Berman and Harry both reached for their guns. Morengo slunk against the wall, his jaw aslack.
“You men let me do the talking,” ordered the deformed man. “And take it easy. I’ll give you the cue when to start shooting. Keep your guns out of sight. He’s in the hall outside — now!”
Through the hall door came Ed Kirby, arrogant and swaggering in every move he made. His felt hat was pushed back well above his forehead. On his face was something that might be misunderstood as a smile. Leon was close behind him, hands in the side pockets of his coat.
Harry and Berman moved out towards the center of the room. The door clicked shut. Leon now had his back against it. Off to one side, Dip Morengo, his eyes slitted to cover the inner confusion of his mind, crouched close to the light switch.
Ed Kirby placed both hands on his hips. “ ’Lo, everybody. Why so tense?” His eyes stabbed from one man to another and stopped when they sighted Berman. Recognition lighten them. “We meet again, fellow. Didn’t know who you were or I wouldn’t have been so rough. Honest, I thought you were a snooping dick.”
His eyes swerved to where Fleming sat hunched behind his desk. “How’s things by you, Boss? You don’t look happy at seeing me. Thought I couldn’t find this dump, eh? Brought me here with blinders on my eyes. Hell, it was a cinch. Had a little accident at the tunnel tonight. I almost croaked. So I quit. Went out to the street and damned if I didn’t fall in with the taxi driver that Morengo hired when he came here after the — the little accident.”
No one spoke. So Kirby continued: “That’s the way it was. Well, aren’t you muggs glad to see me here, safe? You don’t act it. You act like you was scared of me — or something.” His voice became suddenly harsh. “What’s eating you — all of you?”
Fleming spoke for the first time. “I’m glad you came, Ed.”
“Well, you don’t look it. Not welching on the two grand, are you?”
“No, Kirby, I never welch — not if my men play straight with me.”
“You mean — say, what the hell’s wrong?”
“Everything. Rawlings isn’t dead. He’s in a private ward at Bellevue. Nice little show you put on down at Third Avenue. Only it didn’t jell, Kirby.”
Ed’s eyebrows moved up. “Now ain’t that nice?”
“Not for you — Special Operator Nelson Grant.”
“Oh, hell!” spat Kirby. “You guys have got the jitters. Me, Nelson Grant?” He exhaled sharply. “That calls for a drink. Mind?” he asked, reaching for the Scotch.
He poured a tumbler half full and drank it neat. “I knew there was a catch in this somewheres,” he went on, setting down the glass. “I’ve been gypped on the pay-off before. But the guys that gypped me never had any fun spending the money they held out. I’m that way, Fleming. Thought you’d better know.”
The tunnel-black eyes of Fleming were veiled. He took a package of currency from a desk drawer and tossed it to Kirby. “Take it.”
Ed caught it and tucked it inside his pocket. “Fair enough,” he said. “What’s next?”
Fleming turned to Berman. “Bring in that punk you found prowling down below.” Weatherby was brought in.
Ed Kirby never batted an eye. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he showed no signs of it.
The voice of the deformed man crackled like a machine gun. “Harry, you and Berman keep your rods on this guy who calls himself Ed Kirby. Leon, get yourself ready. All right, mister,” speaking to young Weatherby. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. And you’re going to have the right answers ready.”
Leon sauntered over to Weatherby’s side.
Twisting around in his chair, Fleming spoke first to Kirby. “Ever see this wise guy before?”
The lips of Ed Kirby scarcely moved. “Never.”
“Smack the kid down,” rasped Fleming.
Leon’s bludgeoning fist crashed against the young agent’s face. Weatherby staggered against the wall, pain twitching his features.
“Smack him again,” Fleming ordered.
Leon complied. Weatherby sagged against the wall, his will unbroken.
“Talk!” raged Fleming, glaring at the defiant youngster. “You know this guy Kirby. You work for him. He had you tail one of my men. Come clean!”
Weatherby smiled contemptuously. “I don’t know him, I tell you. Never saw him in my life. I—”
Again Leon struck, first with a right then a left. Weatherby’s head snapped. His left eye started to puff and go closed. Ed Kirby remained motionless, his face a rigid mask.
“You aren’t so smart as I thought you were, Fleming. This beating up a kid won’t get you nowheres. Hell, you think I’m Nelson Grant. Prove it. Then turn your guns on me if you’ve got the guts.”
There was an interruption in the hall. A drunk was outside — singing and mumbling to himself as his body swayed from one wall to the other. They heard him fumble at the knob. Then the door opened.
Monty, the playboy souse, in a wrinkled dress suit, stood smirking in the opening. “You gentlemen are having a party and left Monty out. Hi, Joe. Come a running. Whisky all around. Bring in a bottle! Bring in a case!”
“Get out!” snapped Fleming. “Harry, get this crazy man.”
Joe Wyman appeared in the hall. “Come on, Monty,” he soothed. “This ain’t any place for you. This is a business conference. Come on back into the club. This ain’t my place.”
“Any place suits me, Joe,” hiccuped Monty. “Pour the drinks, somebody. Let’s get going. Fix up the boys in the back room. Joe, where’s all your waiters?”
Wyman grabbed his wandering customer by the shoulders and swung him around. Monty let out a whoop and pinned Joe’s arms to his side. In the resulting confusion their entangled bodies collided with those of the gunmen, Harry and Berman, throwing them off balance.
Ed Kirby’s voice cut like a whiplash through the room. He was braced against the wall — a gun in each hand. “Stick ’em up, everybody. This is a pinch!”
Leon’s gun was the first to crack from the side pocket of his coat. Burning cloth settled to the floor, smouldered for a second, then went out. A bullet smacked the wall close to Kirby’s head.
Harry lunged free from the struggling bodies of Monty and Joe Wyman and hauled out a slim-barreled Webley. Monty, no longer the easy-going drunk, swung hard on Harry’s jaw, knocking the gunman against the wall. Berman was on his knees, a stubby automatic in his right fist. Not a single hand went up that didn’t clutch a gun — and those weapons all started to erupt at once.
The blast that thundered in the enclosed space was terrific during that first moment. Ed Kirby, his eyes half closed, had his shoulders to the wall so that no one could get behind him. He sent a bullet into Harry’s leg and the gunman fell sideways.
A bullet knicked Kirby’s left shoulder. It was as though someone had sliced out the flesh with a white-hot knife blade. It stung but did not cripple. He dropped to one knee just as Morengo snapped the light switch, plunging the room into blackness.
Intermittent stabs of orange flame criss-crossed each other. Lights flashed on again as Weatherby reached the switch and clicked it on. Morengo tried to reach it a second time. Weatherby jumped him. They tangled and went to the floor in a writhing heap.
Kirby, kneeling by the wall, called out again: “You muggs had your chance. Now take it!” His gun fanned in a slow arc, spitting out death. Leon cried out and fell sprawling close to the hall door. Harry, rearing up like a striking snake from the floor, took careful aim at Ed Kirby’s chest.