It seemed very quiet in the locker room after he went out. There were a few snickers.
It was raining outside the Delmar Club. The liveried doorman helped Hugo Candless on with his belted white slicker and went out for his car. When he had it in front of the canopy he held an umbrella over Hugo across the strip of wooden matting to the curb. The car was a royal blue Lincoln limousine, with buff striping. The license number was 5A6.
The chauffeur, in a black slicker turned up high around his ears, didn’t look around. The doorman opened the door and Hugo Candless got in and sank heavily on the back seat.
«’Night, Sam. Tell him to go on home.»
The doorman touched his cap, shut the door, and relayed the orders to the driver, who nodded without turning his head. The car moved off in the rain.
The rain came down slantingly and at the intersection sudden gusts blew it rattling against the glass of the limousine. The street corners were clotted with people trying to get across Sunset without being splashed. Hugo Candless grinned out at them, pityingly.
The car went out Sunset, through Sherman, then swung towards the hills. It began to go very fast. It was on a boulevard where traffic was thin now.
It was very hot in the car. The windows were all shut and the glass partition behind the driver’s seat was shut all the way across. The smoke of Hugo’s cigar was heavy and choking in the tonneau of the limousine.
Candless scowled and reached out to lower a window. The window lever didn’t work. He tried the other side. That didn’t work either. He began to get mad. He grabbed for the little telephone dingus to bawl his driver out. There wasn’t any little telephone dingus.
The car turned sharply and began to go up a long straight hill with eucalyptus trees on one side and no houses. Candless felt something cold touch his spine, all the way up and down his spine. He bent forward and banged on the glass with his fist. The driver didn’t turn his head. The car went very fast up the long dark hill road.
Hugo Candless grabbed viciously for the door handle. The doors didn’t have any handles — either side. A sick, incredulous grin broke over Hugo’s broad moon face.
The driver bent over to the right and reached for something with his gloved hand. There was a sudden sharp hissing noise. Hugo Candless began to smell the odor of almonds.
Very faint at first — very faint, and rather pleasant. The hissing noise went on. The smell of almonds got bitter and harsh and very deadly. Hugo Candless dropped his cigar and banged with all his strength on the glass of the nearest window. The glass didn’t break.
The car was up in the hills now, beyond even the infrequent street lights of the residential sections.
Candless dropped back on the seat and lifted his foot to kick hard at the glass partition in front of him. The kick was never finished. His eyes no longer saw. His face twisted into a snarl and his head went back against the cushions, crushed down against his thick shoulders. His soft white felt hat was shapeless on his big square skull.
The driver looked back quickly, showing a lean, hawk-like face for a brief instant. Then he bent to his right again and the hissing noise stopped.
He pulled over to the side of the deserted road, stopped the car, switched off all the lights. The rain made a dull noise pounding on the roof.
The driver got out in the rain and opened the rear door of the car, then backed away from it quickly, holding his nose.
He stood a little way off for a while and looked up and down the road.
In the back of the limousine Hugo Candless didn’t move.
TWO
Francine Ley sat in a low red chair beside a small table on which there was an alabaster bowl. Smoke from the cigarette she had just discarded into the bowl floated up and made patterns in the still, warm air. Her hands were clasped behind her head and her smoke-blue eyes were lazy, inviting. She had dark auburn hair set in loose waves. There were bluish shadows in the troughs of the waves.
George Dial leaned over and kissed her on the lips, hard. His own lips were hot when he kissed her, and he shivered. The girl didn’t move. She smiled up at him lazily when he straightened again.
In a thick, clogged voice Dial said: «Listen, Francy. When do you ditch this gambler and let me set you up?»
Francine Ley shrugged, without taking her hands from behind her head. «He’s a square gambler, George,» she drawled. «That’s something nowadays and you don’t have enough money.»
«I can get it.»
«How?» Her voice was low and husky. It moved George Dial like a cello.
«From Candless. I’ve got plenty on that bird.»
«As for instance?» Francine Ley suggested lazily.
Dial grinned softly down at her. He widened his eyes in a deliberately innocent expression. Francine Ley thought the whites of his eyes were tinged ever so faintly with some color that was not white.
Dial flourished an unlighted cigarette. «Plenty — like he sold out a tough boy from Beno last year. The tough boy’s half-brother was under a murder rap here and Candless took twenty-five grand to get him off. He made a deal with the D.A. on another case and let the tough boy’s brother go up.»
«And what did the tough boy do about all that?» Francine Ley asked gently.
«Nothing — yet. He thinks it was on the up and up, I guess. You can’t always win.»
«But he might do plenty, if he knew.» Francine Ley said, nodding. «Who was the tough boy, Georgie?»
Dial lowered his voice and leaned down over her again. «I’m a sap to tell you that. A man named Zapparty. I’ve never met him.»
«And never want to — if you’ve got sense, Georgie. No, thanks. I’m not walking myself into any jam like that with you.»
Dial smiled lightly, showing even teeth in a dark, smooth face. «Leave it to me, Francy. Just forget the whole thing except how I’m nuts about you.»
«Buy us a drink,» the girl said.
The room was a living room in a hotel apartment. It was all red and white, with embassy decorations, too stiff. The white walls had red designs painted on them, the white venetian blinds were framed in white box drapes, there was a half-round red rug with a white border in front of the gas fire. There was a kidney-shaped white desk against one wall, between the windows.
Dial went over to the desk and poured Scotch into two glasses, added ice and charged water, carried the glasses back across the room to where a thin wisp of smoke still plumed upward from the alabaster bowl.
«Ditch the gambler,» Dial said, handing her a glass. «He’s the one will get you in a jam.»
She sipped the drink, nodded. Dial took the glass out of her hand, sipped from the same place on the rim, leaned over holding both glasses and kissed her on the lips again.
There were red curtains over a door to a short hallway. They were parted a few inches and a man’s face appeared in the opening, cool gray eyes stared in thoughtfully at the kiss. The curtains fell together again without sound.
After a moment a door shut loudly and steps came along the hallway. Johnny De Ruse came through the curtains into the room. By that time Dial was lighting his cigarette.
Johnny De Ruse was tall, lean, quiet, dressed in dark clothes dashingly cut. His cool gray eyes had fine laughter wrinkles at the corners. His thin mouth was delicate but not soft, and his long chin had a cleft in it.
Dial stared at him, made a vague motion with his hand. De Ruse walked over to the desk without speaking, poured some whiskey into a glass and drank it straight.
He stood a moment with his back to the room, tapping on the edge of the desk. Then he turned around, smiled faintly, said: «’Lo, people,» in a gentle, rather drawling voice and went out of the room through an inner door.