“I trust she wasn’t wearing her diamonds?” said McCann, with the first show of interest since the conversation began. “They’re too valuable to flaunt around in a place like Hogan’s speakeasy, when one considers the type that frequent the place.”
“Cut the wise cracks, Mack,” returned Derby Dan. “I ain’t the type that lifts sparklers, if that’s what you mean. She had ’em on, though, strung around her neck, and I’d like to have choked the breath out of her double crossin’ heart with ’em. I hate her guts!”
“Good-day,” said McCann, quietly opening the outer door. “You might take your gun with you.”
Derby Dan picked up the sawed-off, eyed the point of the steady gold pen for a moment, and slunk toward the door.
“A helluva way to treat a guy,” he said through his nose, as McCann politely bowed him out, and locked the door after him.
McCann crossed quickly to one of the windows and flung it wide. There were bitter lines about his mouth as he snapped the small white box open, and dangled the sparkling gem on its thin platinum chain over the sidewalk twenty stories below. For a long moment, the ruby hung there, gripped in his strong fingers, then he laughed a low, grim laugh, withdrew his arm, placed the pendant in its satin resting place, and turned to the desk. His hand hovered over the white telephone, then switched to the red. As he drew it toward him, another one of the six instruments buzzed.
“Limpy Bergen,” boomed a voice, as McCann answered.
“Put him on,” said McCann quickly. “That you, Bergen? Where is Hogan planning to store the two truckloads due to-day?”
McCann smiled as he heard the answer.
“Good,” he said finally. “How do you get into this place?... Good. That’s all I want. Except this. You’re going to have an accident sometime today, Limpy, lose your arm, or leg or something.”
Shocked protests from the other end of the wire.
“No, nobody’s going to take you for a ride, Limpy. You’re too good a man. On second thoughts, maybe a headache would serve as well. Anything that lays you off your job with Hogan for tonight, unless you want to mix in a fight, understand?”
He hung up, and wrenched the receiver of the red telephone from its hook.
“Send Mike up here immediately,” he barked into the mouthpiece without waiting for an answer.
Presently, the wall panel slid open again, and Mike lumbered into the room, his beefy face two shades darker with excitement.
“What’s wrong, Mack?” he spluttered. “Joe said you was fightin’ mad.”
“I dislike that expression, Mike,” said McCann. “Sit down. Derby Dan has just paid me a call.”
“Derby Dan! How in hell did he get in here?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” drawled McCann.
Mike’s jowls shook. “Cripes, Mack,” he exclaimed loudly, “I swear to hell it ain’t my fault...”
“Never mind, Mike. As it happens, Derby Dan furnished me with some interesting information — very interesting. But don’t let it happen again. Now, about this little matter of Hogan...”
J. F. McCann, the perfectly dressed, suave man of business, and Mike, his loud mouthed, cursing assistant, went into conference. When it was over, Mike’s huge face was beaded with the sweat of excitement, and J. F. McCann stood ready for the street, one gloved hand on the door, the other twirling a malaca stick.
“Till to-night then, Mike,” he said, and stepped out into the hall.
“Cripes, he’s a cool ’un!” said Mike, and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jazzy suit.
J. F. McCann stepped quietly into the huge entrance hall of his Sutton Place apartment, and handed his things to a trim maid.
“I hope Mrs. McCann is at home?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Shall I...?”
“No, there she is now. That is all, thank you.”
Kate, in a crimson negligee, was leaning over the railing of the gallery.
“You’re home early, Mack,” she called, stifling a yawn.
“I couldn’t wait to bring you what you wanted, Kate,” he said. “Come down and get it.”
The white leather box was in his hand as she approached him. He held it away from her, and lifted her chin, critically.
“You look tired! I hope you didn’t sit up late last night waiting for me?”
“No,” said Kate, her eyes avid on the box in his hand. “Don’t keep me waiting, Mack, let me have it!”
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Kate,” he said, as her eager hands clutched for the box. “I’ve something much better in store for you tonight — something you want much more.”
She lifted her eyes from the ruby, wonderingly.
“Put it on,” he urged. “You must wear it tonight. It’s the color of blood.”
He gripped her suddenly by the shoulders which the flaming negligee left bare.
“And tonight, my girl, you’re going to see what you long to see — gunplay, good, old-fashioned, blazing gunplay.”
Her eyes did not meet his. They fastened on the glowing ruby in her hands, but her body tensed under his gripping fingers.
“Where?” she breathed.
“A little affair at Hogan’s speakeasy. Won’t amount to much, I’m afraid. Hogan refuses to deliver two truckloads that belong to me. I know it’s stored in his cellar and I’m sending four or five picked men over there to load it out. It’ll be over in a few minutes. Hogan won’t be prepared. And he won’t suspect anything when he sees us strolling in. He always was a good friend of yours, eh, Kate? We’ll take a grandstand seat on the balcony over the dance floor. It won’t be the same as engineering a rumpus yourself, Kate, but maybe it will amuse you.”
He dropped his hands and turned from her. She stood, hesitating a moment, then made for the stairs.
“I must dress,” she said, and there was an undercurrent of excitement in her voice.
“Plenty of time, Kate,” said McCann softly. “Come and talk to me a while.”
“I really must,” she insisted. “I’m... I’m going out for a moment.”
McCann picked up a book.
“Run along,” he said, carelessly, leafing over the pages. “I know you must have preparations to make for this little affair tonight. You’re the sort of woman who’d wear her best gown to a murder, Kate.”
“Yes,” she said, nervously. “I really must get my hair done. Mack.” And she darted up the stairs.
A door slammed above. McCann picked up the ’phone, and gave a number in guarded tones.
“Mike?” he said, his lips close to the mouthpiece. “Double the order for tonight. Understand? The customer is going to be warned.” And he hung up quietly and took the book from the table again.
He had not turned a page before Kate was down the stairs in street clothes and swiftly circling the room toward the door. He intercepted her, and seized her in a steel embrace.
“Mack!” she cried. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His long, muscular fingers crept to her white throat and circled it. For a long moment, he held her so, his gray eyes blazing into hers, his teeth bared in a slow smile.
Then he bent, pressed his mouth brutally to the red lips, and let her go.
“Just a little joke, Kate — gang stuff. Go out now and do what you have to do.”
At ten o’clock that night, the maroon Pierce Arrow with the gold monogram drew up to the dirty doorway of Hogan’s speakeasy. J. F. McCann handed out the woman known in Sutton Place as Mrs. McCann, and familiar to the underworld as Kate. He whispered a few words to the liveried chauffeur, and the car drew silently away from the curb.