“And now,” Ernie chortled, “we can use O’Hara to play button, button, let him have it on the button.”
O’Hara still said nothing. Little beads of perspiration began to pop out on his forehead and there was a vacant, cold feeling at the pit of his stomach. He looked at Rex Miller but Miller’s eyes were downcast, his face stony.
The fat man rubbed cushioned palms together. His smile was delighted, the green-rock eyes twinkling. He said: “Well, well, O’Hara, I suppose you heard everything from behind that door.”
“I couldn’t miss,” O’Hara said. His throat had gone dry and constricted and his voice was a little hoarse. Never one to kid himself, he knew he was in a bad spot; the fat man and Ernie and Vickers, he was sure, wouldn’t want to have him leave that room alive.
“Of course you couldn’t miss,” said Waldon. “And you know what it means.”
O’Hara nodded. “For my dough, fatty, it means I’m in a nest of rats whose first instinct is to lie and chisel and who’d just as soon commit murder as take a drink.”
“Self-preservation, my boy,” Waldon said unctuously, “is the first law of nature.”
Ernie had quietly and very smoothly drawn a long thin-bladed knife from somewhere under his coat. He felt the point delicately with his left thumb. His dusty-black eyes had expression in them now — eagerness. He said: “Why waste time talking, Tiny?”
Vickers said: “Don’t get blood around, Ernie. After all, I just borrowed this place from my brother-in-law and he won’t like blood around when he gets back from Vegas.”
“Did I get any blood around the hotel room?” Ernie said, sounding a little wounded. “Now, Tiny?”
“It might as well be now.”
Ernie got up easily and sinuously.
O’Hara said in a low, taut voice: “Miller, I can understand these guys. They’re rats, they know they’re rats and they don’t pretend to be anything else. But a guy like you, a guy that sells out his own side — the decent people — well, hell, compared to you the rat is the king of beasts. You must have started out as a right guy, Miller. There must have been a time in your life when you could look in a mirror and not hate what you saw. So are you going to sit there now and do nothing?”
Miller had a death’s-head look. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks suddenly gaunt. He strained out: “O’Hara, there’s nothing I can do. I’m not armed. I couldn’t help if I wanted to. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” said O’Hara. “You can dream about this on the long winter evenings.”
Ernie came across the room in a half-crouch, the shiny blade of the knife making an exclamation point in front of him. O’Hara cursed and took a step to meet him.
Vickers chopped his gun barrel down on O’Hara’s skull.
O’Hara fell and spun as he fell, trying to watch Ernie. He saw Ernie above him, saw the knife poised for a down-thrust.
Miller screamed: “Wait!” Again. “Wait, I tell you!”
The knife didn’t descend. O’Hara whipped around, got to one knee and saw Miller on his feet, bending over the fat man from behind, whispering into the fat man’s ear.
The fat man shook his head. “No, Rex. O’Hara knows too much, entirely too much. Take him, Ernie!”
Miller straightened. His right hand came away from behind Waldon, holding a gun, a short-barreled, shiny .32. He said thickly: “On your feet, O’Hara, and get out of here!”
For a moment the silence in the room had a stunned quality.
Then Waldon said persuasively: “Rex, don’t be a dummy. Knowing what he does, O’Hara can’t walk out of here. He’d dynamite all of us, you included. Now give me back that gun and, if you don’t like watching it, go for a stroll.” Miller breathed heavily, audibly. He didn’t seem too familiar with the handling of a gun. But he said: “Drop your gun, Vickers.”
“You damned fool,” snapped the wiry man. “You’re forgetting that we hold an ace.”
“You’ve all carried me along as far as I can go,” said Miller drearily. “There’ll be no killing here — unless it’s one of you that gets it. I — tell — you — drop that gun!”
Ernie, with an incredibly swift wrist motion, flicked the knife at Miller. His execution was perfect, his aim lousy. The slim blade missed Miller a foot but it made him jerk to one side, his hand convulsing on the gun.
The gun went off loudly and the fat man fell out of his chair, blood spurting from a temple that had magically disintegrated. Legs moved beside O’Hara and he tackled the legs, brought Vickers crashing down on him. Vickers’ gun exploded as he fell but O’Hara was untouched. He brought a vicious knee up into Vicker’s groin, saw an Adam’s apple bobbing in front of him and socked it. Vickers screamed brokenly but he continued to squirm, fight, kick and try to bring the gun inward at O’Hara. O’Hara made a grab for the gun, missed and grabbed again. This time he got his hand on it. The two men strained desperately, silently.
O’Hara was vaguely aware that somewhere outside of the apartment there was the sound of running feet. He was aware in the same foggy way that a gun — not Vickers’ — had spoken uproariously a couple of times. He concentrated on the wiry man’s wrist, forced it down and down, gave it a final bitter wrench. The gun banged and Vickers cried out, went rigid, relaxed into limpness. O’Hara took the gun from the boneless hand and shoved himself to his feet. The dark-faced man was on hands and knees in the middle of the room, his head hanging and wagging as though it belonged to some freak toy. Miller leaned against the wall and blood streamed from a long tear across one cheek. He dangled the .32 in one hand and watched Ernie inch his way slowly and painfully toward a gun that lay no more than a foot from his right hand. He didn’t make it. His arms and his legs collapsed and his face plowed into the rug and he lay still.
Miller shuddered and his eyes, a little dazed, came up to meet O’Hara’s stare. Then he shoved himself away from the wall and came toward O’Hara, the nickeled gun seeming to feel a way for him.
O’Hara said: “Guns down, Miller. Thanks for everything — but you’re still not in the clear.”
Miller’s eyes burned at O’Hara now. He muttered: “One side, O’Hara — get out of the way! I’ve got to talk to him before he dies.”
He barged past, went to his knees beside the wiry man. The wiry man flickered dull eyes at him.
“That was — really a — merry-go-round, Rex,” he gasped. He hiccuped and blood spurted past his lips, dyed his chin and his collar.
Miller said hoarsely: “Vickers, where is she? Man, you’re washed up — you’ve got to tell me before you die.”
The wiry man’s voice came from a great distance. “Yep, Rex — washed up. That’s me.”
“For God’s sake, where is she?”
“Upstairs. We had her upstairs — doped — a dame looking after — her.” The wiry man made an attempt to grin. “Sounded like — the dame — took a powder when — shooting started. Like — I’m taking — powder now—”
He choked on blood. The half-grin went away like a flame blown out and life went out of him at the same instant.
Miller was already off his knees, turning toward the door. O’Hara followed him, forehead corrugated and speculative. Miller jerked the hall door wide, turned and took stairs to the third floor several at a time. A door stood ajar at the head of the stairs and he thrust past it.
When O’Hara reached the door, he saw a lighted living room that matched the one below. Lights went on beyond the bedroom doorway and O’Hara crossed, not hurrying, and halted on the threshold.