He was yawning as he opened it, peering with sleepy eyes through the glasses at the tall man who stood on the porch.
«Okey,» he said wearily. «Talk it up.»
Delaguerra said: «I’m a police officer. I want to see Stella La Motte.»
Ironhead Toomey put an arm like a Yule log across the door frame and leaned solidly against it. His expression remained bored.
«Wrong dump, copper. No broads here.»
Delaguerra said: «I’ll come in and look.»
Toomey said cheerfully: «You will — like hell.»
Delaguerra jerked a gun out of his pocket very smoothly and swiftly, smashed it at Toomey’s left wrist. The newspaper and the big revolver fell down on the floor of the porch. Toomey’s face got a less bored expression.
«Old gag,» Delaguerra snapped. «Let’s go in.»
Toomey shook his left wrist, took his other arm off the door frame and swung hard at Delaguerra’s jaw. Delaguerra moved his head about four inches. He frowned, made a disapproving noise with his tongue and lips.
Toomey dived at him. Delaguerra sidestepped and chopped the gun at a big gray head. Toomey landed on his stomach, half in the house and half out on the porch. He grunted, planted his hands firmly and started to get up again, as if nothing had hit him.
Delaguerra kicked Toomey’s gun out of the way. A swing door inside the house made a light sound. Toomey was up on one knee and one hand as Delaguerra looked towards the noise. He took a swing at Delaguerra’s stomach, hit him. Delaguerra grunted and hit Toomey on the head again, hard. Toomey shook his head, growled: «Sappin’ me is a waste of time, ho.»
He dived sidewise, got hold of Delaguerra’s leg, jerked the leg off the floor. Delaguerra sat down on the boards of the porch, jammed in the doorway. His head hit the side of the doorway, dazed him.
The thin blonde rushed through the arch with a small automatic in her hand. She pointed it at Delaguerra, said furiously: «Reach, damn you!»
Delaguerra shook his head, started to say something, then caught his breath as Toomey twisted his foot. Toomey set his teeth hard and twisted the foot as if he was all alone in the world with it and it was his foot and he could do what he liked with it.
Delaguerra’s head jerked back again and his face got white. His mouth twisted into a harsh grimace of pain. He heaved up, grabbed Toomey’s hair with his left hand, dragged the big head up and over until his chin came up, straining. Delaguerra smashed the barrel of his Colt on the skin.
Toomey became limp, an inert mass, fell across his legs and pinned him to the floor. Delaguerra couldn’t move. He was propped on the floor on his right hand, trying to keep from being pushed flat by Toomey’s weight. He couldn’t get his right hand with the gun in it off the floor. The blonde was closer to him now, wild-eyed, white-faced with rage.
Delaguerra said in a spent voice: «Don’t be a fool, Stella. Joey —»
The blonde’s face was unnatural. Her eyes were unnatural, with small pupils, a queer flat glitter in them.
«Cops!» she almost screamed. «Cops! God, how I hate cops!»
The gun in her hand crashed. The echoes of it filled the room, went out of the open front door, died against the highboard fence across the street.
A sharp blow like the blow of a club hit the left side of Delaguerra’s head. Pain filled his head. Light flared — blinding white light that filled the world. Then it was dark. He fell soundlessly, into bottomless darkness.
TWELVE
Light came back as a red fog in front of his eyes. Hard, bitter pain racked the side of his head, his whole face, ground in his teeth. His tongue was hot and thick when he tried to move it. He tried to move his hands. They were far away from him, not his hands at all.
Then he opened his eyes and the red fog went away and he was looking at a face. It was a big face, very close to him, a huge face. It was fat and had sleek blue jowls and there was a cigar with a bright band in a grinning, thick-lipped mouth. The face chuckled. Delaguerra closed his eyes again and the pain washed over him, submerged him. He passed out.
Seconds, or years, passed. He was looking at the face again. He heard a thick voice.
«Well, he’s with us again. A pretty tough lad at that.»
The face came closer, the end of the cigar glowed cherry-red. Then he was coughing rackingly, gagging on smoke. The side of his head seemed to burst open. He felt fresh blood slide down his cheekbone, tickling the skin, then slide over stiff dried blood that had already caked on his face.
«That fixes him up swell,» the thick voice said.
Another voice with a touch of brogue to it said something gentle and obscene. The big face whirled towards the sound, snarling.
Delaguerra came wide awake then. He saw the room clearly, saw the four people in it. The big face was the face of Big John Masters.
The thin blonde girl was hunched on one end of the davenport, staring at the floor with a doped expression, her arms stiff at her sides, her hands out of sight in the cushions.
Dave Aage had his long lank body propped against a wall beside a curtained window. His wedge-shaped face looked bored. Commissioner Drew was on the other end of the davenport, under the frayed lamp. The light made silver in his hair. His blue eyes were very bright, very intent.
There was a shiny gun in Big John Masters’ hand. Delaguerra blinked at it, started to get up. A hard hand jerked at his chest, jarred him back. A wave of nausea went over him. The thick voice said harshly: «Hold it, pussyfoot. You’ve had your fun. This is our party.»
Delaguerra licked his lips, said: «Give me a drink of water.»
Dave Aage stood away from the wall and went through the dining-room arch. He came back with a glass, held it to Delaguerra’s mouth. Delaguerra drank.
Masters said: «We like your guts, copper. But you don’t use them right. It seems you’re a guy that can’t take a hint. That’s too bad. That makes you through. Get me?»
The blonde turned her head and looked at Delaguerra with heavy eyes, looked away again. Aage went back to his wall. Drew began to stroke the side of his face with quick nervous fingers, as if Delaguerra’s bloody head made his own face hurt. Delaguerra said slowly: «Killing me will just hang you a little higher, Masters. A sucker on the big time is still a sucker. You’ve had two men killed already for no reason at all. You don’t even know what you’re trying to cover.»
The big man swore harshly, jerked the shiny gun up, then lowered it slowly, with a heavy leer. Aage said indolently: «Take it easy, John. Let him speak his piece.»
Delaguerra said in the same slow, careless voice: «The lady over there is the sister of the two men you’ve had killed. She told them her story, about framing Imlay, who got the pictures, how they got to Donegan Marr. Your little Filipino hood has done some singing. I get the general idea all right. You couldn’t be sure Imlay would kill Marr. Maybe Marr would get Imlay. It would work out all right either way. Only, if Imlay did kill Marr, the case had to be broken fast. That’s where you slipped. You started to cover up before you really knew what happened.»
Masters said harshly: «Crummy, copper, crummy. You’re wasting my time.»
The blonde turned her head towards Delaguerra, towards Masters’ back. There was hard green hate in her eyes now. Delaguerra shrugged very slightly, went on: «It was routine stuff for you to put killers on the Chill brothers. It was routine stuff to get me off the investigation, get me framed, and suspended because you figured I was on Marr’s payroll. But it wasn’t routine when you couldn’t find Imlay — and that crowded you.»
Masters’ hard black eyes got wide and empty. His thick neck swelled. Aage came away from the wall a few feet and stood rigidly. After a moment Masters snapped his teeth, spoke very quietly: «That’s a honey, copper. Tell us about that one.»