Paderoofski scratched the top of his head with the middle finger of his left hand, and wondered what he had done.
Kennedy picked up his drink and made his way amiably to the end of the bar where the skipper had gone. The skipper pointed with his fork, growled:
“Lay off, Kennedy. I feel meaner than a mad dog. I feel so mean I can’t even be civil to my wife. Now I don’t have to be civil in a public bar and I don’t intend to be. The reason why I came here was because I wouldn’t have to be civil. And I don’t want any suggestions, any sympathy, or any razz-berry. In fact, I don’t want anything — from you or anybody else. I want to be left alone. If people don’t leave me alone I’m going to punch them in the nose.”
Kennedy chuckled, downed his drink and skated the empty glass down the bar. From the doorway he saluted, saying gaily:
“Tally-ho, skippery-wippery.”
MacBride glared at him.
Number 910 Waterford was a greystone apartment house of six stories built around a small circular court which had a circular driveway. The lobby was at the back of the circle. There was no desk but there was a rack for letters and a small switchboard and a mopey negro in plum-colored livery. His eyes were only one-third open and he sat on a high stool, droop-shoulder, with his lower lip hanging down to his chin.
“Hello, George,” Kennedy said.
“Cunningham is m’ name.”
“I’m looking for an attractive young lady who wears a hat that looks something like a coal scuttle.”
The negro suddenly burst into a guffaw and slapped himself on the knee. “Boss man, you took de words right outen ma mowf! It sho do look like unto a coal scuttle! Yassuh, boss man cap’n, it sho’ do!” Then suddenly he was morose again and seemed on the point of falling asleep.
“Cunningham—”
“Folks don’t call me Cunningham, boss. Dey call me Oscar.”
“Well, Oscar, I’d like to see Miss Inez. She’s in two-five, isn’t she?”
“No, suh. She’s in four-eight.”
You operated the elevator yourself.
There was a white button alongside the door numbered 48 and Kennedy, looking tranquilly pleased with himself, pressed it. He heard prompt footsteps. The door opened and he was face to face with the girl. Even without the shako she looked striking. Her throat was slender but strong, her face was angular, handsome, with wide full lips. Her eyes were like two jets of black fire — full of passion and, he thought, touched with tragedy.
“I bring important news from Joel Webb,” said Kennedy.
She started. Her eyes leaped, then settled. “Come in,” she said in a low, curious voice.
He entered blithely and strolled through a small foyer and into a living-room. As he tossed his hat on to the divan a shape bulked in the bedroom doorway. The woman Emmy, who had thrown him out of Jaeger’s place. She scowled. Her eyes darkened and hardened and she snapped at the girclass="underline"
“Who let him in?”
“Why — I did. He said—”
“He said!” snarled Emmy, striding into the room. “You,” she commanded the girl, “get in the bedroom. Get!”
The girl ran into the bedroom and Emmy closed the door after her, locked it.
Kennedy sighed, “Well, it’s a small world after all.”
The woman pivoted. “It’s probably going to be smaller than you ever thought it was before, smart guy,” she growled. “How did you find out she lived here?”
“I heard her give the address to a taxi driver.”
“You stinking liar!”
He shrugged philosophically. “Okey, Emmy. No matter how I got here, I’m here. I don’t want to talk to you, Godiva. I want to talk to the girl.”
Emmy laughed harshly, dangerously. “And why, laddie?”
“I want to find out what she was looking for in the Carioca this morning.”
Emmy put her hands on her hips. She grinned broadly, showing all her teeth; but there was no mirth in that grin. Her eyes shimmered. “Now ain’t that just wonderful!” she mocked. “The little newspaperman wants to find out what she was looking for in the Carioca!”
“Emmy,” said Kennedy, “let us have done with this repartee. It is written in the stars that I must meet the girl.” His voice was tranquil, there was the barest shadow of a smile on his lips. He was genial and good-natured, but even so a man can be purposeful. Kennedy was purposeful without being dramatically high-flown about it. He said in his gentle, almost coaxing voice:
“Open the door, Emmy.”
He had never seen a woman tower the way Emmy towered. The rage which had started burning within her was whipped to white heat by his casual, easy-going manner; harsh words could not have enraged her more. Hatred and fury lashed out from her eyes. Her lips tightened and worked against each other and her jaw hardened and seemed to grow larger. She seemed to expand, to swell all over, and Kennedy expected to hear an unleashed torrent of abuse and invective.
But Emmy turned suddenly and walked hard-heeled into a small pantry, her elbows out from her side, her arms swinging. She reappeared instantly with a twelve-inch heavy carving knife gripped in her hand. Her voice was thick, rasping:
“So you’ll shove your nose into my business, will you!”
She bore down on him and there was no doubt in his mind about what she intended doing. He scooped up a pillow and flung it and she was so primed to strike that instantly the blade wheeled. Its point pierced the pillow and when she saw this she cried out hoarsely, ripped the pillow free and hurled it away.
Kennedy was at the other end of the room. He said dryly, watchfully, “If you’ve got a head, Emmy, use it now. Put that cleaver away.”
She made no reply. Her broad nostrils twitched. With her left hand she swept a chair out of the way. She headed across the room and on the way she used her left hand to pick up a vase. She hurled the vase at him and then charged with the knife. He was watching both, but the vase caught him; it shattered against his head, brought blood to his forehead. The pain was so sharp that he flung himself halfway across the room on the reflex. He would have gone farther, but the open pantry door stopped him. It stopped him abruptly, jarred his whole body. In trying to steady himself, he reached out a hand blindly. It caught the top of a light chair and closed on it.
His eyes danced and he saw two or three Emmies coming at him, two or three knives sweeping towards him. Even in this split second he must have realized that it would be just as fatal to remain motionless as to take a swing. He gripped the chair with both hands, took a swing and connected and instead of feeling the swift incision of a knife he felt the hard bulk of the woman crash awkwardly against him, then fall away and crash to the floor. The knife was out of her hand. He did not see it anywhere. Then he saw it imbedded in the pantry door, its handle still quivering. Emmy lay in a heap, quite senseless.
Kennedy staggered to the bedroom door, unlocked it and tripped on his way into the bedroom. Rising, he looked around. Things still danced before his eyes and his head, having stopped the vase and been stopped by the pantry door, seemed to be jogging up and down on his shoulders. But he could see that the girl was not in the room. He looked under the twin beds. The bathroom was empty. So was a closet. Then he saw an open window and bowled across to it, thrust out his head. There was a fire-escape leading to a rear alleyway. The cold air felt good. He saw drops of blood falling on the windowsill and remembered his head. As he pulled his head in he heard a door slam.
Turning unsteadily, breathing heavily, he saw that the connecting door, through which he had entered, was closed. He fell on it, fought the knob. It was locked. Then he saw a door which he had overlooked before and stumbled towards it, yanked it open. But it was only another closet. He did not close it instantly, however. Reaching in, he withdrew an immense white fan. He made a small, rueful sound. Then he noticed that drops of blood were falling on the fan. His head felt like a huge red-hot clinker. He dropped the fan and went into the bathroom.