Do him to death. Kill him. Murder him. You’ve got to admit that any one of the three was a bad way to begin a week. But it wasn’t the time for making bum jokes. This lad had paid for service and was entitled to it.
“Who is he — and where is he?” I snapped into business.
“I don’t know if it’s too late. He’s my friend. I—”
“Come! Where are you? Out with it, man,” I demanded. He seemed like a loose thinker.
And he told me. He was in a cheap restaurant on the other side of town. Close to the warehouse, he said. Then he wanted to give me directions. But once I got the name of the street I knew I’d find it. While he wanted to chew the fat I gave him orders to stay put, and I’d be down.
“You can—? Can you—? Are you armed?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I told him sarcastically. “I’ll threaten these birds with the police if they can’t be reasoned with.”
“Oh, no — you can’t do that. You really can’t. That’s why... why you’re in it. Because the police can’t — must not be called.”
“All right then. I’ll shoot them to death for you.” And with that bit of pleasantry I hung up the receiver, grabbed my hat, shoved a gun into a hip pocket, shoved the other rod a bit tighter in its shoulder-holster and sought the elevator. This case looked like it was going to start with action. And I like action.
I didn’t take a taxi directly from the hotel door, nor did I drive smack to the little restaurant. I let the driver help me out on my street directions, spotted the restaurant as we drove by it, climbed out a block and a half away and around the corner, and letting the taxi go I hoofed it back.
The lad was watching for me in the doorway of a beanery. Anyway, a man stepped out; walked uncertainly towards me; hesitated when I didn’t give him a tumble, and when he started by me I grabbed his arm — and spoke.
“You sent me some money. How much? When and where — and what name did you use?”
After gulping a moment he gave the answers like the back of an arithmetic book, and we got down to business. He was a lean man, without age. His eyes set far back in his head. His cheeks were sunken and pallid. His lips, a dry colorless thickness. And he had a way of doing tricks with his fingers when he spoke. But he got his line over clear enough.
“My friend — McNab. He telephoned you, to New York. My health is not good. He’s handling things, and—”
“Yes, yes — all that can come later. Where is he?”
“The warehouse — down the block — around the corner. They followed us. I got away. They wanted me, I think. McNab ran into the warehouse.” He walked me to the corner and pointed. “That building down there. No, don’t go any farther now. One man is by the entrance; by the little side door. I saw him from the alley I hid in. There’s something black in his hand — short, snub-nosed. Something—”
“From your description one might suspect it was a gun.” But such light humor was lost on him. “All right.” I steadied him as he started to lean against me. “I’ll get this McNab out of there.”
“And me — you don’t want me?”
“No,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t want you.” And since he needed a bit of stirring up, I added: “You can stay alive and tell the authorities where to ship the body.”
Not a pleasant thought? Maybe not. If there was a lad on the door, with a gun, these boys meant business. That didn’t bother me any. If lads didn’t occasionally wait around for others, with guns, I couldn’t make such a good living using mine.
Just before I left him Clovelly clutched me by the sleeve.
“No — no violence, please. Just stamp around — make a noise. Frighten them off.”
I looked at this pale, bent bird. Certainly he needed someone to take care of him.
“I’ll just—”
I stopped. We both raised our heads and drew back in the little alley at the end of the warehouse. Somewhere above us — distant, indistinct, and dying almost before I was sure I had heard it, had come a shriek — a piercing shriek of terror. Someone had cried out. Quick, sharp notes of fear had come from that musty warehouse.
“I’ll be in the restaurant over—” Clovelly started. But I was gone, slipping close to the warehouse; hurrying down to that little door just by the corner, where the man who watched was supposed to be.
And I saw him. Dimly, his figure there in the darkness as I passed. Just a shadow that moved irresolutely towards the street, stopped uncertainly. And I turned quickly, pushed my shoulder close against the building, edged back to the doorway and waited beside it. My jacket collar was turned up high, my slouch hat pulled well down over my forehead.
He did the expected. Out came his head — cautiously, furtively, around the corner of that entrance. It was so easy, it was to laugh. I didn’t have to do a thing; didn’t have to move. I didn’t even stick my gun in his face. He saved me the trouble. He just popped his head out of that doorway and smacked his face flat against my rod that was waiting.
“Easy does it, Buddy.” I shot the words through the side of my mouth as I saw his right hand half struggling in his jacket pocket. “You pull out that rod, and — plop — right like that comes a shovelful of dirt.”
Silly talk, that? Sure. But then, this was silly business. As a gunman, this lad was a flop. I pushed his head back in the doorway with my gun, and where his head went his body had to follow — and that was well back in the darkness.
He had more guts than I gave him credit for. He made a quick, sudden movement of that, right hand in his pocket. But that was a stall. I knew it the moment he ducked his head and his left hand flashed up with the knife. Maybe he saved his life by that lowering of his head. Maybe I saved it for him, for as a rule I don’t like shooting lads unless I’m more or less acquainted with them. Not from the book of etiquette, that. Let’s call it native caution.
Since his head was just below my gun and since my left hand held the wrist that was half out of his jacket pocket while my right arm had warded off the downward thrust of the knife, I just did the easiest thing. My right hand went up and down quickly, forcibly. There was a dull thud as steel hit bone — real bone at that, and the would-be knife sticker folded up and lay down in the little hallway.
I took the gun, of course. Partly because he might come to before I was finished with my business, and partly because I thought firearms were dangerous for him to play with. Then I hopped his crumpled form, found the door open in the back of that hallway and was right in the center of ten thousand evil smells. Damp ones mostly. I won’t say there were fish in that warehouse, but I will say that there had been fish in it in its time. And the memory of the fish still lingered.
2
It was while I was drawing my pocket flashlight that I bumped into the stairs. And those stairs were of the common household cellar variety. Plenty of space to slip your feet in between them and, so. smack your face on the rough, splintery wood before sliding back down. No guard rail on either side — but no creaks to them either, which I rather liked.
Cautiously, yet rapidly enough, my hand now feeling the steps above, I went up. And I reached the top. There was no doubt about that. My head struck solid wood, my hand shot up and felt the braces of iron — and I knew it was a trap door.
Rather tricky work starting that door open. But once it gave enough to assure me there was darkness above, it was easy going. After a few preliminary squeaks I knew I had nothing to worry about. There were answering groans of old planks; creaks and cracks that offset my own and made the hinges of that trap door sound like the whining of a baby.
Yep — creaks of old beams, that came from back in that warehouse. Groans of the boards, too, that sounded almost human — and they were human. Plainly, now, I made out the moan of a man; a muffled, distant, drawn out sort of sigh, as if lips were tightly compressed.