He laughed quietly. “Sure, I gave ’em enough so they know he blasted Tony’s. They can figure the rest of it out for themselves. Now, listen. They’re probably waiting for me outside, but I’m going to duck out through the basement.” He glanced at the alarm clock on the dresser. “It’s a quarter of three. I’ll be over there in half an hour at the outside unless they tail me an’ then I’ll have to lose ’em. You throw some things in a bag an’ be ready to leave. We’ll take a little trip. Someplace where it’s cool... Okay, baby — ’Bye.”
He hung up, dressed swiftly and took a traveling bag out of a closet, began stuffing clothes into it.
Green’s car was parked on the other side of Broadway, on Seventy-sixth. He went into an all-night drugstore on the corner and called the Star-Telegram, asked for Kessler.
Kessler grunted, “Hello,” wearily, snapped out of it when he recognized Green’s voice.
“Hey, Nick! I just heard somebody took a shot at you,” he yelped. “You all right?”
“I’m okay. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”
“That’s swell!” Kessler whooped. “Everything’s swell! I just put the Star-Telegram exclusive on Sallust to bed. What a story! It oughta be on the streets in an hour.”
Green said softly: “Blondie, if you want to keep your job, and keep the Star out of an awful jam, kill it.” Then, before Kessler could answer, he went on: “I just left Demetrios’ apartment. He’s the tall good-looking Greek that worked for Costain. Doyle and his partner are waiting for him to show, to tail him, but I’m afraid he’ll get past them and I have a very merry hunch where he’s going.”
Kessler interrupted: “But listen, Nick—”
“You listen.” Green’s tone was ominous. “Hold that story for at least an hour, and leap up to Three thirty-one West Ninetieth with some Law, fast. I’ll be outside, or if I’m not, I’ll be upstairs in Costain’s apartment. Come up, and come quick. This is going to be the payoff on everything that’s happened tonight and it’ll make your Sallust story look like a want ad.”
“But listen...” Kessler sounded like he was about to cry.
Green snapped: “I’m depending on you. Make it fast and make it quiet. And don’t forget to bring along that fifty skins.”
He hung up the receiver and went out and got into his car, drove to Amsterdam Avenue, up Amsterdam to Eighty-ninth, turned west. He parked just off Riverside Drive on Ninetieth, about a hundred and fifty feet west of the entrance to Three thirty-one.
Then he lighted a cigarette and sat still and waited.
The man in the third-floor front room at Three thirty-two didn’t smoke any more; he simply waited, his eyes at the slit under the window shade. Occasionally he leaned back in the big chair, but for only a few seconds at a time and only after ten minutes or so of rigid, wary immobility.
At four minutes after three someone knocked at the door. He got up and opened it swiftly. Giuseppe Picelli came in; the man went back to the window.
Picelli sat down, said dully: “Got Solly. Green got away. There was ice...”
“There was ice,” the man at the window repeated slowly. “All right, there was ice. How long were they together?”
“Green came up to Solly — Solly was in his cab. They went into the bar and I called you. Two or three minutes after I came out of the booth, they came out. I went up to them on the sidewalk...”
“And there was ice.”
The man at the window stiffened suddenly, shaded his eyes from the dim light in the room. He peered intently through the slit for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, then stood up and picked up his suit coat and put it on.
“Come on, Joe. We’re going places,” he said.
He took a big blue automatic out of the pocket of the tweed Chesterfield and stuck it against his stomach, under the belt, pulled the points of his vest down over it.
The two men went together out of the room and down two flights of stairs, out of the rooming house and across the street to Three thirty-one.
The elevator boy stared wide-eyed at the man who had been sitting at the window.
“Jeeze, Mister Costain,” he stuttered. “I thought — Miss Neilan has been going crazy — calling up the newspapers every few minutes...”
Costain did not answer.
They got off at the fourth floor, went to the door of the front apartment on the right. Costain took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and unlocked it, opened it. They went in and closed the door.
June Neilan was a very pretty platinum blonde with wide blue eyes, orange lips that looked as if they had been put on to stay. She turned and stared at Costain and her creamy skin went gray.
Demetrios’ hand moved swiftly upward across his chest and then he looked at the snub-nosed revolver in Picelli’s hand, changed his mind and dropped his hands to his side, slowly.
Costain said: “Sit down.”
June Neilan walked unsteadily to the nearest chair, sat down. Demetrios stood still.
Costain went to Demetrios and reached inside his coat, jerked a .35 automatic out of a shoulder holster and handed it back to Picelli. Then he doubled up his right fist and swung hard at Demetrios’ jaw. Demetrios moved backward a little and Costain’s fist cut his cheek; two tiny drops of blood started out on the white skin just beneath the cheekbone.
Costain drew his fist back and swung again; this time his timing was better, there was a soft splat as his fist struck Demetrios’ jaw, Demetrios reeled backward against the wall. Costain went after him, cocked his right again. June Neilan said, “Please don’t, Lew,” dully. Costain’s right fist ripped into Demetrios’ throat, his left smashed his nose. Demetrios made a curious strangling sound and slid sidewise down the wall to the floor.
Costain was panting, his heavy florid face was purple. He drew his foot back and kicked Demetrios’ face, hard, again and again; it made a soft, smacking sound like someone snapping their fingers in water and Demetrios’ face darkened with glistening deep-red blood. Someone pounded on the door.
Costain did not seem to hear; he raised his foot and stamped on Demetrios’ face so hard that the bones of the nose and cheek crunched like crumpled paper. Picelli whimpered: “Boss — there’s somebody outside...”
Costain did not turn his head; he panted: “Okay — let ’em be outside. I’m busy...”
The pounding came on the door again.
June Neilan was staring at Costain and Demetrios blindly; she jumped up suddenly and ran to the door. Picelli was a split second too late. She turned the lock, the door swung open and Nick Green stood in the opening.
Costain turned from Demetrios and jerked the big automatic out of his belt, shot twice. June Neilan spun around as if a heavy unseen hand were on her shoulder, twisting her slight body.
Green felt the sleeve of his coat lift, tear, a hot stab of pain in the outer muscle of his left arm. He shot once from a little above the hip. Costain bent forward slowly as if in an extravagant bow; then he sank to one knee and raised his head, stared vacantly at June Neilan.
She was holding on to the edge of the door with her two hands. Her eyes went back in her head suddenly and her body folded; she fell.
Green came forward into the room.
Picelli was shivering violently and his face looked very pinched and small; his revolver fell to the floor and he raised his hands slowly.
Costain’s mouth twisted upward a little to a kind of grin, he toppled sidewise and as he struck the floor he straightened his right arm until the muzzle of the big automatic was jammed into Demetrios’ stomach.