Over our drinks, such as they were, we gazed into a long mirror, eyeing the crowd. I saw a dapper little man edge toward a rear hallway and disappear. Mace looked at me questioningly.
“Don’t see him,” I mumbled to him quietly.
He nodded.
I saw his gaze shift toward the front door; linger there. His coat bulged out at the hip and I was convinced he had another gun hidden there. Our eyes met in the mirror above the bar.
“You look better,” he said. “Up in the hotel room I thought you’d pass out on me.”
I managed a stiff nod. “Because I didn’t know what I was up against before Mace.”
His lips twitched as though at a fleeting, humorous thought. “Yeah.”
The front door swung open. I gripped my glass so tight my knuckles ached, but it was only a newsboy. He began circling among the tables. I was tense, watching—
“We’ll stay here awhile,” Mace said out of the corner of his mouth. “Take it easy.”
Yes. Take it easy. While he was holding me here, what was going on outside? I was burning with impatience. They probably wouldn’t come in here at all. And presently he’d suggest we go back to my car. Once out there in the dark, what chance would I have? The time to make the break was now!
The juke box was blasting out with another round of rumba, screeching, jangling my nerves. I stood up and Mace half turned, cat-like.
“Wash my hands,” I explained. “Be right back.”
Slowly he sank back on the stool, eyes narrowing.
I don’t know whether he fell for it or not. I ambled toward that rear hall where the sign pointed to the washroom. Once out of sight, I trotted past it, turned and went up a flight of wooden stairs. A long hall stretched before me, closed doors on each side and a crack of light shining dimly beneath one of them.
A man’s voice, muffled, filtered from the room, mingling with the rattle of poker chips; a loud guffaw; other voices. I went on, stepping softly, came up against a closed door at the end of the hall. I eased the gun out of my pocket to use for effect if necessary, and twisted the knob. It opened.
My heart leaped when cool, night air struck my face. Wooden steps descended to the ground. My way was clear. But I hesitated. If Lyria and the man with the scarred chin were below somewhere, and I had bullets in my gun—? Ambitious thoughts of retribution held me there. I glanced back toward that room where the game was in progress. Tough men hung out here, Mace had said. They had guns of their own probably, and I knew a .38 revolver was a fairly common calibre. By now, Mace might be coming up those stairs after me, but I took a big chance and went back to that door with the slitted, yellow light creeping from beneath. I tore off my tie, opened my shirt at the throat, pasted an evil leer on my lips and kicked the door open, stepping into the room!
Five men froze, staring.
One wore a green eye-shade. There were stacks of currency on the circular, green-topped table. All of them held cards, chips piled high. I closed the door, backing against it, watching closely.
The small, wizened fellow nearest me, let his breath whistle through his teeth nastily. “You won’t get away with it, friend!”
No one else spoke. Their eyes were on my gun.
“This ain’t a stick-up,” I said harshly. “A cop’s on my tail and I need some spare lead for this .38. Who’s got some slugs?”
The expression on their faces was ludicrous. No one moved.
“The quicker I get outta here — the better for all of us!” I prodded.
The man with the green eye-shade moved cautiously, pulling open a drawer in front of him; carefully lifted out a revolver, broke it, and spilled shells on the table, pushing them toward me, watchfully.
Nodding wordlessly, I scooped them into my pocket.
“You got a car?” the wizened man growled.
“Yeah.”
The dapper little man I had spotted downstairs, picked up a stack of bills. “You need dough?”
“No. I’m all set!” I let my gaze travel over each of them in turn. “You guys are okay! Be seein’ you around.”
“Sure,” the man with the eye-shade nodded. “Sure.”
I opened the door and stepped out, closing it gently. No sign of Mace yet. There wasn’t a sound behind me in that room as I reached the outside and descended the wooden stairs. The wind was rising. In the blackness surrounding the building I loaded the revolver. Now I was on an even footing with Mace.
I moved off slowly into the darkness, prowling — seeking for a car with a man and a woman. A slight click back up those stairs, and the door on the landing opened — a large figure stood momentarily silhouetted — blotted out with the quick closing of the door. He was silent, evidently listening. There was no moon, no stars, and his eyes had to adjust themselves to this darkness.
The wind blew in gusts, sending dust swirling across the parking lot; pieces of paper skittering and scraping noisely; then it would subside, leaving an unnatural stillness that heightened even a faint football. During one of these gusts I covered ground fast, running head down, dodging just in time as I came up to a line of parked cars. I leaned there, breathing swiftly. The first car was empty. I heard steps descending those wooden stairs, unhurried, sure. It was this that spurred me on more than anything else, filling me with a strange panic. Crouching, I went from car to car, thinking that at the end of the line I’d cut and run blindly off into the darkness. With a shock I saw a glowing cigarette arc out of the front seat of the last car, a long, heavy sedan. It lit on the ground near my feet and rolled. There was the outline of two people in that seat!
Creeping close, I put one hand gently on the handle of the rear door, gun ready, easing the handle down, little by little. When it clicked, I jerked the door open and leaped into the back seat, growling: “Don’t move!”
Blurred faces swung toward me, a woman’s frightened gasp. She sat behind the wheel, one hand gripping it tightly. She was beautiful, long, silvery hair falling free to her shoulders, clasped about the temple by a narrow, jeweled band — a band I had recently given her. Lyria!
The man with her was twisting, coming over the seat. He wasn’t wearing glasses now, and he didn’t act like a clerk. His mouth was a snarling gash. I hit him in the face with the side of the .38, a chopping motion, and he fell back, but rose again.
“You want a bullet in your teeth?” I gritted. “Get back!”
“Monty!” Lyria whispered. “You found me. You — I’ve tried to warn you all day, darling — tried to get to you— Why are you staring at me like that? Monty!”
Her voice was clawing the insides out of me. Her lying, snivelling voice. I felt sick. I went blind, trying to pull that trigger — blast her from my sight forever. Maybe I would have — but a hand reached from nowhere, twisted my wrist, and the gun fell. Pain shot up to my elbow. It was Mace, reaching through the window!
The psuedo-clerk came over the front seat then, stabbing viciously with a knife — a silent, horrible death-thrust that took part of my coat as I squirmed back. He kept coming toward me.
The car starter ground raggedly, gears meshed as Lyria spun the wheel and I heard Mace bellowing above the lurching of the car — but I was struggling desperately with scar-chin, one arm locked around his neck, my other hand gripping his knife wrist.
It was the longest moment I ever lived, feeling the strength of him, like live steel, slipping away from my clutching hands — the car moving, rocking, gaining tremendous speed — then a crash as we went into a brick wall instead of the street. Mace was still on the running board.