7
Hoskiss and I sat under the bar counter. We had the redheaded girl with us, but we had kicked the Cuban out, considering him poor company.
Hoskiss was telling the red-head about his adventures in the Army. He made them sound very exciting and dangerous. The red-head didn’t seem to be listening. She sat huddled up, her hands clasping her knees, a look of strained terror on her face.
Bullets sang through the air; gunfire crackled.
“It reminds me of the time when I was cut off from the rest of the boys after crossing the Rhine,” Hoskiss said reminiscently. “I was bottled up in a fox-hole, and the Jerries started to mortar my position. I didn’t have any whisky to fortify me, and I was scared.”
“Not you,” I said. “Not a big guy like you.”
He anchored his mouth to a bottle of Scotch, took a Ions pull.
“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” he said. “I bet there was time when you were scared too.”
I took the bottle away from him, gave myself a stiff shot.
Someone quite close started firing an automatic rifle. Tb noise was considerable. The redhead screamed, flung her round Hoskiss’s neck, clung to him.
“I’m glad you invited me to this party,” he said to me. “The baby has lost her repressions. She’s almost a woman again.” He held the red-head tightly, winked at me over her head.
“I hope this counter is bullet proof,” I said, pressing the partition with my fingers. It seemed solid enough.
“So long as they can’t see me, I feel safe,” Hoskiss said “Don’t undermine my confidence.”
“I want to go home,” the red-head wailed. They were the first words she had uttered since the shooting had begun.
“I should wait if I were you, baby,” Hoskiss said kindly. “The air outside is awfully unhealthy. I’d hate to see holes those pretty pants of yours. Besides, what should I do without you?”
I worked my way to the end of the counter, cautiously peer round. The dance floor was deserted. I could make out the four members of the band sheltering under the piano. The nigger’s face was grey; his eyes were closed; he held his drum sticks tightly clenched in his right hand. He was more expose than the other three, and he kept trying to wriggle further under cover, but they wouldn’t let him.
Two of the girls had overturned a table and were crouching behind it. I could see their silk clad legs, no more. Over the other side of the room, a man and girl sat against the wall. The girl looked terrified. The man was smoking. His red, mottled face was slack. He kept saying in a loud voice, “Aw, the hell with it.”
All the other men and girls had gone. They were probably hiding in the rooms at the back of the building.
Desultory gunfire kept the night alive. Apart from the automatic rifle, there seemed no organized opposition from within.
“These lads are slow off the mark,” I said to Hoskiss.
“Well, we have lots of time,” he returned, giving himself another drink. “Do you expect me to join in or something?”
“Not just yet,” I said. “You better case off on the Scotch. When you do go into action, you’ll need calm and courage.”
“I’m always calm,” he returned, grinning, “and I’m stocking up in courage.”
I wanted to locate the automatic rifle. It kept banging off near by, but from where I lay, I couldn’t see who was using it. I lay flat, wriggled further out, until my head and shoulders were clear of the protecting counter.
“That’s how guys won the Purple Heart,” Hoskiss said to the red-head. “It’s also a good way to qualify for a funeral.”
I looked around, spotted the sportsman with the rifle. He was kneeling against the front of the counter, and every so often he’d fire blindly at the shuttered windows. He was middle-aged, going bald. Thick glasses sat uneasily on his short fat nose.
“How are you making out, bud?” I asked him. “Think you’re hitting anyone?”
He jumped round with a snarl of fright, swung the gun in my direction. I didn’t wait, but pulled back so fast the red-head squealed with terror.
“Someone say ‘Boo!’ to you?” Hoskiss asked, grinning.
I sat up, wiped my face, shook my head.
“There’s a middle-aged sportsman out there on his own,” I explained. “He’s banging away without even sighting. Maybe I’d better go out and get things organized. This is no way to wage war.”
“Don’t be so bloodthirsty,” Hoskiss said, frowning. “Me and the girl friend find it exciting, don’t we, Tutz?”
The red-head said it was too exciting. The language in which she expressed this opinion startled us.
“I can’t imagine where you girls pick up such talk,” Hoskiss said, pained. “When I was your age–—”
The red-head told him to go boil his head, and she added a couple of other suggestions in case the first one didn’t appeal to him.
It was funny to see a tough guy like Hoskiss turn pink.
Without warning a machine-gun began firing. Bullets smashed through the wooden shutters. A row of bottles above our heads flew into pieces. Liquor and glass showered down on us. The red-head was soused with gin. Whisky poured over Hoskiss’s trouser ends. A piece of flying glass cut my cheek, but I kept dry.
“She’ll taste interesting now if you kiss her,” I said to Hoskiss.
“I can’t stomach gin,” he said, regarding the girl crossly. “Why couldn’t it’ve been Scotch?”
“Well, you can always chew your trousers. You might start a new craze.”
The red-head had collapsed into Hoskiss’s arms, wailing with fright. He shoved her off.
“I don’t love you any more. You smell like hell.”
The sportsman with the automatic rifle began blazing away again. I peeped out.
The nigger drummer rolled his eyes at me. The two pairs of silk clad legs behind the table were still as death. The red-faced man over the other side of the room was glaring angrily at the torn shutters. He suddenly got to his feet, lurched across the room. He was very drunk. As he reached the shutters, the machine-gun started up. He was swept backwards by the hail of bullets. Everyone in the room heard the slugs socking into his body. He landed up on his back, blood ran out of him on to the polished dance floor.
“Real bullets,” I said, wriggling back under cover. “They’ve just killed a drunk.”
“Shocking waste of good liquor,” Hoskiss said, unmoved. He joined me at the end of the counter, looked at the dead man, shook his head. “I feel like letting off my gun now. Childish, isn’t it?”
The door to the dance hall suddenly pushed open and three men came in on their hands and knees. They all carried automatic rifles, all looked business-like.
“Shock troops,” Hoskiss said, beaming. “Now something ought to happen.”
I pulled back as I spotted Don Speratza in the doorway. He didn’t come into the room, but directed the men to take up positions by the window. He was careful not to expose himself more than necessary. I was glad to see him.
The men crawled across the dance floor, crept to the windows and began pouring lead into the night. A sudden yell outside proved they knew their job.
“We might take a little walk before long,” I said. “I’m getting tired of staying one place.”
“Ready when you are,” Hoskiss said, pulling a Mauser pistol from his hip pocket. He thumbed down the safety catch.
The red-head squeaked, “Don’t leave me,” grabbed at him. He threw her arms off impatiently.
“Lay off,” he said roughly. “I got work to do now, Tate.”
Speratza had vanished. I could hear shooting going on at the back of the building. There were yells. It sounded like a break-in.
“Think your boys will take any action?” I whispered.
“They’re on the job now,” Hoskiss said, cocking an ear. “I recognize the sound of a Mauser any place. Hark.”
We could hear a lot of shooting going on outside.
“That’s fine,” I said. “In your official capacity I guess you wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if anyone looked troublesome?”
“You bet I’d shoot,” he said.
“In that case, brother, you’d better go first. I’ll cover your rear.”
“If you want to lead, go ahead,” he said hastily. “I’ll take full responsibility for any deaths you cause.”
Put like that I hadn’t the heart to refuse. I dived for the door, passed into the main hall.
A dim shape standing by the front door twisted round, fired. I felt the wind from the slug fan my face. I shot the dim shape through the head.
“You see how it is,” I said apologetically to Hoskiss. “People just naturally shoot at me.”
“Don’t let it grieve you,” Hoskiss said, peering round the hall. “You go ahead. You’re faster with a gun than I am. I want to come out of this alive.”
There didn’t seem any further opposition in the hall. I made for the door at the foot of the stairs.
“This way, pal,” I said. “Be ready for action.”
I pushed open the door, faced a flight of stairs leading down into a dimly lit basement.
I walked down the stairs, making no more noise than a breath of wind. Hoskiss kept at my heels.
We reached the bottom of the stairs, moved along a passage. I pointed to a thick electric cable running along the wall near the ceiling. Hoskiss nodded, grinned.
At the end of the passage was a door. I paused outside, listened. I couldn’t hear anything.
“Shall we go in?” I whispered in Hoskiss’s ear.
“I suppose so,” he said. “G-men always go in.”
I turned the handle, pushed.
The room was big; elaborately equipped with printing presses. Green shaded lights illuminated the stacks of banknotes piled neatly on benches.
A dead man lay on the floor near the printing press. He had been shot. A small blue-red hole showed in the exact centre of his forehead.
Ed. Killeano knelt on the floor against the far wall. His fat face was yellow and glistening with fear. His pudgy hands were shoulder high, and his eyes started from his head like long stalked toadstools. Clairbold, the intrepid private investigator, complete with his cocoacoloured trick hat, stood over him, a Colt .45 in his small hand.
“Take him away,” Killeano screamed at us as we came in. “Make him put that gun down.”
Hoskiss and I walked over.
“Hello, Fatso,” I said. “Don’t you like our young friend?” I touched Clairbold on his shoulder. “What are you doing here, bright eyes?”
“Call him off!” Killeano shrieked. “Get that gun away!”
Clairbold lowered the gun, cleared his throat apologetically. “I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Cain,” he said. “I was wondering what I should do with this—er—man.”
Hoskiss ran his fingers through his hair. “Who’s this guy?” he asked blankly.
“The greatest private dick since Philo Vance,” I said.
Killeano made a sudden dive across the desk, reached for a sheet of paper. Hoskiss flung him back.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Park your truss until I can get around to you.”
Killeano snarled at him, wrung his hands.
Clairbold picked up the sheet of paper, blushed, shuffled his feet.
“I have a statement here,” he said, handing me the paper. “It completely clears you, Mr. Cain. This man admits that Bat Thompson killed Herrick, Giles and Brodey, acting on his orders. They knew about the forgery plant. Killeano also admits he is responsible for issuing forged currency. I think you’ll find it in order.”
Dazed, I read the statement. It was a beautifully worded confession. Silently I handed it to Hoskiss who read it, said, “For God’s sake!”
“I deny every word of it,” Killeano babbled. “He was going to shoot me!”
“How did you persuade him to write this?” I asked Clairbold.
He fingered his tie nervously.
“I really don’t understand it myself, Mr. Cain,” he said, puzzled. “I think perhaps he was
frightened my gun wasn’t safe.” He shook his head. “He could be right because it went off unexpectedly when that man rushed in.” He waved his hand at the body by the printing plant. “Killeano thought I might shoot him accidentally. He was quite mistaken, of course, but when I suggested he might care to make a statement he seemed most anxious to do so.”
I looked at Hoskiss, who burst out laughing.
“Look,” I said to Clairbold, “you don’t kid me. You’re not half as dumb as you act. Son, you have a great future before you.”
He blushed. “Well, Mr. Cain, it’s nice of you to say so. I’ve been trained to appear rather simple. The Ohio School of Detection has taught me that criminals underrate people who act dumb.”
I dug Hoskiss in the ribs. “You might get somewhere if you took that course,” I said. “Look what it’s done for this lad.” Then I nodded at Killeano. “Your prisoner, buddy, and it’s our job to get him out of here.”
“Forget it,” Speratza snarled from the door. “Stick up your hands or I’ll blast the lot of you.”
We turned.
Speratza was covering us from the door with a Thompson. His face was white, his eyes vicious.
I had laid my .38 on the desk as I read Killeano’s statement. I calculated the distance, decided it was too far.
Killeano made another rush, tried to grab the statement, but Hoskiss flung him off.
A gun exploded at my side. Speratza dropped the Thompson, swayed. A blue-red hole appeared in the centre of his forehead. He crashed to the floor.
“I don’t believe this gun is safe,” Clairbold muttered, staring at the smoking Colt, but there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes that told me he was kidding.
I fell into Hoskiss’s arms.
“For the love of Mike,” I babbled hysterically, “he learned to shoot like that through the mail.”