“If anything happens to me, the girl dies,” he gasped.
“The girl left the city long ago, you goat,” I told him. “She’s safe now.”
He didn’t believe me at first. Then he did, and he tried a different line.
“Safe maybe. But for how long? I don’t have to tell you. You know that Bronson never forgets — never forgives — never lets up on a double-crosser. It’s you — and it’s the girl now. We know she has the stuff. You didn’t think your real name was known. Well — you know now. You’ll have to go for the diamond. And the girl! Bronson will get her — make her talk. One hundred thousand dollars — you’ll be safe in London. I’ll arrange everything. You can’t get rid of it yourself.”
He was getting back his confidence now. I didn’t like that. Here was a chance to learn something — maybe, who the feared Bronson was. And I tightened my fingers suddenly into his throat — and loosened them at once.
Distinctly on the door came a knock — a rather loud knock, the first one. But the second was louder still. Imperative — commanding.
7
My hands no sooner dropped from Sam Wentworth’s throat than he was on his feet, staggered once, caught his balance, lurched across the room and sort of fell sidewise, gripping at the bathroom door. Then he closed that door softly and I was alone in the room as the knock came again. This time a voice also. Then the knob turned, a key grated in the lock and the knob turned again.
The door swung open and I took a smile. I might have known. This time there was to be a little light comedy, that helps out in every melodrama. The night clerk was there. He pranced right in — that is, for three quick steps. But he motioned to the man behind him to stay planted squarely in the doorway, where he could keep an eye on me. I looked the second lad over. Big, broad, and dumb. I labeled him for the night porter.
The clerk was trying to peer over my shoulder and into the room, then under my arm or around my side.
“Well—” I said. “Lost anything?”
“No, no — indeed not.” He had dropped his mask for a moment and was almost human. Then he was the night clerk again. “Someone telephoned the office. Heard a noise here; angry voices too. I just thought—”
And the clerk was saved the bad taste of asking a guest a too personal question. The bathroom door opened suddenly. Collar straightened, coat pulled down, what hair there was — brushed back, and a sleek smooth smile to his lips, Whispering Sam Wentworth stepped out of that bathroom. He moved quickly and easily for a heavy man. Just glided out that door, lifted a hand almost over the night clerk’s shoulders, plucked his hat, top coat and cane from the costumer with a single movement, and with a nod and a smile — in which there was no trace of excitement, said:
“Good evening, Mr. Hulbert Clovelly. Later, perhaps, we can discuss the matter. Your pardon, my man.” His cane shot up, touched the night porter lightly but authoritatively on the side, and he was gone.
I turned to the clerk. “Do you want the room? Do you want a written apology for something or other, or do you just want someone to talk to the rest of the night?”
Apparently he wanted neither. Without a word he turned and left me.
That was all. I closed the door, slipped off some clothes, and snapping out the light climbed into bed. I thought of Clovelly and decided to collect my extra five hundred bucks and chuck the thing.
I thought of the girl and decided— But I don’t know what, the hell I did decide. I guess I just decided to sleep.
It must have been an hour later that I woke up. Something was scratching against my door. Then it stopped — and came again. It sounded like a lad working on the lock — carefully, cautiously. Maybe I was going to have a look at Bronson. Somehow, I was getting curious about this bird. He sure seemed to command a lot of respect in certain circles. But that he had killed a man was certain. Brutally, and without—
As I reached the door the scratch turned into a knock. Not loud, perhaps, but recognizable as a bid for me to answer. I did. I’m a curious guy, and want to know all that’s going on.
I braced a foot against the door, opened it a fraction of an inch and held it against the pressure from without.
“It’s me — the girl.” I hardly caught the voice. “You know. Let me in.”
The girl. She had followed me then — grabbed another cab and— But she couldn’t have. She must have thought she was visiting Clovelly. The station had been a fake. She— But I said:
“Wait a minute and I’ll let you in.”
“No— I can’t stand here in the hall.” And I think she added, “you fool.” But her voice was too low to be sure — and besides, I didn’t think she’d exactly pull that line on me. Anyway I heard her add distinctly: “Someone’s coming.”
I stepped back into the darkness. Partly felt my way and was partly guided by the light from the window.
I found my trousers and slipped into them as she closed the door tightly — locked it — and breathed heavily with relief.
I crossed to the window as I slipped on my jacket, found the shade and jerked it down just as the girl spoke.
“Where the hell is the light?” she said. Then she laughed.
Her voice was louder now; her tones harsher, harder. The light snapped on. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I know, but it was a shock when I saw her. She was not the girl of the kidnaping.
She was not bad to look at. That is, in one way. Cold, hard beauty. Even keen shrewdness, if not exactly what you’d call intelligence, in her face. Her mouth, that had rosebud lips when she first looked at me, was too damn big for beauty when she opened it and laughed. And she did laugh — easy and naturally too. And then, suddenly: “Who the hell did you expect to come here?”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Me?” She sort of puffed out her front and jerked up her head. “Didn’t you guess? I’m Bronson’s girl. Rita Haskins.”
“Yeah?” And with a grin: “Bronson has a lot of friends.”
“Somehow,” she put hard green glims on me, “I didn’t expect to find you this kind of a guy. Oh, I didn’t care if you were a sniveling coward or not. You’ve got brains, kid — lots of them. And you had the guts to step out for yourself when the big chance came. Just one mistake. You didn’t think Bronson would ever connect you up with the name of Hulbert Clovelly.”
“Just what do you want now?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She watched me. “You’re different than I expected. But I don’t know. Would you go as far as... as a killing?”
“You mean murder?” I put it to her straight.
“If you want to call it that.” There was no horror in her face — in her voice.
“Who’s to take the ride?” I asked her.
“Bronson. He’s got to go. It’s him or me,” she said. “He’d never chuck me out and let me live. And he’s through with me. Wacco will talk tonight. It was Wacco, of course, who told me you were Hulbert Clovelly.”
“Bronson tried to kill me tonight,” I said.
She looked puzzled at that.
“He must be pretty sure of getting the stone from her then. But that’s all the more reason for putting him out. Will you do it? He’ll kill you sure, if you don’t strike first. Me too.”
“And why your interest in me?”
“Because you can’t get rid of the diamond — I can. I know a collector who’ll take it with blood all over it. I want to handle the deal. And I want half the price, and I want Bronson dead. Look here! I’m going to set him up for you. You’ll only have to stick a gun in his back and give him the works.”
“I see,” I told her. “I’ll think it over. How much can you get for the rock?”