He turned in, hesitantly, under a dingy sign from which hung three tarnished gilt balls. The window was plastered, inside, with a miscellaneous network of watches, binoculars, shotguns, revolvers, banjoes, carpenter’s levels, flutes, fishing rods. Phony “flash wares” bought at auction, Hansard knew, for sale to overwise suckers.
The girl was still there. She was talking earnestly to Elias down at the far end of the counter. A bleached-out aluminum blonde with plenty of curve, where they counted, and a pinched, sharp little face with too much rouge and lipstick on it. She wore a short seal jacket over a thin blue silk dress, and if Mike Hansard was any judge, she was scared silly about something.
“Won’t you please hurry,” she was saying, shrilly, to the two men behind the counter. “I tell you I’ve got to catch a train.”
Old Elias Litzman looked at her mildly over his steel-rimmed spectacles and fingered his scraggly beard thoughtfully. “In a transaction of this size, it is necessary to make out the papers correctly. I have my pawnshop license to protect—”
“I understand. But I’ve given you all the information you’ve asked for.”
“How do you spell your first name, Miss Sampson. Or here” — the pawnbroker deferentially handed her his pen — “if you will just fill this in, yourself. Full name and address. Phone number, if you have one...”
The girl wrote eagerly.
Hansard rested his elbows wearily on the counter, took his watch out of his pocket as if he were greatly embarrassed.
The younger Litzman came up to him, briskly. “You wish to make a loan, gentleman?” He slid a slip of white paper under Mike’s hand.
“Like to get about five-six bucks on the turnip. It’s worth twenty-five, at least.”
On the slip he read—
Stones: One diamond
Weight: One and one half carats
Setting: 22k. yellow gold
Inscriptions: None
Maker’s name: None
Mike tucked the pawnbroker’s record unobtrusively away in his pocket. “I got to have five dollars, anyway.” Under his breath he added: “Nobody with her, Sol?”
Sol Litzman examined the watch’s movement with professional disdain. “Five I couldn’t let you have. Watches like them are positively a drag on the market, these days. Maybe three.” He whispered: “All alone, Mr. Hansard.”
“You can sell it for fifteen. A fella offered me fifteen.”
Sol shrugged, scornfully. “You should taken it.”
“Gimme five seeds on it.” Mike murmured: “Ever seen her before?”
“Where’d you get this watch, mister. You’re so anxious to get rid of it, maybe it ain’t yours. Never laid eyes on her, so help me.”
“It’s mine,” Hansard grumbled. “Those are my initials, inside the case, there. What’s her say-so?”
“Claims she’s a show-girl. Used to be in burly. Out of a job. Claims she’s had the ring couple of years, Guy gave it to her.” Sol laid the watch on the counter, with an air of finality. “Three-fifty is absolutely our outside limit, my friend. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll split the difference. Make it four, huh? You think she’s leveling, Sol?”
“Well, so I’ll do it. If you don’t come back and redeem it, I lose money, I’m telling you. We put the ring under the glass, Mr. Hansard. She’s lying, positively. Ring ain’t ever been worn by nobody. Anyway, showgirl’s rings always got a little grease paint on ’em that hold the dust under the setting points. There ain’t no dust of any sort under the points on this ring. Write out your full name and address, please.”
Mike spoke without moving his lips. “How much will she take?”
“Here’s four dollars, mister. She come down to a hundred-fifty.”
“Much obliged. I’ll be back for the watch. Give it to her. I’ll be responsible for it.”
Sol turned toward the green steel cabinet back of the counter. As he did so, he nodded almost imperceptibly to his father. And as the plainclotbesman slouched toward the door, he could hear old Elias saying: “I take a chance, young lady. Actual I ain’t got a right to let you have the money. But you say you got to get to San Francisco. You give me your word. Absolutely you redeem the ring, so I make an exception...”
Hansard glanced back through the intervening lacework of opera glasses, ukeleles, cocktail sets, drawing instruments. The girl’s head was thrown back. She was drawing a deep breath as if a terrible load had been lifted from her shoulders. This could be the frill MacReady had seen. It was the type of ring that had been stolen from Dumont’s place. He had been able to tell from the vacant spots in the jeweler’s window that most of the rings had been “engagement specials.”
He surveyed the street. Between Forty-sixth and — seventh there was only an elderly couple strolling leisurely. No cars at the curb, just a battered baker’s truck parked in front of a Coffee Pot, down at the next corner.
Mike slid into the doorway next to Litzman’s. He’d tail her, see who she met, where she went. Maybe the mob had been desperate for dough, had to make a fast touch to get out of town. In that case...
She was coming. She was almost running as she pushed open the door, but she glanced warily up and down the block before she walked quickly downtown.
She got about ten paces when the baker’s truck moved jerkily out from the curb.
The man behind the wheel was a horse-faced individual with an ugly scar slashing down from one corner of his mouth. Hansard saw the glint of metal in the driver’s hand.
That was enough warning for Mike.
“Hey, kid,” he yelled. “Watch that truck!”
She saw it at the same instant, screamed, turned and fled back for the shelter of the pawnshop doorway.
The truck speeded up. Little jets of orange flame began to spit from a hole in the side panel of the truck. Glass shattered above Hansard’s head as he put out a foot, tripped the girl so she sprawled flat on the sidewalk.
The staccato bark of an automatic rifle echoed hollowly in the empty street. The heavy flat report from Mike’s Police Positive crashed thunderously through the more brittle sound of the rifle-fire.
Something licked out with a hot tongue at his cheek. He dropped to one knee and aimed carefully as the gray truck roared past.
The door and window of the pawnshop disintegrated in a jangling shatter of broken glass.
At his feet the girl squealed, once — and lay still.
Mike fired at the driver, saw the windshield smash, put another bullet, halfway down in the front door by the driver’s seat. Then the truck was past. Lead smacked into the door jamb beside him as he thumbed fresh cartridges into his pistol, sent a burst of slugs at a rear tire. He heard the tire go, saw the truck swerve crazily around a corner.
A police whistle shrieked. Behind him, heavy feet pounded on pavement. Hansard stood up, flipped his left hand in the horizontal palm-up, fingers-back gesture that says “I’m a cop,” everywhere.
A harsh voice behind him grated: “Which way they’d go?”
“ ’Round the corner,” snapped Mike. “Gray truck. Tire gone. Watch it. They got a chatter gun—”
The patrolman raced for the corner.
Hansard knelt beside the girl. His attempt to protect her had failed. One of those half-inch slugs from that automatic rifle had ricocheted from the metal casing of the pawnbroker’s window, caught her in the throat. She was still alive but when she tried to speak, a red froth bubbled from her lips and her eyes glazed.