up,” Virgie said in a low, sharp tone. “Keep your voice low.”
Her eyes looked squarely into mine. They were almost bright.
“Or you can come across with the green ice, Mal—and walk out that door,” she said softly.
I chuckled. “If I admitted I had the stuff it would only be a bedtime story,” I said. “Why kid me—when you three were in here for the split?”
She looked at the rod she held—then at me again.
“Come across, Mal!” she said grimly. “You tailed us here—Carrie and me. You didn’t expect to see Steiner.”
“All right,” I said. “If I’ve got the stuff and I didn’t expect to see Steiner—why did I tail you here?”
“Maybe you wanted to spread it out a little. Maybe we might be quieter and take a trip.”
I shook my head. “You haven’t got anything on me, Virgie,” I told her. “I haven’t got the stones—and you know it. You’re covering up.”
She laughed harshly.
Carrie Donner was standing a few feet off and glaring at me. She said: “You did the Dot Ellis job.”
I looked at the gun that Virgie was holding, thought about Quirt, down in the lobby, thought about Carrie’s coming too close to finishing me, and gave her the works.
“You gave Wirt Donner a stomach dose—and you probably did for Herb.”
She looked as though she were going to jump at me, but Virgie shot words at her and kept her off. Then the blonde looked at me.
“It wasn’t so long ago that you told me I’d done for Wirt,” she said.
I nodded. “I was kidding.”
She said that I was like hell, and that I was tricky as hell, and that it was a hell of a note when two women had to be pulled in for a lot of dirty jobs done by males. She said that she could put me out of things easily enough, and that she felt like doing it.
She was getting a little worked up, and that didn’t seem so good. I told her that it wouldn’t be so funny if Steiner went out in the closet. I suggested that the gab be called off, and that I’d walk out and try again sometime. She laughed that off.
Carrie Donner was getting nervous. She swung on me.
“You goddam reformer!” she accused.” After the big boys, eh? Why in hell don’t you start in with yourself? You think—”
Virgie told her to shut up, and she said she wouldn’t. Virgie walked over a step or so and slapped her in the face. I got up from the chair, huddled forward a little, and jumped for the blonde. Carrie let out a yell—and Virgie twisted to one side. My right hand got a grip on her gun arm—I swung her in close to me.
She was mouthing nasty words, and fighting. I got my left hand against the rod’s metal—and saw Virgie’s head twist, her eyes look beyond me. I jerked my own head.
It saved me from most of the blow. But the gingerale bottle was heavy—and Carrie was a good hater. It caught me over the right ear. Everything got numb and dark. I let go of Virgie and slipped to my knees. Things started to buzz. And then I stopped seeing darkness, and there was no more buzzing. There wasn’t much of anything.
10
NORTH SIDE
I came out of it slowly. My mouth felt dry and the right side of my head ached. I was lying on my face, and after a few minutes I pulled myself to my knees. I crawled over to the chair I’d been sitting in most of the time, sprawled into it, and looked around. My eyes weren’t working so well, but it didn’t take me long to see that Virgie and the red-haired one had departed.
The place looked pretty neat. On the floor near one of the beds lay a rod. It was the one Carrie had used in trying to get me. I stood up, tried to walk steadily, and got the rod. There were footfalls in the corridor. I went into the bathroom, used a towel on the gun. It was a pretty sure thing that Virgie had got my fingers on the grip.
When I came out there were no more footfalls. And there was no telling how long I’d been unconscious. I wrapped the gun in a towel, opened a window, set the towel on a narrow ledge that extended beyond the range of eyes inside the room. When I closed the window I sat down on the bed and tried to get over the dizziness. Then I went back in the. bathroom, looked at my head. There was a small cut—and a fair-sized lump over the right ear. I wiped the blood off, went back into the room, got my overcoat buttoned.
My head was pretty clear—I thought about Herb Steiner, went over, and opened the closet door. He was hunched up—his eyes were opened and his head twisted toward me. He muttered something very weakly. I kneeled down beside him.
“I’ll go down, outside—I’ll call the hotel and have someone find you. Keep your mouth shut. You’ll get better just as quickly that way.”
His eyes looked pretty bad, but it seemed to me he thought the idea was all right. I spent a minute or so wiping off things I might have touched. Up in the Big House I’d been fingerprinted, and I had to be careful.
I left the closet door open and went out, making sure no one was in the corridor. I couldn’t quite figure why Virgie and Carrie hadn’t sent someone up in a hurry—unless it was because they were making sure of a getaway first. I walked down to my room, fooled around fixing my hat so it covered the cut on my head. A hurried drink helped. I felt sort of sorry for Herb Steiner, but other things counted, too.
An elevator dropped me to the lobby level; I went out a side entrance, crossed to a cigar store, got a booth, called the hotel, and asked for the manager’s of
fice.
A woman’s voice answered. I acted excited, pitched my voice a few octaves higher than normal, and said there was a dying man in room 651. I told her it was no joke, and to get someone up there in a hurry. Then I hung up, bought a pack of cigarettes, crossed the street, and came in the main entrance.
There was no sign of Quirt. I went to the desk, told the room switchboard girl that I’d be in the lobby and that I was expecting a call. I felt pretty bad. My head ached and my whole body felt weak. I picked out an overstuffed chair—and parked in it. A page boy came around shouting for a Mr. Einstein, and I had him bring me a paper. It hurt my eyes to look at the print, but it was a screen for my face, if I needed one.
In about ten minutes I heard a siren wail. It got closer to the hotel—then stopped wailing. My chair didn’t face the elevators, and I didn’t figure they’d carry Herb out through the lobby anyway. About ten more minutes passed, and then the siren started to wail again. It grew more distant and finally an orchestra, playing dinner music somewhere beyond the lobby, drowned it out.
“Nice, clean sheets for Herb!” I murmured. “Red gets the credit line.”
It might have been myself they were sirening away, that was a cinch. I couldn’t figure it. My head wasn’t working well enough. I felt sick. But it was my hunch that either Virgie or Red—or Herb—knew something about the green stones. I hadn’t seen any stones, but I believed they existed. Little crooks were invariably stupid—and if emeralds were not a crook jewel—and hard to handle—it was easy enough to believe that the small boys and girls would grab emeralds.
Virgie and the Donner woman had left room 651 together. Quirt had been in the lobby. He’d tailed them, of course. If he could stick, it was fairly likely that I should get another chance. I didn’t feel like taking one—but there wasn’t much of an out showing. Bed would have suited me better—a lot better.
I read some of the large print in the evening paper. It wasn’t a Post-Dispatch—it was yellower. The mistress of a steel official had, about five hours ago, found that the steel man was getting fed up with her and planning to transfer his affections. She had walked into his office, all drugged up, and shot him twice. Her aim had been rotten, so far as he had been concerned. But she’d done a nice job on herself. She was dead, and the steel man was looking for alibis. The yellow sheet was laughing them off—and the story had sent the Butman and Widow kills off page one. I found a column on Butman on page three. The police were still looking for clues. The Widow rated a stick or so. The police were looking for a Pole who had been sweet on her six months ago.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. It felt better. It was my idea that maybe I was coming closer to things, but that I was getting kicked around too much.
Herb Steiner had slugged me down. Carrie Donner had done the same trick, only she’d used a ginger-ale bottle. It had hurt more. Virgie had held a gun on me and had come pretty close to talking herself into using it. And Carrie had squeezed lead that had been absorbed by Steiner.
I swore. There was the faint clatter of silver from the direction of the dining room, up behind the balcony that three-sided the lobby. It was seven-fifteen by my wrist-watch—and the glass was cracked. That had happened up in room 651. I didn’t feel hungry.
At seven-thirty-five the page boy came around and called for a Mr. Evans. I gave him a dime, followed him to a booth, and listened to Quirt asking me if I was Mr. Evans. I said I was and he said he was Mr. Jackson.
“I’m across the bridge—on the North Side,” he said. “My party is drinking soup in a café called Lonnie’s. She’s got a red-haired friend with her, and Red is either coked up or scared to death. They used a cab and a street car getting here, and I can see the café entrance from where I am. They’ve got luggage—the two new bags and an old one. The cab’s waiting outside—and so’s mine.”
“Not bad,” I told Quirt. “Stick along, and if they hole in anywhere that looks permanent, give me a buzz. It’s more important than it was an hour ago—so don’t lose the blonde. If they split, stick with her. I’ll be in my room. Call me there, but don’t talk as openly as you are now. They’ve had an accident at the hotel.”
A little curiosity crept into his voice.
“Anything serious?”
“Not for you or me,” I told him. “A guy was shot with a gun.”
“One of the unloaded ones?” Quirt asked.
I told him the police weren’t sure about that yet. He said he’d better be getting closer to the café because it was near a corner and there might be a side entrance. He couldn’t see the cab from the phone booth. I wished him luck and hung up. Up in my room I ordered soup and some light food. I kept the right side of my head away from the waiter. After I’d eaten I lay down and tried to think. It hurt so much that I quit. Sleeping was easier.
2
The phone bell woke me up and sent a lot of nasty vibrations through my aching head. I switched a light on, looked at my watch. It was ten thirty. I picked up the receiver and told Quirt that Mr. Evans was talking. He said that he was over at Mary’s place and that Joe was glad to know I was in town and did I want to play some golf tomorrow. I told him I’d be too busy with the Charlie Cleaver deal, and he said that Mrs. Somers had been in and was anxious for me to look at the Matisse she’d picked up. I told him that was fine. He said that his Aunt Lizzie was coming on in a few days, and he hoped I’d stay over long enough to meet her. I said I hoped so.
I was getting sort of bored and asked him if he couldn’t tell me something that was news, and he said that the way things were breaking I’d have to stall them off on the pipe deal. He said a certain party was pressing him. I got the idea that Virgie or the Donner woman was in close.
He used a lot of words and names, and every once in a while he’d stop and I’d use a lot of words and names. It was getting monotonous. And then he cut it out and talked sense.
“They didn’t split,” he said. “The place is called the Harris House. It’s a cheap hotel about three blocks from the North Side end of the Third Street bridge. They finished feeding, took the cab to a picture show. Came out after getting a lot of talk-and-sound effects, walked with the bags to the Harris House. They’ve got a room I can spot from outside, but I didn’t go in. Wanted to save my face—don’t think they’ve eyed it yet, and the lobby is small. I’m talking from a tobacco shop, and Red just came in for some pills. She’s gone back.”
I told him to stick around and to call me from another place in fifteen minutes. I needed that much time to think. We both hung up. I went over and opened the window all the way. It was pretty chilly, and the air helped. There wasn’t any way to figure it—so I decided to go over to the North Side and look over the Harris House. I dressed slowly, waiting for Quirt’s next call. One thing was evident—Virgie was sticking in town. My idea of the reason was that it had something to do with green ice.
3
The Harris House was a three-story, dirty brick building on a street a block from a cheap-stored main street. The cold wind that swept in from the river didn’t bring very pleasant odors along with it. I walked around past the side entrance and looked at the lights in a few of the windows. They didn’t tell me anything. Then I walked around past the main entrance. Across the street I saw Quirt. I went a block toward the river, turned toward the main street. Quirt came along slowly, and when I stopped to light a cigarette he came up.
“They’re still inside,” he said, smiling at me. “What’s the matter with your head?”
I smiled back at him. “Careless of me. I walked into a door.”
He grinned. “I’d like to see it done—that way. You must have been walking sideways.”
He had the gentle smile playing around his lips. I nodded. We turned and went back to the corner, from which place we could see one entrance of the hotel.
“You had both entrances spotted?” I asked.
He nodded. “I kept moving around,” he said. “The blonde’s face is familiar.”
That was the second time he’d mentioned that face. I came through.
“Her name’s Virginia Beers—she’s from New York. She might be mixed up in the Cherulli murder. She might be mixed up in the Wirt Donner kill. She might be mixed up in the carving of the Widow in Duquesne, and in Butman’s gunning out. There are other mights, but perhaps that helps.”
He whistled softly. “Thanks,” he said. “Must have seen her face in the papers.”
I didn’t think much of that. I hadn’t seen Virgie’s face in the papers. The newshounds hadn’t figured her that important. There was something about Quirt that I didn’t like. But I couldn’t figure what.
We went around the corner, crossed a narrow street, got in the shadow of a building that had no windows on the side street. Quirt pointed out a window on the top floor, at the rear. A shade was down—there were lights on.
“That was dark when they came in—I walked around here and had a look. Then I went around front. When I came back it was lighted.”
I grunted. “Maybe someone got up and turned on the lights,” I said.
He nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “But the two ladies had just about enough time to get up there. And no other lights flashed on.”
That was better. I stood beside Quirt and looked up at the room. I decided that the best thing would be to close in on Virgie again, but with a little help.
“Got a gun?” I asked Quirt.
He nodded. “I live in a bad section,” he replied. “Carry it for protection.”
“Sure,” I returned. “We’ll go in and take a room. Then we’ll make a call. I’ll do the calling, and you just come along with your smile—and the gun.”
He didn’t say anything. I gave him a break.
“I’ll donate another hundred—for your company on the call,” I said.
He didn’t speak, and I led the way toward the entrance of the Harris House. I almost got a smile from the thought that this would be the fourth hotel I’d hit since dawn. Seventh Avenue, Gurley House, William Penn—and now the Harris House. But it wasn’t too funny.
We were ten feet from the entrance when two cars came down the street, moving fast. There was a vacant store on the left of the hotel—the entrance was dark. I shoved Quirt back in the shadow, stepped back myself. The two cars pulled up in front of the hotel entrance. There was no squeal of brakes. Men got out of each car, and they got out in a hurry. But the drivers stuck. The cars were black in color and sedans.
Green Ice Page 13
