I was thinking about that as I walked away from the apartment. I tried to figure in Gus Cooney’s tie with all this, but I couldn’t. Except that he had hired me to make things tough for Freddie. Then I had something else to bother me. I was being tailed. By an expert at that, but I knew all the tricks and when the same man stays behind you for blocks, he isn’t following his nose.
I couldn’t get a good look at him so I kept going. A tail might be the answer to the whole affair. As a rule that kind can’t take it and I knew how to dish out persuasive powers which induced a man to talk. I turned the next corner, found it to be a quiet street with no cops in sight. I put my back against the building wall where the shadows were thickest and waited.
He came around the corner cautiously, didn’t see me anywhere and started moving fast. So did I. As he went by, I stepped out and tapped him on the shoulder.
He swung, with one hand going toward his armpit and I let him have it right on the chin. Then I lifted the gun out of its holster, pushed him against the wall and grabbed his throat. He snapped out of it fast and his eyes burned into mine.
I said: “Who pays you to gumshoe around, chum?”
Just to make certain he’d answer, I bumped the back of his head against the wall. That didn’t do the trick so I bumped his head again — harder. He clawed at my hands to break the grip on his throat. I yanked him forward again and this time I meant to rattle what brains he had. Rattle them good — and then a radio car lazed around the corner.
Its headlights swept toward us and I dropped my hands fast. I carefully began dusting off his shoulders, as if he was an old, old pal of mine. But he saw an out and took it. He shoved off, walking fast and passing the radio car. The cop at the wheel gave me a cold eye. I lit a cigarette with what I hoped wasn’t exaggerated nonchalance and strolled away.
My man was gone, of course. I still had his gun in my pocket and the memory of it made me shudder. If those radio cops had ever decided to frisk me, I’d be on my way back to the pen for a long stay. I got rid of the gun at the next trash can and felt a little better.
Half an hour later I thrust the key of my room into the lock, stepped inside and turned on the lights. That rat wasn’t as dumb as I believed. He’d beaten me home and he was sitting in the same chair that Westover had occupied the night before. With one material difference — he’d acquired another gun and it was pointed straight at me.
In the light I had a good look at him and something clicked. I said: “Well, well, Hazy, why didn’t you tell me who you were back there?”
Hazy was the con whom Freddie had smeared up at the pen. He needed smearing again — though he held plenty of insurance against it in his fist.
He said: “Sit down, Trent. Take off your coat first and heave it into the corner. Then we’re going to have a little talk. About busted heads.”
“Hazy,” I said quietly, “I thought you were a flatfoot. It was a mistake.”
“Yeah — it was. And you’re going to know it fast.”
I sized him up as a brute — one of the kind who has fat inside his skull instead of brains. That made him even more dangerous. A guy without imagination makes the worst possible type of killer. I’d much sooner face a gunman who was intelligent and might think of the consequences.
He moved over toward me. I knew what was coming. The gun swung down and the muzzle clipped my forehead. It sent me back but I raised up quickly. A man who goes down is too open a target for more pistol whipping. Hazy grinned at me. The kind of a grin you see in nightmares. He let me have another swipe with the muzzle. This time I folded up, forward, letting my head fall onto my knees and my arms hung loosely.
I said: “You’re making a mistake, Hazy. You won’t get paid for this because Gus Cooney is dead.”
He bit at it as I knew he would. “Cooney — dead?”
I stayed doubled up. “Somebody slipped a knife through his neck last night. The papers are full of it. Can’t you read?”
Hazy gave a hoarse laugh. “So what? What’s Cooney to me? This is a personal matter anyhow. You tried to smash my brains out and I’m going to put you in a hospital. And you won’t talk either because if you do, you’ll go back in stir.”
I couldn’t see him, except his legs from the knees down, but I saw them brace. He was raising the gun. It was now or never because the next blow would likely knock me cold and I might not wake up. I simply raised both arms and let myself fall out of the chair. My arms wound around his legs and threw him off balance.
He was a wildcat. As he reeled off, getting back on balance, I straightened and closed in. I grabbed his gun hand with my left and kicked him in the shins. That didn’t drive his foot from under him so I tried it again. He was made of cast iron.
His free hand punched me on the throat and I thought I knew how Cooney had felt when the knife went through him. I twisted his gun wrist hard. That turned him around and I threw one at the back of his neck. That worried him for he made a rumbling noise at the bottom of his lungs. I punched him again, somewhere. He let go of the gun and I let go of his wrist. I bent to pick up the rod and he did a sprint toward the door, got it open and went through.
By the time I was in the hallway, he had disappeared down the steps. I followed, encouraged by the sound of his pounding footsteps. I reached the lobby as he sent the revolving doors spinning. I saw him turn a corner down the street and when I took that same corner, I took it wide so he wouldn’t be able to pull my trick by waiting for me against the wall. He wasn’t there. He’d turned into a space between two buildings and that was where I lost him.
A five minute prowl showed me no trace of the guy so I gave up. I found I had another gun in my belt. Getting rid of them seemed monotonous and this time I merely wiped it clean and dropped it in the alley before I started back for home. I was half tempted to keep the rod but only half tempted — because if Westover ever frisked me and found a gun... well, I was determined to stay out of the Big House if possible.
One thing I knew. Cooney had hired Hazy. Possibly because he knew Hazy hated Freddie Ogden enough to kill him if necessary. Which might be the sum total of his orders, so I headed for a telephone and called Lila’s home. I got Freddie and told him to keep his eyes batted. He was properly grateful and as I hung up, I guessed I might as well go whole hog for the evening and pay Doane’s first wife and daughter a visit. I was in no shape to go to sleep anyway. My heart was still pounding too savagely.
Chapter Four
Two Smart Women
I fritted away a buck and a half on a cab ride to the address and found it was one of those semi-fashionable places. No doorman, but a self-service elevator and a certain amount of cleanliness. The halls didn’t smell of cabbage and kraut, though somebody did like onions with their steak. I knocked hard on Anna’s door.
She opened it and surprised me some because I expected to see a frilly fifty year old woman trying to act like sixteen. Instead she seemed mature and sensible. She was dressed in a nurse’s uniform with white shoes and stockings that did nothing for her legs.
June Doane, in light blue pajamas with an overall pattern of dice on them, was stretched out on a davenport. One foot rested on the floor, the other leg was curled up under her. She looked up at me and said, “Hello,” with interest. The dame was man crazy.
Mrs. Doane wasn’t quite as impressed. She stepped in front of me. “Well, what do you want, busting in here like this?”