When the door opened, there was no one in view. Whoever had pulled it open was standing behind it out of sight. Saxon stepped in only far enough to peer around its edge.
A hand thrust the door closed with a gentle bang. Saxon found himself staring into the bore of a forty-five automatic.
The man holding the gun was tall and lanky, with a rubelike face and protruding front teeth. He was dressed with what was probably intended to be quietly expensive taste, but his dark, conservative suit failed to get across the tailor’s intention. It must have been meant to lend an executive air to the wearer, but the man possessed such a bony, gangling frame that it succeeded only in making him look like a backwoodsman dressed up for church.
“Just lean your hands against the wall,” the man ordered in an adenoidal voice. “You know. Like for a shakedown.” He gestured with the gun toward the wall on the opposite side of the door.
After contemplating the gun for a moment, Saxon faced the indicated wall and placed his hands against it at shoulder height.
“Okay, Hardnose,” the man called.
Glancing over his shoulder, Saxon saw a heavy-set, gray-haired man in his mid-forties come from a hall that he assumed led to the kitchen. He had a wide, rather pleasant face with a strong Roman nose a trifle too big for it, to which he evidently owed his nickname. He also was dressed in a dark, conservative suit, but in his case the tailor had achieved his purpose. He looked like a successful business executive.
The new arrival also had a gun in his hand, but the moment he saw that his partner had everything under control, he slid it out of sight beneath his arm. Coming up behind Saxon, he ran his hands expertly over his body from beneath his armpits to his waist, patted his hips, then both legs.
Stepping back he said, “He’s clean.”
“You can turn around now,” the rubelike man said. Dropping his hands to his sides, Saxon turned to face the two men. The forty-five automatic remained trained on him.
“Hardnose,” Saxon said. “Would that be Hardnose John Simmons?”
“My fame has spread, Farmer,” the gray-haired man said with mock delight. “The general public is starting to recognize me.”
The man called Farmer said, “You can reach in your pocket for your wallet, mister. Hand it to my buddy. Just keep your movements slow and easy.”
Unbuttoning his overcoat, Saxon felt for his hip pocket and drew out his wallet. He held it out at arm’s length. Hardnose Simmons reached out the full length of his arm also to take it, staying as far from Saxon as possible.
“Yeah, it’s him all right,” he said. “Just like Harry figured from the description.”
The remark explained to Saxon how the men had happened to be here waiting for him. Tony Spijak had warned him that Alton Zek played both sides. Probably Saxon had no more than left the hotel room when the little informer ran to Sergeant Harry Morrison to sell the information that someone was inquiring about him.
He felt irked with himself for being such easy prey, because he had actually considered the possibility of Zek informing on him. It just hadn’t occurred to him that Morrison would get the news so soon. With the shape the little addict had been in, Saxon had assumed he would think of nothing during the next few hours except converting his twenty-dollar bill into heroin and shooting it into his veins.
Simmons tossed back the wallet.
“You can put it away again,” Simmons said. “How come you’re not carry a gun?”
“I’m not a cop any more. You should know, Hard-nose. You had a minor part in framing me out of office.”
“Me?” the man said with raised brows.
“Didn’t you post bond for Edward Coombs’s traffic offense?”
“Oh, that. Just following orders. I didn’t even know what it was all about. You can take off your hat and coat, Saxon. We’ll be here awhile.”
Saxon took off his hat, glanced at the man with the gun for permission, and unhurriedly crossed the room to lay it on the sofa. Shedding his coat, he dropped it alongside the hat, then stooped to remove his overshoes.
The man with the gun said, “You can sit right there on the sofa.”
Saxon seated himself “Mind telling me what this is all about?”
“We don’t know,” Simmons said pleasantly. “We’re just following orders.”
The man didn’t seem to know much about his work, Saxon thought.
He asked, “From Harry Morrison or Larry Cutter?”
“My, my,” the man called Farmer said. “He knows lots of names. He’s been doing some nosing.”
Saxon decided that the remark had been a mistake. There was now no question in his mind that Sergeant Harry Morrison was allied with Larry Cutter, for at least one of these men, and probably both, were hired guns of Cutter’s. That was the information he had come here to get from Ann Lowry, and now he had it, though by a different means from the way he had anticipated. Having accomplished his mission, there was no point in divulging how much he knew, for he suspected that if his captors decided he knew too much, he would never walk out of the place alive.
“I really don’t know much,” he said. “For instance, I don’t know if Farmer is your first or last name.”
“Neither,” the man said with a buck-toothed grin. “It’s just a nickname. Farmer Benton.”
Saxon said thoughtfully, “Neither of you seems very eager to conceal your identities. Don’t you think I’ll put in a complaint about being held up?”
“You ain’t been held up,” Farmer Benton said. “You still got your money, ain’t you? You come walking in a strange apartment without invitation, so I put the gun on you until you explain yourself. The cops ain’t going to get very excited about that.”
“Let’s call them and see,” Saxon suggested.
“Don’t get cute,” Simmons advised. “Just sit there and relax.” Then his tone became more pleasant. “We may have a long wait. Like a drink while we’re waiting?”
“No, thanks,” Saxon said with equal pleasantness. “I just had a couple of beers, and I like to keep a clear head when I’m around people who are handling guns. What are we waiting for?”
“A phone call. Until it comes, we don’t know no more about this than you do, so it won’t do any good to ask questions.”
“A phone call from whom?”
“You’re still asking questions,” Farmer Benton complained.
“Sorry. I’ll just ask one more and then shut up. Where are the girls?”
“Ann and Sandra?” Simmons asked. “They took off. They kind of loaned us the place.”
Conversation lapsed. Farmer Benton took a chair across the room from the sofa, but facing it, and sat with his gun in his lap. Hardnose John Simmons disappeared into the kitchen. In a few minutes he returned with a clinking glass of whisky.
“The girls stock a pretty good brand of bourbon,” he said to his partner. “Want a drink?”
“No. And you better lay off, too. You know how the boss feels about drinking during working hours.”
“One little highball isn’t drinking,” Simmons said.
When Farmer Benton didn’t answer, there was another conversational lapse. Simmons carefully circled behind Benton’s chair, so as not to cross between Benton’s gun and Saxon, seated himself in a chair a good distance from the sofa, and sipped his drink. Benton gazed unwinkingly at Saxon. Saxon simply sat.
After a time Saxon checked his watch and saw it was 3 P.M. An hour had passed since he had entered the apartment.
Then the phone rang.
The phone stood on an end table near Saxon. But when he rose to answer, Simmons went into the kitchen. When the ringing abruptly stopped, Saxon realized the man had picked up a kitchen extension.
Several minutes passed before Simmons reappeared and resumed his seat. His glass was freshly filled and its color was darker than the first time. Farmer Benton frowned at the glass.