De Ruse backed up, holding his hands very high in the air.
«Not so high, punk,» the man behind said dangerously. «Just shoulder high.»
De Ruse lowered them. The man in the car got out, straightened. He put his gun against De Ruse’s chest again, put out a long arm and unbuttoned De Ruse’s overcoat. De Ruse leaned backwards. The hand belonging to the long arm explored his pockets, his armpits. A .38 in a spring holster ceased to make weight under his arm.
«Got one, Chuck. Anything your side?»
«Nothin’ on the hip.»
The man in front stepped away and picked up the suitcase.
«March sweets. We’ll ride in our heap.»
They went farther along Irolo. A big Lincoln limousine loomed up, a blue car with a lighter stripe. The hawk-faced man opened the rear door.
«In.»
De Ruse got in listlessly, spitting his cigarette end into the wet darkness, as he stooped under the roof of the car. A faint smell assailed his nose, a smell that might have been overripe peaches or almonds. He got into the car.
«In beside him, Chuck.»
«Listen. Let’s all ride up front. I can handle —»
«Nix. In beside him, Chuck,» the hawk-faced one snapped.
Chuck growled, got into the back seat beside De Ruse. The other man slammed the door hard. His lean face showed through the closed window in a sardonic grin. Then he went around to the driver’s seat and started the car, tooled it away from the curb.
De Ruse wrinkled his nose, sniffing at the queer smell.
They spun at the corner, went east on Eighth to Normandie, north on Normandie across Wilshire, across other streets, up over a steep hill and down the other side to Melrose. The big Lincoln slid through the light rain without a whisper. Chuck sat in the corner, held his gun on his knee, scowled. Street lights showed a square, arrogant red face, a face that was not at ease.
The back of the driver’s head was motionless beyond the glass partition. They passed Sunset and Hollywood, turned east on Franklin, swung north to Los Feliz and down Los Feliz towards the river bed.
Cars coming up the hill threw sudden brief glares of white light into the interior of the Lincoln. De Ruse tensed, waited. At the next pair of lights that shot squarely into the car he bent over swiftly and jerked up the left leg of his trousers. He was back against the cushions before the blinding light was gone.
Chuck hadn’t moved, hadn’t noticed movement. Down at the bottom of the hill, at the intersection of Riverside Drive, a whole phalanx of cars surged towards them as a light changed. De Ruse waited, timed the impact of the headlights. His body stooped briefly, his hand swooped down, snatched the small gun from the leg holster.
He leaned back once more, the gun against the bulk of his left thigh, concealed behind it from where Chuck sat.
The Lincoln shot over on to Riverside and passed the entrance to Griffith Park.
«Where we going, punk?» De Ruse asked casually.
«Save it,» Chuck snarled, «You’ll find out.»
«Not a stick-up, huh?»
«Save it,» Chuck snarled again.
«Mops Parisi’s boys?» De Ruse asked thinly, slowly.
The red-faced gunman jerked, lifted the gun off his knee. «I said — save it!»
De Ruse said: «Sorry, punk.»
He turned the gun over his thigh, lined it swiftly, squeezed the trigger left-handed. The gun made a small flat sound — almost an unimportant sound.
Chuck yelled and his hand jerked wildly. The gun kicked out of it and fell on the floor of the car. His left hand raced for his right shoulder.
De Ruse shifted the little Mauser to his right hand and put it deep into Chuck’s side.
«Steady, boy, steady. Keep your hands out of trouble. Now — kick that cannon over this way — fast!»
Chuck kicked the big automatic along the floor of the car. De Ruse reached down for it swiftly, got it. The lean-faced driver jerked a look back and the car swerved, then straightened again.
De Ruse hefted the big gun. The Mauser was too light for a sap. He slammed Chuck hard on the side of the head. Chuck groaned, sagged forward, clawing.
«The gas!» he bleated. «The gas! He’ll turn on the gas!» De Ruse hit him again, harder. Chuck was a tumbled heap on the floor of the car.
The Lincoln swung off Riverside, over a short bridge and a bridle path, down a narrow dirt road that split a golf course. It went into darkness and among trees. It went fast, rocketed from side to side, as if the driver wanted it to do just that.
De Ruse steadied himself, felt for the door handle. There wasn’t any door handle. His lips curled and he smashed at a window with the gun. The heavy glass was like a wall of stone.
The hawk-faced man leaned over and there was a hissing sound. Then there was a sudden sharp increase of intensity of the smell of almonds.
De Ruse tore a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his nose. The driver had straightened again now and was driving hunched over, trying to keep his head down.
De Ruse held the muzzle of the big gun close to the glass partition behind the driver’s head, who ducked sidewise. He squeezed lead four times quickly, shutting his eyes and turning his head away, like a nervous woman.
No glass flew. When he looked again there was a jagged round hole in the glass and the windshield in a line with it was starred but not broken.
He slammed the gun at the edges of the hole and managed to knock a piece of glass loose. He was getting the gas now, through the handkerchief. His head felt like a balloon. His vision waved and wandered.
The hawk-faced driver, crouched, wrenched the door open at his side, swung the wheel of the car the opposite way and jumped clear.
The car tore over a low embankment, looped a little and smacked sidewise against a tree. The body twisted enough for one of the rear doors to spring open.
De Ruse went through the door in a headlong dive. Soft earth smacked him, knocked some of the wind out of him. Then his lungs breathed clean air. He rolled up on his stomach and elbows, kept his head down, his gun hand up.
The hawk-faced man was on his knees a dozen yards away. De Ruse watched him drag a gun out of his pocket and lift it.
Chuck’s gun pulsed and roared in De Ruse’s hand until it was empty.
The hawk-faced man folded down slowly and his body merged with the dark shadows and the wet ground. Cars went by distantly on Riverside Drive. Rain dripped off the trees. The Griffith Park beacon turned in the thick sky. The rest was darkness and silence.
De Ruse took a deep breath and got upon his feet. He dropped the empty gun, took a small flash out of his overcoat pocket and pulled his overcoat up against his nose and mouth, pressing the thick cloth hard against his face. He went to the car, switched off the lights and threw the beam of the flash into the driver’s compartment. He leaned in quickly and turned a petcock on a copper cylinder like a fire extinguisher. The hissing noise of the gas stopped.
He went over to the hawk-faced man. He was dead. There was some loose money, currency and silver in his pockets, cigarettes, a folder of matches from the Club Egypt, no wallet, a couple of extra clips of cartridges, De Ruse’s .38. De Ruse put the last back where it belonged and straightened from the sprawled body.
He looked across the darkness of the Los Angeles river bed towards the lights of Glendale. In the middle distance a green neon sign far from any other light winked on and off: Club Egypt.
De Ruse smiled quietly to himself, and went back to the Lincoln. He dragged Chuck’s body out onto the wet ground. Chuck’s red face was blue now, under the beam of the small flash. His open eyes held an empty stare. His chest didn’t move. De Ruse put the flash down and went through some more pockets.
He found the usual things a man carries, including a wallet showing a driver’s license issued to Charles Lc Grand, Hotel Metropole, Los Angeles. He found more Club Egypt matches and a tabbed hotel key marked 809, Hotel Metropole.