Lieutenant Joseph Conway ran lightly down the back steps of the police station, and slid under the wheel of his car in the parking lot. He drove rapidly out Main Street to Maple, where he turned right and parked four doors beyond the rear entrance of the Ellis Hotel.
There were no elevators at the rear of the Ellis, so that entrance was rarely used. Lieutenant Conway walked up four flights of steps without passing anyone, and knocked on the door of 417.
“Who is it?” The voice was muffled through the door.
“Conway.” He looked hard at the wiry, dark-skinned man who opened the door. “What are you doing here, Max? You know you and Charlie can’t risk being seen together.”
“Nobody’s seen us together,” Charlie Ballou said from the bed where he was stretched out in stockinged feet. “I just got tired of sitting here popping my bubblegum and invited Max up for a drink. What’s yours?”
“Some other time.”
“Business?” Charlie Ballou asked alertly. He removed his fat hands from behind his head and sat up on the edge of the bed — a short, pudgy individual with a round, cheerful face and thinning hair. He stretched mightily, smothering a yawn, and glanced at Max Hawkins hovered over the complicated game of solitaire spread out on the coffee table while the delicate looking hands idly riffled an extra deck of cards.
“Always glad to cooperate with the Law, Lieutenant,” Charlie Ballou said lightly, slipping his feet into unlaced shoes as he shuffled to the bureau and ran a comb through his tousled hair. In the glass his glance probed thoughtfully at his visitor, but his face when he turned was as bland as a bowl of jello. “Trouble? A beef on the game?”
“You might call it that. Ted Lindsay’s a little itchy. He’s watching you. He thinks you’re back-reading them.”
“Just me he’s watching? Not Max?”
“Not Max.”
Charlie Ballou tugged gently at a plump earlobe. “Anything specific?”
“In particular he’s noticed the way you ride hell out of your winning hands. He’s got an adding machine for a mind; don’t underestimate him.”
“Just so he doesn’t take to noticing who’s dealing eighty percent of those winning hands—”
Charlie Ballou looked over at Max at the coffee table. “Nothing fatal, I’d say. I’ve been careless; pushing a little hard. We’ll throw Lindsay a few bones for a couple of weeks, Max. Nothing’s bothering him that a couple of winning nights won’t make him forget all about.”
Max Hawkins nodded, the dark face serious, the long, prehensile fingers flicking a rainbow of cards from hand to hand.
Charlie Ballou turned back to his visitor. “That’s the kind of information that makes your weekly envelope a good investment, young fella.”
“There’s a little bit more, Charlie.”
The stout man’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“Like Austin Schofield.”
The fat lips pursed comically. “Mama’s boy?”
“The same. I should have been paying closer attention to the game, Charlie. Austin’s off-limits.”
“Now just how do you figure that, Lieutenant?” Charlie Ballou sounded genuinely curious.
“I’ll give it to you quick. I’ll be living in this town for the rest of my life, and I’ve got plans for it. Austin Schofield is Judge Schofield’s nephew, and I happen to be marrying Judge Schofield’s daughter. The Judge has done a lot for me, and my plans include his doing a lot more. That answer you?”
“Partly,” the round-faced man replied easily. “So you’re building your fences around this pasture. Well, I still don’t see how it’s supposed to affect our arrangement.”
“Don’t go stupid on me, Charlie. I just told you. The kid is off-limits. You’ve hooked him for five grand.”
“That sounds a little steep.” Charlie looked over at the listening Max, who shrugged noncommittally. “So I wouldn’t argue over a few dollars, if you say it’s five. But so what?”
“It’s stolen money.”
“I couldn’t care less, Lieutenant. I have no trouble at all in spending it.”
“I’ll take it, Charlie. Right now.”
“You’ll take it.” The tone was expressionless. “Just like that, you’ll take it.”
“Not like that. Like this.” Charlie Ballou retreated an instinctive half-step at the swift appearance of the dark-muzzled .38 from the shoulder holster beneath the big man’s jacket. “If necessary.”
The revolver hovered negligently equidistant between Charlie and Max: “I know about the derringer in your sleeve holster, Max,” Conway said. “Don’t get careless.”
The stout man strove to sound amused. “You can’t stand that kind of noise, boy. Any more than we can. Relax. You’re among friends. What makes you so hairy?”
“I played that record for you. Now get me five thousand dollars.”
“So you can play big shot? I’m afraid not.” He said it mildly. “Your position’s a little weak, Lieutenant. You brought us into this game and turned us loose in return for a hundred fifty bucks in a plain white envelope every Wednesday morning. I bought the deal with no fences around anyone. It goes as it lays.”
“Circumstances alter cases, Charlie.”
“Not with me they don’t.”
Conway took two quick steps forward, reversing the gun in his hand as he did so. Charlie Ballou flinched, but not quickly enough. The gun butt sank three quarters of an inch deep in the muscle of his right forearm, and the stout man yelped and fell over on the bed, white-faced. He stared up in panic at the man who bent over him, then half-straightened to keep an eye on the motionless Max.
Conway’s voice was vibrant. “You seem to be a little slow today, Charlie; I told you this was important to me. Let me tell you just how important, and I’m only going to tell you once. You make your living with that harmlessly foolish middle-aged-child’s face of yours. In sixty seconds I’m going to work you over with this gun butt until you haven’t a face left. I’ll break your jaw in enough places so that it’ll be six weeks before you talk to anyone about it. Unless you get me five thousand dollars, and I mean right now.”
“Bureau... drawer!” Charlie Ballou managed to get out, and watched Conway sidle to the bureau, placing his feet as carefully as a ballet dancer.
He removed a bulging brown envelope from the top drawer, and tossed it on the coffee table in front of Max, disrupting the solitaire game. “Count. Fast.”
The slim fingers rippled through the sheaf of bills, and silently pushed a third of the stack across the table. Charlie Ballou was sitting up on the bed, holding onto his arm, his face pasty as he watched the big man stuff the bulky package in his inside jacket pocket. The stout man ran the tip of his tongue over livid lips; his voice was hoarse. “You play rough, kid.”
“I don’t play.”
Ballou tried to smile. “You sold me. Our deal still go on the game?”
“Why not? I’ll see that young Schofield’s not there to tempt you.”
“Business is business, huh?” The smile this time was more of a success, but Charlie winced when he tried to move his arm.
“There is one other thing,” Conway said thoughtfully. He approached the coffee table. “Don’t let Charlie talk you into anything foolish, Max. Because if he should, and I get one crack at you, you’ll never forget it. Is that perfectly clear?”
He looked down at the sallow lace and the slim, long-fingered hands. “I’ll put both your hands together, and Ill empty every chamber in this gun right through both of them. After that you can try dealing cards the rest of your life with a pair of hooked claws.”
Charlie Ballou had a touch of color back in his face. Now he tried to put a little jauntiness into his tone. “I still don’t see why you’re pawing the ground. A mark is a mark. Right?”