His lips quirked up slightly, but his eyes remained hard. Once on the street he hailed a taxi. The three crawled within. Pesquina sat stolid and silent, gazing straight ahead of him. Carillo’s hands and mouth twitched, his eyes shifted.
Carillo was a hop-head. He needed a shot and then, primed, he would go savagely about his death-dealing task. But that task was to be vastly different than either of the two imagined. The Count grinned to himself.
He ordered the cab to Rigo’s, got out and went inside, followed by his two henchmen. Once in the upper back room he sat down at the table and faced them.
“Listen,” he said softly. “Moreno gave you orders, but I’m changing them. We take two cars. Tony drives you two. You sit in the back with a Tommy gun. Mike and Sloppy will go in the second car with Causto at the wheel. Here’s the idea... Bette Murchinson is not going for a ride!”
His blue eyes bored into those of the other two. Pesquina’s mouth opened, but he did not speak. Carillo’s hands jerked.
“You ride with me or you don’t! Speak fast, with your guns or any other way!”
Carillo looked away. Pesquina spoke slowly.
“We ride with you, chief.”
Corrigan smiled.
“Causto is to follow me, stick tight to me wherever I go. Tony drives you to within a block of Frankie’s hangout. When he comes out get him. If you miss there get him at eleven at the Parrot. That’s all. Round up the bunch and tell Causto I’ll be ready for him at seven-thirty.”
At seven-thirty the Count climbed into a taxi. One of his men sat at the wheels. The cab nosed out into the street and was followed by a large black sedan which hung a hundred yards in its rear. For nearly a half hour the taxi rolled swiftly onward.
It stopped before a flashy apartment house in the West End. Corrigan got out, told his driver to wait, and walked toward the entrance. From the corner of his eye he saw the sedan pull up farther down the street. Its lights went out. Corrigan entered the doors.
He stopped at the telephone desk.
“Tell her it is very important,” he finished to the operator.
“Your name?” the girl asked.
“No name,” Corrigan answered.
“You may go up,” the operator said a moment later.
He knocked at the door, heard a gasp and hurried steps within. The door opened. Outlined, the light of the room playing on her hair, stood Bette Murchinson. Her low cut gown revealed the beauty of her throat and arms. The Count caught his breath at her loveliness.
“You!” she gasped.
“Me,” he smiled. He pushed aside the door and entered the room.
“You know me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “you are Count Corrigan.”
“I came to thank you for this afternoon,” he said then. “Why did you save me?”
“Oh,” she cried. “I... I don’t know. You’d better go.”
“Frankie? Don’t worry about him. I’m not. Listen, Bette, you’re through with Frankie.”
Her eyes were wide.
“Through with him?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”
“Frankie’s going on the spot to-night.”
“You or Moreno?” she asked dully.
“Moreno. I wouldn’t stop it if I could, not after this afternoon. But you’re coming with me. If you don’t — well—” He did not finish.
She sank into a chair, her eyes fastened on him.
“Is there no chance for Frankie?” she whispered.
“Not a chance. You did me a good turn this afternoon. I’m doing you one now. With me you’re safe. So, in the future you’re the Count’s girl or not. Take your choice.”
“I’m the Count’s girl,” she said tonelessly.
“Good!” he grinned. “Come on.”
“My wraps?”
“Grab a coat. You need some new things anyway.”
“All right,” she said. She whirled suddenly and faced the door. It opened with a crash and Frankie Meser stood there, his lips drawn back into a sneer.
Corrigan hunched forward his shoulders, his arms crooked, fingers spread, clawlike. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits. Frankie stepped within the room and kicked shut the door.
“Well, I caught you both. Figured something like this would happen after she put you wise this afternoon.”
Bette backed away to the wall, stood there, her arms outstretched, seemingly impaled.
“Takes a woman to play a guy dirty,” Frankie continued.
“She didn’t play you dirty,” the Count interrupted. “I came up here to get her. She didn’t have anything to say about it.”
Where had he slipped up? the Count wondered. Pesquina had missed Frankie. That was evident. But what of Causto and his men? Or had Frankie slipped in from the side or behind? How had he known? Did he have his men with him? His coming in without a gun in hand argued that he did. Still Frankie believed himself the slickest man on the draw in the city.
“You’re dumb, Corrigan,” Frankie sneered, “to come here. I got this place watched. You weren’t inside the door before I knew. And now you can’t get out!” He breathed the last, his teeth showing. His words continued snarlingly. “I’m going to kill you, Corrigan. I can do it and get away with it. And you know it!”
Corrigan’s mouth twitched slightly. Frankie’s hand suddenly flew to his coat. There was a sharp report, but it came from Corrigan’s pocket. A look of utter bewilderment flashed over Frankie’s face as he sank to the floor.
“Never try to beat a man at his own game,” he grinned. “Come on, Bette, we gotta go. Self defense, kid. I had to shoot him and I’ll alibi you up tight. I can fix anything.”
As they ran for the steps they heard a cry behind them. The shot had been heard. They ran on. In the lobby Corrigan slowed. Bette had not said a word. He looked out the door. His taxi waited at the nearest curb. Across the street stood a long black touring car. He looked down the street but could see nothing of Causto. He turned to Bette.
“Frankie’s men. I’m going to have to shoot it out, I guess. You walk to the taxi. Not looking for you, they might not notice. Leave the door open. Then I’ll come out. If there’s any shooting slam the door and beat it to Rigo’s.”
Tight lipped, she obeyed him without a word. He watched her enter the cab. Hand in pocket tightly clutching the gun, the Count opened the door. Five feet, ten feet. Fifty more to the cab. Across the street a man got out of the touring car, walked toward him. Twenty feet to go. Would Bette stick it out if there was shooting?
Suddenly the man stopped, his hand flew to his side. There was a spurt of flame. But the Count was shooting also, shooting as he ran. He tumbled into the cab. Bette crouched on the floor. The cab shot forward. The other man lay crumpled in the street. But the black car had leaped out after them. The Count raised his head and ducked immediately. Bullets rained around the cab. Machine gun!
No chance. Corrigan looked at Bette. Poor kid. He hadn’t wanted her. But he had taken her to save her and now — this. The taxi rounded a corner and Corrigan gasped. Out of the side street reared a black sedan. Hunched over the wheel was Causto, tightlipped and white.
The nose of the Tommy gun peeked out the back. The sedan careened past the Meser car. There was a fusillade of shots and the touring car slithered to the curb. Causto turned down an alley. The taxi continued on.
Bette smiled up at the Count.
“Is that the end of Frankie’s gang?” she asked.
He nodded.