Fulton showed interest.
“Come to see the old man? Well, maybe I did. I was on the gate most of this week. What was he like?”
I described Sheppey carefully. He had flaming red hair, and I was pretty sure if Fulton had seen him he wouldn’t have forgotten him, and I was right.
“Sure,” he said. “I remember him: big guy with red hair. That’s right. Logan passed him through. I was on the barrier and I didn’t get his name.”
“Would you swear to seeing him? This is important. You might have to, and in a court of law.”
Fulton finished his drink, then said, “Of course I’d swear to it. He came last Tuesday: a big, red-headed guy with a crew cut, wearing a grey flannel suit and driving a Buick convertible.”
That was good enough. The car was a clincher. So I had been right. Jack had been to see Creedy. Now I had to find out why, and that wouldn’t be easy.
“You say he was murdered?” Fulton said, looking curiously at me.
“Yes. The police think he was fooling around with some thug’s girl and the thug fixed him. Could be: he was over fond of women.”
“Well, what do you know? You had to go to the cops about it?”
“I went. That Captain Katchen is quite something, isn’t he? Belsen missed a great boss in him.”
“You’re right. Every so often he comes out to see Creedy: about four times a year. It’s my guess he comes for his rake-off. You’d be surprised at the number of night clubs and high-toned brothels that stay open because Katchen looks the other way.”
“What are night clubs and brothels to do with Creedy?”
“I tell you he owns most of this town. Maybe he doesn’t collect the gravy direct from the rats who run these places, but indirectly he gets the rents, and Katchen gets his cut.”
“He’s married, isn’t he?”
“Who — Creedy? As far as I know he’s been married four times, but it could be more. His present wife is Bridgette Bland, the ex-movie star. Ever seen her?”
“Once, I think. If I remember rightly she was quite a looker.”
“She still is, but she can’t hold a candle to her stepdaughter. Now there’s a beaut, about the loveliest dish I’ve seen, and I’ve seen quite a few in my day.”
“Does she live at home?”
Fulton shook his head.
“Not now: she used to, but the other one couldn’t take it. Whenever the old man threw a party, Margot, that’s the daughter, took all the limelight, and the other one was left out in the cold. She didn’t like it. They were always quarrelling, so Margot packed and cleared out. She has an apartment on Franklyn Boulevard. From what I hear the old man misses her. I miss her too. She was the one bright light in that lousy place. Bridgette gave me a pain: just like Creedy: never happy, always moaning, stays up all night and sleeps all day.”
I was learning things. We had the evening before us and there was no point in rushing at it. I turned the conversation to the coming world championship fight and let Fulton sound off on why the Champ couldn’t lose. From that we went on to ball games and finally to the old, old standby: women.
It was around nine o’clock by the time we had finished the bottle of Scotch. The sun had gone down, making a great red splash across the sky, and it was now dark.
I waved to the waiter, and after a while he came over.
“Let’s have two chicken dinners with all the trimmings,” I said.
He nodded and went away.
Both Fulton and I were a little high by now, but pleasantly high, as, after the first quick rush, we had been taking the Scotch slowly, which is the way good Scotch should be taken.
I looked through the open window at the lights of St. Raphael City. It looked a pretty nice place from where I was sitting.
“Does Mrs. Creedy get along all right with Creedy?” I asked.
Fulton shrugged.
“No one could get along with him,” he said. “Anyway, he’s too busy making money to bother with women. She gets her fun elsewhere.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, the current favourite is a husky, curly-haired hunk of meat who calls himself Jacques Thrisby. He’s a French Canadian.”
I became aware that a man had moved up to our table. For a moment I thought it was the waiter bringing our food. I was looking out of the window, listening to Fulton talk, so my reflexes were a little slow; besides, the Scotch had made me just that woolly in the brain.
Then I heard Fulton catch his breath sharply, the way only a very frightened man will gasp, and I looked quickly around.
Hertz was standing right up at the table looking at me. Behind him in a semi-circle, blocking the way of escape, were four men, tall, beefy, dark and tough, and the expression in Hertz’s wild little eyes sent a chill crawling up my spine.
II
The noise in the big room was suddenly hushed: heads turned, and eyes looked in my direction.
I was in a bad position. My chair was only a foot or so from the wall. The table was between me and Hertz, and it wasn’t a big table. Fulton was better placed. He was on my right, with no wall behind him.
Obviously there was no doubt in the minds of the crowd that there was going to be trouble. Already some of them were heading with restrained panic towards the exit.
Hertz said in his husky voice, “Remember me? I don’t like peepers, and I don’t like a punk.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a big Negro, wearing a white apron and in shirt-sleeves, come fast from behind the bar. He was built on the lines of Joe Louis, and there was a vague, apologetic smile on his big, battered face. He crossed the room, weaved around the four men and arrived at Hertz’s side quicker than I can tell it.
I caught hold of the edge of the table and braced myself.
The Negro said pleasantly to Hertz, “Don’t want trouble here, boss. If you and your friends have business to talk over, you talk about it outside.”
Hertz turned his head to look at the Negro. There were tiny red sparks in his eyes making him look a little insane.
I saw his shoulder drop slightly, then his fist flashed up and landed in the Negro’s face. The blow sounded like a thump on a tympani. The Negro went staggering back, then fell on his hands and knees.
All this happened fast. I put my weight against the table and rammed it hard into Hertz, who was slightly off balance from the punch he had thrown.
The edge of the table caught him against his thigh and he reeled backwards, cannoning into two of the men with him.
I now had a little space in which to move and I jumped to my feet and grabbed hold of my chair. I swung it shoulder high, using it like a scythe, and cleared some more space in which I could manoeuvre.
Fulton was also on his feet, his chair above his head. He slammed it down on the head of the nearest thug, knocking him to the floor.
Two bouncers, big men, one of them a Negro, clubs in hand, came rushing through a doorway near by. The three thugs with Hertz scattered, then converged on the bouncers. That left Fulton and me facing Hertz.
I smashed my chair down on Hertz’s head and the chair-back broke, leaving me with a strip of brittle wood that had the staying power of a toothpick as far as an animal like Hertz was concerned.
Hertz staggered, then snarling, he came at me, his right hand flashing up. If I had stepped back, he would have caught me, but I jumped forward and planted my fist in the middle of his face. It was a good, jabbing punch and it rocked his head back. I moved away from him and cannoned into one of the bouncers, who slugged me with a back-hand blow that sent me staggering into Hertz as he came at me again. I managed to grab his wrist with both hands. I half-turned, got his arm over my shoulder, pulled down and heaved. He went over my head with the speed of a jet-propelled rocket and landed on the floor with a crash that shook the building.