1944 - Just the Way It Is (2 page)

Timson gave his grimacing smile again. ‘Barnes gives me rather a bad character, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But, I’m just a plain businessman. I can’t afford sentiment, but then everyone has their own points of view.’ He shrugged. ‘So you don’t think Real Estate is a good proposition around here?’

‘In five years’ time it’ll be just another broken little town, like so many towns in the Middle West belt. It has had its day. If you want to invest in a future desert, you couldn’t hope for a better opportunity. You’ll find plenty of sellers.’

‘Don’t you think these two factories will ever get under way again? I’ve seen it happen before. I’ve seen a lot of strange things, Miss Russell. Dying towns have made good sometimes and the fella who has bought cheap has come home with a packet.’

Barnes looked at Clare. ‘See what the movies do to businessmen,’ he said lightly.

Clare studied Timson for a long minute. ‘I’ll talk to Sam, I think,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your game, Al. You’re going to make a lot of money out of Mr. Timson.’

When she had gone, Timson said : ‘Just her way of calling me a sucker, I suppose?’ He looked at Barnes with angry eyes.

‘You don’t have to bother about that dame,’ Barnes said hurriedly. ‘That’s just her way. Come on, pal, we’ve wasted enough time already. What are you betting?’

Clare walked into Sam Trench’s office and kicked the door shut. She wandered over to the large, battered desk that occupied three-quarters of the room.

Sam looked up from his work. He was a wizen little man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. He put his pen carefully in the inkwell and sat back, folding his small, freckled hands on the blotter.

‘Sweet grief!’ he complained. ‘I never get a moment’s peace. That’s the trouble with women. No discipline. What do you want?’

Clare sat on the desk and swung her long legs. She smiled at him. She liked Sam. He was sincere and she liked sincere people.

‘I want a lot of things,’ she said, ‘but I won’t bother you with them now. Tell me, Samuel, what do you know about this Timson bird?’

‘Timson? What should I know about him?’ Sam demanded. He hunted for his handkerchief, found it and polished his nose with it vigorously. ‘And don’t call me Samuel. I don’t like it.’

‘Don’t you know anything about him at all?’

Sam pointed his finger at her. ‘I know he’s from Bentonville. That’s enough for me.’

‘Do you think he’s going to buy land in Fairview?’

Sam blinked. ‘He might do. Mind you, he’d be a fool if he did but there are plenty of fools still being born, so he might.’

He put his handkerchief away and then shot her a sharp look.

‘Why?’

‘He doesn’t look a fool,’ Clare said. ‘And yet it’d be crazy to invest money in Fairview, unless there was something behind it. I wonder if there is.’

‘Now, don’t start imagining things. Maybe, he ain’t going to buy land. Give the guy a chance. He hasn’t had time to look round yet, has he?’

‘I’m worried about Pinder’s End,’ Clare said, after a pause.

‘What’s the matter there?’

‘They’re not going ahead with the clearance scheme. Hill told me that there’d been a hitch.’

‘That’s funny.’ Sam was now very wide awake. ‘Did Hill say so?’

‘Not in those words. He just said that the clearance scheme which affected Pinder’s End was temporarily shelved.’

‘But it was all fixed at the last meeting. I wonder what’s made them change their minds? I’d better have a word with him.’

‘That won’t do any good. I’ve talked to him until I’m tired. You wouldn’t let me write a leader about it, I suppose?’

Sam shook his head firmly. ‘No. You’re too strong when you’re crusading, my dear. Much too strong.’

‘I was afraid you’d say that. There’s no guts in the Clarion, Sam, and you know it.’

‘It doesn’t want guts. You don’t give guts to a dying man; you give him soothing syrup. You get off, my dear. You’re looking tired. I suppose you won’t come out to my place for supper?’

Clare shook her head. ‘I’ve got a date,’ she said. ‘Some other night.’

‘You’re holding back on me,’ he said, looking at her with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I believe you’re in love, Clare.’

‘Who, me?’ Clare laughed, a little embarrassed. ‘Oh no, Sam, I’m married to my work.’

‘That’s what I said before I married,’ Sam returned. ‘Who is he, Clare?’

‘A young man named Peter Cullen,’ Clare said, looking out of the window. Sam enjoyed her embarrassment. ‘We met a few months ago and I like him. We have dinner together twice a week and sometimes I let him kiss me. Now are you satisfied?’

‘Do you like him?’

‘I’ve just said so, haven’t I? If you mean . . . no, I don’t think so.’

‘Well, you’re happy?’

‘Very . . . but I must get off. Pinder’s End is out then?’

‘Leave it with me,’ Sam said, scribbling on his blotter. ‘I’ll look into it.’ He watched her move to the door. ‘And Clare, watch your step with that young man.’

She laughed. ‘If that’s all I have to watch, I shan’t go far wrong,’ and she closed the door behind her.

THREE

H
arry Duke sat behind a green-topped table. He tossed red and white dice carelessly in a lean, brown hand. ‘There’s a story running around town that Bellman’s scared,’ he said, throwing the dice with a flicking movement on to the table.

Kells looked at the dice sleepily. They rolled, wobbled on their edges, then came to rest with the six white spots uppermost. Kells said, ‘Fluke.’

Duke scooped up the dice and flicked them back on to the table. The six spots showed again.

Kells relaxed in his chair. He was medium height, dark, thin and cruel. His slouch hat rested at the back of his head and one of his thumbs was hooked in the armhole of his vest. He explored his teeth thoughtfully with a splinter of wood.

Duke repeated about Bellman.

‘Don’t tell me you listen to stories,’ Kells said, in a bored voice. ‘Not you. Maybe, some guy would believe it, but not you.’

Duke picked up the dice again. ‘All right, he ain’t scared,’ he said, rolling the bones once more. ‘It’s just that he’s got jaundice.’

The dice showed six spots.

‘Bellman wants you,’ Kells said. ‘He thinks you and he ought to hook up. You handlin’ the wheels while he runs the joint.’

‘He opened twelve months ago,’ Duke said, reaching inside his coat to bring out a flat cigar case. ‘Suddenly he thinks of me. What a man!’ He took a thin, green dapple cigar, made motions with the case at Kells, who shook his head.

‘Bellman’s slow, but he’s damn sure,’ Kells said, his small eyes restlessly wandering up and down the dirty wall behind Duke. ‘Now he’s got the eating end of the joint fixed he can look around. The wheels ain’t so hot. You gotta knack with that angle. Okay, you come and fix it for him. He ain’t going to be tight about it.’

Duke smiled. ‘I guess not,’ he said. ‘I don’t work. You know that.’

Kells shifted in his chair. ‘You don’t have to work,’ he pointed out. ‘We’d take care of that end. All you gotta do is to show around the joint. That’d tell ‘em the wheels were worth playin’.’

Duke put the cigar between his small, white teeth. ‘Got a match?’ he asked.

Kells put a box on the table. ‘A half a grand a week waiting for you to pick up,’ he said, softly.

Duke lit the cigar and passed the box back. ‘Then he is scared,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Why doesn’t he come into the open? Why doesn’t he say he wants protection?’

Kells got slowly out of his chair. ‘Think about it,’ he returned, buttoning up his vest and straightening his coat. ‘I gotta drift. Come out and see Bellman. Have a look at the joint. It’s a fancy set-up. Plenty of swell looking dames with the right ideas. Plenty to eat and drink. You can have a room to yourself with a telephone and a swell desk. Nobody’s going to worry you. If you want a dame to write or answer the telephone, we’ll fix that. If your blood pressure’s at the wrong level, she could look after that too.’ He wandered to the door. ‘It ain’t a bad proposition.’

Duke began to roll the dice again. ‘I ain’t convinced,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Bellman wants protection. He knows I’ve got a reputation for trouble. He wants to wave that reputation to scare some guy away. It wouldn’t interest me.’

Kells opened the door. ‘Think about it,’ he said again. ‘Don’t make a mistake. Bellman ain’t scared of anything. You know Bellman.’

Duke nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I know him. Ain’t he the guy who puts on water wings in his bath?’

Kells frowned, opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and went out, closing the door behind him.

For five minutes, the dice rolled over the green baize. Duke sat staring at the white spots without seeing them. The cigar between his teeth smoked evenly, and the oily smoke drifted past his face, making him screw up his eyes.

The telephone jangled sharply. He reached out and pulled it towards him. He took the cigar out of his mouth. ‘Yeah?’ he said into the mouthpiece, his eyes on the opposite wall.

‘Duke?’ A woman’s voice.

Duke frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘Are you Harry Duke?’ The voice had a soft, southern accent.

‘Yeah,’ Duke said, impatiently. ‘Who’s talking?’

‘Listen,’ the woman said. ‘Listen carefully. Leave Bellman alone. I’m not telling you this for fun. Leave him alone. Pack a bag and go south — go anywhere, but don’t get mixed up with Bellman. I should be sorry to see you dead.’

The faint click told him that the connection was cut. He put the receiver back on its cradle.

‘Well, well,’ he said, softly, and leaned back in his chair. He picked up the dice again and tossed them into the air, catching them in his hand absently. Then he pushed back the chair, picked up his hat and went out of the room.

In the smoke-laden atmosphere of the outer room, a number of men stood around a large table, shooting crap.

Peter Cullen left the table when he saw Duke and crossed over. Duke stopped for a moment to watch someone roll the bones. Cullen said, ‘Look, Harry, I want you to meet my girl.’

Duke continued to stare at the floodlit table. ‘What girl?’ he asked absently.

‘Wake up, Harry,’ Cullen said, shaking his arm. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. I’ve been trying to corner you for weeks. This time, I’m damned if I’ll take no for an answer.’

Duke gave himself a little shake and turned with a quick smile that lit his hard, long face. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t thinking. So I’m to meet your girl? Swell, Pete, where and when?’

‘She’ll be over around eight o’clock. Come and have dinner with us.’

Duke shook his head. ‘I guess not,’ he said. ‘You two love birds want to be together. Tell me where you’ll be and I’ll join you later.’

‘Don’t talk bull.’ Cullen grinned at him. ‘We ain’t all that far gone. Where’ll we go?’

‘Okay,’ Duke said, making up his mind. ‘Chez Paree —Bellman’s place. How’s that? Bellman’s at eight-thirty.’

Cullen nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said, then he lowered his voice. ‘Was that Kells?’

Duke glanced at him, nodded and fingered his close-clipped moustache. ‘That was Kells.’

Cullen screwed up his face. ‘That guy’s a heel,’ he said. ‘I’d like to catch him up a dark alley.’

Duke smiled. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘I only chase dames up dark alleys.’ Then abruptly, ‘Schultz upstairs?’

Cullen nodded.

‘I want to talk to him.’ Duke turned to the stairs. ‘I’ll see you then?’

Cullen smiled, nodded and turned back to the tables.

At the top of the stairs, Duke paused to throw away the butt of his cigar, then he crossed the landing and pushed open the frosted panelled door on which was written Paul Schultz, Agent, in faded gilt letters.

Schultz, fat and bald, sat behind a large desk. His small eyes were very hard and restless; his face was creased into a fixed smile. He said, ‘Ah, Harry,’ and waved a small, fat hand towards a chair. Duke sat down and folded his hands across his flat stomach. He studied Schultz without interest.

Schultz said, ‘How are you hitting them?’

‘I had a load on Silver Wing and Kishibu. They both came in before the field made the last bend.’

‘So you cleaned up?’ Schultz pushed a box of thick cigars forward.

‘Yeah,’ Duke said, ignoring the cigars. ‘I cleaned up.’ He looked round the room and then back at Schultz.

‘Palozza’s a hot tip,’ Schultz said, producing a black bottle and two small glasses from a cupboard in his desk.

‘Not for me,’ Duke said. ‘That horse’s a fugitive from a merry-go-round.’

Schultz filled the glasses with whisky and pushed one of them over to Duke. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if that’s the way you feel about it. What’s on your mind?’

Duke eased himself down in the padded chair. ‘What’s scaring Bellman?’

‘Bellman?’ Schultz lost his smile. ‘What do you know about that guy?’

Duke drummed on the desk with smoke-stained fingers. ‘Someone’s thrown a scare into him. I thought maybe you’d know who it was.’

Schultz pinched his thick lip between his fingers. His eyes had gone blank. ‘Now if you’d asked me about orchids I could have helped you,’ he said, softly.

Duke smiled at him. ‘I know all about your orchids, Paul,’ he said. ‘Don’t try and sidetrack me, I don’t like it.’

Schultz said nothing.

‘Would it be Spade?’ Duke asked, after a pause.

Schultz shut his eyes. ‘Spade?’ he said, as if he had never heard the name. ‘I don’t know, Harry. I didn’t even know Bellman was scared.’

‘Never even heard of Spade, have you, Paul?’

Schultz looked at him quickly to make sure that he was serious and then shut his eyes again. ‘Well, I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? But, that doesn’t mean . . .’

‘I’ve an idea that this joint belongs to Spade,’ Duke said. ‘But then, I guess I’m wrong, huh?’

Schultz leaned forward, scooped up his glass and drank half the whisky. Duke thought he looked like an octopus with his parrot beak of a mouth and saucer-like eyes.

‘Quite, quite wrong,’ Shultz said, putting his glass down.

‘This is my joint. I bought it five years ago. I wonder what made you . . .’

‘That’s the kind of brain I’ve got,’ Duke said. ‘Always thinking the wrong things. It used to worry my mother when I was a kid.’