Malo looked hurt. “Sure, sure, Ruiz. Don’t I always take my play from you? Do I make mistakes?”
“Just do what I tell you and shut up,” Ruiz snarled.
“Sure, leave it to Malo. We take him upstairs?”
“Come on.”
We walked across the lot and up to the rear door. Ruiz knocked and the door was opened by an aproned Filipino who recognized Ruiz and walked away paying no more attention to us. We were in the nightclub kitchen with all its attendant noises and clattering confusion. We walked through and came out in a narrow hall on the opposite side. Directly across from us were the swinging doors leading to the nightclub proper. At one end of the hall a red exit light glowed dimly. We turned in the opposite direction and mounted the stairs.
There were swinging doors on the second floor in approximately the same place as those below. We had to step back as they swung inward on us and Jocko Vecelli came through. I caught a glimpse of a wide, low ceiling room, not too fancy. A black cloth cyclorama hung in folds around the circumference of the room. It was a neat idea for killing several birds with one stone. It centered attention on the gaming tables, acted as a blackout curtain, deadened sound and probably saved Jocko a lot of money in decorations.There were about two dozen players in the room and the low hum of conversation blended with the hollow rattle of the ivory pellet whirling in the roulette wheel and the soft voice of the house man calling odds at the crap table. There were other seated games and I already knew enough about Honolulu to know that monte, fantan and the inevitable black jack would be among them.
Vecelli gestured silently toward the door in the opposite wall. Malo started to haul me forward, but I suddenly dug my heels in. As my eyes had roamed the big room I had caught a glimpse of Maile Sherrod standing at the roulette table talking animatedly to the croupier. He was smiling and shaking his head at whatever she was saying. The swinging door blotted out my view, Malo tugged again and I allowed myself to be dragged into Vecelli’s office.
Jocko had apparently had too much experience with short-memoried politicians and crooked vice squad cops to splurge on an expensive layout. The office walls were stained plywood paneling, the floor was covered with maroon carpeting and the desk was a good efficient metal one without adornment. The only wall decoration hung behind the desk — and proved that Vecelli had a sense of humor of sorts. It was a large framed, signed photograph of Honolulu’s Chief of Police, an estimable gentleman who undoubtedly would have blown his top had he known where it was hanging.
Vecelli crossed the office ahead of us and opened a door in the side wall. “Take him in here.”
It was a small storeroom with a single unshaded light bulb hanging down from the ceiling. Broken chairs were piled in one corner, a battered crap table with one leg missing leaned against the wall and old menus, poker chips and odds and ends of junk were scattered on the floor. The room was on the corner directly over the kitchen. The windows on both sides had been painted black.
Vecelli closed the door and turned to me. “I warned you to stay out of my affairs, Ford.”
I grinned. “You also said you could take care of your affairs personally.” Ruiz pulled my gun out of his pocket. Vecelli spoke to him without taking his eyes off me. “Put the rod away. I don’t want any shooting here.”
Ruiz continued to hold the gun on me. “I’m not gonna plug him — yet.” He turned to Malo. “Tie him up.”
Malo went over to the corner, picked up a dirty length of clothesline and proceeded to tie my wrists behind me. Ruiz stepped to one side and inspected the knots. He nodded in satisfaction and moved around to face me. Suddenly he reached up and slammed the barrel of the automatic against my jaw. I staggered back and fell against the wall. Ruiz shifted the gun to his other hand and drove his fist into my stomach. I jack-knifed and went down to my knees. Ruiz leaned forward. “The boss don’t like wisecracks, shamus. Be respectful.”
Vecelli pulled him aside. “Get up,” he ordered.
I got slowly to my feet, resigned to the fact that I was going to get a good going over. Vecelli grasped my shirt front. “Tough guy!” He spat full in my face. “Here’s a guy thinks he can bump off one of Vecelli’s boys and come around to brag about it. ’At’s the trouble with you Coast punks. You get one block off the Strip and you think you’re pushing around a bunch of hayseeds.”
I said: “What did you have to kill Anne Seccombe for?”
Vecelli turned slowly on Ruiz. “What’s he talking about?”
Ruiz looked sullen. “We’re in kind of a jam, boss.”
“What kind of a jam are we in?” Vecelli asked ominously.
“I had to plug the Seccombe dame. She was going into Ford’s place when she spotted us.”
“You gun-crazy fool!” Vecelli exploded. “Who gave you any orders to kill a dame?”
“She spotted us, boss,” Ruiz whined. “Besides,” he added reproachfully, “Ford ain’t a tourist. He don’t have no social callers.”
Vecelli considered this and nodded slowly.
“The way I figured it,” said Ruiz, gaining courage, “if a local girl disappears, people ask questions. But if she gets plugged at Ford’s cottage and Ford disappears, everything still gets taken care of.”
Vecelli was still sore but his mind began to examine the idea. “You kill her with your own rod?”
Ruiz grinned. “I used a souvenir Jap pistol I carry for emergencies.”
“Where is it?”
“Beside her body. No fingerprints.” He grinned wolfishly. “If the punk disappears off Makapuu Point tonight, he’ll be halfway to California tomorrow.”
Vecelli came to a decision. “It was a dumb play but it can’t be helped. Leave him in here and we’ll take him for a ride after we close.”
Ruiz moved in on me again. “I’ll fix him so he won’t make any noise.” He drew back his gun hand.
Malo grabbed Ruiz’s arm. “One minute. ’Scuse me, boss,” he said apologetically to Vecelli. “More-better not to mark him up so much. Might be, we change our minds again.” He grinned wickedly. “All we want is make him sleep till time to go, huh?”
Vecelli nodded.
“O.K.” Malo pushed Ruiz aside, rolled his shoulders once and with a look of childish glee, smashed his big fist into the point of my jaw. Stars did pin-wheels under my skull and then a red wave was succeeded by a black wave and I was falling through space.
I had no idea of time. When I came to, the room was dark and the pain in my jaw swept over me in sickening waves. I struggled to a sitting position, started to topple, threw out an arm and caught myself. My hands were no longer tied! I fumbled around in the darkness, found the rope, felt the ends. They had been cut through sharply. This was no time to go around looking for somebody to thank. I tiptoed across the room and raised the rear window. It gave onto a sloping roof over the kitchen door.
I lowered myself from the window and let go. My feet went out from under me, I clawed frantically at the edge of the roof, missed, and tumbled unceremoniously to the ground.
I got up and dusted myself off as a sedan eased into the parking lot. I backed into the shadows and watched two laughing couples get out of the car and head toward the front entrance of the club. They paid no attention when I moved in behind them. They turned in at the entrance, stopped and chatted with the doorman. I hurried on. I hailed a cab on Kalakaua and directed the Filipino driver to the tan tile and brick edifice that housed Honolulu Police Headquarters.