The stairs leading to Gloria's apartment were at the end of the passage. A short, thickset man in a trench coat and black slouch hat lolled against the wall, a cigarette between his lips.
He gave Harry a casual, disinterested stare. Harry closed the door and picked up his suitcase. He was tense and his mouth was dry. This was a new experience to him, and it underlined the danger and the risks that lay ahead of him.
“Hey, bud,” the man said as Harry started down the passage.
“Just a moment.”
Harry half-turned. There was little light in the passage and he kept his head turned so the short man couldn't get a good view of him.
“What is it?”
“Miss Dane in?”
“How do I know? Why don't you go up and find out?”
“I couldn't get an answer. Does she live alone, bud?”
“Yes.” Harry began to move down the passage. “I've got a train to catch. You'd better talk to the janitor.”
The man grunted and Harry went quickly to the front door, opened it and went down the steps. He walked the length of the street. At the corner, he paused to look back. Apart from an empty car that stood a hundred yards or so from the apartment house, the street was deserted.
A taxi cruised past and Harry waved his hand.
“Western and Lennox,” he said, “and snap it up.”
He sat, half turned, so he could look out of the rear window, but no car followed him. His watch showed exactly one-fifteen as the cab pulled up at the newsstand.
Glorie was waiting, and before Harry could get out of the cab, she had run across the sidewalk and got in beside him.
“Where to?” Harry asked.
“The station.”
The driver looked at Harry for confirmation, then at his nod, he pulled out into the slow-moving traffic.
“All right?” Glorie asked softly.
“Yes.”
They sat in silence while the cab fought its way through the heavy traffic. Glorie held Harry's hand, looking at him anxiously.
When they reached the station and Harry had paid off the cab, they walked together to the station buffet. Glorie went over to a vacant table in a corner while Harry bought two cups of coffee and carried them over.
“Your pal's turning on the heat,” he said as he sat down. He went on to tell her what had happened. “I don't know how you're going to get into the apartment,” he concluded. “The door's bolted on the inside. I guess you'll have to wait until Doris gets back and get in through the bathroom window.”
Glorie shook her head.
“I'm not going back. It's not safe, Harry. I'm not kidding myself I'll be so lucky next time. If I go back, Ben will put more than one man on to follow me, and I'll never shake them off. It was only luck that I got away from him this time. I went into the ladies' room at Ferrier's. There was a way out through the staff entrance. But I won’t get away with it a second time. I'm coming with you to New York. We mustn't travel together. We'll meet as arranged at the Astor at eleven on Friday.”
“But you haven't anything packed.”
She shrugged.
“I can get all I want in New York.” She leaned forward, her hands on the table. “You've got to be careful, Harry. Don't trust Ben. He's altered. I scarcely knew him. He's much more dangerous and more ruthless.”
“What happened?”
Briefly she told him of the interview.
“That's pretty good. Don't worry about me. You've given me the opening I want. I'll take care of him.”
“Don't trust him.” Glorie's eyes were anxious. “Get the money before you do the job. Don't listen to any of his promises and don't let him scare you.”
Harry grinned.
“He won’t do that.” He finished his coffee, then glanced at his strap watch. “Well, I guess we'd better get our tickets. You go first. See you at the Astor on Friday.”
“Yes.” She looked at him. “I shall miss you, Harry.”
“It won’t be for long.”
She got up and touched his shoulder..
“Look after yourself, darling.”
“You bet.”
He watched her walk the length of the buffet. His eyes took in her straight back and her slim, shapely legs. He thought if she'd only smarten herself up she'd be quite a looker. He felt a little surge of affection for her. She had guts, and that was what few women had.
He lit a cigarette, dropping the match into the saucer of the cup.
Well, this was it he thought. This is the beginning of it. If he had any luck, in twenty days' time he would be worth fifty thousand dollars.
If he had any luck…
III
On the evening of 16th of January, a taxi pulled up outside Lamson's hotel on Sherbourne Boulevard West, and the driver reached out, turned the handle of the rear door and let the door swing open.
Storm clouds, driven by a blustery wind, had chased across the sky most of the day, and now the wind had lessened, and rain, that looked like thin steel rods in the yellow light of the street lamps, was falling steadily. It made swift-running rivulets in the gutters, dripped from the awning of a drug store, next to the hotel, and drummed on the roof of the cab.
The driver scowled across the black, glistening sidewalk at the entrance to the hotel. A dim, yellow light showed in the transom of the double swing doors leading into the hotel. Six worn, dirty steps led from the doors down to the street It wasn't often that he brought a fare to Lamson's. He couldn't remember when he had brought the last one. The people who stayed there hadn't money to waste on cabs. They either walked or took a bus. It was the cheapest and the most sordid hotel in Los Angeles: a joint that was used chiefly by streetwalkers and crooks just out of jail in need of a roof until they planned their next petty theft.
The driver's fare got out of the cab, shoved a five-dollar bill into the driver's hand and said in an odd-sounding voice, “Keep the change. Buy yourself a new cab with it. You need one.”
The driver was so astonished that he leaned out of his cab to stare at his fare. He hadn't expected a tip. He had been prepared for a wrangle about over-changing. Five bucks! The guy must be crazy!
His eyes took in the tall, bulky figure, wearing a shabby trench coat and a dark brown, shabby hat. Massively built he was at a guess around forty-five; a fat, tough-looking customer with a straggling blond moustache, a nasty-looking scar that ran from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth, puckering the skin and slightly pulling down his right eyelid, giving him a sinister appearance. In his left hand, he carried a shabby fibre suitcase, and in his right, a thick walking stick, tipped with rubber.
“This for me?” the driver said blankly, looking at the bill.
“There's only a buck twenty on the clock.”
“If you don't want it,” the fare said, “give it back to me and you can whistle for your goddamn fare.”
His voice sounded as if he had something in his mouth, an odd, strangled sound. Maybe, the driver thought, he's one of those guys who hasn't a roof to his mouth. When he spoke, he showed gleaming white teeth, like the projecting teeth of a horse. They thrust his upper lip and his moustache forward, giving him an aggressive, hostile expression.
“Well, it's your money,” the driver said and hurriedly put the bill in his pocket. “Thanks, mister.” He hesitated, then went on, “Are you sure you want a dump like this? I know a place that's cleaner further down the road. It's not much more expensive. Here the bugs don't wait to come out at night. They're with you all the time and they've got teeth like a bear trap.”
“If you don't want your snout pushed through the back of your head,” the fare snarled, “keep it out of my business.”
He moved across the sidewalk, limping badly, and leaning on his stick. He climbed the steps and disappeared into the hotel.