He folded his arms and waited.
NINE
The white-jacketed Japanese boy opened the door, bobbed his head, smiled, hissed politely: «Ah, you come inside, prease. Quite so, prease.»
Pete Anglich patted Token Ware’s shoulder, pushed her through the door into the long, vivid room. She looked shabby and forlorn against the background of handsome furnishings. Her eyes were reddened from crying, her mouth was smeared.
The door shut behind them and the little Japanese stole away.
They went down the stretch of thick, noiseless carpet, past quiet brooding lamps, bookcases sunk into the wall, shelves of alabaster and ivory, and porcelain and jade knickknacks, a huge mirror framed in blue glass, and surrounded by a frieze of lovingly autographed photos, low tables with lounging chairs, high tables with flowers, more books, more chairs, more rugs — and Vidaury sitting remotely with a glass in his hand, staring at them coldly.
He moved his hand carelessly, looked the girl up and down.
«Ah, yes, the man the police had here. Of course. Something I can do for you? I heard they made a mistake.»
Pete Anglich turned a chair a little, pushed Token Ware into it. She sat down slowly, stiffly, licked her lips and stared at Vidaury with a frozen fascination.
A touch of polite distaste curled Vidaury’s lips. His eyes were watchful.
Pete Anglich sat down. He drew a stick of gum out of his pocket, unwrapped it, slid it between his teeth. He looked worn, battered, tired. There were dark bruises on the side of his face and on his neck. He still needed a shave.
He said slowly, «This is Miss Ware. The girl that was supposed to get your dough.»
Vidaury stiffened. A hand holding a cigarette began to tap restlessly on the arm of his chair. He stared at the girl, but didn’t say anything. She half smiled at him, then flushed.
Pete Anglich said: «I hang around Noon Street. I know the sharpshooters, know what kind of folks belong there and what kind don’t. I saw this little girl in a lunchwagon on Noon Street this evening. She looked uneasy and she was watching the clock. She didn’t belong. When she left I followed her.»
Vidaury nodded slightly. A gray tip of ash fell off the end of his cigarette. He looked down at it vaguely, nodded again.
«She went up Noon Street,» Pete Anglich said. «A bad street for a white girl. I found her hiding in a doorway. Then a big Duesenberg slid around the corner and doused lights, and your money was thrown out on the sidewalk. She was scared. She asked me to get it. I got it.»
Vidaury said smoothly, not looking at the girclass="underline" «She doesn’t look like a crook. Have you told the police about her? I suppose not, or you wouldn’t be here.»
Pete Anglich shook his head, ground the gum around in his jaws. «Tell the law? A couple of times nix. This is velvet for us. We want our cut.»
Vidaury started violently, then he was very still. His hand stopped beating the chair arm. His face got cold and white and grim. Then he reached up inside his dinner jacket and quietly took the short automatic out, held it on his knees. He leaned forward a little and smiled.
«Blackmailers,» he said gravely, «are always rather interesting. How much would your cut be — and what have you got to sell?»
Pete Anglich looked thoughtfully at the gun. His jaws moved easily, crunching the gum. His eyes were unworried.
«Silence,» he said gravely. «Just silence.»
Vidaury made a sharp sudden gesture with the gun. «Talk,» he said. «And talk fast. I don’t like silence.»
Pete Anglich nodded, said: «The acid-throwing threats were just a dream. You didn’t get any. The extortion attempt was a phony. A publicity stunt. That’s all.» He leaned back in his chair.
Vidaury looked down the room past Pete Anglich’s shoulder. He started to smile, then his face got wooden.
Trimmer Waltz had slid into the room through an open side door. He had his big Savage in his hand. He came slowly along the carpet without sound. Pete Anglich and the girl didn’t see him.
Pete Anglich said, «Phony all the way through. Just a buildup. Guessing? Sure I am, but look a minute, see how soft it was played first — and how tough it was played afterward, after I showed in it. The girl works for Trimmer Waltz at the Juggernaut. She’s down and out, and she scares easily. So Waltz sends her on a caper like that. Why? Because she’s supposed to be nabbed. The stake-out’s all arranged. If she squawks about Waltz, he laughs it off, points to the fact that the plant was almost in his alley, that it was a small stake at best, and his joint’s doing all right. He points to the fact that a dumb girl goes to get it, and would he, a smart guy, pull anything like that? Certainly not.
«The cops will half believe him, and you’ll make a big gesture and refuse to prosecute the girl. If she doesn’t spill, you’ll refuse to prosecute anyway, and you’ll get your publicity just the same, either way. You need it bad, because you’re slipping, and you’ll get it, and all it will cost you is what you pay Waltz — or that’s what you think. Is that crazy? Is that too far for a Hollywood heel to stretch? Then tell me why no Feds were on the case. Because those lads would keep on digging until they found the mouse, and then you’d be up for obstructing justice. That’s why. The local law don’t give a damn. They’re so used to movie build-ups they just yawn and turn over and go to sleep again.»
Waltz was halfway down the room now. Vidaury didn’t look at him. He looked at the girl, smiled at her faintly.
«Now, see how tough it was played after I got into it,» Pete Anglich said. «I went to the Juggernaut and talked to the girl. Waltz got us into his office and a big ape that works for him damn near strangled me. When I came to I was in an apartment and a dead girl was there, and she was shot, and a bullet was gone from my gun. The gun was on the floor beside me, and I stank of gin, and a prowl car was booming around the corner. And Miss Ware here was locked up in a whore house on Noon Street.
«Why all that hard stuff? Because Waltz had a perfectly swell blackmail racket lined up for you, and he’d have bled you whiter than an angel’s wing. As long as you had a dollar, half of it would have been his. And you’d have paid it and liked it, Vidaury. You’d have had publicity, and you’d have had protection, but how you’d have paid for it!»
Waltz was close now, almost too close. Vidaury stood up suddenly. The short gun jerked at Pete Anglich’s chest. Vidaury’s voice was thin, an old man’s voice. He said dreamily: «Take him, Waltz. I’m too jittery for this sort of thing.»
Pete Anglich didn’t even turn. His face became the face of a wooden Indian.
Waltz put his gun into Pete Anglich’s back. He stood there half smiling, with the gun against Pete Anglich’s back, looking across his shoulder at Vidaury.
«Dumb, Pete,» he said dryly. «You had enough evening already. You ought to have stayed away from here — but I figured you couldn’t pass it up.»
Vidaury moved a little to one side, spread his legs, flattened his feet to the floor. There was a queer, greenish tint to his handsome face, a sick glitter in his deep eyes.
Token Ware stared at Waltz. Her eyes glittered with panic, the lids straining away from the eyeballs, showing the whites all around the iris.
Waltz said, «I can’t do anything here, Vidaury. I’d rather not walk him out alone, either. Get your hat and coat.»
Vidaury nodded very slightly. His head just barely moved. His eyes were still sick.
«What about the girl?» he asked whisperingly.
Waltz grinned, shook his head, pressed the gun hard into Pete Anglich’s back.
Vidaury moved a little more to the side, spread his feet again. The thick gun was very steady in his hand, but not pointed at anything in particular.