I looked at the telephone, which I’d better use. I looked at the open door. Captain Haskin and Lieutenant Brix of the police force stood there watching me.
“Bradford told me this would be a surprise party,” said Haskin. “But I don’t think this is what he meant.”
Haskin was a tall, lean man with straight gray hair. He had a set, almost sullen mouth and sharp, bright eyes. He walked into the room, all the while keeping his eyes on me. “Frisk him,” he said to the lieutenant.
“I don’t carry a gun,” I said. Haskin said nothing, and the lieutenant frisked me.
Haskin looked at the body and felt the wrist. “Been dead maybe about five or ten minutes,” he said to the lieutenant. “Maybe just before we got off the elevator.”
He turned toward me. “Where’s the gun, Vincent?”
“I don’t carry a gun.” I snapped.
“Look for a gun,” Haskin told the lieutenant. Then he saw Beefer in the hall. “Come in, Logan,” he said.
Beefer trudged in. He was a tall, husky man who had run to fat. He looked at me. “Who did it, Rick?”
I shrugged.
“Any ideas, Logan?” asked Haskin.
“I don’t know. Maybe one of Chip O’Brien’s boys.” Beefer shrugged his thick, soft shoulders.
The lieutenant was fishing behind the sofa. He caught a tiny black .22 automatic with hand-inlaid silver. I had seen that gun before. It was one of Beefer Logan’s.
“You carry a pretty gun,” Haskin said to me.
“It isn’t mine,” I said.
“We’ll see.” He picked up the phone with a handkerchief and dialed a number. “Hello,” he said, “is this Bill? Well listen, Bill, I’ve got a little automatic here.” He gave the serial number. “See if we’ve got anything on it, and call me right back.” He gave Bradford’s telephone number.
There was a knock on the door, and the Little Man peeked in. His jaw dropped a horrified two inches when he saw Bradford.
“Come in here!” Haskin shouted.
Little Man came in. He was about five-feet eight. He had small, slender hands and a sharp, half-boyish, half-impish face. It was from this, rather than from his size, that he got his name. He was trim, muscular and spoke in a quiet, commanding tone.
Haskin glared down at the Little Man from his rangy six feet. “Who’re you?” he growled.
Little Man looked up at him. “Who’re you?” he said softly.
Haskin pulled out his wallet and badge for the first time and glowered down at the newcomer.
Little Man looked at it slowly. “My name, Captain Haskin, is Robert Hill. I’m — was — one of Mr. Bradford’s salesmen.”
That was the truth, too. I was Bradford’s accountant. I kept the books in as legal a manner as possible. Beefer had been the small racket organizer in the city five years ago. He had found it wise to go in with the boss. Little Man Hill was a smooth talker that Bradford had hired several months ago to talk nice to the big customers and the new ones. When Little Man’s nice talk failed, tough guys like Shultze and Ransy took over under Beefer to apply pressure.
I was feeling better since the lieutenant had found Beefer’s gun. Ordinarily I’d have been sorry for Beefer. But now it had to be one of us, and I didn’t want to be the one.
The telephone rang. Beefer didn’t wink a muscle. Haskin picked up the phone.
“Hello,” he said. “Speaking... Yeah... Yeah... That’s all? Okay.” He hung up. “The gun was stolen from a Longview home over a year ago.”
I knew then that I was back in some very thick soup.
“Captain Haskin,” Little Man said half apologetically, “we’re all employees of Mr. Bradford. We were all called up here for a meeting. Couldn’t you tell us the nature of this situation?”
“Okay, Hill. Bradford called me about noon. He said that he had found out that one of his employees was wanted by out-of-state police for something big. He said if I would come up here at three, he would turn the man over to me. It seems that our man got here before us.” His eyes glittered at me. “I’m taking you in,” he said. “Don’t any of you leave town.”
I was stuck. It wouldn’t do me any good to tell them Beefer had pulled the stunt. Only Beefer and I knew it was his gun. They wouldn’t believe me. Beefer certainly wouldn’t tell them.
“Let’s go,” said Haskin.
The five of us, with me in the lead, marched over the carpets toward the elevator door. The lieutenant rang the bell and then he stepped back again.
There were three ways to get down from Bradford’s apartment: the fire escape, the inside stairway, and the elevator. I am six feet and weigh two hundred. Until ten years ago, I used to earn nice dough around the stadiums by boxing some nights and wrestling others. I still have fun in gyms surprising young suckers. At thirty-five, I am a lot trimmer than some people would think. I figured the elevator would be my best bet.
When the elevator door slid open, I turned to face the others. Haskin and the lieutenant were now following the rest close behind. Beefer was closest.
“Look, Captain,” I said, “if you want to know the real story behind the whole—” I rammed Beefer. He flew, arms flailing, against the two officers.
I slipped back into the cage and pushed the button for the eighth floor. I grabbed the elevator boy and threw him in front of the closing door just to remind Haskin not to shoot, and we were on our way.
The elevator boy was a big, tough kid, and he saw that I didn’t have a gun. He came up from the corner fast. He dived at me swinging. I stepped to the back of the cage, grabbed the back of his collar as he went by, and helped him butt into the metal wall. I straightened him with an uppercut, brought his face down on my knee, and put the side of my hand hard and fast against the back of his neck.
I knew he wouldn’t give out any information for at least ten minutes.
The door opened at the eighth. I pushed the button for the basement and stepped out. At the end of the hall, I slid the window up slowly and quietly and stepped onto the fire escape. I heard hurried footsteps clumping down the inside stairway past the floor.
I had to move fast. As soon as Haskin got to the elevator, he would guess that I hadn’t been on it all the way down. In short order, this city block would have a dragnet around it too fine for a stunted gnat to escape.
On the ninth floor, I slipped into my own apartment. I tipped over an easy chair and ripped out the bottom. From it, I took a .38 revolver and a shoulder holster that I had hoped never to use again.
I slipped out of my door and ran to the fire escape. At the seventh floor, the fire escape on the next building crossed with mine about six feet away.
I took off my jacket and tossed it across the space. I stepped over the railing and didn’t look below. I pushed off for the next building. My feet missed the grating, but my hands grabbed the iron railing. I bent up, got my feet under me, and clambered over.
There was an open window on that landing. I pulled on my jacket and slipped through. The noise my feet made hitting the floor awakened the chubby, tousled blonde in bed.
She propped herself up on one arm, exhibiting an abundance of soft, white flesh. Surprise plastered her lipsticked face. She peered at me through bleary eyes.
Just my luck, I thought. Just when I’m in a hurry.
The blonde pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. “Hey,” she said sleepily.
“New house-manager,” I said. “Lost my way.”
In the little hall inside her apartment door, there was a telephone. I ripped the wires out of the wall and ducked out into the hall.
By now, Captain Haskin would have a call into headquarters. I hit the inside stairway and followed it to the basement. I ran to the delivery entrance. No one was in the alley.