I'll Get You For This (30 page)

  "So you should be," he said, grinning. "Hetty'll be along soon. She's coming by train. How's the kid?"

  "Not so bad," I said. "She'll be all right in a month or so. It was a close call, Tim." T scowled at him, added, "I have a job for you."

  He nodded. "I knew it," he said. "That's why I came. Bat, eh?"

  "Sure," I said, "only you're camping outside Clair's door. So long as I know she's safe I can get to work. Now don't argue," I went on hurriedly as he began to speak. "Bat's dangerous. He might come here to finish the job. Stick around, Tim. I know Clair will be safe if you're here. I have things to do."

  "Well, I'll be damned," he said. "And I was planning to get in on a man-hunt."

  I punched him lightly on his chest.

  "You watch Clair," I said. "This man-hunt is going to be between Bat and me." I led him to Clair's door. "Not a word about Bat. I've told her he's in jail. Go in and see her for a minute, then get a chair and park outside. I don't expect to be long."

  I left him before he could protest.

The taxi driver slowed, stopped. "This is as far as I can take you, Bud," he said. "The joint you want is down that alley, if it is the joint you want."

I got out of the cab, peered down a narrow alley, blocked by two iron posts.

"I guess it is," I said, gave him half a buck.

"Want me to stick around?" he asked. "It don't look like your home."

"It isn't, but don't wait," I said, and walked towards the alley.

  It was dark; mist from the sea softened the gaunt outlines of the buildings. The single street lamp made a yellow pool of light on the slimy sidewalk. Not far away a ship's siren hooted. The sound of moving water against the harbour walls was distinct.

  I lit a cigarette, moved on. Little Louis had selected a lonely spot for a home, I thought. The buildings I passed were warehouses, most of them in disuse. The property, the taxi driver had told me, had been condemned and was going to be pulled down. It should have been pulled down long ago.

  A half-starved black cat appeared out of the shadows, twisted itself around my legs. I stooped, scratched its head, went on. The cat followed me.

  Little Louis's place was the last building in a row of battered wooden ruins. I flipped my cigarette into a puddle, stood back, looked up at the house. The cat moved delicately towards the puddle, sniffed at the cigarette, howled dismally.

  "Some joint, puss," I said.

  The building was a three-storey job; no lights showed, most of the windows had rotten planks nailed across them. It was a proper dump, the kind of building Hollywood favours when creating a chiller atmosphere.

  I tried to get round the back of the building, but found it looked on to a kind of reservoir. The stillness and blackness of the water was deceptive. It looked solid.

  I went back to the front of the building, tried the front door. It was locked. I prowled around, found a lower window, tried to move it, but it wouldn't budge. I went to the next window, heaved. It creaked loudly. I cursed the plank, took out my gun, forced the barrel backwards and forwards until the plank broke away from its rusty nails. I made less noise than I expected. I hoped no one had heard the first creak, which had been something.

  I worked on the next plank, got rid of it, and was ready to squeeze through. I looked into the room beyond, saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing. I fished out an electric torch from my hip pocket, turned the beam into the room. It was unfurnished, dirty; a rat scurried away from the light.

  With my gun in my right fist, I stepped over the sill, down into the room.

  The cat jumped up on the sill, peered at me. I shooed it away. It seemed reluctant to leave me, but it went eventually, jumping down into the darkness outside.

  A full minute of breathless listening got me nowhere. Holding my gun-arm tight against my side, I began exploring the room. There were footprints in the dust on the floor; a hand-print by the door. The place smelt of decay, bad drains.

  I reached the door, turned the handle, pulled the door gently towards me. I peeped into a dingy passage, lit by a naked gas-jet. I listened. Nothing.

  Sliding my torch back into my pocket, I edged out of the room into the passage. Another door faced me. To my right was the front door; to my left a flight of stairs. They looked rotten and broken, and there were no banisters. It was some hide-out.

  I crept across the passage to the opposite door, put my ear against the panel, listened. After a moment or so I heard feet scrape on the wooden floor.

  I wondered if Bat was behind the door. My heart was beating steadily; I wasn't excited. I had come to kill Bat, and I was going to kill him.

  My hand slid over the brass door-knob. I squeezed it, turned slowly. It made no sound as it turned. When it wouldn't turn any further, I pushed.

  I looked into a narrow, dimly lit room full of wooden packing-cases stacked up along the unpapered walls. In the centre of the room was a table and chair. Near the rusty stove stood a truckle bed, covered with a grimy blanket.

  Little Louis sat at the table. He had a deck of greasy playing-cards in his hand, and he was laying out a complicated patience game. He raised his head as I stepped into the room.

  Little Louis was a hunchback. The complexion of his dried-up face looked as if it had been sand-blasted. His hard little eyes glinted under thick black eyebrows. His shapeless mouth, like a pale pink sausage split in two, hung open.

  He stared at me, his right hand, hairy and dirty, edged off the table to his lap.

  "Hold it," I said, lifted the .38.

  His mouth tightened, snarled, but his hand crept back on to the table again.

  I moved further into the room, closed the door with my heel, advanced.

  He watched me, puzzled, suspicious.

  "What do you want ?" he asked. His voice was high-pitched, effeminate.

  "Get away from the table," I said, pausing within a few feet of him.

  He hesitated, pushed back the wooden box on which he was sitting, stood up. Something fell to the floor off his lap. I glanced down. A broad, squat knife lay at his feet. It looked very sharp, deadly.

  "Get back to the wall," I said, advancing on him.

  He retreated, his hands raised to his shoulders. There was no shock of fear in his eyes. As I passed the knife I picked it up, dropped it into my pocket.

  "Where's Bat Thompson?" I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. "Who wants him?"

  "You'd better talk," I said. "I'm in a hurry."

  He grinned evilly. "You've made a mistake," he said. "I don't know any Bat Thompson."

  I edged towards him. "You'd better talk," I said.

  "Who are you? You're new to the racket, ain't you? Guys don't threaten me. I'm everyone's pal."

"Not mine," I said, smacked him across his face with the barrel of my gun.

His head jerked back. A red weal appeared on his harsh skin. His eyes glinted murderously.

"Where's Bat?" I repeated.

He snarled at me so I hit him again.

"I can keep this up all night," I told him pleasantly, grinned. "Where's Bat?"

  He pointed to the ceiling. "Top floor; the door facing the stairs." He began to curse me softly, a mumbling flow of obscenity.

  "Alone?" I said, lifting my hand, threatening him.

  "Yeah," he said.

  I studied him. He was too dangerous to leave. I decided to provoke him into a fight. It turned out to be a dumb idea.

  I nodded, shoved the .38 down the waist-band of my trousers. "Why couldn't you have said so before?" I asked. "It'd've saved you a lot of grief."

  Two terrifying long arms shot out towards me; arms that seemed to stretch like elastic. I thought I was well out of his reach, and was waiting for him to jump me, but the arms came as a surprise. Two hands clamped on my wrists. They felt as if they had been welded to my flesh. He jerked me towards him.

  He had twice my strength and the jerk nearly snapped my neck. I cannoned against him, felt his hands whip up to my throat. He was a shade too slow. I got my chin down, so he gripped that; before he could dig his claws into my neck, I sank a punch into his belly with all my weight behind it. He doubled up, snarling, and as I rushed him, he swung his fist, clouted me on the side of the head. It was like being hit with a hammer. I found myself lying on my side, bells ringing in my ears. I twisted over, saw through a red mist the misshapen legs moving towards the door. I grabbed at them, hung on, pulled him down. He fell close, squirmed around and uncorked another sledge-hammer blow. I ducked under it, felt it whizz past my head. My right hand yanked out the .38; holding it in my fist, I punched him in the face with it.

  He gibbered with pain, got close, his evil-smelling head under my chin. He clawed at my body with steel fingers. I continued to hit him about his face and head with the gun butt. I couldn't get much steam into the blows because he was lying on top of me, but I succeeded in making a mess of his face.

  He got sick of it before I did, scrambled away, opened his mouth to yell. I rammed the gun barrel into his open mouth.

  "Make a sound and I'll blow your top," I said.

  The cold gun barrel in his mouth terrified him. He gagged, tried to wriggle away, but I forced the barrel further down his throat. He grabbed my wrists, yanked. The barrel shot out of his mouth, but the gun-sight caught his front teeth; they shot out too. He yammered in his throat, flung me off, raised himself up, half crazy with rage and pain, slammed down at me with both fists. If they had landed he would have flattened me, but I rolled against him, stabbed him in his belly with the gun barrel.

  He gave a croaking howl, fell back, holding on to himself. Blood oozed between his fingers.

  I knelt over him, panting, belted him between the eyes. He passed out.

  Getting to my feet I fought to recover my breath. My legs felt weak, my heart thumped furiously. We had only fought for a couple of minutes, but it had been an experience. He had been as strong as an ape.

  I left him, made for the stairs. I started up, my hand on the wall, treading cautiously. The stairs were in a bad way, gave under my weight. I kept on, mounted to the first floor, listened.

  From one room I heard voices. A woman cursed in a shrill hard tone. A man yelled to her to shut up. I walked along the passage, made for the next flight of stairs.

  The door behind me jerked open. I glanced around. A thin, miserable-looking woman half fell into the passage. She wore a dirty kimono, and her hair hung loose.

  "Save me, mister," she gasped, crouching against the wall.

  A big, red-faced man, in shirt sleeves, stepped into the passage, grabbed the woman by her hair, dragged her into the room again. The door slammed. The woman began to squeal.

    Ignoring her, I mounted the next flight of stairs. I was sweating, uneasy. This was a hell of a joint, I decided.

  A naked gas-jet burned at the head of the stairs. It hissed and flickered in the draught. I paused as I reached the landing, looked back. Nothing moved. No one showed.

  If Little Louis had been telling the truth I was now facing

  Bat's door. I stepped across the passage, put my ear against the door, listened.

  A woman said: "God! I'm sick of this. I was crazy to throw in with a mean jerk like you."

  I frowned, slipped back the safety catch of the .38, put my hand on the door handle.

  Bat said: "Aw, the hell with you! I'm sick of you too." His harsh Brooklyn accent was unmistakable.

  I opened the door, went in.

  A girl, wearing black lace underwear, had her back to me as I entered. Her legs and feet were bare, her blonde hair piled untidily to the top of her head. A cheap imitation tortoise-shell comb failed to capture the straggling ends of hair from her neck. She was standing by a table on which was the remains of a meal and several bottles of whisky.

  She turned swiftly as she heard the door open, stared at me. All I could see of Bat was his foot and leg. The girl stood directly in front of him. She was sharp-featured and she stared at me with sultry eyes, one of which was puffed and the other had been socked several days ago. She also had a bruise on her throat and her hand held a tall cool glass of amber fluid.

  "Beat it," she said to me. "You've picked the wrong room."

  "I want Bat," I said between my teeth. "Get out of the way."

  She saw the gun, screamed, dropped the glass.

  Bat recognized my voice, grabbed the girl around her waist, crushed her to him. He peered over her shoulder at me, grinned.

"Hello, bub," he said. His brutal face was the colour of mutton fat.

"Let go of the frail," I said. "What's the matter with you. Bat? Milky?"

  The girl struggled frantically to get away, but Bat easily held her. I could see his thick fingers sinking into the loose flesh above her hips.

  "Shaddap, you," he snarled in her ear, "or I'll break your goddamn back."

  She stopped struggling, faced me, her eyes wide with terror, staring at the gun like an idiot child at a moving shadow.

  It puzzled me why Bat didn't go for his gun. I saw his pig eyes glaring, followed the direction. A Luger lay on the mantelpiece, out of his reach.

  I laughed. "For God's sake," I said, "getting careless, aren't you, Hat?" I jumped across the room to the gun. It was my own Luger.

  Bat shuffled round, still holding the girl in front of him. He cursed softly, vilely, backed.

  I had left the door unguarded by my move to the gun. Bat jerked it open, stepped into the passage, dragging the screaming girl with him. The door slammed.