“Hello, baby,” he said.
She stood quite still for a moment, then turned and faced him. Her face was a little drawn, and her eyes big.
“You frightened me.”
Duffy thought she had an iron nerve. “Nice to see you again,” he said.
Annabel English looked at him. Then she put a hand quickly on his arm. “But your face,” she said, “what has happened?”
Duffy touched his face with his finger-tips, then smiled; it was a very bleak smile. “I told you,” he said, “some toughs pushed me around.”
“It's horrible.” She came closer to him. “They must have hurt you so.”
Duffy shrugged. “Forget it,” he said; “what brings you up here?”
She turned from him and wandered away across the room to the window. It was a shabby room. Duffy was quite surprised. The address was good enough, but Cattley had let the place run to seed. The furniture was old and battered and the walls needed attention. There was dust everywhere.
Duffy stood watching her. “What brings you up here?” he repeated.
When she reached the window she turned, so that the light was behind her. “I wanted to look round,” she said; “why are you here?”
He lit a cigarette. “You know, baby,” he said, moving further into the room and sitting on the corner of the table. “I don't think we're going to get along so well together.”
“Oh, but yes.”
He shook his head. “I guess I got you into a spot the other night, but you ain't doing anything to help me get you out of it. You're holding back on me.”
She came over to him. “May I smoke?” she said.
He took out his case and she took one. He lit it for her. “Your poor face,” she said softly.
“Quit stalling,” he said impatiently. “You know, if you don't play ball, I'm going to ditch you.”
“Please don't get that way.” She went and sat down in a low, overstuffed chair. She crossed her legs, and Duffy grinned.
“You women,” he said, “you think you've only got to show what you've got, and a man will roll over on his back, with his paws raised. Now, listen, this is important. What are you doing up here? How did you get a key to this joint?”
She studied her red finger-nails. “Suppose I said that I can't tell you?”
“Okay, you can't tell me. Well, those photos can take care of themselves.”
She raised her heavy lashes and looked at him. “Honest, Bill, just now I can't tell you.”
He slid off the table. “I'm going to look round this joint,” he said shortly, “you sit there.”
He went into the bedroom and began a systematic search. Patiently he went through every drawer, examined the sides of the arm-chair, looked behind the few pictures of doubtful taste hanging on the walls, took the grubby bed to pieces, but he found nothing to interest him. He went into the small kitchen and hunted about there. Then he stood still and scratched his head. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he had hoped that he would have found something to give him a lead. He went to the kitchen door. Then his eyes narrowed. Annabel was sitting quite still, but he knew that she had moved from the chair whilst he was in the kitchen. Her elaborate calmness, her frank smile when he came into the room, told him.
“Have you found anything?” she said, with a great show of interest.
He began wandering round the room. “Not yet,” he said, “but I'm getting hot.”
She got out of the chair. “Where's the Johnny?”
He stood quite still, then he jerked his head.
“Just through the bedroom,” he said.
“I won't be a minute.”
He didn't say anything, but watched her go into the bedroom, then he heard her shoot the bolt on the bathroom door.
He saw that she had left her bag on the table, and he went over quickly and scooped it up. He pressed on the paste diamond clasp and opened it. Quickly he emptied the contents on the table. There was the usual collection of junk that most women carry. A powder compactum, cigarette-case and lighter, a lipstick in a gold case, a small phial of scent, some letters, and a roll of greenbacks. Nothing to interest him.
Making a little grimace of annoyance, he pushed the stuff back into the bag.
Then he began to examine the room carefully. The drawers yielded nothing, but on the sideboard he noticed a cigarette box had been moved. He could see the outline of dust had been disturbed. He opened the box, but it was empty. He took it over to the window and examined it carefully. Putting his fingers inside, he gently pushed. The bottom of the box suddenly sprang up. There was nothing in the false bottom. He took the box back and put it on the sideboard again.
Annabel came into the room again, touching her red hair with her finger-tips. She was quite calm. He looked her over thoughtfully.
“Finished?” she asked, going over to the table and picking up her bag. “Suppose you come and have some coffee with me?”
Duffy mashed his cigarette out in the tray. He held out his hand. “Give,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Now don't start being silly,” she said, there was a faint note of anger in her voice.
Duffy walked over to her. “Come on,” he said roughly. “Hand it over.”
“What is this?” She turned impatiently to the door.
Duffy said evenly, “Wait a minute, sister, you and I are going to have a little talk.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were stormy. “We're going right out of this place,” she said. “I'll talk to you over coffee.”
Duffy wandered over to the door and set his broad back against it. “We'll talk right here,” he said briefly.
She shrugged and leant against the table. “Well, what is it?”
“I want you to get this business straight,” he said; “up to now you've been acting like a dimwit all along. Well, you gotta wake up to things. You and I are in a murder mix-up. You stand a sweet chance of getting fried, and I'm in line for an accessory rap. You're playing it like an afternoon tumble with the curtains drawn. Get wise to it, Redhead.”
She tapped on the floor with her shoe. “I know all that, she said, “but that gets me nowhere.”
The smile on his face was hard. “You're holding back on me, baby, and you know it,” he said. “If I weren't in this as an accessory, I'd let it ride. I'm in this for two reasons. One, I'm in it, if you get pinched, and two, I've got a little score to settle with Morgan. I'm easy enough if you play ball, but I'll get goddam' hard if you don't.”
She said suddenly in a sharp voice, “Let me out of here.”
Duffy didn't move. “You're in a spot, sister,” he said, “there is only one way you can get out of here. You can open your pretty mouth and start squawking, and that'll bring the cops arunnin', asking questions. You'll have a sweet twenty minutes, explaining why you're here, and how you got the key to this joint. Then they'll start looking for Cattley, and suppose they find him, what then?”