“Hit?” cried Rigo from behind the counter.
“No,” muttered the Count. “Tell the bulls it was a customer you didn’t know.”
Crouching, he ran to the back of the store, flung open the door to the card room and its three white-faced inhabitants, shut the door from the inside and locked it.
“Frankie Meser,” he snapped. “Fade before the bulls come.” He strode to the window, opened it and ran lightly down the steel firesteps to the alley below.
Far downtown, in his luxurious suite in the Carlton, Benito Moreno surveyed himself in the mirror. Three months earlier he had nearly met death from the gun of one of his men. From that time Moreno had conducted his operations at the Carlton.
Rigo’s was an excellent place, but dangerous. Moreno could not entirely escape the feeling that now one of his men had shot it out with him, others would nurse a desire to do the same even though that man, one Serbny, had been killed.
Across his sleek, smug face ran a frown. The long jagged scar over the temple was a source of anger to him always. Serbny’s bullet. He looked down at his left arm, stiff, impossible to raise above his chest. But the right arm remained flexible.
A light buzzing from the corner interrupted his thoughts. He crossed the room, touched a framed picture which opened like a door and took out a phone. It was the private line to Rigo’s.
“Hello,” he muttered. He was silent a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Frankie Meser, eh? Good work, Rigo. You say he didn’t get the Count? Okay. What? A girl? You noticed her, eh? Bette Murchinson, Frankie’s moll? Okay, Rigo. Send Pesquina and Carillo up to me at six.”
He hung up and cursed softly. So Frankie had tried to get the Count. And the Count Moreno’s right hand man! That was close. If they got the Count he would be next. Well, Frankie had signed his death warrant.
The house phone rang. Moreno listened.
“Send him up,” he ordered.
He poured himself a drink and lighted a cigarette. He could move about here in the Carlton with perfect safety. The floor clerk was his own man. The stairs were likewise under gimlet eyes. As Moreno sank to a chair the door opened and Corrigan entered.
“Hello, Ben,” he said.
Moreno eyed him without answering.
“Is that a hole I see in your hat?” he asked at length.
The Count laughed.
“You didn’t miss it. I hope this doesn’t keep up or I’ll go broke buying hats.” He flung the hat across the room. “I suppose Rigo reported?” Moreno nodded.
“Frankie’s going on the spot, Count.” Corrigan’s eyes flashed but he said nothing. “Yep, Frankie’s done. Almost got you, didn’t he?”
“Close,” Corrigan admitted.
“Who was the girl?” Moreno asked suddenly.
“Girl?” the Count frowned.
“You heard me.”
“I can’t say that I know what you’re talking about,” Corrigan answered slowly.
Moreno’s eyes glittered.
“Do you know Frankie’s gang?” he asked purringly.
Corrigan nodded.
“All of them?” Moreno continued.
Again Corrigan nodded.
“Do you know Bette Murchinson?” Moreno shot at him.
Corrigan’s mouth quirked at the corners. Moreno, watching the smiling mouth, did not notice the eyes.
“Yes, I know Bette Murchinson, Moreno — when I see her.”
“Oh,” Moreno nodded, “when you see her. See her today, Count?”
“No,” Corrigan replied sharply.
Moreno sucked at his cigarette and poured another drink. As he looked back to the Count his eyes narrowed, his voice came softly, smoothly.
“Corrigan, you’ve been with me three months. A damn short time to be my lieutenant, but you’ve produced. You got more brains than all the rest of my men together. But there’s just two things I’d like to know. One of them is, where did you come from?”
Corrigan smiled.
“Now Moreno, I’m going to tell you something. When we first got together you were in a bad way. You’d damn near cashed in from Serbny’s bullets. And get this, Ben — you were afraid to go back! You wanted to run out only you didn’t want to leave your graft. I came at the right time. You needed me. Now listen, Moreno. You’re afraid of me and I’m not afraid of you. Get the difference? So where I came from is none of your business.”
“Suppose I make it my business?” Moreno purred.
“You’re at liberty to try,” Corrigan replied.
“All right,” Moreno sighed, “we’ll let it slide. But I’m boss, don’t forget that! Now, the second question.” He leaned forward. “Why do you deny you saw Bette Murchinson today?”
“I did not see Bette Murchinson today,” the Count replied evenly.
The two men stared at each other, their eyes flashing. Moreno squirmed in his chair.
“Corrigan,” he cried, “damn you, there’s things about you I don’t like. You’ve increased my graft, doubled my alki trade and my power, but the three stickups you engineered went flat, caught cold, the men in stir and not a chance to blow them. I’d blow you to hell if I thought—”
“I was double-crossing you,” Corrigan finished. “You’d never live to get that gun out, Moreno. Forget it, forget the girl, and slip me your orders.”
Moreno’s face became crafty again.
“Frankie’s going on the spot... and so is Bette Murchinson!”
“Bette? Why Bette?”
“Because I said so. And listen, Corrigan, you’re going to put her there!”
Corrigan was about to answer when the phone rang again. Moreno looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He listened for a moment, smiled slightly and picked up the receiver. “Send ’em up,” he ordered. He turned to Corrigan again.
“Nothing doing,” Corrigan snapped.
“Do you take my orders or not?”
“I do, but not that order.”
The door opened and Pesquina and Carillo slouched in. Moreno sat up straighter, felt suddenly more powerful. He looked at the two: young, well dressed, but sallow, hard.
“Got a job for you two boys,” he said and reached into his pocket. He drew forth a roll and peeled off ten one hundred dollar bills. “A grand now and another when it’s done.”
Pesquina reached out a stubby hand.
“Okay, boss. What’s de dope?”
“Frankie Meser. Take him for a ride. He hangs out at the Purple Parrot. I’ve had him checked this long time. He comes about eleven. His moll Murchinson will be with him. The Count here will finish the plans, work things out for you and he’ll ride with you boys tonight. Get that?”
He grinned evilly at Corrigan.
“Take ’em both. And if you three slip — if you three slip,” he repeated, “it’ll be just too bad.”
Corrigan sat tight lipped. His eyes seemed to burn into Moreno’s.
“You got my orders?” Moreno asked sharply.
Corrigan stood up, shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, I got your orders, but some day—”
“Some day what?” Moreno blustered.
“Never mind,” the Count said.
As the Count, in company with Pesquina and Carillo, shot down the elevator, his usually smiling mouth was drawn tightly together. He cursed Moreno softly. He had played directly into Moreno’s hands. Moreno long had feared him. Were he to hold a murder over his head he could easily crush him. And so Moreno had calmly planned that murder.
That it was a girl mattered little except that the killing of a woman would cause twice the publicity and, in so doing, subjugate the Count to him even to a greater degree.
But Bette Murchinson was not to be put on the spot. Not if the Count could do anything about it. For Bette had saved him that very afternoon. Why, he did not know. The Count was not the man to think things out in the face of action. Reasons could wait until later. But she had saved him and he would not repay her favor with a bullet. There were ways open to the Count of which Moreno did not dream.