She chewed over her answer. In a way, when I saw that shrewd, beautiful, evil face, I didn’t exactly wonder that Bronson might have a natural desire to knock her over before dropping her out of his life. But I think she told the truth when she said:
“Two hundred grand. Two hundred thousand dollars, spot cash. Half yours and half mine. With Bronson dead, there’s me. I think I could like you. And when I like a guy — I like him.”
Her arms went around my neck, her body sort of slid to and fitted against mine. She knew her stuff, and I daresay she would have her moments.
One hand half held me to her. The other — I felt the leather of her handbag cold against my neck, just above the collar. Then the empty hand caressing me — my hair — my cheeks, her lips turning up towards mine — slightly parting; alluring, clear white teeth; overpowering perfume, if you can believe the advertisements.
Her face moved quickly; her cheek pressed against mine so that I didn’t see her eyes. But I had seen them — seen them when her body clung close; when her full red mouth held a promise. And those eyes were not soft. They were green and cold — and, perhaps, held a sort of determination in them. And I did it.
My head snapped up, with force enough to knock her teeth out. My hand gripped her right wrist and twisted violently. There was a dull thud, and a tiny .25-caliber automatic lay on the floor.
The girl stood there, looking at me a minute. Those hard, cruel eyes were surprised now — slightly stunned too. She felt her mouth; pulled awkwardly at a loose tooth.
“Jeeze!” she said. “Jeeze! You might have knocked my teeth out.”
“I ought to wring your neck,” I told her, as I shook her — and got a few more teeth loose, maybe. “You tried to kill me.” I let her go.
“No.” She shook her head. “Only tried to scare some sense into you.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“No—” she flashed suddenly, “I don’t. Yes, I’ll kill you if you won’t kill Bronson. It’s my life or Bronson’s life — or your life.”
“So it’s me or Bronson.” I stroked my chin as I slipped her gun into my pocket. “Maybe I’ll kill him for you.”
“You’re a real man.” She shook me by the shoulder now. “I never expected to find you like this. You’ll do it?”
“I’ll give you my answer later,” I told her. “Where can I meet you?” It wouldn’t be bad to have a line on this dame.
“Don’t bother about that. I’ll meet you. I know where you’ll be going; where you’ll have to go. It will draw you like a magnet.”
The door closed; the woman was gone. She had given me an earful, and no mistake. Of course, I tried to think it out. Jumbled thoughts that wouldn’t be worth the trouble of putting them on paper.
This time I didn’t even get to sleep. Feet came softly down the hall, a key grated in the lock, the knob turned and a body pushed against the door.
The door knob rattled and shook again as I started to put on some things. Then a loud, booming voice that seemed familiar — although I couldn’t place it.
“Come on — open up! There’s no use to try to hide it. I know she’s in there.”
“All right, brother,” I called out, in a sleepy voice as I again got into some clothes. “Is there a fire, or—” And I was across to the door, but not opening it at once. This game was rather a rough one.
Now the night clerk was talking. There was elation in his voice and a sort of “I told you so.”
“Women are not allowed in the rooms, Mr. Clovelly. You know that. We’ll have to ask you for your room. If this gentleman will—”
Again my gun shot into my jacket pocket. Then I plugged on the light, stepped forward and flung open the door. A giant of a man almost fell on me. Behind him was the night clerk. A little cockier this time.
The big man lurched half across the room, had a look-see in the bathroom, half turned towards me — and bellowed:
“Come on, young fellow — me lad. Where’s the dame? We know—” And he faced me. His mouth hung open and the unlighted half of a cigar toppled over his lower lip and just hung there. But his amazement was no greater than mine. The world’s master detective was on the job. Gregory Ford. Head of one of New York’s biggest detective agencies. I knew him of course — had been on cases with him — and against him.
8
Something about him made me laugh; then I closed up my face, jerked a thumb towards the clerk and winked. Gregory Ford took the cue.
He turned to the clerk. “Outside! You must have been sleeping. There’s no one in here — no woman. You want to be careful.” Gregory Ford’s stomach came out, masquerading as his chest, and his cigar shot straight up in his mouth. “This man might sue you, you know.”
The clerk left, and Gregory and I were alone.
“Now—” said Gregory Ford, “what’s the racket? For Rita must have come in here.”
“No girl here,” I told him. “What put that idea into your head?”
“I saw her,” he told me. “But I couldn’t go prancing down the hall after her. I lost her in the corridor. All right. I could make it unpleasant for you. You’ve got a strange moniker down on the register. Hulbert Clovelly. Why that?”
“It’s as good as another,” I told him. “You’re a detective, or so listed and licensed. You don’t go around advertising it — that is, all the time.” But I did see that the name Hulbert Clovelly seemed to mean nothing to him.
“All right, all right.” He threw himself into a chair. “Want to swap a few yarns?”
“I don’t know.” I sat on the end of the bed. “Talk if you want. If it’s interesting I may talk back.”
“Interested in hearing anything about the Mayfair diamond?” And he shoved his slouch hat back and regarded me a moment. “That got you, eh?”
“Of course,” I said easily, “the May-fair diamond would interest anybody, even if it hasn’t brought the hard luck and the deaths that follow the Hope diamond over the years.”
“No.” Gregory Ford stroked his chins. “Not over the years, it don’t. But it’s brought enough deaths. Smack — like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Didn’t read about it, did you?”
“No, I didn’t; But I’m very much interested.” Which was the truth.
“Yeah — I believe that.” Gregory ford’s eyes got narrow. “Want to hear more?”
“Sure.”
Gregory Ford made a race track out of his mouth with the unlighted cigar, crossed his legs, looked at me out of the corner of his eyes, and got a load off his chest which was far more, interesting to me than he thought it was. For I believe he felt that he was just showing me his knowledge, and that I knew what he knew all along.
“Well,” said Gregory, “as everyone knows, the Mayfair was owned by Charlie Remington, the English bachelor millionaire. Charlie went broke in the crash, but kept his head up so that his many creditors wouldn’t hear about it and jump him. But he had to get money to patch things up and get it quick.”
Gregory scratched a match, held it a moment without bringing it to his damp cigar, and threw it away. That was a trick of his.
“The Mayfair,” he went on, “had been a hobby with him, although he kept it in the vault of a bank; but it was the least conspicuous of his properties he could sell.
“He made — or thought he had made — a secret deal. Four hundred thousand dollars was the price; and four men were in the deal — the purchaser, a big jeweler, the head of the insurance company, and Remington’s lawyer, and all sworn to secrecy.
“But there was one unknown man who got on to the transaction, and the last man in the world who should have been in on it. You tell me his name and I’ll go on with the story.”