“Will you get out of here?” cried Jack Forester, unable to restrain himself any longer.
Quade nodded, then opened the door and stepped out. He was immediately flanked by the two thugs who had attacked him and Charlie Boston that morning. Each grabbed an arm and, to make it more effective, the bigger of the two showed Quade a .32 caliber automatic.
“How’s about it?” he asked cheerfully. “You want some of this?”
“I ought to have it, I guess,” Quade said bitterly, “for being so stupid. I should have known you boys would be around again. Well, what is it?”
“We want to talk over some things with you. Let’s go down to your room — by the stairs.”
The man put the gun in his coat pocket, but kept his hand on it. “We’ll make off we’re pals if we meet anyone on the way.”
“Sure, pal,” Quade said and started for the stairs with the two thugs crowding his heels. On the eighth floor he said, “You know I think you boys are making a mistake. I don’t—”
“Keep your mouth shut!” snarled the man with the gun, taking it from his pocket and jamming it into Quade’s spine. “You’re not going to give any signal to that big stooge of yours.”
Quade relaxed. He pushed open the door of his suite. Charlie Boston was lying on one of the twin beds in the bedroom. He lifted up his head, said, “That you, Ollie?” Then he saw the men behind Quade.
He sprang up from the bed. By that time the man with the gun had stepped around Quade and pointed the gun at Boston. “Lay down again, mutt,” he sneered.
Charlie Boston sat on the bed. “What’s the idea?”
“Search me,” said Quade flippantly.
The man with the gun took up that remark. “That’s just what we’re going to do. Search you. You can save yourself a lot of trouble by kicking through with that letter.”
“Oh,” said Quade, “you want a letter. Sorry. I haven’t got one. But I’ll be glad to write you one.”
The thug showed Quade the gun, then whipped it up suddenly and laid it along the side of his jaw. It was a cruel blow and sent pain streaking through Quade’s head.
Charlie Boston leaped to his feet again, snarling. The gunman quickly threw down on him. “Come ahead, monkey!” he invited.
Quade said steadily, “I still haven’t got that letter.”
The man with the gun said, “Search him, Tony!”
Tony made a good job of it. He even took off Quade’s shoes. But he didn’t find the letter. “She ain’t here, Henry,” he said.
“Try the other lug.”
Boston bristled, but relaxed under the threat of the gun. Tony searched him thoroughly. Then he went through the drawers of the dresser in the bedroom; in the sitting room. Finally he tackled the closets and even peeled back the rugs on the floors.
He finally conceded defeat. “It ain’t here.”
Henry, whose face had been growing darker during the search, turned to Oliver Quade. “I’m going to ask you just once more for that letter, and then I’m going to take this gun and break every bone in your head. And I’ll do it without noise. Now, where’s the letter?”
Quade saw the determination in Henry’s eyes. “I mailed it to myself. It won’t be here until morning.”
Consternation spread across Henry’s face. “You mailed the letter to yourself?”
“Yes. You boys know what happened at the track. I was questioned by the cops. I had a hunch they’d be after me again and I couldn’t risk having it found on me, or in this room. I mailed the letter to myself.”
“Jeez!” cried Tony. “He’s lyin’!”
Henry sighed wearily. “No. The letter isn’t here. That’s just about what a smart guy like him would do. Well, we’ve got to stick here until morning. You’ll have to go out and tell the boss.”
“Before he goes,” said Quade, “let me give you a friendly warning about something. My room rent’s overdue. At six o’clock the manager comes to lock me out. It’s five-thirty now.”
Alarm shot into Henry’s eyes. “What the hell?”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Quade chuckled, “Of course, if you were to pay the bill…”
“How much is it?”
“Four hundred and twenty-four dollars.”
Henry exclaimed, “For the love of Mike!”
“He’s stringing us,” snapped Tony. “No guy could run up a hotel bill of four twenty-four.”
“There’s the telephone,” said Quade. “Ask the manager how much my bill is.”
Henry looked at the phone. “You pick it up. Ask him about the bill. I’ll hold the receiver and get the answer. Here, Tony, hold the rod.”
Quade picked up the phone, while Henry put the receiver to his ear. Quade said, “Let me talk to the manager, Mr. Meyer.”
Henry nodded. After a moment, he nodded again. “Mr. Meyer,” Quade said, “will you tell me again how much my bill amounts to?”
Henry listened for a moment, then reached over suddenly and covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to know if you’ll pay by six o’clock. Tell him, yes — quick!”
“Yes, Mr. Meyer, at six-sharp. Thank you,” Quade said.
Henry put the receiver on the hook. “Tony, you’ll have to run out and tell the boss. We’ve got to stay here until the morning mail comes in. If we don’t pay that money, they’ll come up here. Hurry, tell him the money’s got to be here before six.”
Tony returned Henry’s gun and scooted out of the room. Henry moved to a position just inside the door. He glowered at Quade. “This is a lousy mess.”
“Isn’t it?” Quade asked pleasantly. “But you can cheer yourself up by thinking of the letter.”
“I’ve been thinking about it already. And if it don’t come here, you know what’s going to happen to you?”
“The same thing that happened to Martin Lund and George Grimshaw?”
Henry scowled. “We didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Rats!” jeered Charlie Boston.
Henry gave him a dirty look. “I ain’t never bumped a man—” he began and then when Charlie Boston took a step forward, a gleam in his eyes, he added hastily: “Except in self-defense. Sit down, bozo!”
There was a knock on the door. Henry leaped three feet toward Quade. “Keep your mouth shut!” he whispered frantically.
“It might be the maid,” Quade said. “If I don’t answer she’ll come in.”
“All right, answer!”
“Yes?” Quade called. “Who is it?”
“Herbert Mills,” was the reply. “Can I see you a moment, Mr. Quade?”
Henry’s eyes popped. “Let him come in, but don’t spill anything. Introduce me as a friend. Any damn name.”
“Come in, Mr. Mills,” Quade invited.
Herbert Mills, his fat face perspiring, came into the room, closing the door behind him. Quade, shooting a look at Henry, saw the gunman’s hands jammed deep in his coat pockets.
Quade walked toward Herbert Mills, held out his hand. “Glad to see you, Mr. Mills.”
He caught the fat man’s hand, whirled and slammed in the bolt on the door behind Mills. Then shoving Mills violently toward Henry, he cried, “Charlie!”
Mills yelped and jerked his hand out of Quade’s grip. The latter was surprised at the strength in the fat man. Henry cried out: “No, you don’t!” and then Charlie Boston slugged him from the side.
A fist banged on the door. “Let me in!” cried the voice of Tony.
Quade sunk his fist into Herbert Mills stomach. The fat man said, “Whoosh,” and folded forward. Quade chopped at his face, but Mills leaned forward too quickly and the fist hit his ear. He yelped in pain.
Charlie Boston was wrestling with Henry, now, trying to keep Henry from bringing the gun into the battle. Quade stepped back to deliver a finishing blow to the fat man. Herbert Mills, not half as far gone as he had pretended, suddenly lunged forward and rammed Quade in the stomach.