PART ONE

It Begins

CHAPTER I

THE LOUNGE of the Princess Hotel was crowded with stragglers, filling in time before going in to dine. At the far end of the room., waiters hovered at the open doors of the restaurant, waiting patiently for someone to come on in and eat. It was just after seven o’clock, and the room was seething with movement as people pushed past small tables to greet friends, or shouted across, whichever way they felt.

William Duffy sat in a corner, drinking a Bacardi Crusta. The table before him held a number of bottles. The barman was a friend of his and let him mix his own drinks. There was a scowl on his face and he hadn’t removed his hat. He just sat there drinking and smoking and scowling. Looking up suddenly, he saw Sam McGuire of the Tribune crawling by, muttering apologies as he lurched into small tables. Duffy reached out and touched Sam’s cuff. Sam stopped at once.

“My God!” he said, “I’m goin’ blind or somethin’.”

“You ain’t doing so badly,” Duffy said, looking him over. “You ain’t quite blind, but you’re getting on.”

McGuire hooked a chair with the toe of his shoe and pulled it towards him. He folded himself down and grinned.

“You goin’ on a bender?” he asked with interest, looking at the collection of bottles before him.

Duffy signalled the barman, who brought another glass. The barman looked the two of them over with a practised eye. “Ain’t goin’ to overdo it, are yuh?” he asked in a pleading voice.

“Okay, don’t you worry about us,” Duffy said, picking up the rum and pouring it into the shaker.

“I hope not, boss,” the barman took another long look and went back to his counter.

“Poor old George,” Sam sighed, “he’s forgotten us since he’s moved in with the Big Shots. Listen Bill, make that a strong one. I guess I’m just about all in. If you notice a funny smell in a minute, go away, I shall’ve died on you.”

Carefully Duffy added the absinthe, squeezed a lime and spooned in some sugar. He chased some crushed ice round with the tongs before getting a grip, then he sealed the shaker and went to work.

McGuire lit a cigarette and pushed his hat on to the bridge of his nose. He looked at Duffy carefully while he handled the shaker. Duffy met his eye and grinned. “Go on, I know what you’re going to say.”

“It ain’t true, is it?”.

Duffy nodded his head and poured the shaker’s contents into the two glasses. McGuire took his in his hand and rested his nose on the rim of the glass.

“Mi Gawd!” he said, “you mean old Sourpuss has tossed you out?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

Sam sat back and groaned. “What the hell—?”

“Listen,” Duffy said, “Arkwright and me have been hating each other’s guts for a long time. I never gave him a chance to bat me. Today I did. He’d been waiting for the chance and he grabbed it with two hands like a starving man would grab a dollar lunch. O boy! Did it make him feel good! He tossed me out so quickly, I’m still dizzy in the head.”

“But why, for the love of Mike?”

“I was young and innocent and you know how these things go. I didn’t think he was that sort of a boy, and look, mother, what’s happened now.”

“Skip the comedy.” Sam was sitting up with a fierce look on his broad face. “Did you slip up on somethin’?”

“You know me, I don’t slip on anything. Anyway, if I do, I cover it up all right. This was a frame. That heel Arkwright has been angling for an interview with Bernstein for weeks, and at last he got it. You know how difficult Bernstein can be. He said that art was out. Mind you, with a mug like that Yid’s got on him, I ain’t surprised he was a bit touchy Anyway, Arkwright kept right at him until he gave way. I was sent along to get the pictures. I reckoned I had a nice set until I got ’em in the bath, then Mrs. Duffy’s son had a shock. Those goddam’ plates were fogged, the whole lousy lot. Sabotage, that’s what it was. Some smart guy’d tampered with the stock. I tested the remaining plates and they were all duds.” He paused for a pull at his glass. Sam said nothing. His face was flushed and his foot tapped against the leg of the table. Duffy knew he was getting mad. “Well, I explained to Sourpuss and do you think he’d believe me? Not likely! We exchanged a few words, and I guess I got tough, so he ran me inside and they ran me outside.”

Sam helped himself to another Bacardi Crusta.

“This may put you in a spot,” he said thoughtfully. “That punk’s got the ear of most Art Editors in town.”

“Sure, I know. Unreliable, fell down on a scoop!”

Duffy finished his drink and began to mix more Bacardis. “What the hell,” he went on, “it’s my funeral anyway. Come on in and feed with me.”

Sam climbed to his feet. He looked worried. “Ain’t possible, soldier,” he said. “I’ve got to get back and put in some more sweat. Come over in the morning, will you? Alice’s goin’ to be sore about this.”

Duffy nodded his head. “I’ll be over. Tell Alice not to lose any sleep. I’ll get somethin’.”

“Sure.” Sam clouted Duffy on the back, nearly jerking the shaker out of his hands. “Keep ’em bouncin’, brother, keep ’em bouncin’.”

When he had gone, Duffy finished the last of the Bacardis and, feeling pleasantly drunk, sat back and considered his future with optimism. He glanced over to the far end of the room at the fat man who had been watching him all the evening. You can’t go two hours or so with someone’s eyes shifting all over your face without feeling it, and Duffy had been vaguely aware of intense scrutiny ever since the fat man had come in.

Feeling more interested now, he wondered indifferently who he was. In the past, he might have been unusually striking, but he had let himself go and he was running to fat in a big way. He had broad lumpy shoulders that might easily have carried a nasty punch, but he was getting thick in the middle, which told Duffy all he wanted to know. His face was big and fat, and his mouth turned down at the corners, giving him a dismal sneering look. His little eyes were restless and shifted about like black beads.

Duffy guessed he was on the wrong side of forty-five. He had dough all right. Not only were his clothes good, but they were cut right and he wore them right. There was an air of confidence that money brings; the look that tells you that the bank balance’s fat.

Getting to his feet, Duffy began an unsteady journey to the restaurant, and he purposely made a detour so that he would pass the fat man’s table. As he reached the table, the fat man climbed to his feet and stood waiting. Duffy stopped and looked him over. At close quarters he liked him a lot less.

“I’m Daniel Morgan,” the fat man said as if he were saying Rockefeller instead of Morgan. “Mr. Duffy?”

Duffy squinted at him, astonished. “Sure,” he said.

“Mr. Duffy, I want to talk to you. Will you dine with me?”

Duffy raised his eyebrows. He told himself that he wasn’t spending his money, so he said that it was okay with him. Morgan led the way into the restaurant, and Duffy thought his guess that Morgan’s wallet was well lined was a good one. He could tell by the way the waiters fawned on the fat man. He got a table in a corner, pretty secluded, and sat down. Duffy took a chair opposite him. Three waiters came bowing round them, and the wine waiter hovered outside the fringe. The maitre d’hotel came up smoothly as if he had been drawn along on wheels, and the other wops grouped themselves in a line at the back. Royal stuff, but even then Morgan wasn’t satisfied. He wanted the chef. Well, of course he got the chef.

You either get a big kick out of tossing your weight around like that, or else you feel all hands and feet. Duffy felt all hands and feet.

The chef and Morgan got into a huddle with the bill of fare. He didn’t ask Duffy what he wanted and Duffy was glad of that. He just kept talking in his deep harsh voice and the chef squeaked back at him in broken English until they had put a meal together that seemed to satisfy him. After they had done that, they got some elbow-room. Then Morgan remembered that Duffy was sitting opposite him.

“You’ll excuse me for not asking you what you would like, but on these occasions I feel the choice of a good meal lies in the hands of the chef rather than in the hands of the diner. Consult the chef and you put him on his mettle. I think you will be satisfied.”

Duffy shrugged. He began to want another drink.

“I should like to confirm a few details,” Morgan went on; “forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but my questions will eventually be to your advantage, so I must ask for your patience.”

This long-winded stuff gave Duffy a pain, but he hadn’t had oysters for a couple of years, so he let himself go with them.

Morgan didn’t seem to expect an answer, but went straight on. “I believe you resigned from the Tribune this afternoon?” he said casually.

Duffy grinned. “You’re partly right there,” he said. “I didn’t resign, I was tossed out.”

“Arkwright is a difficult man.”

This bird seemed to know all the answers. Duffy laid his oyster-fork on the plate and looked regretfully at the glistening shells. “So what?” he said.

“You may find it difficult to get a job again.”

The soup and the sherry turned up then. Duffy looked at the sherry and then at Morgan. Morgan got it all right. “Perhaps you would prefer Scotch?” he asked.

“These sissy drinks upset my guts,” Duffy said, apologetically.

The wine waiter was called and a bottle of Scotch materialized. Duffy felt he could cope with anything with that at his elbow. He gave himself a generous shot and dived into his soup again.

“As I was saying…” Morgan began.

Duffy raised his head. His eyes were hard. “You seem to know a hell of a lot,” he said sharply, “who told you——?”

Morgan waved his hand. “Please,” he said, “let me continue. I was saying, you will find another job difficult to get.”

Duffy laid his spoon down with a sharp clatter. “You know, pal,” he said, “a guy with my experience seldom stands in the bread-line. I’ve got a swell equipment, I know my job, and if the worst comes, I could set up a studio. I guess you’re being mighty pleasant with your sympathy, but I ain’t worryin’ and I’d hate to have you worry for me.”

“I’m quite sure,” Morgan said, rather hastily, “you’ll get along all right, but I have a proposition that might be extremely useful to help you start that studio.”

“What is it?”

“Before we come to that, I wonder if you would enlighten me on a few technical points of your work?”

“Sure.” Duffy was getting bored with all this. “What’d you want to know?”

“Would it be possible to get pictures of a person who is unaware of you, in ordinary lighting, in an ordinary room, who probably would be moving about. I want good pictures, not just anything.”

“It depends a lot on the room,” Duffy said, pouring some more Scotch in his glass and forgetting to put the water in after it. “I wouldn’t like to say without seeing the room. It depends so much on the walls, if they reflect the light. If you don’t want real art, I could get you pictures all right. Pictures that would reproduce.”

“You could do that?”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be so hard.”

Morgan seemed satisfied with that and went off on another long-winded ramble about nothing at all. They went through the dinner without getting anywhere, and Duffy guessed Morgan was stalling until he had finished the meal. He was right, for when the coffee was served, Morgan lit a cigar for Duffy and one for himself and got down to business.

“This is a delicate situation,” he said, pursing his thick lips, and letting the heavy smoke slide, almost hiding his face. “I don’t want you to know too much about it. The less you know the better for both of us. My wife’s being blackmailed and I want to help her out.”

Duffy grunted. He was surprised, but then you never knew what was coming to you, he told himself.

“Unfortunately my wife and I don’t get on as well as we might.” Morgan fidgeted a little with his liqueur glass. “We don’t live together. However, that does not concern you. She is being blackmailed and I’m going to put a stop to it. She won’t come to me for help, but that does not alter the situation. I want to catch this blackmailer with the goods. This is where you come in. I want you to get pictures of her giving this crook money, then I can crack down on him. It is no use trying to co-operate with Mrs. Morgan, she wouldn’t want me to help her. I can get you into her apartment and you must do the rest. I shall pay you well.”

Duffy didn’t like this. He thought there was a phoney smell that went with it. He shifted in his chair.

“This sounds like a job for a private dick,” he said, without any enthusiasm.

Morgan seemed to expect opposition. “I want pictures,” he said with emphasis. “To get them, I must employ an expert. You’ll be wanting money pretty soon, and you’re an expert. I think it fits, don’t you?”

Duffy told himself that if he was going to pull this job, the dough had to be right.

“Now as to terms.” Morgan spread his big hands on the table-cloth and looked at them. “I will give you five hundred dollars down, and a thousand dollars for every good picture you turn in.”

Duffy got his nerve back with a long drink. He was getting pretty high by this time, but he was still cautious. “You must want those pictures mighty bad,” he said, thinking that he could do himself well with fifteen hundred bucks.

“I do,” Morgan said. “I want them fast too. Will you do it?”

Duffy waved a hand. “Take it easy,” he said, “you’re rushing me. I want to get this straight. You want me to go to your wife’s apartment and take pictures of her and someone else and turn these pictures over to you, that right?”

Morgan was getting impatient, Duffy could see that, but he held himself in with an effort. “That’s right,” he said.

“What happens if she spots me and sends out the riot call?”

“She won’t spot you,” Morgan said shortly. “Let me give you the idea. She is crazy about music and she’s rich enough to indulge herself. In her sitting-room she has a small organ loft. This loft’s a kind of balcony about ten feet from the floor, looking into the room. It’s reached by a special staircase and there is a back entrance to the staircase.”

Duffy reached for the Scotch, but Morgan put his hand on the bottle. “Don’t you think…?” he began, but Duffy took his hand away. He just lifted the fat man’s hand and flung it back at him. His eyes looked annoyed.

“Listen,” he said tersely, “if you think I’m gettin’ drunk, forget it. When I want a drink, I have a drink, see?”

Morgan shrugged. His face was pale and he gently rubbed his wrist. “Quite a grip you have there,” he said.

Duffy grinned. “Sure,” he said. He poured the Scotch into the glass and swallowed it. “Go on,” he said.

Morgan tapped on the table with his thick fingers. “You see, my wife didn’t want the musicians tramping through her room. They could come up the back entrance and get fixed without any fuss. All you have to do is to go up the stairs and lie on the floor in the dark and take photos of the room below. You can’t be spotted.”

When he put it like that, Duffy thought it certainly seemed easy. At the same time, something told him that this set-up was not quite on the level. For one thing, Morgan didn’t give him any confidence. On the other hand, the dough was good, and he was going to need it. He had another go at him.

“Let’s look on the dark side,” he said; “suppose she takes it into her head to play the organ and finds me up there, what then?”

Morgan shrugged his fat shoulders. “There’s no other way up to the loft, so all you have to do is to slip the bolt. Once you’re there, you’re safe.” He took out his wallet and pushed five one-hundred-dollar bills over the table. “Besides,” he said with a little oily smile, “you surely expect to earn this money and not just have it given you.”

Duffy reached over and took the bills. He shoved them in his inside pocket. “Okay,” he said, “when do I start?”

Morgan pulled out a gold watch and glanced at it. Duffy noticed that his hand shook a little. “It’s just after ten now,” he said, “you’ve got to get your equipment, and then go to the house. I think we could start now.”

Duffy got to his feet and pushed back the chair with his legs.

Morgan looked at him and said quietly, “I want to impress on you that this is important….”

Duffy raised his hand. “Skip it,” he said, “you don’t have to tell me all that again. A thousand bucks a picture is more than important to me.”

Morgan climbed out of his chair. “You can do quite a bit with money like that,” he said.

Duffy said, “You’re telling me.”

CHAPTER II

MORGAN HAD BEEN quite right. The whole set-up was easy. Duffy sat on his heels in the organ loft and felt hilariously at home. The small camera hung round his neck by a strap and the lighting of the room gave him no misgivings. He was going to make some money, he told himself. The organ loft was just as Morgan had described. It had an uninterrupted view of the room below and it was partly screened by heavy magenta curtains. Duffy had bolted himself in, and with the help of a pint of Scotch that he had brought with him, his nerves were calm and he could take a professional interest in his work.

He set the camera, using a big stop and a fairly fast shutter. Then he settled himself down to wait. Morgan had driven him to his apartment to collect his equipment and then had driven him to the back entrance to the loft. Morgan seemed to have had the whole thing planned carefully and it ran on oiled wheels. He had arranged to meet Duffy at the Princess bar that night, and Morgan was prepared to wait until he came.

Duffy looked down at the room with appreciation. It was a pretty swell joint, he told himself. The decoration was in magenta and cream. A cream pile carpet on the floor, and the large leather chairs, half cream and half magenta, gave the room a smart modern appearance. Duffy thought he’d like to have a place like this for his own.

He glanced at his wrist-watch. It was getting on for midnight. He wished that he could smoke, but he thought that that would be too risky. He wondered how long he had to wait. Just then the door below opened and a woman walked in hurriedly. She crossed the room and disappeared through another door. She had moved so quickly that Duffy hadn’t had a chance to see what she was like. He cautiously spread himself on the floor, so that he was lying full length, his elbows supporting his arms as he swung the camera into position. He found that he could aim the camera through the narrow slots of the balcony, and he knew that he was completely hidden from the room below. He made himself comfortable by taking out a pint bottle of Scotch from his pocket, which was digging into him, then he settled down to wait.

A quarter of an hour dragged past, and he began to get fidgety, but suddenly he heard a faint whir of an electric bell. He stiffened and looked towards the door expectantly. The woman came out and crossed the room. He could see her now, and he thought, “O boy! O boy!” She was tall and slender. The pale green wrap of heavy silk which she had changed into set her figure off sharply. Duffy appreciated his private view. He admired her skin, which was pale and lovely, and he told himself that a dame with eyes as large as hers was a menace to weak men. He felt mighty weak himself towards her. Her scarlet lips promised passion, and he thought the red-gold hair was just the right finish to a mighty swell job. He thought Morgan showed a nice taste in women, but at the same time he wondered how a dame like that could have fallen for Morgan in the first place. It didn’t surprise him in the least that she had given Morgan the air.

He watched her go to the door, and when she came back into the room again a man followed her closely. Duffy looked with interest at him. He was short and slight, with dark wavy hair. He seemed nervous and his face was unusually pale. The woman sat on the arm of a chair, quite close to a lamp standard. Duffy noted that the light fell directly on her. He focused his camera and gently pressed the release. The shutter slid with a faint click and Duffy pulled the triggerlike film-changer.

The man below said in a low voice, “You got it?”

When she spoke, her voice came drifting up to Duffy in a soft cadence. She had that rather breathless voice with a very faint huskiness that make most men interested. Duffy was more than interested.

She said, “I have the money.” She spoke with contempt, and the man squirmed under her gaze. “Did you bring the stuff?”

“I want the dough first,” he said; “make it snappy, lady, it ain’t too healthy for me being here.”

Again she looked at him, then turning to the table she pulled out a drawer. Duffy saw her take out a thick wad of greenbacks. He again pressed the release. The faint click of the shutter seemed to roar in his ears. Down below, they noticed nothing. He saw the woman give the money and then the man, in his turn, hand over a small parcel. Duffy fired off his camera, pulling the film-changer rapidly, intent on what was happening below him. Then he lowered the camera, satisfied that he had got what he wanted. He reckoned he had at least twenty photos, and most of those would be nice ones. He calculated that five thousand bucks would be his by the morning, and he groped on the floor for the Scotch. He still kept his eye on the two in the room, but nothing was happening to get excited about, and he felt that a drink would help him along. At the back of his brain he was trying to place the short man down there in the room. He had seen him somewhere, but where it was, for the moment, escaped him.

The man was moving to the door now. He sidled like a crab, watching the red-headed woman closely. She followed him out of Duffy’s sight and after a short delay she came back again. Duffy watched her. She relaxed into one of the chairs. Her green wrap parted and Duffy could see her long white legs. He raised himself slowly, so that he could see better. This dame was certainly a honey. He wondered if she had anything on under that wrap. The thought disturbed him, and he nearly wrenched his neck muscles trying to see more of her. He felt dispirited leaving her all on her own, but then, Morgan was waiting and so was the dough. He guessed that he wouldn’t get to the first base with this dame without dough, and to get it he had to leave her. He rose quietly to his feet and took a step back. Something hard dug him in the back.

“Grab a little air, lug,” said a voice in his ear.

In the ordinary run of things, Duffy’s nerves were pretty sound, but this nearly ruined his heart. He felt his long limbs quiver with shock, and he raised his hands quickly.

“Take it easy,” went on the voice, “don’t start anything.”

Duffy turned his head very slowly and looked over his shoulder. Standing behind him was a broad-shouldered man, wearing a black Fedora, pulled down low. In spite of Duffy’s usual nonchalance, he felt his short hairs on his nape bristle. There was something utterly repulsive in the hard white face behind him. It gave Duffy the same feeling he might have got if he turned over a rotten log that had been lying in long grass for some time, and suddenly seen the foul things the log hid. The scurry of beetles and ants, the brown dead grass, and the white fungi, and particularly the long white slug that squirmed away from the sunlight. Down below he heard a door shut, and he guessed that the woman had left the room.

Keeping his hands raised, he said, “For the love of Mike, where did they find you?”

The man’s eyes were almost closed, but the light in the room was sufficient for Duffy to see that they were mean and hard. He dug the gun into Duffy hard.

“Stand still,” he said again. His voice was hoarse as if he smoked too much. He put out a hand and snatched the camera hanging from Duffy’s neck. The strap snapped, jerking Duffy’s head forward.

“Hi!” Duffy said, in alarm. “You ain’t pinching my outfit?”

“Shaddap,” the man snarled at him.

A violent rage consumed Duffy. “A frame-up, huh?” he snorted. “Mr. Sonofabitch Morgan wants his pictures for nothing?”

“If you don’t stop yappin’, I’ll blast your guts,” the other rasped. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ in here?”

Duffy began to lower his hands, but the gun dug into him again. “Listen,” he said, “I’m just doin’ a job of work. Come to that, what about yourself?” All the time he was speaking, he was wondering if this tough would shoot him. He began to think he was in a bit of a spot.

“I guess we’ll go for a little walk,” the other said. There was a threat in his voice, but he took a step back, taking the gun from Duffy’s side. Duffy didn’t hesitate. He took a deep breath and suddenly kicked back with his heel. He hoped to connect with the other’s leg. Maybe splinter his shin-bone for him, but his leg shot back meeting nothing, and before he could save himself he toppled over the low balcony and crashed into the room below.

He came down on his hands, breaking his fall by sliding a little on the carpet. For a moment the shock did things to him, then he sat up.

A door opened and he looked up gingerly, wondering it his brain had broken loose from its moorings. The red-head was standing there. She crossed her arms over her breasts and screamed. A breathless little scream that made Duffy want to put his arms round her and soothe her; not perhaps quite the same way as a mother might soothe her hurt child, but along those lines. When he saw the .25 in her hand he changed his mind.

Women with guns made him nervous. He could never believe that they were safe with them. Before now, a woman had held him up with a gun. He remembered one particularly irate blonde who had been so mad with him that she had squeezed the trigger a little too hard. The thought made him sweat a little, and he sat on the floor very still, giving her no cause for alarm.

Her eyes were large and scared, and her red lips were parted, showing her white even teeth. Duffy thought she was pretty good.

“Who… who are you?” she stammered breathlessly.

“Lady,” he said, holding his head in his hands, “I’m asking myself the same question.”

“What are you doing here?”

Duffy looked at her through laced fingers. “Would you mind very much putting that rod away? I’ve just fallen out of that loft and my nerves won’t stand any more.”

“Will you tell me what you are doing here?” She was getting her nerve back, and her voice was steady.

“For the love of Mike don’t start gettin’ tough,” he pleaded, “take a look at that hoodlum up there before you get that way.”

She looked frightened again. “Is there anyone else up there?”

Duffy laughed shortly. “I should say so,” he said, rubbing the back of his head gingerly, “he’s just tossed me out, so I should know.”

She took a step back hastily and looked up into the loft, then she shook her head. “There’s no one there.”

Duffy groaned. “The so-and-so’s pinched my camera,” he said wearily. “Do you mind if I get up? There’s a draught round here that ain’t doing me much good.”

“I think you had better stay where you are;” she said firmly. She held the gun steady as she reached for the telephone.

“Don’t do that,” Duffy said in alarm, “you ain’t calling the cops, are you?”

“Isn’t that what I ought to do?” she asked, her hand hesitating on the receiver.

“Listen, Mrs. Morgan, I can explain everything. It’s all a big mistake,” Duffy said; then he pondered and went on, “I’ve heard that crack before. My God, I must be losing my grip or somethin’.”

She lowered the gun in her astonishment. “Why do you call me that?” she asked quickly.

Duffy stiffened a little. “Ain’t you Mrs. Morgan?”

“No, of course not.”

He scrambled to his feet and waved his hands at her as she jerked up the gun. “Okay, okay, skip it,” he said impatiently, “this is important. Who are you?”

She tapped her foot on the floor. “What is this?”

“I’ll tell you what this is,” Duffy said furiously, “I’ve been taken for a ride. You’ve got to get this straight. Listen, Toots, I’m Duffy of the Tribune. Some guy who called himself Morgan spun me a yarn that you were his wife and you were being blackmailed. He wanted me to take photos of the crook who was putting the screws on you. I fell for this guff and came up to the hen-roost here and took photos of you and the guy you slipped the money to. Just as I am reaching for my hat and calling it a nice day’s work, some thug hops up, pinches my camera, and heaves me out on my neck. You tell me you ain’t Mrs. Morgan. In your own interests you’d better tell me who you are.”

She stared at him and then said finally, “I think you must be mad.”

“Use your head,” Duffy was getting impatient, “can’t you see that you’re in a spot? Morgan wanted a photo of you with this other guy and he’s got it. Ask yourself why.”

She still stared at him and shook her head “I don’t understand… I don’t believe…”

He slid across to her in one movement and pushed the gun away. “For Krizake,” he said roughly, “will you listen to me? Who was the guy you gave that money to?”

His urgency touched her and she said quickly, “I don’t know. I think his name’s Cattley…”

Duffy stepped back. “Cattley… of course. By heck! I must be losing my grip. Cattley…” He swung round on her. “What the hell are you doing with a rat like Cattley?”

Her eyebrows came together. “Will you stop asking me questions—?” she began.

“Listen, baby.” Duffy came close to her. His voice had a sharp edge to it. “Cattley’s got a name that stinks in this town. Everyone knows him. Cattley the pimp. Cattley the dope. Cattley the slaver. I tell you he’s poison to dames like you. You… you’ve let yourself be photographed with him… and someone’s got those photos Does that mean anything to you?”

“But….” she stopped and he saw she had gone pale.

“Yeah! That’s made you think. Sit down and tell me quick. Make it snappy; I’ve got things to do.”

She turned on him suddenly with furious eyes. “You started this,” she stormed at him. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Forget it!” he snapped at her. “I’m getting those pictures back all right. But you’ve got to wise me up a hell of a lot before I do.”

The flash of temper was gone almost before it started. She sat down limply on the large settee and tossed the gun on the table. Duffy winced a little. Women were hell when it came to handling guns. He took a quick glance and saw that the safety catch was still down.

“Now come on, come on, let’s get down to it,” he said, sitting on the edge of the table. “What’s your name?”

“Annabel English,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap.

“What are you? Just a little dame with plenty of dough, running round lookin’ for a good time?”

She nodded. Duffy lit a cigarette. “Yeah! I bet you are, and I bet you have a pretty nice time of it What’s this Cattley to you?”

Her face flushed and she hesitated. “I—I asked him to get material on the… the underworld.” She stopped. The colour in her face was deep.

Duffy groaned. “For the love of Mike, don’t tell me you’re writing a book or something,” he pleaded; “a Society-dame-looks-on-the-underworld stuff?”

“I thought it would be amusing,” she said. “It’s about the White Slave traffic….”

He threw up his hands. “So you thought you would write a book on the White Slave traffic, did you?” he said, dragging smoke into his lungs and letting it drift from his nostrils. “And you’ve to pick on the worst hoodlum in town to help you. Well, I reckon you’d better change your ideas and write a book on blackmail. You’re going to get a grandstand seat in this racket, and if you ain’t careful you’re going to pay plenty.”

She looked up swiftly, her face resentful. “What am I to do?”

Duffy slid off the table. “You ain’t doing a thing at the moment. I’m getting that camera back. That’s the first thing.”

He walked over to the telephone. “Take a look in the book and see if you can find Daniel Morgan in it,” he said, spinning the dial. She got to her feet and began to rustle through the directory While he was waiting for the line to connect he let his eye run over her as she leant forward over the table. “Annabel English,” he thought. “A swell name and a nice little job.”

A sharp metallic voice snapped in his ear, “Tribune here, what department do you know?”

“H’yah, Mabel,” he said. “Dinny in?”

“Hold on an’ I’ll put you through.”

McGuire came on the line. “Hello, pal,” he said. Duffy thought he sounded a little drunk.

“Listen, soldier,” Duffy said, keeping an edge on his voice. “This is important. Will you meet me at the Princess Hotel right away?”

McGuire groaned. “Aw, what you think I am? I’m goin’ home. Listen, bozo, what’ll Alice say? I ain’t been home all this week.”

Duffy was certain McGuire was drunk. “I’ll fix Alice,” he said. “Get going and make it fast.” He hung up as McGuire began to protest again.

Annabel English said, “There are ten Daniel Morgans in the book.”

“That’s okay,” Duffy returned. “I’ll find him.” He walked over to her. “Now you forget about this… leave it to me. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and let you know how it went.” He paused, looking into her blue smoky eyes. “You all alone here?”

She nodded. “I sent my maid out for the evening, didn’t want her to see Cattley….”

“You ain’t scared?”

“Why should I be?” She looked startled.

Duffy shrugged his shoulders. “Why, I just thought…” He suddenly grinned at her. “If I get that camera, shall I come back an’ see you tonight!”

Her eyes laughed at him, but her face was quite serious as she shook her head. “I shan’t be alone….”

“Who’s your boy friend…?”

She walked slowly to the door. He could see her smooth muscles moving under the green wrap. He knew that she hadn’t anything on under that. She looked over her shoulder. “I think you had better go now,” she said, “I’ve heard that you newspapermen get funny ideas when you’re alone with girls.”

Duffy looked round for his hat and found it near the settee. “Well, what of it?” he said, walking to the door. They stood quite close, facing each other. “What the hell’s a girl got to beef about if he does? Ain’t that a compliment to the girl, anyway? By heck! I can guess how they’d feel if we didn’t get that way sometimes!”

She opened the door and he walked past her. Standing in the doorway, he faced her again. “Well, good night, Toots,” he said with his wide grin, “sleep easy I’m goin’ to do things for you.”

Pushing the door slowly to, she kept his eyes watching her. Then when the door was nearly shut she leaned forward. “Did you say your name was Duffy?”

“Yeah!”

Anything else?”

“Bill Duffy, if you like.”

“It’s a nice name.” She leant against the doorway, the door pulled against her fat hip.

Duffy stood there, putting his personality over on a short wave. “It’s an old family name,” he said modestly and grinned.

She raised her eyebrows. “So?”

Duffy moved a little her way until he leant against the wall, touching her shoulder. “We Duffys go for red-heads,” he said.

She raised her chin. Her lips invited his. “Yes?” she said.

He touched her lips with his. A long green arm slid round his neck and pulled his head down. She did not close her eyes and when he looked into them he tried to jerk his head away, but she held him hard. Stormy, hungry wild eyes she had. He stood there, his mouth crushed on hers, startled by her fierceness. She suddenly drove her teeth into his top lip. The pain stung him, and he pushed her away violently, starting back with an angry oath. She stood looking at him, her red-gold hair wild, and her eyes big and dark, stormy with passion. She took a step back and slammed the door in his face.

Duffy stood there, dabbing his lip with his handkerchief.

“That dame’s gonna let herself go one day,” he said to himself, “and when she does, she’s going to make a meal of someone.”

He walked slowly to the elevator and pressed the button. His lip was beginning to swell already. He stood before the grille, waiting for the elevator to come up. “My God,” he thought, “what a hell of a night!”

As the elevator came up slowly he saw, lying on the roof, the mangled body of a man. He watched the roof glide past him, carrying its grisly burden, then the empty cage came to rest at his floor.

He stood very still, feeling the sweat start out all over him. He said, “Well, well,” for something better to say, then he walked bark to the flat and hammered on the door.

CHAPTER III

SHE DIDN’T COME to the door at first. It was only by keeping his thumb on the buzzer, while the minutes ticked by, that Duffy got her to come at all. When she did come, she had the door on the chain. Duffy thought it was a hell of a time to start playing around with door-chains, but he let it drift with the current.

She started to close the door when she saw who it was, but Duffy got the toe of his shoe in first.

“Listen, bright girl,” he said, “open up, and be your age. You’ve got a corpse on your hands right outside.”

“I honestly believe you’re as mad as a coon,” she said breathlessly, “or very, very drunk.”

Duffy leant his weight against the door, his face pressed against the small opening. “Cattley’s on the roof of the elevator. First glance, I’d say it was in the basement when he hit it.”

He saw her eyes widen, and then she giggled. He’d have forgiven her if she had screamed, or even passed out, but the giggle made him mad. He took a step back.

“That suits me, if that’s the way you want it.”

She pushed the door to, slipped the chain, then opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

“Wait,” she said, putting her hand on his sleeve. Her hand looked white against his dark suit.

“Someone’ll want this elevator in a moment, and then things are going to happen.”

“Is he really I mean, you’re not just saying this to scare me?”

He got in the elevator, slid the grille and pressed the down button. He let the elevator sink half-way, then broke the current by opening the grille. He climbed out with a struggle, leaving the cage between floors.

“Does that look like a bedtime story?”

She peered at Cattley, not moving her body, but just craning her neck. One of her hands went to her mouth. “Is he dead?”

“Do you think he’s catching some sleep? Look at him, baby, look at his arms and legs. Could you sleep like that?”

She turned on him angrily. “Well, do something about it,” she said.

He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re as dumb as you seem to be. You couldn’t be dumber than a hophead, the way that brain of yours works. Do something about it? Well, what you want me to do? Send for the cops? Call an ambulance? What?”

She raised both hands and pushed her hair off her ears. She did it unconsciously. “But you must know what to do,” she said.

Duffy stood looking at Cattley with a faint grimace, then he went over and took hold of him. He gripped his arm and shoulder. It gave him quite a turn when the arm bent back at the elbow. There were a very few bones in one piece with this guy. He pulled and slid Cattley off the roof and let him as gently as he could on to the floor. Cattley’s legs folded up, but not at the knees, they folded up in the middle of his shins. Duffy felt himself sweating. Putting his hands under Cattley’s shoulders, he dragged him into the flat and laid him out in the hall.

“What are you bringing him in here for—?” Her voice was pitched half a note higher.

“Don’t talk now,” he said, looking with disgust at the blood on his hands. “This guy’s going to make a mess in your joint, but it’s better than making a mess of you.”

He walked back to the lift and inspected the roof. The woodwork was smeared with blood.

“Get me a wet towel,” he said.

She went into the apartment, carefully walking round Cattley. He stood by the lift watching her. She’d got a good nerve, he told himself. She came back again with a wet hand-towel. He took it from her and carefully mopped off the bloodstains. Then he wiped his hands on the towel and folded it neatly. He walked into her apartment and put the towel on Cattley’s chest. She followed him in, again skirting Cattley, drawing her green wrap close to her.

“Will you see if he’s got the money on him still?” she said.

Duffy looked at her hard.

“What makes you think the money ain’t there?”

“It’s the way I said it. I meant will you get the money from him.”

Duffy grimaced. “I hate handling this bird. He’s brittle.”

She came and stood close to him, looking down at Cattley. “Isn’t he going to get stiff soon?” she said. “Hadn’t you better straighten him out a little before he gets that way?”

Duffy said, “For God’s sake,” but he knelt down and cautiously pulled on Cattley’s legs. One of his shin-bones poked up through his trousers leg. Duffy got up and looked round the hall. He went over to the coat-rack and selected a walking-stick. Then he came back to Cattley and put the ferrel of the stick on the shin-bone and pressed. The leg straightened, and he did the same with the other one.

His face was a little yellow, and sweat glistened on his top lip. Cattley was making him feel a little sick. He hooked the handle of the stick round Cattley’s arm and put his toot against Cattley’s body, then he pulled gently. The arm came out from under Cattley like a limp draught-preventer.

Cattley’s head lay on his right shoulder. The skin round the neck had split a little. Duffy straightened the head too with the stick.

“Want me to cross his hands?” he said, for something to say. All the time he was fixing Cattley, she stood at his elbow and watched. Then she said, “Get the money!”

Duffy looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “Leave the money where it is,” he said shortly, “get me a drink.”

She went into the sitting-room and he followed her. He suddenly found that he was still holding the walking-stick. It had blood-smears on it. He went and put it beside Cattley. Then he walked back into the sitting-room again.

She stood by the table, fixing a Scotch. He took the glass from her before she could add a Seltzer and tossed the liquor down his throat. It was good Scotch. Silky and full of body, with no raw bite in it. He felt it in his belly, a round little knot of warmth. He took the bottle from the table and poured himself another glass.

“Did you kill him?” he said, looking at her over the top of the glass.

She spread her hands across her breasts, standing very quiet for a moment, then she said, “Was he killed?”

Duffy took another pull at his glass. “Use your head,” he said shortly, “how could he have fallen down the shaft? He wasn’t drunk, was he? Think a moment. He goes out of your apartment. The elevator is standing on the ground floor. He opens the grille to look at it, then he feels giddy and falls down. They wouldn’t pass it in a nut factory.”

She was going white again and she sat on the edge of the table. Her wrap fell open, showing her knees, but neither of them bothered with that.

“This is the way it went. Cattley goes out to the elevator and is smacked on the dome, then he is tossed down the shaft. That makes sense.” Duffy put the glass down on the table and lit a cigarette. “You ain’t answered my question Did you kill him?”

“No,” she said.

“There’s only one person who’s going to believe that,” Duffy said, “and that’s you.”

She raised her head. Her big eyes were frightened now. “You don’t think I killed him?” she said; her words ran into each other.

“Can’t you see what a spot you’re in?” he asked patiently. “Look, let me wise you up. Cattley calls on you to sell you something. You say it’s material for a book; okay, it’s material for a book. You show him the door and then, there he is on the elevator roof smashed to bits.”

“That doesn’t prove that I killed him,” she said breathlessly.

Duffy shrugged. “It helps,” he said; “let me have a look at that material he sold you.”

She slid off the table and walked into her bedroom. Duffy sat down in an arm-chair. He gave her a few minutes, then he called, “I guess the killer pinched it.”

She came out of the bedroom, her face white. She stood in the doorway, one hand at her throat, the other gripping the door-handle.

“I… I can’t find it,” she whispered.

Duffy pursed his lips. “I bet you can’t,” he said. Then he got to his feet. He walked over to her and took both her elbows in his hands, he drew her towards him. “You’re a goddam silly little loon,” he said evenly, “you think you can play this out on your own. Well, you can’t. You’ve put on the thinnest act I’ve ever struck. That writing a book on the underworld went out with the Ark. Get wise to yourself, redhead.”

She drew away from him. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice a little flat and toneless.

Duffy scratched his head. “This is a hell of a night,” he said, then he stood very still, his fingers spread through his hair. “I wonder…” he broke off, looking at Annabel. “It looks to me that Morgan wants you to take the rap for Cattley’s murder,” he said, speaking rapidly, “it fits, by God!” He was getting quite excited. “Listen, baby, how’s this for a theory? Morgan gets me to photograph you and Cattley. Cattley gets smacked down by one of Morgan’s mob just outside your door and tossed down the shaft. I get my camera pinched containing the photos. All Morgan has to do is to threaten to turn the pictures over to the cops for you to dive into your deposit account and fork out plenty.”

Annabel was scarcely breathing. “Will you help me?”

Duffy said, “I can’t help myself, can I?”

“You’re being nice, aren’t you?”

“Nice, hell! I took the photos, didn’t I? I’ve got to do something to square that.”

She dropped into the arm-chair, and held her hand over her eyes. Duffy looked at her and then fetched another glass from the wagon. He poured in three fingers of Scotch and then filled his own glass. He came over to her. “Can you drink this stuff?” he said.

She took the glass from him. “I don’t want it,” she said.

“You’d better get a little drunk,” he said, “you’ve got a nasty job on your hands.”

She looked at him and he jerked his head at the door. “J guess we’ve got to get rid of Cattley.”

She said, “Can’t you do it?”

He grinned mirthlessly. “You’re in on this, too, sister,” he said. “I’m helping you, but I ain’t taking any rap.”

She drank the whisky neat and he gave her a cigarette.

“In a couple of hours that bird’s going to get as stiff as a board. I guess he won’t be too nice to handle like that. Now, we could pack him in a bag without much fuss.”

She shuddered.

“It beats me where the hell we’re going to plant him.” Duffy began to pace the floor. “He’s got to remain planted and he ain’t going to be found. As soon as they turn him up, then those photos will come into the market. It’s the only way we can beat their game ”

He looked at her. “Go and get dressed,” he said.

She got out of the chair and moved over to the bedroom. “Give me a trunk, if you’ve got one,” he said.

She paused. “There’s one in here,” she said.

He followed her into the bedroom. She pointed to a large wall cupboard and he opened the door. In the corner was a small black cabin trunk. It was covered with labels. There seemed to be every hotel under the sun advertised on its black shiny sides. He looked at it and then he said, “You’ve got about.” She didn’t say anything. He hauled the trunk out and dragged it into the sitting-room.

“You got a sheet of mackintosh that I could wrap him in?” he called.

She came to the door. “Mackintosh?”

“He’s going to mess this trunk without it.”

She went across to another door and disappeared. He could hear her rummaging about, then she came out with a large luggage wrap. “Will this do?”

“Yeah.” He took it from her.

“Don’t say ‘yeah’,” she said.

He stood holding the mackintosh. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s tough.”

He stood staring at her. “Suppose it is tough,” he said, “isn’t this a hell of a time to start a crack like that?”

“Do you think so?”

He let the luggage wrap slide out of his hands on to the floor. He could see her eyes were completely blank. She was hissing a little through her teeth. She fumbled with the girdle round her waist until she had it undone. The green wrap fell open and he saw she was naked. She stood a little on her toes, her hands clenched at her sides.

“Take me,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, “take me, take me, take me.”

Duffy smacked her face. He could see the marks of his fingers on her white skin. Then he smacked her face again. She blinked twice. Her eyes became human again, and she stood looking at him, a surprised and frightened look on her face.

“Get dressed,” Duffy said thickly. He could only think of Cattley.

She turned away from him and walked limply into the bedroom, then she shut the door.

Duffy blotted his face with his handkerchief. He picked up the mackintosh sheet and walked into the hall. All the time he was telling himself what a sweet spot he had got himself into. It was bad enough to have to handle Cattley in the state he was in, but a dame as screwy as Annabel flattened him. He looked at Cattley in disgust. “If you weren’t going to stiffen on me, I’d be having fun right now,” he said viciously.

He spread the sheet flat by Cattley’s side, then he picked up the walking-stick and hooked hold of Cattley’s armpit. He couldn’t quite bring himself to touch him with his hands. With a little maneuvering he rolled him on to the sheet. Then he knelt down and made a neat parcel of the body.

By the time he had done that he felt so low that he went back into the sitting-room and gave himself another shot of Scotch. His legs were feeling light, and he guessed he was getting pretty high. His head was clear, and he felt just reckless enough to go on with it.

He poured out a stiff dose in Annabel’s glass and went into the bedroom. When he got in the room, he nearly dropped the whisky. She was lying on her side on the bed. She was in her birthday suit, and it was a pretty good birthday suit at that.

He put the glass on the small table by the bed, and then he backed out of the room. There was only one driving thought in his mind. He had to plant Cattley before his muscles went like a board. Once he got that way, Duffy knew he’d be sunk.

He went into the kitchen and flicked on the light. The kitchen was large, with white tiles half-way up the walls, and yellow varnished paint on the other half. The floor was covered with large black and white checks. He thought it was a swell kitchen. He hunted about until he found a length of cord, then he went back to Cattley, lying snug in his parcel. He knelt, down and made the parcel secure with the cord. Then he walked back to the sitting-room and dragged the trunk into the hall and wedged Cattley into it.

Half-way through he had to stop and sit on a chair. There was no resistance in the parcel at all. Cattley was just pulp. He sat there staring at the trunk and at the bulge of the mackintosh, that overlapped the sides of the trunk. Then he got up and wedged the overlapping parts in with the stick. The lid wouldn’t quite close, so he stood on it. That made him feel bad, but he got the locks fastened somehow.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped off his palms and patted his face.

While he was standing there Annabel came out of the bedroom. She was wearing a black skirt, a white silk blouse, and a black three-quarter coat. She held a pair of magpie gauntlets in her hand. She moved slowly, with just a little sway on. He could see that the whisky was hitting her.