The flame from Kirby’s, torch scorched a section of the caisson wall, chewed into it, digested it and flung back a shower of molten sparks. Ed swayed backwards, knocked the glowing chunks of metal from his shirt and continued to bore with the tiny flame.
Metal kept flicking against his shoulders. The man with the hose watched him constantly and sprayed him with water. But under that terrific pressure, things burned as though in a blast furnace. Ed’s wet shirt presently burst into flames. He cut his torch and flung himself into the brackish water covering the floor. Already he had two blisters on his shoulders.
He picked, up his torch again and adjusted the flame. Again sparks leaped and sizzled around his body. After a time he had a section cut through, and sand was pressing through from the opposite side of the caisson wall. Miners came up and fitted short planks against the opening, bracing them firmly.
Ed Kirby went on with his boring. He had worked under pressure before, and knew how to conserve his strength. At the end of the shift, his hands were smarting as he climbed the metal rungs for the decompression chamber above. Forty minutes were spent in the lock before his body became accustomed to normal air pressure.
“Five hours off,” spoke the superintendent to Kirby, “then your shift goes down again. Think you’ll stay with us?”
Kirby nodded. “Sure.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw a company phone. He wanted to use that instrument. But he didn’t dare. Morengo was standing only a few feet away.
Morengo came towards him. At a nearby restaurant they had beer and sandwiches. They talked of other contracts they had worked on to kill time. Finally Kirby said: “I might not be able to hold this job, Morengo. There was a guy tailing me this morning. I don’t know whether he belonged to the police or the government mob. I don’t like being followed.”
“Yeah? Well, he don’t work for either of them.”
Ed laughed thinly. “You telling me?”
“That’s what I said. The guy that was tailing you doesn’t work for either mob. I know.”
“My mistake,” acknowledged Kirby. “Then who the hell does he work for? And why is he gumshoeing around?”
“Quit asking questions!” Morengo snapped.
“Check!” said Ed Kirby, evenly. For three days, Ed was constantly aware of the man who followed him wherever he went. On the fourth day, his shadow was gone. Still wary, Ed kept away from all phones, seldom spoke to anybody outside his fellow workers, and minded his own business. It was time, he reasoned, for the Big Guy to show his hand.
Ed Kirby came out of the bathroom Saturday night after supper and dressed carefully in a dark suit. Barely had he finished when Morengo knocked on the door and pushed into the room.
“The Big Guy wants to see you,” he announced.
Kirby showed no surprise. “Wyman?”
“No.”
Ed knotted his tie with exaggerated care. “Suppose, bright boy, I’m not anxious to meet this Big Guy you keep telling about? After all I’ve got a good job. Things are quiet. I’m not worrying about cops placing their dirty paws on my shoulder.”
“You’ll be turning down heavy dough, Kirby. Another thing.” Dip Morengo lowered his voice. “It might not be wise, or healthy, Kirby, to turn down the offer from the Big Shot.”
Ed Kirby considered. “There’s that angle, too. And I like money. I like plenty of it in my fist when I go out to have a good time in a swell joint like Joe Wyman’s. I’ll bet there’s some grand janes hanging out in his place.” He fitted a felt hat to his head at a rakish angle. “Like a bottle of beer, fellow, before we start?”
“Naw. No time. There’s a sedan waiting outside to pick us up.” He took a leather case from his pocket and extracted a pair of dark-colored glasses constructed in such a way as to curve around the outer edges of the eyes. “The boss ain’t sure of you, Kirby. You’re new. Put these over your eyes. I know you won’t be able to see. But that’s what they’re for. Maybe the next trip we make to see him you won’t have to wear them.”
Kirby’s heart began to hammer against his ribs, but his voice was calm enough when he spoke. “Sure, Dip. Nothing like being careful. Your boss must be a big shot all right.”
“He’s got a swell racket, Ed. Absolutely new. With a few more good rod men in it, we’ll be rich in a year.”
Ed fitted the glasses over his eyes. “Can’t see a damn thing,” he complained. “Give me your arm, Dip.”
His free arm was close to his side, hand in his pocket. For a moment he hung back allowing Morengo to get ahead. Then his hand came out of his pocket and an ordinary playing card dropped inconspicuously to the curb and fell into the gutter — an ace of spades. Its special significance might be summed up in a single word: Follow.
The black sedan into which Kirby had entered moved slowly down the street. Monty, still clad in his dress suit, walked to the edge of the curb. His eyes saws the card lying face up. He signaled a cab, got in, and gave terse instructions to the driver.
Chapter IV
Murder to Order
Ed Kirby made no attempt to remember the various turnings made by the black sedan. When the machine came to a stop he didn’t know whether he was uptown or downtown.
Clinging to Morengo’s arm, he was pushed through a narrow door which slammed shut after him, then was guided into an elevator. As he stepped from the cage after a short ride no more than three floors, Morengo said: “Take off the blinders. We’re here.”
Kirby looked around. He was in a narrow hall. There was a door on the right side, closed. There was another at the far end, also closed. It opened, and a man came out into the hall — a man who walked with a shuffling movement on the sides of his feet.
“ ’Lo, Leon,” called out Morengo. “I’ve brought Ed Kirby. The boss wants to look him over.”
Leon nodded. “He’s waiting for you. Come on in.”
Kirby followed Leon through the door at the far end of the hall. As he passed through he heard Leon say: “This is Ed Kirby.”
The room, Kirby could see, was large, and there were several doors opening from it, but no windows. Behind a low desk sat a man. A single word might best describe him — malignancy. He was deformed. His shoulders were twisted and hunched. His head was entirely bald. Within the depths of his sockets smouldered eyes that were like black tunnels. And his mouth was like a gash between nose and chin point.
The voice of the deformed man was sharp. He spoke without disturbing the gash that was his mouth. “Come closer, Kirby. Let me look you over. Ummm! How are you, Ed Kirby?” The gash twisted with a sardonic grimace.
Ed walked to a spot within touching distance of the desk. A wintry smile froze his face. “Just fine,” he answered. “How are you?”
The black tunnel eyes seemed to retreat into their sockets. “I don’t suppose you know who I am, do you, Kirby?”
Kirby turned his head sideways and back. “No, mister, I don’t know who you are.”
“I’m known by various names, Kirby — none of them important. To you and others I am Fleming. My organization is growing. I need new talent — men with nerve and brains. That’s why I had you brought here.”
Ed shrugged. “I didn’t ask to be brought here.”
“I was the one who sent for you. You saved one of my men, Morengo, from the cops. The only reason you did this, apparently, was because you hate cops. Right?”
“Right.”
“How would you like to work for my organization?”