“You thought you’d tell me!” Mendetta sneered. “Don’t you ever use your head? Must I tell you what to do?”
There was a pause, then Grantham said, “Okay, I’ll see to it. Poison’s fixed, is he?”
“You’ve got to get rid of Hamsley. Poison didn’t know I was interested in the Club. I’ve got one or two things on Poison.” Mendetta smiled into the black mouthpiece.
“Suppose Fletcher told Ellinger something?”
“What if he did? Ellinger’s working for Poison, ain’t he? Poison will tell him to lay off. I’ve fixed that.”
“Are you sure it’s all right?” Grantham insisted anxiously.
“Of course I’m sure. Now forget it, but see that Fletcher is looked after. That guy’s been around too long now.”
“I’ll fix him,” Grantham said viciously, and hung up.
Mendetta glanced over at the clock. It was twelve−fifteen. Where the hell was Jean? He got up and took off his coat, going into the bedroom for his silk dressing−gown. When he had fastened the cord about his thick middle he went back to the living−room and fixed himself a drink. He didn’t know why, but he felt uneasy and restless.
Wandering over to the card−table, he picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them slowly. His mind wasn’t on patience. He stood there, brooding, letting the cards slide through his fingers. He became aware that he was listening intently for any unusual sound. He could hear the faint whine of the elevator and the click of the grille as it moved between floors. The sharp sound of a car hooter and the steady beat of traffic outside suddenly became real to him instead of a background of unconscious noise.