I withdrew my head. Somehow, I had an uncomfortable feeling that the shooting concerned me. There was nothing to go on — nothing but that intangible feeling.
I waited for an hour, sitting there in the dark, giving the police a chance to make their investigations and get away from there, allowing the curiosity seekers a chance to get their fill and disperse. Then I put on hat and topcoat and went out.
At the cigar store on the corner I got the news. The Weasel it had been. Shot from a machine, one of those death cars which figure so prominently in bandit gang wars. He had been killed almost instantly.
I bit the end from a cigar, stepped to the flame which burned steadily and brightly, and thought of the life that had been snuffed out. Was it because of the warning? Was he suspected? Had he been followed to my apartment and killed as he left? Probably — I would never know for sure. The Weasel was one of those third-rate crooks, who allows himself to be shot down by a car full of bandits. The first-class man would have detected that car the instant it came in sight. Eternal vigilance is the price of safety in crookdom.
Off and on I have had many warnings, some sincere and some fake. This was peculiar. A warning by a crook, a warning against a woman with a mole on her left hand. There was no other description. Perhaps the Weasel had no opportunity to see her face. Perhaps he had seen merely the hand, heard her voice — perhaps I wished I could question him a bit. Probably I had shown my impatience. At any rate it was a closed chapter. The Weasel was dead.
I stepped to the curb, called a taxi and went to a cabaret.
The Purple Rose was a fairly wild cabaret. There were entertainers who had lots of pep, waiters who rushed perspiringly about, amorous dancers who twined and writhed over the floor and a crashing orchestra that blared away into the din of the echoing room. Crowded, sweaty, brazen, sensuous, it furnished entertainment, gave me a chance to study types, and something to think about.
The head waiter seated me at my usual table, one well back in a shaded corner. Time was when couples would have demanded this as the choice table of the place. Now they preferred to spoon openly, upon the dance floor, at the tables where the lights glared full upon them. Such is life.
I ordered a light meal, ate leisurely, enjoying the various characters I could study, listening to the blaring music, the harsh laughter, looking ’em over.
It was as I finished that a girl came to my table.
“Cheer up! I’m inclined to think it isn’t so. How about a dance?”
I shook my head, taking her for one of the paid female entertainers. I knew most of them, had established myself as one to be left alone. This one evidently must be new.
She smiled, whirled about, looked at me coquettishly over her shoulder, held her hand up to a level with her eyes, snapped her fingers, and then smiled, a slow smile of red parted lips.
Her vitality, the quick grace of her motions, the snap and pep of her would have arrested my attention, but there was something else. As her hand came to a level with her eyes I noticed a mole upon her left hand, a small, dark discoloration on the back of the hand, showing sharply against the white of her smooth skin.
I paid my check and left the place. There was one cabaret that would be crossed off of my list. I thought of the Weasel, the barking of those staccato shots.
I summoned a cab and was followed. This was annoying, but not entirely unique. I have been followed frequently. There was no reason why I should not have gone directly to my apartment. In California I am safe. A criminal record makes me wanted in a dozen States, but, through a technicality, I cannot be extradited from California. In that State I enjoy immunity. Known as a crook, I can, nevertheless, live my own life; subject only to those annoyances which come to one who is without the law, who is legitimate prey for every stool pigeon, for every tin-star detective, every square-toed bull.
I had the driver swing through town and then take a spin out in the country. I could not get the thought of the Weasel from my mind. There was something out of the ordinary in the wind. It was in a particularly dark and deserted stretch of road that the engine stopped. The driver jumped out and raised the hood. He was nervous, his hand trembling.
I slipped from the other door on the dark side of the car. Criminals can be arrested for carrying firearms, and I almost never have a gat in my possession. It is no crime to have one’s wits about him, and my wits will get me out of as many jams as would guns.
I watched the back road. Nothing came. A car came from the other direction, going toward town. It was a handsome creation of plate glass and baked enamel. A woman was driving, a woman who was well muffled, despite the fact that the weather was pleasantly warm.
There was the sound of tires sliding over the gravel and the woman leaned out.
“In trouble, Taxi? Can I take a message to town or give your fare a lift?”
It was a pleasantly intriguing voice.
I slipped the taxi driver a bill and stepped out into the light.
“I’d like a ride back to town if it wouldn’t inconvenience you.”
She laughed, a low throaty laugh, and swung open the door. “Get in, up here in front. You’ll be very welcome.”
I started as she slammed in the clutch, and I felt the car give a lurch forward. The hand which gripped the steering wheel had a small mole on the back of the smooth skin.
She saw that I recognized her. The right hand came down and rested on my knee.
“You are hard to get acquainted with, Ed Jenkins.”
I bowed.
“May I compliment you on the care you used in getting me in the car with you? The detail of the taxicab breakdown, the forethought of having a set of signals arranged, as you must have had, the coming toward town instead of in the same direction I was going. It was all very clever.”
She rippled a laugh. “It was clever. I had it fixed so the taxi driver would signal to me by flashing on and off the brake light. When he knew what road he was to take he signalled the number of miles from the turn where he would stall the engine. I took the loop and came by, going back toward town.”
“If you wanted to see me why not have come directly to my apartment? Why go to all this trouble?”
Her eyes became cold and hard, her mouth tightened to a thin line.
“Because,” she said slowly, “I wanted to do more than see you. I wanted to get you entirely in my power.”
With the words, I became aware that a small, deadly revolver was in that right hand, a revolver that was held against my ribs.
I looked at her carefully. She could fire if she wanted to before I could get my hands on her arm, before I could move far enough to grasp her. She could fire if she wanted to, but did she want to? Did she have the nerve? I studied her face and decided she was desperate. Whether or not she would pull the trigger I didn’t know. She wasn’t exactly the type that shoots for the fun of the thing, but she was desperate. Something was on her mind besides her bobbed hair.
“Ed Jenkins,” she said, “you are coming with me. I only ask that you do as I say for two hours. At the end of that time you will be free to go where you please as far as I am concerned. Until then you must accompany me. Will you promise you will come and that you won’t try to escape, or must I keep you covered? I’ll shoot if I have to.”
I yawned.
“Keep me covered, kid.”
There was a catch in her voice.
“But the gun might go off, accidentally.”
“Let it.”
Her lips tightened. She stepped on the throttle, and I crooked my right leg, caught the emergency brake back of my heel and gave a sudden jerk of the lever. She had been bracing herself against the acceleration of the throttle, and the sudden locking of the wheels threw her forward against the steering wheel. One of my hands circled her neck, the middle finger locking on her nose, the other wrenched her wrist.