Then I concentrated on Spike.

  He was trying to do three things at once, and making a poor job of each of them. He was trying to get up, to draw a gun, and to hit me with the bottle. I ducked the bottle, shoved forward against the table, and, by the time he had realised what was happening, I’d half-shoved the muzzle of my gun down his throat.

  He looked up at me with eyes as scared as those of a rabbit who sees a snake.

  ‘Relax,’ I said, and felt under his arm. He had a gun all right, a Browning, my Browning, and I slipped it into my jacket pocket. Something groaned behind me, and I turned in time to watch Lefty crawl across the floor towards his knife. I laid the side of my gun against his temple, picked up the knife, relieved him of the weight of a .45 revolver, and looked at Spike again.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Don’t hit me, mister,’ he whined. ‘It wasn’t me, honest it wasn’t. It was Lefty who sapped you and dumped you out to freeze.’

  ‘Was it?’ I slapped him, lightly, and dragged him upright. I straightened the chair and put him on it. I found another and collected the bottle. It hadn’t broken and it was good Scotch. I tried some.

  Spike watched me, his eyes getting more and more scared. Lefty didn’t watch me, he breathed through his mouth and rested. I wasted no time on Lefty.

  ‘Who employed you to give me the works?’

  ‘I don’t know, mister. Honest I don’t!’

  I slapped him again, not so lightly, and repeated the question.

  ‘We got a phone call,’ he babbled. ‘At least, Lefty did. I just went along for the ride.’

  ‘And the dough?’

  ‘Lefty took it.’

  ‘Get it.’

  I waited while Spike lifted a wallet from the sleeping man’s pocket and took out a wad of bills. I took them from his shaking fingers, counted out what was due to me, then flung the rest on the floor. Stupid? Maybe, but his money I could do without.

  ‘Listen, Spike,’ I said grimly. ‘You took me for a ride, beat me up, left me to freeze or worse. Someone paid you to do it. Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, mister. I’d tell you if I did.’

  I believed him. Spike was a parasite, hanging on to a tough guy because he was too timid to operate on his own. I’d knocked out the wrong man.

  I looked down at Lefty, still breathing, still lying in his own blood. I’d broken his nose, I’d bruised his temple and his stomach. I’d shaken loose a few teeth, but it wasn’t enough. I should have killed him while I was at it, his sort are better off dead.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Tell Lefty, when he recovers, that if he’s got any bright ideas about me to forget them. The next time we tangle, I’ll tie his arms in knots and throw him in the river.’ I took another drink. ‘The same goes for you too. Turn around.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me, turn around.’

  He didn’t like doing it. He thought he knew what was going to happen, but he was wrong. I didn’t sap him. Instead I left him staring at the wall, trembling, wet with his own sweat, terrified of what he had so often done to others.

  I left him like that.

  In the big room outside, the players had gathered around the tables again. Sam, the owner, rested thick arms on his counter and looked worried. I nodded to him, grinning at his expression, and got away from there as fast as I could.

  I felt as if I needed a bath.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  354 Green Street was a relic of the days when the area had been decent, a long time ago now. A tall, brownstone building with rotting walls and a sewer smell wafting through the rotting front door. I stared at the row of bells, found the one which belonged to Mr. Jenkin, and pressed the second one above it. I waited for maybe ten seconds, pressed it again and, after another long wait, shoved my thumb hard against the one below.

  This time the door-latch clicked like a petulant hen, and I pushed open the door before the person upstairs could wonder who was calling. Inside, the dirt and sewer smell made me gag, but I held on and climbed up the grimy staircase.

  Sam Jenkin’s apartment was on the sixth floor. A shadowed doorway set back off the staircase, bearing a small white card which looked at me like an accusing eye. Above me, on the next floor, a door slammed and a woman’s voice, thin and peevish, called down the stairs.

  ‘Who is it?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Who wants me?’

  I still didn’t answer and, after a while, she slammed the door again, muttering something beneath her breath.

  After I was sure that she had gone, I turned my attention to the apartment. Gently I tried the door; it was locked, so I rested my ear against the panel and thumbed the doorbell. I could hear it ringing from somewhere inside but that was all I could hear. I tried again, same result. Mr. Jenkin was either out or didn’t live there anymore.

  From my wallet I slipped the thick piece of transparent celluloid I use to keep the front of my licence clean and, leaning heavily against the door, I shoved it hard between the door-edge and the jamb. I hit something, pressed harder, and the door swung open.

  I put the celluloid back where it belonged, slipped the Browning from beneath my arm and, holding it against my ribs, entered the apartment.

  Nothing happened.

  No shots, no screams, no yells for help. Nothing. I shut the door and rested my back against the wall as I let my eyes drift over what I could see. After a while I put the gun away and began to move around a little. Still nothing. I was alone. I switched on the light.

  The apartment was one of those conversions with a bed-sitting room, kitchen, and bath. The bed-sitting room had a folding bed disguised as an inlaid panel, but it was still a bed. I stood in the middle of the room and had a look round.

  It wasn’t a nice sight.

  It was dusty. It was dirty. It was cluttered with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and discarded newspapers. The kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been used for the past three months, and the bathroom didn’t appear to have been used at all. I stepped through the kitchen and squinted down the rusty fire-escape. I went back into the main room and found a chair, and sat in it while I smoked a cigarette.

  I smoked slowly and thoughtfully and stared around the compact room. An inset wardrobe stood in one corner looking like a vertical coffin. A chest of drawers, a bedside table, a regular table, two chairs, a couple of glasses, and that was about all. I rose and stepped towards the chest of drawers. It wasn’t even locked and I examined it, looking for I don’t know what.

  All I found was an unopened bottle of rye.

  I found a glass and washed it clean. I opened the rye and took a drink. I smoked and took another drink. I looked at the phone standing on the bedside table, glanced at my watch, and decided to wait a little longer. What I was waiting for I didn’t know, but something, some sort of a hunch, kept me glued to the apartment.

  I killed two cigarettes and half the bottle and then I got up and slipped the gun from under my arm. I crossed to the wardrobe and jerked it open. Nothing. No clothes, no hangers, not even a mothball. I checked the bathroom again, the kitchen, then turned back to the main room. Slowly I approached the bed. It was a simple thing, the usual type. A double bed hinged at the head and swung up into a recess in the wall so that it would be out of the way during the day. A simple catch held it upright.

  I reached for the catch.

  The bed almost hit me as it swung down, the folding legs slamming against the floor as if they wanted to go through it. As it fell my nose crinkled to a wave of perfume, expensive perfume, and then I knew what had made me linger in the apartment. With the perfume came a different smell, acrid, unpleasant, and I filled my lungs with cigarette smoke letting it trickle through my nostrils as I leaned forward and stared down at the bed.

  I looked at ten thousand dollars.

  She lay, her head towards the headrest, her hair streaming over the rumpled pillows, her contorted features bearing little resemblance to the photograph I had in my pocket. Her costume, brown tweed, was creased. Her fur coat was a twisted mess and one of her shoes had slipped from her foot. Her fingernails were broken and her throat bore deep scratches.

  She was very dead.

  I sniffed again, separating the odours of death and perfume from other, ranker odours. I picked up one arm and let it fall limply back to the bed. Then I lit a fresh cigarette, took a swig of rye, and set to work.

  It was a waste of time.

  Neither bed nor body yielded the slightest clue, and I stood, looking down at her, mentally apologising for having disturbed her final rest. She stared back at me, her mouth half open, her eyes glazed, but she didn’t care.

  The dead never care.

  The jangling of the phone made me start and twist like a shocked animal, the Browning leaping as if of itself into my hand, my lips aching from where they had drawn back hard against my teeth. I stood there, glaring at the instrument, letting my heart slow and my breath return. My hand ached from the force with which I held the gun and I stared at it, wondering what it was doing in my hand.

  The phone rang again and again and kept on ringing. It sounded long enough to wake the dead, but it didn’t quite do that. After what seemed a couple of eternities it stopped, and I began to breathe again.

  I put the gun away, gripped hold of the end of the bed, and swung it back into position. I took out my handkerchief and went around wiping wherever I had touched. Once I turned sharply to look towards the bed, but the catch had held and I knew that she couldn’t make a sound. The apartment seemed normal. Nice and dirty and unlived in.

  I took another drink, washed the glass, wiped the bottle and remembered to polish the light switch. Then, after a last look round, I eased open the door, took a peep outside, and stepped into the hall letting the door swing shut behind me.

  I headed for the stairs.

  I almost made it, I was a single flight from the door when I heard voices from outside and it swung open. A man walked in accompanied by a woman and, as I moved, they stared at me. I raised my hat.

  ‘Good-evening.’

  I kept the hat between my face and theirs until I was outside. Polite? Maybe, but I didn’t want anyone to recognise me if they should be asked. Not that I was in much danger of that. Green Street was the sort of neighbourhood where everyone minds their own business, and can’t remember the time if a cop should ask them.

  My watch warned me that it was getting late and I hurried through the slush back towards civilisation. Around me tall buildings made the night darker than what it was. Rats lived in those buildings, human rats with sharp eyes and itchy fingers. They lurked in darkness and dirt, spinning their little webs always after the easy dollar, and leaving a trail of their own slime as a snail marks its own passage.

  I was glad to catch a cab out of it.

  I stopped off at a tavern and phoned the agency. I gave my code number and the mechanical voice told me that there was one message for me. A name and a phone number. Georgette’s name. I fed coins into the slot and dialled.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘That Georgette?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s that?’

  ‘Lantry. You’ve got something for me?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Her voice sounded thick as though she’d been crying. ‘You on the up and up about that deal?’

  ‘Sure.’ Norma was dead but I didn’t have to tell her that. ‘What you got for sale?’

  ‘Listen. Thornedyke’s sore at you. You know that?’

  ‘I had an idea. Why?’

  ‘He used to be sweet on Norma and doesn’t like you asking questions.’

  ‘So I’ve gathered. That’s not news, Georgette, not saleable news anyway.’

  ‘No,’ she said, and paused. ‘Look, I might be a heel telling you this, but what the hell, a girl’s got to live hasn’t she?’

  ‘You should know.’

  ‘I do, shamus, listen. Norma’s a good kid, none better, but we all make mistakes and sometimes we never finish paying for them. I don’t want to cause her any grief, but I think she might be in trouble. She—’ There was the sound of an indrawn breath and a man’s voice muffled as though it came through a door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Skip it, call you later.’

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘No soap, leave it.’

  ‘I’ll call you back. Same number, when?’

  ‘Anytime, dearies,’ she crooned and now the man’s voice was loud as though he had entered the room. ‘Look, I’ve got an awful headache and I’m taking a rest. Call me and let me know whether you got him to propose or not. Play it smart, dearie, and you’ll have diamonds on both hands at the same time. Need any help, just call on me, I’ve had experience.’

  She chuckled and hung up.

  I went in search of something to eat.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After getting outside a thick steak and a heap of French-fries, I dropped in at the Tribune building. Harry was waiting for me, his pale face thoughtful.

  ‘Get it?’

  ‘I got something.’ He handed me a couple of files and I took them over to the desk. Constance joined me as I was searching through them.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Not so well.’ I pointed to the files. ‘What’s the matter, the organisation break down?’

  ‘You asked too much.’ She picked up a teletyped slip and read the code most newspaper men use among themselves. It saves time, money, and tells a lot in a short space. ‘Nothing at the wire service, nothing at the agencies, and no news-pics. Your Rhoda Fleming must have been a shy girl.’

  ‘In show business?’ I shook my head.

  ‘Sure this is all there is?’

  ‘It’s all we’ve got,’ said Constance. ‘This is unofficial, remember? And the services can’t worry about every showgirl who kicks a leg in a third-rate dive. She’d only have her pic on file if she was news.’

  ‘What about the other one then?’

  ‘Mona Hartridge? Same thing.’

  ‘What? No pictures of Mrs. Geeson?’

  ‘Plenty of her, but none taken before she was married.’ Constance riffled through the file. ‘Correction One, but it’s a bad print, you’d hardly recognise her for the same woman.’

  I took the clipping from her hand and stared at it. It was a bad print, very bad, one with the head turned at an angle as if someone had just called her attention to something. As a likeness of Mrs. Geeson, it was terrible.

  But as a likeness of someone else it wasn’t too bad.

  ‘Any good?’ Constance took it, put it away, then stared at me with sudden suspicion. ‘Mike! You’ve got something!’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You’re darn right you have. I’ve seen that look before.’ She made the age-old rubbing gesture with thumb and forefinger. ‘Come on, spill it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Hell, Mike, you promised!’

  ‘Look, Constance, I know that you newshooks have ink for blood, but just for once try and think of someone else.’

  ‘The Colonel?’ She was wiser than I thought. ‘The kids? Give, Mike, I can be trusted.’

  ‘I wonder?’ I stared at her and read my answer in her eyes. ‘Yes, you can be trusted. Sorry.’

  ‘Skip it.’ She smiled at me without embarrassment. ‘Want to talk?’

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘Way off. Well?’

  I hesitated. It wasn’t any of her business and yet, in a way, it was. Murder will out and Mrs. Geeson had been murdered. Nothing could save the Colonel from publicity now, but maybe a few friends in the right place to damp down the dirt would help a little.

  I decided to take a chance.

  ‘I’m dreaming,’ I said. ‘I’m making noises without sense, understand?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Take a girl, poor, hopeful, running herself ragged to make the big time. Take a boy, crazy about her and with an old man who’s loaded. Take his mother, prim, proper, and who controls the finances. Add something else, what I don’t know yet, stir, bring to the boil, and what do you get?’

  ‘Trouble,’ she said promptly.

  I nodded. ‘Trouble it is, but easy trouble, money trouble, the kind that can be fixed. Then suppose that the old woman dies, has an accident, and now the boy is crazy to get married. But the old man thinks a lot of his son, a hell of a lot. So he offers to marry her himself, buy her off, grab her before his son manages to talk her into taking a chance that he won’t be cut off without the proverbial red cent. She falls for it. Why not? He’s old, sure, but he’s rich and she’s wanted easy money all her life. Follow me so far?’

  ‘Yes.’ Constance frowned. ‘Not pretty, is it?’

  ‘Dirt never is. The kid went off the rails. Maybe she had some idea of taking the old man’s dough and still run around with her stepson, but the boy was basically decent, he wouldn’t play. Maybe the old man knew that. Maybe he did it all for the best, but it was a hell of a way to break things up. Or maybe I’m wrong. She could have been genuine. After all, the old man offered her a clean life, the sort she’d been wanting for a long time.’

  I took time out to light a cigarette. Constance held out her hand and I passed one to her. She lit it from the tip of my own, her hair tickling my nose as she bent over. I wanted to kiss the nape of her neck but didn’t.

  ‘Then she ran out,’ she said quietly ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can guess, but I’m not sure. I think that she didn’t travel alone. She’d been around, was a good-looking girl, and may have picked up a husband on the way. You know how it is, sometimes it’s easier to forget them than to get a divorce, and when she needed it, it was too late. She had to live the act out to the end.’ I breathed smoke. ‘The bitter end.’

  ‘It adds up,’ said Constance slowly. ‘But where’s the proof?’

  ‘No proof.’

  ‘But wouldn’t the old man have checked?’

  ‘He would. But how do you check a person? Paper proof, that’s all anyone has.’ I touched the clipping in the file. ‘That isn’t Mrs. Geeson. Now do you get it?’