Cattley must have an apartment somewhere. The telephone directory gave him the information. He dialled the number opposite Cattley’s name, but there was no answer.
Going down once more into the street, he flagged a taxi and gave an address on the East side. After he had gone a little way, he glanced out of the small rear window. A big Packard was rolling along behind him.
He thought, “Maybe I’m just jumpy,” but he watched the Packard closely. After he had been riding for several minutes he leant forward. “A bird’s sitting on our tail,” he said abruptly. “It makes me nervous.”
The taxi-driver was a big beefy Irishman. He turned his head and grinned. “Watch me shake ’em,” he said.
Duffy gave him five minutes, then said again. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
The driver pushed the cab until it began to rattle, but the Packard just sat behind them.
Duffy said, “He’s too big for you.”
“What you want me to do, boss?”
Duffy fumbled for some money. He gave the driver a couple of bucks. “Drop me at the first boozer you see,” he said; “don’t stop, just slow down. If they come after you you don’t know where you were taking me.”
“Like the movies, huh?”
“Sure, you got it. Like the movies.”
The driver suddenly crowded on his brakes and swung to the kerb. Duffy bundled out, slamming the door. He stood on the pavement, watching the cab drive on. The Packard slowed down, hesitated, then shot away at right angles, turning a corner, disappearing quickly. Duffy didn’t see who was in it. He flagged another cab and told the driver to drive on for a while. When he was sure that he hadn’t got the Packard on his tail, he gave the apartment address again.
Cattley’s apartment was big and showy. It was on the second floor of a large block. Duffy didn’t take the elevator up, he walked. On the front door, was a small metal plate bearing Cattley’s name. Duffy rang the bell. No one answered. He stood waiting. Then he rang the bell again. While he was standing there, he heard the elevator coming up. He stepped away from the door quickly and went up three stairs of the next flight. He was just out of sight from the elevator. He heard the grille slide back, and he looked round cautiously. A woman was standing in front of Cattley’s door. He couldn’t see who she was, but he watched her closely. There was something very familiar in her slim figure. She took a key from her handbag and opened the door. He came down the three stairs silently and walked into the room behind her.
“Hello, baby,” he said.
She stood quite still for a moment, then turned and faced him. Her face was a little drawn, and her eyes big.
“You frightened me.”
Duffy thought she had an iron nerve. “Nice to see you again,” he said.
Annabel English looked at him. Then she put a hand quickly on his arm. “But your face,” she said, “what has happened?”
Duffy touched his face with his finger-tips, then smiled; it was a very bleak smile. “I told you,” he said, “some toughs pushed me around.”
“It’s horrible.” She came closer to him. “They must have hurt you so.”
Duffy shrugged. “Forget it,” he said; “what brings you up here?”
She turned from him and wandered away across the room to the window. It was a shabby room. Duffy was quite surprised. The address was good enough, but Cattley had let the place run to seed. The furniture was old and battered and the walls needed attention. There was dust everywhere.
Duffy stood watching her. “What brings you up here?” he repeated.
When she reached the window she turned, so that the light was behind her. “I wanted to look round,” she said; “why are you here?”
He lit a cigarette. “You know, baby,” he said, moving further into the room and sitting on the corner of the table. “I don’t think we’re going to get along so well together.”
“Oh, but yes.”
He shook his head. “I guess I got you into a spot the other night, but you ain’t doing anything to help me get you out of it. You’re holding back on me.”
She came over to him. “May I smoke?” she said.
He took out his case and she took one. He lit it for her. “Your poor face,” she said softly.
“Quit stalling,” he said impatiently. “You know, if you don’t play ball, I’m going to ditch you.”
“Please don’t get that way.” She went and sat down in a low, overstuffed chair. She crossed her legs, and Duffy grinned.
“You women,” he said, “you think you’ve only got to show what you’ve got, and a man will roll over on his back, with his paws raised. Now, listen, this is important. What are you doing up here? How did you get a key to this joint?”
She studied her red finger-nails. “Suppose I said that I can’t tell you?”
“Okay, you can’t tell me. Well, those photos can take care of themselves.”
She raised her heavy lashes and looked at him. “Honest, Bill, just now I can’t tell you.”
He slid off the table. “I’m going to look round this joint,” he said shortly, “you sit there.”
He went into the bedroom and began a systematic search. Patiently he went through every drawer, examined the sides of the arm-chair, looked behind the few pictures of doubtful taste hanging on the walls, took the grubby bed to pieces, but he found nothing to interest him. He went into the small kitchen and hunted about there. Then he stood still and scratched his head. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he had hoped that he would have found something to give him a lead. He went to the kitchen door. Then his eyes narrowed. Annabel was sitting quite still, but he knew that she had moved from the chair whilst he was in the kitchen. Her elaborate calmness, her frank smile when he came into the room, told him.
“Have you found anything?” she said, with a great show of interest.
He began wandering round the room. “Not yet,” he said, “but I’m getting hot.”
She got out of the chair. “Where’s the Johnny?”
He stood quite still, then he jerked his head.
“Just through the bedroom,” he said.
“I won’t be a minute.”
He didn’t say anything, but watched her go into the bedroom, then he heard her shoot the bolt on the bathroom door.
He saw that she had left her bag on the table, and he went over quickly and scooped it up. He pressed on the paste diamond clasp and opened it. Quickly he emptied the contents on the table. There was the usual collection of junk that most women carry. A powder compactum, cigarette-case and lighter, a lipstick in a gold case, a small phial of scent, some letters, and a roll of greenbacks. Nothing to interest him.
Making a little grimace of annoyance, he pushed the stuff back into the bag.
Then he began to examine the room carefully. The drawers yielded nothing, but on the sideboard he noticed a cigarette box had been moved. He could see the outline of dust had been disturbed. He opened the box, but it was empty. He took it over to the window and examined it carefully. Putting his fingers inside, he gently pushed. The bottom of the box suddenly sprang up. There was nothing in the false bottom. He took the box back and put it on the sideboard again.
Annabel came into the room again, touching her red hair with her finger-tips. She was quite calm. He looked her over thoughtfully.
“Finished?” she asked, going over to the table and picking up her bag. “Suppose you come and have some coffee with me?”
Duffy mashed his cigarette out in the tray. He held out his hand. “Give,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Now don’t start being silly,” she said, there was a faint note of anger in her voice.
Duffy walked over to her. “Come on,” he said roughly. “Hand it over.”
“What is this?” She turned impatiently to the door.
Duffy said evenly, “Wait a minute, sister, you and I are going to have a little talk.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were
stormy. “We’re going right out of this place,” she said. “I’ll talk to you over coffee.”
Duffy wandered over to the door and set his broad back against it. “We’ll talk right here,” he said briefly.
She shrugged and leant against the table. “Well, what is it?”
“I want you to get this business straight,” he said; “up to now you’ve been acting like a dimwit all along. Well, you gotta wake up to things. You and I are in a murder mix-up. You stand a sweet chance of getting fried, and I’m in line for an accessory rap. You’re playing it like an afternoon tumble with the curtains drawn. Get wise to it, Redhead.”
She tapped on the floor with her shoe. “I know all that, she said, “but that gets me nowhere.”
The smile on his face was hard. “You’re holding back on me, baby, and you know it,” he said. “If I weren’t in this as an accessory, I’d let it ride. I’m in this for two reasons. One, I’m in it, if you get pinched, and two, I’ve got a little score to settle with Morgan. I’m easy enough if you play ball, but I’ll get goddam’ hard if you don’t.”
She said suddenly in a sharp voice, “Let me out of here.”
Duffy didn’t move. “You’re in a spot, sister,” he said, “there is only one way you can get out of here. You can open your pretty mouth and start squawking, and that’ll bring the cops arunnin’, asking questions. You’ll have a sweet twenty minutes, explaining why you’re here, and how you got the key to this joint. Then they’ll start looking for Cattley, and suppose they find him, what then?”
She looked at him thoughtfully, then a little smile broke on her lips. “All right,” she said, “if that’s the way you feel, let’s talk.”
Duffy shook his head sadly. “My, my,” he said. “You’re like an eel, ain’t you? Tough one minute, then the soft pedal. It ain’t getting you anywhere, sister. You came here to find something and you’ve found it. Okay, you and me are going to share it.”
She swung herself on the table, so that her skirt rode above her knees. Duffy looked at them, and thought they were nice. “You know everything,” she said; “you’re quite right, I did come here to find something. I suppose I’d better tell you all about it.”
Duffy grinned. “And with perfect grace, she confessed the truth,” he said.
“Well, I’ve been a fool,” she said, studying her nails; “naturally, I wanted to keep it to myself. You’ve guessed by now that I lied to you about writing a book?”
Duffy said, “You’d be surprised how much I do know.”
“Cattley was blackmailing me,” her voice was suddenly weary; “I’ve had to pay and pay. I did something crazy once and Cattley was there. My father would have been in a hopeless position to run for election if it got out, and Cattley was smart enough to know this. He put the screws on, and I had to pay. It’s awful of me to say this, but his death was a great relief to me.”
Duffy said, “You’re giving me a grand motive for his killing.”
She slid off the table and came over to him. “You know I didn’t kill him,” she said, “you believe that, don’t you?”
“Go on,” he said, “it don’t matter a damn what I think, it’s what the jury would think that counts.”
She moved away again, and began wandering round the room, fingering the furniture aimlessly as she moved. “Cattley was a brute. He made me visit him. He gave me the key of his apartment. I had to go to him whenever he called. I knew he had some proof of what I did, so when he was killed, I came down to find it. That’s the truth, you do believe that?”
“Sure,” Duffy beamed, “a hophead would believe it.”
She sat down suddenly in the arm-chair and hid her face in her hands. “I’m so unhappy,” she said, her voice breaking; “please be kind to me.”
Duffy came over and sat on the arm of her chair. “When you went into the Johnny just now,” he said casually, “you smuggled something in your pants or some place. You can now go right back to the Johnny and dig it out again. Then you can give it to me.”
She took her hands from her face and leant back. Her face was set. “You’ve got no right to ask for that,” she said, “it is nothing to do with you. It is entirely personal.”
Duffy put his arm round the back of the chair and patted her shoulder. “Go into the Johnny,” he said.
She got out of the chair. Her eyes were very angry. Duffy thought she looked swell. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said, speaking very fast; “I’ve told you the truth, and I’m not giving you anything. Now, understand that.”
Duffy still sat on the chair-arm. He looked her over slowly, his mouth pursed, and his eyebrows raised. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said; “I want whatever you found in this joint, and I’m going to have it.”
She started to say something, but he held up his hand. “Quiet,” he said, “if you don’t like to give it to me, I’ll take it, how’s that?”
Slowly, she began to back to the door. He could see that she was getting scared. He left his seat quickly as she reached the door, and swung her round. She struck him across his nose with her clenched fist. Duffy was quite hurt. He put his hand to his face, felt his nose gingerly, looked at his fingers to see if his nose was bleeding, then he grinned. “Well, of course,” he said, “if that’s the way you want it.”
She struck at him again, but he caught her wrist, then she closed with him, a kicking, biting, scratching handful of outraged loveliness. For a moment, Duffy was busy keeping her nails out of his eyes. He smothered her arms with difficulty, turned her. Crossing her arms across her chest, and holding them tightly by the wrists behind her, he ran into the bedroom and slammed her face down on the bed.
“You Redhead,” he said, panting a little with his exertion. “You going to play ball, or do I have to get rough?”
She said, her voice muffled, “Oh! How I hate you!”
“Come on.”
She remained silent for a minute, then she said, “All right, I’ll give it to you.”
“That a promise?”
“Yes… yes, you beast.”
He grunted and released her. She sat up, her face white and drawn. Her eyes were glittering with hate. He was quite startled to see how vicious she could look.
“Get going,” he said, suddenly losing his good temper.
She said, “Get out of the room. I have to undress.”
He shook his head. “Be your age,” he said, “I don’t trust you.
She got off the bed, and stood, her hair ruffled, her green silk dress crumpled, and battle in her eye.
“I’m not getting undressed with a heel like you looking on,” she said.
Duffy went over to the door and turned the key. He took the key out and put it in his pocket.
“You surprise me,” he said, “fancy you being coy. Sure, I’ll turn my back, but get going.”
He went and looked out of the window. A very faint sound made him jerk round again. She was almost on top of him. In her hand she was holding an empty carafe by the neck. The look in her eyes made him catch his breath. He slid along the wall away from her fast, as she smashed the carafe at him. The glass exploded all round him. The paper on the wall split, where the carafe had struck, sending a stream of plaster running to the floor.
Her face was contorted with murderous fury. He saw tiny white flecks of foam on her lips. She began to call him filthy names. Hurling them at him, through her twisted mouth.
Duffy thought she must be in a kind of fit. He was so startled that he backed away from her. She advanced slowly towards him, her hands held out in front of her, opening and closing. Every time she closed them, her knuckles stood out white. Then she came at him, like a coiled spring unleashed.
Her body struck him with her full weight, and he went back, reeling, off his balance. Her hand shot out and gripped his throat. He could feel the hot burning pain as her long nails dug into his flesh.
Swinging his fist up hard, he hit her on the side of the jaw. He didn’t put any weight be
hind the blow, but it was a nice smack, all the same. She sagged, fell on her knees, her hands running down his coat front, feebly trying for a grip, then she went forward on her face.
Duffy stepped back and took out his handkerchief. He carefully wiped off his palms, then put the handkerchief back. “For crying out loud,” he said.
He picked her up and put her carefully on the bed. She lay limp, her eyes closed, breathing hard. He made sure that she was right out, before he began to search her. He didn’t like the job, it made him feel like a snake, but he went through with it. Pushed down the top of her girdle, he found what he was looking for. A little red leather note-book. He didn’t wait to examine it there and then, he just put it carefully in his inside pocket, rearranged her dress and left her. He let himself out of the apartment, and brought the elevator up from the ground floor. While he waited for it to come up, he kept an ear cocked for any sound from the flat. It was only when he got into the street that he felt at ease. He noticed, across the road, a big Packard was standing. No one was in it. He crossed the road and glanced inside. He recognized the car as the one that had followed him. It belonged to Annabel English.
“Well, well,” he said. This was getting quite beyond him. He walked a little way down the road, then he flagged a cruising taxi. He gave McGuire’s address. When the cab jerked off, he settled himself back on the shiny leather, and took out the note-book. It was very neat, each page covered with minute writing. Just names and addresses, and against each name was a number of small denominations. He turned the pages, carefully reading each name, hoping to get some clue. At the fifth page he realized that he was reading down a list of New York’s top-liners. He went on.
There was no doubt of that. Well-known names began to jump out of the pages. Wives of bankers, stockbrokers, rich playboys, daughters of millionaires, actors and actresses, councillors, a judge here and there, quite a complete list of people in the public eye and who mattered. Duffy looked for Annabel English’s name, but he couldn’t find it. He held the book in his hand and scratched his head. He thought probably the key lay in the numbers against the names. But it had him beat. He counted the names for something better to do. They totaled just over three hundred. At the end of the book, written faintly in pencil, was a name and address, set apart from the other names. He made it out with difficulty: “Olga Shann, Plaza Wonderland Club”. He put the note-book in his pocket, and leant back brooding. Perhaps, he thought, he’d get a line from this Olga dame.
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