Tiger by the Tail

by James Hadley Chase

  He thought it unlikely that Johnny would stay around in town, and besides, Johnny never had any money. But his sister had.

  Louie smiled.

  This could be turned into something if handled right. Gilda was some dish. She was earning good money making gramophone discs and singing in the smart nightclubs. She might be persuaded not only to part with a sack of dough but she might, with a little pressure, become Louie’s girl friend.

  Louie lived for women. He had a lot of success, but he was sharply aware that so far his women weren’t class. Now Gilda was class. The set-up could definitely be turned into something outstanding.

  He got up and walked over to the fly-blown mirror and surveyed his blue chin. A shave perhaps and a clean collar, he thought. She was appearing at the Casino tonight. He would drop in and have a little talk with her. He had no doubt he could persuade her to invite him back to her apartment. He had heard she was very fond of Johnny. He was confident she wouldn’t be difficult. He might even pass up the money if he could come to a satisfactory arrangement with her. This would make a refreshing change after mixing with the tough floosies who haunted the Paradise Club. After all, he could always make money, whereas to have a girl friend like Gilda was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

  A couple of hours later he entered the lush hall of the Casino. He followed the Captain of waiters along the gangway to a badly placed table behind a pillar. The Casino management wasn’t wasting valuable space on a heel like Louie, but that didn’t worry him. He had no wish to be seen. He offended the Captain of waiters by ordering a straight whisky and a plate of ham. Then he settled down to wait for Gilda’s act.

  She came on some twenty minutes later, dressed in a tight-fitting, strapless evening gown of gold lam£, and he watched her hungrily.

  Some dish! he thought. Brother! What I would do for that dame is nobody’s business.

  Her singing left him cold. He preferred his own crooners who worked at his club: girls who screeched their lungs out and who got their songs through even to the drunks at the back of the restaurant. This smooth, velvety voice with its colour and range didn’t appeal to him.

  When she had taken her encores and had disappeared behind a curtain, Louie pushed back his chair and went around to the dressing-rooms.

  The star on a door at the end of the corridor told him where she was, and he tapped with a long, glossy fingernail.

  Gilda opened the door.

  She had on a pale-green wrap that enhanced her colouring, and it was as much as he could do not to make a grab at her.

  She looked him over; her great green eyes cold and steady.

  “Yes?”

  Louie remembered she had given him that look before. Before she had

  become an established singer she had once sung at his club and he had tried to proposition her without success. His leering little smile stiffened.

  This wren would have to be taught a lesson, he told himself. He would take a lot of pleasure knocking the starch out of her when he got her where he wanted her.

  “I saw Johnny last night,” he said, leaning against the doorpost. “Want to talk about it?”

  That cracked her veneer, he noticed. She lost the high-hat look and the anxious expression that came into her eyes gave him confidence.

  “What’s there to talk about?” she asked sharply.

  “Plenty, baby, plenty,” he said, and moving forward, rode her back into the room. He closed the door and set his back against it. “Sit down and let’s be pally.”

  “I don’t want you in here. Get out!”

  “You’ll get to like it,” he said, wandering across the room and sitting in the only armchair. “Most wrens find me an acquired taste. I grow on them.”

  She studied him, then moved over to the couch and sat down. “What is it?”

  “Johnny came to see me last night. He wanted to know where he could find Fay. I told him. I wouldn’t have if I had known he was going to kill her. I thought maybe I’d see you first before I told the cops.”

  Gilda sat motionless, her face white, her eyes glittering. “He didn’t kill her!”

  “The cops will think so,” Louie said, and smiled. “They want to crack this one fast. They’ll love Johnny for the job.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “How much?” she said, clenching her fists. Louie looked surprised.

  “You’re quick, baby,” he said admiringly. “Some wrens would have…”

  “How much?”

  “Well, I thought we might go back to your apartment tonight. There could be other nights. I have an idea we could have plenty of fun together.”

  “So you don’t want money?” she said, and he was surprised to see she had suddenly relaxed.

  “I have money,” he said airily. “I haven’t got you. If it doesn’t work out the way I think it will, then we’ll make it money, baby, but we’ll try the other way first.”

  She reached for a cigarette, lit it and tossed the match into the ash-tray.

  “I’d like to think about this, Louie.”

  “It’s going to be tonight, baby, so think fast.”

  She stared down at her hands.

  “And you won’t say anything about Johnny?”

  “Not a thing, baby. Play with me and I’ll play with you.”

  “I’d like a little time. You don’t expect me to…”

  “You have until you leave the club, baby. No longer. It’s up to you.”

  She suddenly shrugged.

  “All right. It can’t kill me, can it? It’s a deal.”

  Louie beamed. Any other man would have been instantly suspicious, but Louie had an enormous opinion of his charms. He believed all women found him irresistible, and he accepted Gilda’s apparent surrender as his due.

  “You’re being smart, baby,” he said, got up and went over to her. “This could be the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship.” He caught hold of her, pulled her upright and made an attempt to kiss her.

  Gilda shoved him off with strength that startled him.

  “You’ll spoil my make-up!” she said sharply. “Keep away from me!”

  “Take it easy, baby,” he said, grinning at her. “None of those tricks tonight.”

  She gave him a long, steady stare.

  “Meet me at the stage door in an hour,” she said, crossed the room and opened the door. “I have to change.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve grown up,” Louie said. “I’ll stick around and watch.”

  “You’ll get out!” she said curtly. “You don’t own me, Louie, and I don’t have men in my room when I change.”

  “I don’t own you — yet, baby,” he said, “but I will.”

  He drifted through the doorway, turned and leered at her.

  “If you’re as good as you look, you’re good,” he said.

  She shut the door in his face.

  For some moments she stood motionless, breathing with difficulty, then she opened the door again and made sure he had gone.

  She shut the door, turned the key and went quickly over to the telephone.

  She knew Sean O’Brien was at his club. After a minute or so he came on the line.

  “Sean, I’m in trouble,” she said.

  “Okay, kid,” he said. “That’s why you have me. What can I do?”

  She drew in a deep breath of relief. It was so comforting to have someone as powerful as him behind her. She felt no matter what the emergency might be he would take it in his stride. His confidence in himself to cope with any situation scared her sometimes.

  “Louis Manchini has just left. Johnny got Fay’s address from him last night. Manchini is trying to blackmail me. I’m supposed to take him back to my apartment tonight or he’ll tell the police about Johnny.”

  “What are you worrying about, honey?” O’Brien asked, his voice deceptively mild. “You’re not in trouble; Manchini is. I’ll take care of it. Just forget about him. You won’t be bothered by him any more. Is he in the club?”
/>
  “He’ll be at the stage door in an hour’s time.”

  “Fine. Just relax. I’ll be along as soon as you’ve finished your act. We’ll leave by the front entrance. Just forget Manchini.”

  Because of his deadly calmness she was suddenly frightened.

  “You won’t have him hurt, Sean? He’s dangerous. If he told the police…”

  “That’s okay,” O’Brien said smoothly. “I know how to shut his mouth. Forget about him, kid. I’ll be along,” and he hung up.

  At twenty-five minutes to eleven, Louie left the Casino and sauntered around to the stage door.

  He was in a jubilant, excitable mood. By tomorrow morning he would have something to tell his pals, he thought, as he stood under the light immediately above the stage door.

  Louie always boasted of his conquests, and for the first time in his life he felt he would really have something to boast about.

  He looked at his wrist-watch. He was a minute or so early. Well, she had better not keep him waiting. A guy could be land or rough with a dame; she better not give him any reasons to be rough.

  Tux, looking short and squat in the shadowy darkness, walked down the alley, his hands in his coat pockets.

  “Hi, Louie,” he said. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  Louie eyed him irritably. Where the hell did this punk spring from? he wondered.

  “I’m wailing for a wren,” he said airily. “Give me some room, Tux. You’re in the way.”

  Tux smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, and Louie suddenly felt uneasy.

  “You’re not after Gilda Dorman, are you?” Tux asked.

  “What the hell’s that to do with you?” Louie demanded, backing away.

  “Plenty, pally,” Tux said, and his hand came out of his pocket. The squatnosed automatic threatened Louie. “Come on. Didn’t you know she belongs to O’Brien?”

  Louie stiffened, his face went white and his mouth turned dry.

  He stared at the gun as if hypnotized.

  “Come on,” Tux repeated. “You’ve been playing with dynamite.”

  “O’Brien?” Louie croaked. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Why should she?” Tux said, and dug the gun into Louie’s ribs. “Let’s go, pally.”

  Louie walked to the end of the alley on unsteady legs. He knew enough about Tux not to try to run.

  There was a car at the end of the alley. Whitey, a fat, jovial-looking ruffian, his chin unshaven and a lank lock of hair hanging over his ear from under his hat, sat at the wheel.

  “Hi, Louie,” he said, grinning through the open window. “Long time no see.”

  Louie got into the back seat of the car, feeling Tux’s gun ramming against his kidneys. He began to shake.

  “Where are we going, Tux?” he asked, in a faint, muffled voice.

  “We’re taking you home, pally,” Tux said amiably.

  “But this isn’t the way,” Louie wailed. “Now listen, Tux, I didn’t know she was O’Brien’s girl.”

  “We live and learn,” Tux said. “What’s all this about Johnny Dorman coming to see you last night?”

  Louie stared at him, feeling sweat running down his face.

  “That was just talk, Tux. I — I thought I’d scare the wren. There was nothing to it.”

  “The boss doesn’t like his wrens scared,” Tux said. “Okay, Whitey, this’ll do.”

  Whitey trod on the brake and the car skidded to a stop.

  Louie looked with horror at the plot of waste land stretching out before him. Beyond the plot was the river.

  “Tux! Listen! I swear…!”

  “Save it, pally,” Tux said, as he got out of the car. “Come on.” He threatened Louie with the gun. “Step out and snap it up.”

  Whitey had already got out of the car. He took a bicycle chain from his pocket and began lovingly to wrap it around his right hand.

  Louie got out of the car. His legs shook so violently he nearly fell.

  Tux put his gun away, took a bicycle chain from his hip pocket and, following Whitey’s example, he, too, began to wrap the chain around his right hand.

  “I wanted to kill you, pally,” he said softly, “but the boss doesn’t like killings. He asked me to soften you up a little just to make sure you don’t bother the girl again, and just to make sure you don’t yap to the cops. If you do, pally, I’ll come after you next time with the heater, and you’ll get it in the gut.”

  “Keep away from me!” Louie yelled, throwing up his hands to protect his head. “Keep away from me!”

  The two men suddenly closed in on him.

  CHAPTER V

  I

  Ken was in his bedroom when he heard the front-door bell ring. For a long moment he stood motionless, too scared to move. Had the police returned? Was that sergeant going to question him again? Had he given himself away? He looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was ten minutes past nine. Who could it be if it wasn’t the police?

  He went furtively to the window and looked out. There was no car at the gate. Then it couldn’t be the police. He crossed the room, opened the door and stepped into the passage.

  If he peered around the corner of the passage and across the hall he would be able to see through the glass panel of the front door who the caller was without being seen himself.

  He began to edge forward when a movement just ahead of him brought him to an abrupt standstill.

  Standing in the middle of the passage, looking up at him, was a fawn Pekinese dog.

  The dog stared up at him, its bulging eyes frog-like and expressionless.

  Ken turned cold. He stood rooted, paralysed with shock.

  He heard a soft footfall in the hall, then around the corner Sweeting appeared. He looked at Ken slyly, then he bent and picked up the dog.

  “I must apologize for Leo,” he said. “He shouldn’t have pushed in like that, but I believe he must have taken a liking to you.”

  Ken tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Holland,” Sweeting went on. “You are Mr. Holland? There were some letters in the hall I glanced at: they were addressed to you, or have I made a mistake?”

  Ken was in no state to attempt to bluff. His mind was paralysed with panic.

  “What do you want?” he said hoarsely.

  “Just a few minutes with you,” Sweeting said, stroking Leo’s head with his finger-tip. “Perhaps we could sit down? I have had a very tiring day. I won’t keep you long. It’s a business matter.” He looked into the lounge. “That looks most comfortable. Shall we go in there?”

  Without waiting, he walked into the lounge.

  “How very nice!” he said, looking around. “How very pleasant ! I envy you, Mr. Holland, having such a delightful home.” His beady little eyes went to the silver-framed photograph of Ann. “Is that your wife? What a charming girl ! How pretty ! She isn’t in, is she?”

  Ken watched this fat, oily little man walking around his lounge as if he owned it. He was slowly recovering from the shock of finding him in his home. How had Sweeting found him? What was going to happen? Was he going to blackmail him?

  “Oh, and I see you keep whisky in your house,” Sweeting said, pausing beside the liquor cabinet. “How pleasant! You know, Mr. Holland, I have always wanted to own one of these cabinets. They are so useful, and they do establish a standard, don’t they? I’m afraid I haven’t been a great success in my life. Some people are a lot more fortunate than others. Would it be discourteous of me if I had a drink? With a whisky and a comfortable chair one can always discuss a business proposition more congenially, don’t you think?”

  He set Leo down on the couch, poured himself a big shot of whisky, carried the glass to an armchair and sat down. He took off his hat, which he placed on the floor at his side and drank of the whisky.

  “Most refreshing,” he said, looking up at Ken. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Holland?”

  Ken came slowly into the room and
sat down.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “It’s about last night. A young woman was murdered in the apartment above mine. I have some information that would be of interest to the police.” Sweeting paused to smile knowingly.

  “I’m not anxious to become a police informer, Mr. Holland. I realize it is my duty to tell them what I know, but they seldom show any appreciation. After all, one has to consider one’s own interests first, I always think.”

  So it was to be blackmail. Ken reached for a cigarette and lit it with an unsteady hand.

  “I had nothing to do with the murder,” he said steadily.

  Sweeting inclined his head.

  “I am quite sure of that. If I thought you had I wouldn’t be here. I am a cautious man. I wouldn’t allow myself to become an accessory to murder. No, of course you had nothing to do with the murder, but you were in Miss Carson’s apartment when it happened, weren’t you?”

  Ken didn’t say anything.

  “I’m sure you’re too sensible to deny it, Mr. Holland,” Sweeting went on after a pause. “I saw you leave. I noted the time.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “You are in an awkward position. You must realize that it is almost impossible for you to convince the police that you didn’t murder the girl. They are always so anxious to make an arrest.”

  Ken began to feel a rising anger against this fat hypocrite who was so obviously enjoying his power.

  “All right, I admit all that,” he said curtly. “Suppose we get to the point. What do you intend to do about it?”

  Sweeting lifted his fat shoulders.

  “That depends entirely on you, Mr. Holland.”

  “It’s blackmail, is that it?”

  Sweeting smiled.

  “Some people might call it that,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s a nasty word. I would prefer to say that in return for keeping my information to myself you will give me a small pecuniary reward.”

  “What do you want?”

  Sweeting couldn’t conceal his satisfaction. The interview was going along splendidly: exactly how he had planned it to go.