There was real color surging under the rouge on Kate’s cheeks as the pair passed through the dingy hall and signaled on the heavy door at the end for admittance. She entered the noisy, smoky room beyond, with the grace of a stalking panther, the rounded limbs slow and sure under the deep red satin that clung to them, the dark head high, the nostrils dilated. Her eyes were on fire. Her lips, moist and full.
Hogan himself came forward to greet them, rubbing his pudgy hands together, the fleshy folds of his face creased in a set smile. He did not look at Kate.
McCann bowed slightly to the huge bulk that was Hogan.
“Evening, Hogan,” said J.F. McCann. “You know Kate, don’t you?”
Hogan turned his pig eyes to the resplendent figure beside McCann, but his gaze went no farther than the blood red ruby on her breast.
“Sure,” he chuckled, “it’s a long time, Kate...”
“Kate’s homesick for old times, Hogan,” said McCann casually. “How about a seat on the balcony?”
“Sure, sure,” said Hogan. “Walk right up.”
Kate swept through the room to the stairs at the back without a glance. The man at her side seemed absorbed in her, but his keen gray eyes were busy with the curtains of the booths which bulged and swayed suspiciously, and the figures lolling at the small tables through which they threaded their way — men, all of them — not a woman in the place.
“Let’s sit here,” she whispered eagerly, as they reached the top of the stairs. “We can see your men come in the front from here.”
“No,” said McCann in a low tone, and his hand was urgent on her elbow as he guided her down the dim, narrow back of the balcony and around to one of the little tables at the side. “This is the best place, and much safer.”
“Safer!” muttered Kate. “What the hell do I care about that? You can’t see a damn thing but the booths downstairs from here.”
“Well,” said McCann, pulling out one of the wrought iron chairs for her. “They might be interesting, too. Look! Hogan seems terribly excited about something. He’s waddling in and out of those booths like a fat hen. Stay here and watch him. I’ve something to attend to.”
He turned, and stepped toward the window which faced the dim section of the balcony on which they stood.
She was beside him in an instant, her hands clawing at his shoulders.
He faced her. There was a gold fountain pen in his hands. He turned it over casually.
“Nice little trinket, this, Kate,” he said quietly. “It shoots a .38 bullet. Go back to your table.”
Her dark eyes were fixed on his in the half light. The end of the fountain pen pressed under her breast, gently. Understanding dawned whitely on her face, as she saw him unfasten the window beside him with his left hand, and saw the lower pane yield, slowly, noiselessly, to the upward pressure of his long, sinewy fingers. Still she stood, motionless, till the night air from the open window blew full upon them. He jerked the spangled white scarf from about her shoulders, and waved it out of the window three times, then quietly motioned her to her seat. He slid the window down silently before he followed her.
The gold fountain pen rested under his hand on the small table between them, as a waiter hurried to them.
McCann ordered a bottle of the best. The waiter disappeared. Presently, another waiter appeared, and hovered about, busily dusting the vacant tables near them. McCann leaned over the railing of the balcony.
“Not very complimentary, Hogan,” he murmured. “Only one man to take care of J. F. McCann, and a waiter, at that!”
He turned to the woman who sat silent, with her dark eyes fastened on the scene below. She started as a draft of cold air struck her bare shoulders. A muffled thud sounded behind her. Her lips opened.
“Quiet!” said McCann, tensely, and lifted his hand with the venomous gold thing from the table. “Everything depends on quiet — for you, Kate! Nothing’s happened yet, except our extra waiter has disappeared.”
As he spoke, two silent figures edged through the window he had left unfastened, and crept along the wall of the balcony, toward the rear. They were carrying something heavy between them.
McCann went on talking.
“Just a few extra men of mine, Kate,” he said, smiling. “You see, I decided to make this a real gun fight, after you went out this afternoon. A little surprise for you, eh? Here comes two more of my men. The thing they’re carrying is a machine gun, Kate. There ought to be plenty of blood down there, when the fight’s over.”
The woman’s livid face twitched. Her throat worked spasmodically.
“Take it calmly, Kate,” continued McCann. “After all, it’s just a gun fight, and that’s what you craved. I’m staging it for your benefit, Kate. The two truckloads of liquor are a side-issue. They’re already loaded out of the second hand shop Hogan had them stored in this afternoon. They’re probably in one of my warehouses, now. This is just a little play I’m putting on for your amusement. We might call it ‘The Fate of a Double Crosser.’ Smile, Kate. Hogan’s looking up at you.”
Kate’s ghastly face peered over the edge of the balcony at the red, upturned moon of Hogan. Mechanically, she smiled. McCann called down in an annoyed tone.
“I wish you’d hurry up the service a little, Hogan. Things are getting a bit dull up here.”
As he uttered his complaint, two more silent figures inched along the dark wall behind, carrying a heavy load. And at the window, and on the fire escape outside the window, a dark mass of men waited, with glinting gats ready in their hands.
Suddenly, from below, came the sound of a heavy door slammed back on its hinges. Kate leaned far over the rail. McCann made a motion above his head to someone on the balcony behind. The lolling men at the tables below were on their feet, their necks thrust forward toward the entrance, their hands bristling with guns.
“At ’em, boys!” yelled Kate, but her voice was lost in the volley of shots that came from the doorway. Instantly, the room below was a hell of shattering sound. Kate swung her body far out over the railing, striving to peer through the curling smoke of guns that cut the blue haze of tobacco.
“They’ve dropped,” she screamed, “four of ’em, at the door! At ’em, boys!” She was shrieking now, heedless of the man beside her, heedless of everything but the smell and sound of battle, and the men below, creeping now toward the four prone figures at the door. Her form swung perilously over the frail wooden railing. She slipped, almost lost her balance, but a firm hand pulled her back.
“Don’t throw yourself over yet, Kate,” said a quiet voice in her ear. “There’s more to come.”
She turned on him. Her face was burning with mounting blood, her painted lips loose, her white bosom heaving.
“To hell with you! Bring on your battle, if there’s more to come...”
The ominous clatter of machine guns cut her short. It came from the rear of the balcony. Three deadly black nozzles were slowly swinging over the railing at the back, slowing swinging death down into the scurrying men below.
Miraculously, the four prone figures at the door below raised the sinister noses of sawed-offs and blazed fire into the men who sought escape that way. The floor was a milling mass of humanity, fighting for cover, stumbling over fallen bodies, slipping in spilled blood.
The bulging curtains of the booths below parted and disclosed men with rods belching burning lead toward the balcony above. But the slow swing of the meat choppers went endlessly on, spraying a thousand deaths a minute toward the trapped crowd beneath them. Sub-machines pushed their black noses through the side railings of the balcony and picked off those who were out of the radius of the machine guns. Eternity passed in those few minutes of clattering death.