Dial smiled lightly, showing even teeth in a dark, smooth face. «Leave it to me, Francy. Just forget the whole thing except how I’m nuts about you.»
«Buy us a drink,» the girl said.
The room was a living room in a hotel apartment. It was all red and white, with embassy decorations, too stiff. The white walls had red designs painted on them, the white venetian blinds were framed in white box drapes, there was a half-round red rug with a white border in front of the gas fire. There was a kidney-shaped white desk against one wall, between the windows.
Dial went over to the desk and poured Scotch into two glasses, added ice and charged water, carried the glasses back across the room to where a thin wisp of smoke still plumed upward from the alabaster bowl.
«Ditch the gambler,» Dial said, handing her a glass. «He’s the one will get you in a jam.»
She sipped the drink, nodded. Dial took the glass out of her hand, sipped from the same place on the rim, leaned over holding both glasses and kissed her on the lips again.
There were red curtains over a door to a short hallway. They were parted a few inches and a man’s face appeared in the opening, cool gray eyes stared in thoughtfully at the kiss. The curtains fell together again without sound.
After a moment a door shut loudly and steps came along the hallway. Johnny De Ruse came through the curtains into the room. By that time Dial was lighting his cigarette.
Johnny De Ruse was tall, lean, quiet, dressed in dark clothes dashingly cut. His cool gray eyes had fine laughter wrinkles at the corners. His thin mouth was delicate but not soft, and his long chin had a cleft in it.
Dial stared at him, made a vague motion with his hand. De Ruse walked over to the desk without speaking, poured some whiskey into a glass and drank it straight.
He stood a moment with his back to the room, tapping on the edge of the desk. Then he turned around, smiled faintly, said: «’Lo, people,» in a gentle, rather drawling voice and went out of the room through an inner door.
He was in a big overdecorated bedroom with twin beds. He went to a closet and got a tan calfskin suitcase out of it, opened it on the nearest bed. He began to rob the drawers of a highboy and put things in the suitcase, arranging them carefully, without haste. He whistled quietly through his teeth while he was doing it.
When the suitcase was packed he snapped it shut and lit a cigarette. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room without moving. His gray eyes looked at the wall without seeing it.
After a little while he went back into the closet and came out with a small gun in a soft leather harness with two short straps. He pulled up the left leg of his trousers and strapped the holster on his leg. Then he picked up the suitcase and went back to the living room.
Francine Ley’s eyes narrowed swiftly when she saw the suitcase.
«Going some place?» she asked in her low, husky voice.
«Uh-huh. Where’s Dial?»
«He had to leave.»
«That’s too bad,» De Ruse said softly. He put the suitcase down on the floor and stood beside it, moving his cool gray eyes over the girl’s face, up and down her slim body, from her ankles to her auburn head. «That’s too bad,» he said. «I like to see him around. I’m kind of dull for you.»
«Maybe you are, Johnny.»
He bent to the suitcase, but straightened without touching it and said casually: «Remember Mops Parisi? I saw him in town today.»
Her eyes widened and then almost shut. Her teeth clicked lightly. The line of her jawbone stood out very distinctly for a moment.
De Ruse kept moving his glance up and down her face and body.
«Going to do anything about it?» she asked.
«I thought of taking a trip,» De Ruse said. «I’m not so scrappy as I was once.»
«A powder,» Francine Ley said softly. «Where do we go?»
«Not a powder — a trip,» De Ruse said tonelessly. «And not we — me. I’m going alone.»
She sat still, watching his face, not moving a muscle.
De Ruse reached inside his coat and got out a long wallet that opened like a book. He tossed a tight sheaf of bills into the girl’s lap, put the wallet away. She didn’t touch the bills.
«That’ll hold you for longer than you’ll need to find a new playmate,» he said, without expression. «I wouldn’t say I won’t send you more, if you need it.»
She stood up slowly and the sheaf of bills slid down her skirt to the floor. She held her arms straight down at the sides, the hands clenched so that the tendons on the backs of them were sharp. Her eyes were as dull as slate.
«That means we’re through, Johnny?»
He lifted his suitcase. She stepped in front of him swiftly, with two long steps. She put a hand against his coat. He stood quite still, smiling gently with his eyes, but not with his lips. The perfume of Shalimar twitched at his nostrils.
«You know what you are, Johnny?» Her husky voice was almost a lisp.
He waited.
«A pigeon, Johnny. A pigeon.»
He nodded slightly. «Check. I called copper on Mops Parisi. I don’t like the snatch racket, baby. I’d call copper on it any day. I might even get myself hurt blocking it. That’s old stuff. Through?»
«You called copper on Mops Parisi and you don’t think he knows it, but maybe he does. So you’re running away from him … That’s a laugh, Johnny. I’m kidding you. That’s not why you’re leaving me.»
«Maybe I’m just tired of you, baby.»
She put her head back and laughed sharply, almost with a wild note. De Ruse didn’t budge.
«You’re not a tough boy, Johnny. You’re soft. George Dial is harder than you are. Gawd, how soft you are, Johnny.»
She stepped back, staring at his face. Some flicker of almost unbearable emotion came and went in her eyes.
«You’re such a handsome pup, Johnny. Gawd, but you’re handsome. It’s too bad you’re soft.»
De Ruse said gently, without moving: «Not soft, baby — just a bit sentimental. I like to clock the ponies and play seven-card stud and mess around with little red cubes with white spots on them. I like games of chance, including women. But when I lose I don’t get sore and I don’t chisel. I just move on to the next table. Be seein’ you.»
He stooped, hefted the suitcase, and walked around her. He went across the room and through the red curtains without looking back.
Francine Ley stared with stiff eyes at the floor.
THREE
Standing under the scalloped glass canopy of the side entrance to the Chatterton, De Ruse looked up and down Irolo, towards the flashing lights of Wilshire and towards the dark quiet end of the side street.
The rain fell softly, slantingly. A light drop blew in under the canopy and hit the red end of his cigarette with a sputter. He hefted the suitcase and went along Irolo towards his sedan. It was parked almost at the next corner, a shiny black Packard with a little discreet chromium here and there.
He stopped and opened the door and a gun came up swiftly from inside the car. The gun prodded against his chest. A voice said sharply: «Hold it! The mitts high, sweets!»
De Ruse saw the man dimly inside the car. A lean hawk-like face on which some reflected light fell without making it distinct. He felt a gun hard against his chest, hurting his breastbone. Quick steps came up behind him and another gun prodded his back.
«Satisfied?» another voice inquired.
De Ruse dropped the suitcase, lifted his hands and put them against the top of the car.
«Okey,» he said wearily. «What is it — a heist?»
A snarling laugh came from the man in the car. A hand smacked De Ruse’s hips from behind.
«Back up — slow!»