Costello stood up from the chair, slowly. He said: «I’ve got a wall safe. I’ll open it up.»
He went across the room to the wall in which the outside door was, lifted down a picture and worked the dial of a small inset circular safe. He swung the little round door open and thrust his arm into the safe.
Mallory said: «Stay just like that, Costello.»
He stepped lazily across the room, and passed his left hand down Costello’s arm, into the safe. It came out again holding a small pearl-handled automatic. He made a sibilant sound with his lips and put the little gun into his pocket.
«Just can’t learn, can you, Costello?» he said in a tired voice.
Costello shrugged, went back across the room. Mallory plunged his hands into the safe and tumbled the contents out on to the floor. He dropped on one knee. There were some long white envelopes, a bunch of clippings fastened with a paper clip, a narrow, thick checkbook, a small photograph album, an address book, some loose papers, some yellow bank statements with checks inside. Mallory spread one of the long envelopes carelessly, without much interest.
The curtains over the end door moved again. Costello stood rigid in front of the mantel. A gun came through the curtains in a small hand that was very steady. A slim body followed the hand, a white face with blazing eyes—Erno.
Mallory came to his feet, his hands breast high, empty.
«Higher, baby,» Erno croaked. «Much higher, baby!»
Mallory raised his hands a little more. His forehead was wrinkled in a hard frown. Erno came forward into the room. His face glistened. A lock of oily black hair drooped over one eyebrow. His teeth showed in a stiff grin.
He said: «I think we’ll give it to you right here, two-timer.»
His voice had a questioning inflection, as if he waited Costello’s confirmation.
Costello didn’t say anything.
Mallory moved his head a little. His mouth felt very dry. He watched Erno’s eyes, saw them tense. He said rather quickly:
«You’ve been crossed, mugg, but not by me.»
Erno’s grin widened to a snarl, and his head went back. His trigger finger whitened at the first joint. Then there was a noise outside the door, and it came open.
Landrey came in. He shut the door with a jerk of his shoulder, and leaned against it, dramatically. Both his hands were in the side pockets of his thin dark overcoat. His eyes under the soft black hat were bright and devilish. He looked pleased. He moved his chin in the white silk evening scarf that was tucked carelessly about his neck. His handsome pale face was like something carved out of old ivory.
Erno moved his gun slightly and waited. Landrey said cheerfully:
«Bet you a grand you hit the floor first!»
Erno’s lips twitched under his shiny little mustache. Two guns went off at the same time. Landrey swayed like a tree hit by a gust of wind; the heavy roar of his .45 sounded again, muffled a little by cloth and the nearness to his body.
Mallory went down behind the davenport, rolled and came up with the Luger straight out in front of him. But Erno’s face had already gone blank.
He went down slowly; his light body seemed to be drawn down by the weight of the gun in his right hand. He bent at the knees as he fell, and slid forward on the floor. His back arched once, and then went loose.
Landrey took his left hand out of his coat pocket and spread the fingers away from him as though pushing at something. Slowly and with difficulty he got the big automatic out of the other pocket and raised it inch by inch, turning on the balls of his feet. He swiveled his body towards Costello’s rigid figure and squeezed the trigger again. Plaster jumped from the wall at Costello’s shoulder.
Landrey smiled vaguely, said: «Damn!» in a soft voice. Then his eyes went up in his head and the gun plunged down from his nerveless fingers, bounded on the carpet. Landrey went down joint by joint, smoothly and gracefully, kneeled, swaying a moment before he melted over sidewise, spread himself on the floor almost without sound.
Mallory looked at Costello, and said in a strained, angry voice: «Boy, are you lucky!»
The buzzer droned insistently. Three little lights glowed red on the panel of the switchboard. The wizened, white-haired little man shut his mouth with a snap and struggled sleepily upright.
Mallory jerked past him with his head turned the other way, shot across the lobby, out of the front door of the apartment house, down the three marble-faced steps, across the sidewalk and the street. The driver of Landrey’s car had already stepped on the starter. Mallory swung in beside him, breathing hard, and slammed the car door.
«Get goin’ fast!» he rasped. «Stay off the boulevard. Cops here in five minutes!»
The driver looked at him and said: «Where’s Landrey?… I heard shootin’.»
Mallory held the Luger up, said swiftly and coldly: «Move, baby!»
The gears went in, the Cadillac jumped forward, the driver took a corner recklessly, the tail of his eye on the gun.
Mallory said: «Landrey stopped lead. He’s cold.» He held the Luger up, put the muzzle under the driver’s nose. «But not from my gun. Smell that, punk! It hasn’t been fired!»
The driver said: «Jeeze!» in a shattered voice, swung the big car wildly, missing the curb by inches.
It was getting to be daylight.
SEVEN
RHONDA FARR said: «Publicity, darling. Just publicity. Any kind is better than none at all. I’m not so sure my contract is going to be renewed and I’ll probably need it.»
She was sitting in a deep chair, in a large, long room. She looked at Mallory with lazy, indifferent purplish-blue eyes and moved her hand to a tall, misted glass. She took a drink.
The room was enormous. Mandarin rugs in soft colors swathed the floor. There was a lot of teakwood and red lacquer. Gold frames glinted high up on the walls, and the ceiling was remote and vague, like the dusk of a hot day. A huge carved radio gave forth muted and unreal strains.
Mallory wrinkled his nose and looked amused in a grim sort of way. He said:
«You’re a nasty little rat. I don’t like you.»
Rhonda Farr said: «Oh, yes, you do, darling. You’re crazy about me.»
She smiled and fitted a cigarette into a jade-green holder that matched her jade-green lounging pajamas. Then she reached out her beautifully shaped hand and pushed the button of a bell that was set into the top of a low nacre and teakwood table at her side. A silent, white-coated Japanese butler drifted into the room and mixed more highballs.
«You’re a pretty wise lad, aren’t you, darling?» Rhonda Farr said, when he had gone out again. «And you have some letters in your pocket you think are body and soul to me. Nothing like it, mister, nothing like it.» She took a sip of the fresh highball. «The letters you have are phony. They were written about a month ago. Landrey never had them. He gave his letters back a long time ago… What you have are just props.» She put a hand to her beautifully waved hair. The experience of the previous night seemed to have left no trace on her.
Mallory looked at her carefully. He said: «How do you prove that, baby?»
«The notepaper—if I have to prove it. There’s a little man down at Fourth and Spring who makes a study of that kind of thing.»
Mallory said: «The writing?»
Rhonda Farr smiled dimly. «Writing’s easy to fake, if you have plenty of time. Or so I’m told. That’s my story anyhow.»
Mallory nodded, sipped, at his own highball. He put his hand into his inside breast pocket and took out a flat manila envelope, legal size. He laid it on his knee.