DUFFY WOKE WITH A start. Across the room, the sun leaked round the side of the blind, throwing ragged lines of light on the walls.
The telephone was ringing, grinding shrilly.
He said, “Goddam it,” and turned over in the bed. Pulling the blanket over his ears, he tried to ignore the jarring noise, but the bell went on ringing, insistently.
He turned over again and climbed stiffly out of the bed. Scooping up the telephone, he shouted, “What the hell is it?”
Sam was yelling at the other end. He was so excited that Duffy couldn’t understand a word. He said, “I can’t hear you. What is it?”
Sam choked, then came over quieter. “For God’s sake, Bill,” he said. “Hell’s broken loose this end. English’s double-crossing you. He’s slapped every rap he can lay hold of on you.”
Duffy stiffened. “Tell me,” he said.
“They arrested Morgan on some counterfeit charge. Then English got on to headquarters and withdrew his protection. I was there when he did it. He’s thrown you to the wolves. They’re indicting you for Olga’s, Gleason’s and Annabel’s murder.”
Duffy sat limply on the bed, still holding the telephone. “The lousy rat,” he said.
Sam said urgently, “You’ve got to go carefully. They can’t hope to make all those raps stick.”
Duffy’s mouth twisted. “They’ll carry me to the station, that it?”
Sam said, “English is pulling wires. They’re waiting for you to run, then they’ll come after you with gunpowder.”
“That’ll let English right out of this, won’t it? Me stiff, he can pin all his lousy scandal to my tombstone.”
“What the hell are you going to do?”
Duffy said, “Skip. I guess I might make it in the Buick.”
Sam said, “They’ll be watching your joint by now. The news came over ten minutes ago. They started right away.”
Duffy said, “Do they know you’re in this?”
“No. They don’t even know I know you.”
“If I can’t make it, can I hide up at your place?”
“Sure,” Sam spoke without hesitation. “Why not come on over and lay up, until the heat’s cooled?”
“’I’ll try a getaway first.” Duffy said gently, “Thanks, soldier, you’ve been a swell help. My love to Alice. Don’t tell her more than you need.” He hung up and looked quickly at the clock. It was just after ten o’clock.
He dressed with cold unhurried haste. He made sure that he had his money safely distributed in his pockets, then picking up his hat he walked to the door, shot the bolt and stepped quietly into the passage.
As he walked into the deserted bar, he heard the faint wail of a siren, approaching rapidly. He smiled, without being amused, turned back and ran to the front door. He stepped into the street and walked across the road fast, but without any panic. He walked like a man about to start a day’s work, who knows he’s a little behind the clock.
He could see a long closed car swinging round the bend at the far end of the road. The siren was silent. He stepped hastily into the shadow of the garage and walked over to the Buick.
Schultz said, “Wait!” His voice had an edge to it.
Duffy peered and saw him standing in the dim light, half hidden by a big Packard.
“The cops are moving in,” Duffy said in a low voice. “I’m skipping. Want to come?”
Schultz shook his head. He was standing very still. Duffy looked again, then stiffened. Schultz was holding a shotgun in his hands; he was pointing it directly at Duffy.
Duffy said with stiff lips, “What’s the idea?”
“Put that dough on the floor,” Schultz said, “then you can skip.”
Duffy said, “The cops are just across the road. You can’t start anything.”
Schultz’s face was white, beads of sweat stood out on the backs of his hands. He said, “Don’t talk. Put the dough down quick.”
Duffy slowly put his hand inside his coat. The Colt-butt felt cold under his touch. Something was forcing him to pull that gun. A hidden instinct to keep what was his. His fingers closed over the butt and he braced himself. Then he jerked at the butt, at the same time he threw himself to one side.
There was a sharp choked roar from the shotgun, and something bit into Duffy’s side, sending him over on the oily concrete. White-hot wires of pain shot to his brain, making him feel sick and dizzy. He couldn’t think of anything, just the jagged pain eating at his chest.
Faintly he heard someone cursing him, and then hands roughly jerked him this way and that. When the blinding light went away from his eyes, he saw Schultz run out of the garage, holding a gun tightly in his hand.
Duffy pulled himself to his feet by holding on to the wing of the Packard. He heard Schultz fire once, then twice. The noise of Schultz’s gun was followed by a sharper report, as the cop in the car began shooting. The other cops were still in the Bronx.
Walking unsteadily over to the Buick, Duffy got in and started the engine. He tasted blood on his tongue, and he began to cough. Hard, tearing cough, that made his brain rattle in his skull. He could feel the blood running down his side, down his leg, into his shoe. Holding hard on to the wheel, he started the engine, slammed in the gear and shot out into the road. Schultz was still firing carefully at the cop from behind a stationary car. As Duffy swept past, both the cop and Schultz fired at him. The bullets made a cobweb on the window, but that was all. In his driving-mirror, he saw Schultz suddenly throw up his hands, and go over, like the felling of a tree. He had no time to see anything else, as the main road was ahead of him.
He drove fast, holding the wheel in both hands very hard, and sitting forward, his back clear of the seat. Hammers beat inside his head, and his chest seemed as if someone were stripping the flesh off his bones. He bit on to his underlip, and drove. His one fixed thought was to get to Sam’s place. It wasn’t far and it was safe. He thought if he held on a little longer, he’d make it.
Twisting and doubling, he felt that he had shaken off pursuit for the moment. The cop in the car hadn’t much chance, with Schultz blazing away at him, to spot the Buick’s plates. Anyway, that was what Duffy hoped. He came to McGuire’s apartment round the back, pulling up in the narrow alley that skirted the fire-escapes from the block.
He felt strangely hot and weak, sitting there, and he wondered how the hell he was going to get up to the apartment. His wound seemed to have stopped bleeding now, and he looked down at his blood-caked suit with a little grimace. Then he reached over the back of the car and pulled his light dust-coat off the back seat. The effort made the sweat start out all over him, and he had to shut his eyes, as the building reeled drunkenly before him. He sat like that for several moments, then he began to cough again. Deep, tearing coughs that hurt.
It took him a long time to open the heavy door. He was surprised to find how weak he was. Then he stepped to the ground and immediately fell on his knees. He pulled himself up by the door, swearing softly. Obscene words, lodged deep in his subconscious, came tumbling from his lips. He steadied himself and put on the coat, hiding his bloodstained suit. Then he began to walk with uneven, hurried steps round the front.
He had to stop three times before he made it, but he got into the automatic elevator, shut the gates, pressed the button, and folded up on the floor.
The cage groaned and creaked on its upward journey. Duffy just sat there on the floor, breathing with little short gasps, frightened of the pain when he breathed normally. The elevator came to rest after an interminable time. He pulled himself to his feet by hooking his fingers in the grille. He stayed there, hanging on, like a man uncertain of his strength, breasting a gale. Then he balanced himself on the balls of his feet and took away his hands. Pulling open the grille, he lurched into the corridor.
Across the way was MacGuire’s apartment. He shuffled over and rapped on the door. Almost immediately Alice came. Her face lit up when she saw who it was, but almost at once her expression changed to alarm. “Bill, what is it?”
Before he could speak, the cough caught him again, and he folded up, his shoulder against the door.
She said, “O God,” very softly, and put her arm round him, pulling him inside. She thrust the door to with her foot, and supported him through the sitting-room, into the bedroom.
He said thickly, “The flowers look good.”
She lowered him to the bed, putting a pillow under his head. “What is it?” she asked.
“Get me a drink, honey,” he mumbled, his mouth suddenly very dry.
Unsteadily, she ran into the other room, and returned with a bottle and glass. She poured him a stiff whisky, and held his head while he drank. The spirit knitted his will, and he managed to grin.
“Get my things off, baby,” he said. “I ran into a handful of slugs.”
Undressing him took time. She had to let him rest every now and then, but she finally got down to his shirt, and the caked blood nearly made her faint.
Duffy said, “Don’t get scared.” He felt a lot stronger. “I don’t think it’s bad. It just hurts a lot.”
She ran into the bathroom and came back with dressing, water and towels. She had to cut away his shirt. He had six pellet-holes down his right side. They had ceased to bleed. She stood looking at them, her eyes big and scared.
He said, “Listen, baby. You gotta get them out.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how.”
“Got some tweezers? You fix your eyebrows, don’t you?” His mouth twisted into a little grin. “Try with those.”
She looked at him, and shook her head.
He said, “It’s important, baby.”
When he said that, she drew a sharp breath and went over to the dressing-table. He reached for the bottle and gave himself a long pull.
She came back, holding the tweezers.
He said, “Burn a match round ’em.”
While she was doing that, he drank some more whisky. By the time she started on him, he was pretty high.
Wires of pain clutched him, and sweat ran down his face. But he lay quite still, with his eyes shut, giving no sign that she hurt him.
He heard her say at last, “I’ve got them all.” She sounded so far away that he turned his head slowly and looked at her. She was white, her large eyes sunk far in her head. Holding on to the edge of the small table, she seemed to sway before his eyes.
He said, “Get a grip on yourself.” He tried to speak sharply, but just couldn’t make it. “Have a quick drink, you’re going to faint or something.”
She sat down on the floor. “I’ll… be… all right,” she said, forcing her head down. “Don’t worry. Just… give me a minute.”
With a shaking hand he slopped some whisky into the glass and thrust it at her. “Go on, drink it,” he said. The effort made his head swim.
He heard the glass rattle against her teeth as she drank. Then she got up unsteadily and put the glass on the table. “I’m all right now,” she said.
Duffy said, “Put some dressing on this, and let me lie easy.”
She sat down on the bed. “Would it be safe to get a doctor?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m on the run now, baby.”
She began cutting a pad, biting her lips to stop her tears. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, slightly dazed by the alcohol.
She said, “I’ll fix it with tape.”
Duffy said, “You’re swell.”
With inexperienced hands, she strapped him, making a fair job of it. He lay watching her, and when she was done, he said, “Get me one of Sam’s suits.”
Her eyes opened. “What do you mean?”
“I’m getting out of here.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” she said; “you’re staying.”
He shook his head impatiently. “I ain’t getting you mixed up in this. There’s a rap for you, if they find me here.”
She said, with determination, “Don’t get tough. You’re staying.”
He shut his eyes. “Okay,” he said weakly. “Just for a little while.”
She bent over and kissed his hot forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
He lifted his lids with an effort. “I started this… I guess it had to finish like this.” Then, remembering, he said urgently, “Look in my coat. There ought to be some dough there.”
She went over and gingerly examined the coat’. “Nothing here,” she said.
His mouth twisted. “Schultz got it,” he said. The effort to worry was too much for him, and he closed his eyes.
She said, “Try and sleep.”
“My right shoe. There’s three grand hidden in it. It’s for you.”
She said, “Never mind that.”
He raised his head, his eyes feverishly on her face.
“Take my shoe off and get the dough,” he said urgently. “It’s all I got out of this mess… it’s for you.”
She undid his shoes and took them off. She found the crumpled notes wedged in one of them. Holding the little ball of money in her hand, she stood there, tears running down her face.
He dropped his head back on the pillow again. “You’re right, baby,” he said slowly. “Money don’t mean a thing.”
She said, keeping her voice steady, “I’ll leave you now. You must sleep. If you want me, call. I’ll be right outside.”
He said drowsily, “Sure, don’t get Sam. I’m going to be okay. I’m feeling fine, only tired.”
She pulled a light blanket over him, and he reached out and took her cool hand. “I’ve been a mug,” he said.
Alice clenched her teeth hard to stop the sob that rose in her throat. She looked down at his white, drawn face, and forced her trembling lips into a smile. “You… you’re okay now,” she said. “Forget about it. You see, it’s going to be all right.”
She left him lying there on the bed. The heat of the street filtering through the window made him feel heavy and lifeless. The throb in his side was not bad. He just wanted to sleep.
How long he slept, he never knew. It might have been a few minutes, or a few hours, but he woke suddenly, his brain clear and full of strange urgent alarms. He raised his head and looked round the room, then over to the window. When his eyes reached the square of glass, he knew why he had awakened.
Joe and the little guy were standing on the fire escape, watching him. Even as he saw them, Joe pushed up the window, and stepped into the room. He said in a low voice, “We saw the bus, so we just dropped in.”
The little guy sat on the sill. He nodded at Duffy. “We’ve been looking for you,” he said.
Duffy turned his eyes to the door. “You wouldn’t hurt her?”
Joe showed his teeth. “Not if she stays out,” he said, keeping his voice down, “but if she comes in, she’ll get a surprise.”
Duffy dropped his head back on the pillow. He said, “Lock the door.”
The little guy said, “Leave it, Joe. He won’t squawk if she can get in easily.” He smiled at Duffy, a tight little smile.
Joe wandered over to the bed and jerked off the blanket. His brutish face lit up when he saw the strapping. “You hurt?” he said. “Ain’t that too bad.”
Duffy said nothing; he just fixed joe with hot, burning eyes. Whatever Joe did to him, he mustn’t let Alice hear.
Joe reached out a hand. Duffy stiffened, then realizing how futile it was, just kept his eyes on Joe’s face. Joe took the pad in his fist, and ripped it and the strapping away.
The little guy giggled.
Duffy sank his teeth into his lower lip. He was very pale. The six little wounds began to ooze blood, running down Duffy’s ribs on to the sheet.
Joe sat down on the bed beside him. “Listen, pip,” he said. “First you got Clive, then you fixed Morgan. You got a lot coming to you, ain’t that right?”
Duffy said through his clenched teeth, “Go ahead… only quickly.”
The little guy said, “Yes, Joe—get going.”
Joe said, “I wanta take this guy apart an’ see what makes him tick.”
“That jane’ll be in,” the little guy said.
Joe grimaced. “I’ll spill her insides all over this punk,” he said.
Duffy lay flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling. His face and chest glistened with sweat. He was afraid, not for himself, but for Alice.
Joe put his big hand on Duffy’s throat and squeezed. The little guy got off the window-sill and came over to watch. His mouth hung open a little. He stood on the far side of the bed, his eyes screwed up, watching.
Joe said, “Have a little air, lug,” and eased the pressure, then he tightened his grip again.
The little guy suddenly cocked his ear. He said, “Listen.”
Joe sat very still. His hand slightly relaxed. The only sound was the soft thrashing of Duffy’s legs on the bed. A muscular reaction he had no control over. From the other side of the door they could hear Alice moving about, and they could hear the faint sound of crockery being moved.
“She’s getting him a meal,” the little guy said.
Joe grinned. “He’s losing his appetite, ain’t you, bright boy?” The effort of keeping his grip tight was making his face a little red. Then, drawing his lips back in a snarl, he threw his weight on his arms, savagely squeezing.
The little guy moved restlessly from one foot to the other. The room was absolutely silent now, except for Joe’s heavy breathing. Then Joe got off the bed, flexing his thick fingers. The little guy stepped to the window, then he jumped back quickly. “Joe….”
Forms darkened the window, as three policemen, guns in hands, raced up the fire escape. They slipped into the room with paralysing speed.
Joe stood there, his mouth open, and the whites of his eyes suddenly yellow with terror. “Don’t you shoot,” he said with a jerk, putting up his hands.
The Sergeant pushed forward. His small eyes startled. “Quite a party,” he said.
The little guy giggled. He stood close against the wall, his hands high. “You ain’t got nothing on us,” he said through white lips.
The Sergeant walked over to the bed, and stood looking, The other two officers remained motionless, their guru menacingly still.
The Sergeant said, “Well, for God’s sake.”
He walked over to the little guy and hit him in the middle of his face with his gun butt. The little guy’s head thudded against the wall, and his legs spread, sliding him to the floor. He put his hands over his face, but he couldn’t make a sound; he seemed to go into a fit.
Joe buckled at the knees. “Okay, boss,” he quavered. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”
The Sergeant hunched his shoulders. “Sure, you didn’t, you dirty rat,” he said. “I’ve been waiting to nail you for a long time. Well, you’ve got it coming to you.” He jerked his head to the other two. “Get the bums outa here.”
Just then the door jerked open, and Alice stood there. The Sergeant stepped in front of her, and crowded her into the kitchen. She retreated, her eyes growing big.
She said, “You can’t take him away… he’s too ill…. Please.
The Sergeant said, “That guy on the bed—Duffy?”
Alice nodded dumbly. “He’s been shot… he’s bad… please leave him there. Look, I’m getting him some soup. It’s ready… you’ll let him have that?”
The Sergeant pushed his cap to the back of his head, and blew out his cheeks. Her terrified face embarrassed him. “It don’t matter about the soup,” he said. He fumbled with his gun, pushing it into his hip pocket. Then he added, “He won’t need it now.”
THE END