He Won't Need it Now (15 page)

     Duffy said, “No, that's not the way to play it. You'll get the dough all right, but it'll take a little longer. When you get it, it'll be safe.”
     When they got back to the Bronx, Duffy 'phoned English. English said, “We've got Wessen.”
     “How about Annabel?”
     “Never mind about her. I've paid another five thousand dollars into your account. That should hold you for a bit.”
     Duffy grinned to himself. “Listen, English,” he said. “Are you holding Clive Wessen on a murder rap?”
     “Murder?” English seemed surprised. “No, he's in for cocaine smuggling.”
     Duffy grinned and winked over his shoulder at Gilroy.
     “I bet that guy had his pockets full of the white stuff,” he said.
     “The police found enough incriminating evidence to justify an arrest,” English said smoothly.
     “I bet they did,” Duffy said. “And Annabel?”
     There was a pause, then English said in a faintly hostile voice, “You know about that. My unfortunate daughter was killed by a hit-and-run motorist.”
     “That's too bad,” Duffy said. “I'll be having some more work for you in a little while.” He hung up. “That bird's cagey,” he said to Gilroy. “They framed Wessen, smothered Annabel's murder. It's a hit-and-run case.”
     Gilroy shook his bullet head. “You gotta watch him.”
     Duffy shrugged. “We're playing on his side.” He went over and helped himself to a drink. “It's nice to have a guy like that behind you.”
     Gilroy nodded and left him. When he had gone, Duffy sat down and did some thinking. Then he got up and went over to the small bureau, unlocked the top drawer, took out the bundle of money he had left there, and looked at it. Then he went to the door and turned the key. He sat down at the table and counted the money carefully. He'd got thirty-four grand and some small notes. He counted on the table three piles of five thousand dollars. That left him nineteen thousand dollars. He split the nineteen grand into four parts. One went into his hip pocket, another in his side pocket, and the third in his trouser pocket. The fourth, three thousand dollars, he folded carefully and put in his shoe. He had to take his shoe off and put it on twice before it was comfortable.
     He went over and unlocked the door, picked up the money on the table, and wandered into the bar.
     Gilroy was talking to Schultz and Shep. They were drinking beer. They all looked up, a faintly expectant expression on their faces.
     Duffy leant on the bar. “Here's your split,” he said gently. He gave each man the money rolled in a tight ball. “Five grand,” he said. “Don't count it now.”
     Shep picked up his glass and poured the beer on the floor at his feet. “Gimme champagne,” he said to the barman. “I'm goin' to launch myself.”
     Schultz fingered his cut, then shoved it in his trouser pocket. He looked vacantly at Duffy, nodded, and went out.
     Gilroy turned his head, watching him walk across the floor. “That guy's mighty careful with his dough,” he said. “I wouldn't say he's tight. He's careful.”
     Duffy glanced at the clock. “I'm going to snatch myself a little sleep,” he said. “We'll get going about eleven.”
     Gilroy said, “Any dough hanging to this job?”
     Duffy nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I want you boys to make money while you can.”
     Shep took his short fat nose out of his glass. “That's a hell of a way to talk,” he said.
     Duffy grinned. “You expect to earn this dough, don't you?” he said.
     “Sure, but we won't work that hard.”
     Back in his room, Duffy rang Sam. He said, “Do you feel like doing me a favour?”
     Sam said, “Aw, forget it, will you? Alice's only a little dumb; she don't know what it is to want things.”
     Duffy's mouth twisted. “You lay off Alice. She's right. See? Alice is goddam right. If I'd got the sense of a louse, I'd be doing a job of work instead of trying to be a big shot. Well, I ain't got the sense, and what's more, I'm getting a kick out of this. What I want you to do is to keep your ear open down at headquarters. I want you to keep an eye on English. That bird's been pulling too many fast ones to make me sleep easy. Will you do that, Sam?”
     Sam seemed puzzled. “Sure,” he said. “I'll do any little thing like that.”
     Duffy said, “You'll keep me in touch. If anything starts popping, gimme a buzz?”
     Sam said, “Sure,” then he said, “You know what you're doing?” He sounded worried.
     Duffy said, “I'm bucking something that thinks it's too big for me, but ain't.” He added, “'Bye, soldier,” and dropped the receiver on its prong.
     Outside, he could hear the rain beating down. He went over to the bed and lay flat, one leg hanging over the side. He scratched the side of his face gently with his nail. “I wonder...” he said to himself, then he heard someone walk past his door. He heard Gilroy say, “She don't wear 'em. It saves time.” Shep said something in his tinny voice, but Duffy couldn't hear.
     In time, the sound of the rain lulled him.
      
     

     
     SOMEWHERE A BIG clock chimed half past twelve as the Buick slid to the kerb. The rain drummed on the roof hard.
     Shep said, “Heck! What a night!”
     “You should worry, no one about,” Duffy said, rolling down the window and putting his head out. The rain touched him, cold and sharp. He looked up and down the deserted street, then he rolled up the window again, opened the door, and stepped out. Gilroy followed him.
     “Fat, you stay in the car,” Gilroy said.
     Shep nodded his tiny head. “Suits me,” he said. He pulled a Luger from his overcoat pocket and laid it across his knees.
     Then Schultz got out. The three hurried across the pavement to a block of offices.
     “Round the back,” Duffy said.
     They walked on, turned a narrow alley, and then stopped. Just above their heads was the fire-escape. Gilroy put his back against the wall, folded his hands in front of him, and nodded at Schultz. Schultz put his foot in Gilroy's cupped hands, and Gilroy hoisted him up. Schultz just touched the fire-escape with his fingers. He said, “Higher.”
     Gilroy gave a little grunt, shifted his feet and raised Schultz a few inches. Schultz's fingers curled on the iron rung, and then he put his weight on it. The fire-escape creaked and slowly came down.
     Duffy went up first, then Gilroy, then Schultz. On the first landing, Duffy stood aside, whilst Schultz opened a window. He did it very easily. They all climbed into a dark corridor.
     Duffy said, “It's on the first floor.”
     They walked quietly forward, Duffy a little ahead, the other two on either side of him, a few steps in the rear. Duffy held a powerful flash directed on the floor. He kept the beam down, but the reflection lit up the frosted panelled doors. At the end of the corridor Duffy read, “Morgan Navigation Trust Co.”
     “Here,” he said.
     Schultz examined the lock, bent over it, then stepped back. He said in a low voice, “Go ahead.”
     Duffy pulled the Colt from his waist-band and gently opened the door. Then he walked in.
     The office was big. Steel files lined the walls. There were three large flat-topped desks. Three typists' desks, holding typewriters. The centre desk had a number of telephones.
     Duffy said, “Morgan's room is over there, I guess.”
     He wandered over to a door at the far end of the office and went through. The room was smaller than the outer office, but it was more luxurious.
     Duffy went round the desk and sat down. He tried the drawers, but they were all locked. He looked over at Gilroy. “I guess we won't disturb anything. Morgan might tumble. I'll just plant the notes and we'll blow.”
     Schultz said, “Maybe there's a heap of dough in this joint.” He said it wistfully.
     Duffy took the roll of counterfeit money from his pocket, spread them flat. He leant forward, picked up a framed calendar and took off the back. Then he put the notes in the calendar and replaced the back.
     “You like that?” he said.
     Gilroy nodded. “That'll be difficult to find.”
     “You'll be surprised.” Duffy pulled the telephone towards him and dialled a number.
     While the line buzzed, the three stayed motionless. Only Gilroy showed he was anxious. His big eyes rolled continuously.
     The line connected. English said, “Who's that?” He sounded sharp.
     Duffy drawled into, the 'phone, “I've got Morgan sewed up,” he said. “If your boys make a call at his office early tomorrow, they can safely slap a charge on him.”
     “Where are you?”
     “It don't matter. Look, this is a tip off. Morgan's got twenty-five grand in phoney notes hidden in his desk calendar. Could you make that stick?”
     English was silent for a moment, then he said, “You certainly get action, don't you? We'll make it stick all right.”
     Duffy said, “Morgan Navigation Trust Co.”
     “I know.” English hung up gently.
     Duffy pushed the telephone away from him and stood up. “Let's go,” he said.
     They walked out of the office, carefully relocking the door, down the fire-escape, into the pouring rain.
     Shep was still sitting there, fondling his gun. They climbed into the Buick, and Schultz started the engine.
     Shep said, “All right?”
     “Easy,” Duffy returned, lighting a cigarette. “Morgan's going to get a mighty big shock tomorrow.”
     Gilroy said out of the dark, “English has got to be pretty leery to pin anything on that bird.”
     Duffy forced a thin stream of smoke down his nostrils. “English can handle him all right,” he said. “You see.”
     Schultz said, “We go back, don't we?”
     Duffy nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “the hay wants hitting.”
     As Schultz headed East, Shep said in a confidential whisper to Duffy, “I thought I'd have a woman tonight. You know, just to celebrate the five grand.”
     Duffy nodded sleepily. He began to think about Olga.
     “It's a hell of a night to look for a woman, ain't it?” Shep went on gloomily.
     Duffy grunted. He wished Shep would shut up.
     Schultz had been listening. He said, “For God's sake, Fat, what you want with a woman?”
     Shep giggled self-consciously, and Gilroy joined in.
     “He's got the dough, why shouldn't he enjoy himself? Lay off him,” he said.
     They drove two blocks in silence, then Shep said to Duffy, “Ain't you got a woman?”
     Duffy turned his head slightly. He could just see Shep's pace, stuck like a turnip on his shoulders, as the street lights flashed past, lighting Shep at regular intervals.
     “Think about your own troubles,”' his voice was cold. “I'll think about mine.”
     “You bet,” Shep said hastily. “I didn't mean a thing.”
     Gilroy broke in, “Did English say anything about dough, “when he talked to you?”
     Duffy shook his head, then remembering that Gilroy couldn't see him, he said, “No.”
     The Buick ran along the kerb, slowed, and came to a stop outside the Bronx.
     Schultz said, “Hop out. I'll take her over to the garage.”
     They climbed out and hurried down the basement steps, the rain beating down on them.
     Gilroy unlocked the door and they entered quickly. The passage was dark. Gilroy swore softly. “Where the hell's Jock got to”?” he said, speaking of the thin man. “He ought to be still up.”
     “Maybe he's got himself drunk,” Shep said. “I gave him ten bucks out of my split.”
     Gilroy groped around and switched on the light. “You come and have a drink?” he said to Duffy.
     Duffy said, “Sure, my feet are wet. I could do with a shot of Scotch.”
     Gilroy led the way down the passage, and walked into the bar. The first thing that caught his eye was the thin man. He was lying on his back, his hands and legs sprawling, and his face a mask of blood.
     The little guy said sharply, “Reach.”
     Gilroy and Duffy raised their hands. Shep dropped on his knee, drew his Luger and fired at the little guy all in one movement.
     Joe, stepping behind the door, tapped Shep with the butt of his gun as he fired. Shep gave a little cough and fell on his hands and knees. He looked like a stricken elephant.
     Duffy said between his teeth, “Don't touch him again.”
     Joe looked at him in wonder, then he grinned. “My, ain't you a pip?” he said admiringly.
     The little guy said apologetically, “Take it easy. Don't move. I'd hate to pop this heater, but I gotta do it if you crowd me.”
     Gilroy said, hardly moving his rubbery lips: “What you want?”
     “We want the pip,” Joe said. “Ain't he hung a rap on Clive? Well, sure we want the pip. I wanta bounce him a little, don't I?” He looked triumphantly at the little guy. Then he walked over to Duffy, grinning from ear to ear. He feinted with his left, and hit Duffy on his ear, with a tremendous swinging punch that started from his ankles.
     Duffy saw it coming a split second too late. A bomb burst inside his head. A bright light blotted the room out.
     “Spill his guts,” the little guy said with a snigger. “Go on, Joe, burst him open.”
     Joe walked over to Duffy quickly with long, sliding steps. He put his hand down on Duffy's body, seized Duffy low and swung him off the floor. He lifted him quite easily and smashed him down on the boards, as if he were dumping coal.
     The little guy said, “Let's get him out of here.”
     Joe said, “Sure.” He dragged Duffy to his feet and began pulling him to the door.
     Gilroy stood like a waxwork, only his great eyes rolling in terror. The little guy looked at him, curling up his tight mouth.
     “Here it is, nigger,” he said, and squeezed the trigger. The gun crashed. Gilroy stood with his hands folded over his belly, gradually sinking at the knees. His curiously coffee-coloured skin glistened with sweat. He went down very slowly. First on his knees, then a little on one side. His hip-bone struck the floor hard, and his face followed, cutting the flesh on the boards.
     The little guy stood over him, looking at Joe. “Shall I finish him?” he asked.
     Joe paused in the doorway, holding Duffy by his shirt-front. “Let the punk bleed,” he said, with a snarl. “It takes longer that way, don't it?”
     The little guy giggled and pushed his gun back in his holster. “You get ideas,” he said.
     Joe admired himself.
     “Don't I?” he said, walking down the passage, pulling Duffy with him.
     He said over his shoulder, “I'm going to give myself a grand time with this bum.”
     The little guy followed him closely. He opened the front door, and together they stepped out into the driving rain. The sudden cold driving shower of water brought Duffy to, his senses. He placed his legs firmly against the step and arched his body. Joe was brought up short. He swore at Duffy, who swung a punch blindly into the darkness. He hit Joe on the nose. He so startled Joe that the big tough let him go and reeled back, took a false step and almost went over.
     Duffy scrambled away hastily, just as Schultz began blazing away from across the road. Schultz's .45 roared three times. Duffy felt a slug thud into the wall above his head.
     The little guy fired twice at Schultz, his gun cracking like dry wood snapping, only much louder. Duffy fumbled at his waist, and pulled out his Colt. He crouched in the shadow, trying to see where Joe was. The rain blinded him, and the solitary street light, about fifty feet away, threw only black shadows.
     Holding the gun, Duffy began to back further into the dark. He wanted to cross the road and get over to Schultz. Further down the road, the blackness was intense. He thought, if he could get there, he could cross in safety. He felt his heart beating hard against his ribs, but he wasn't scared. He felt a strong sense of exhilaration flooding through him.
     Schultz began firing again. Three sharp sounds. Duffy could see the flash from the gun. He crossed the road, running bent double.
     Faintly, somewhere at the far end of the street, came the faint blast of a whistle, then a low drumming of a nightstick being beaten on the pavement.
     Schultz called to him, “The cops.”
     Duffy ran forward again, keeping to the wall, hugging the dark shadows. Schultz from a doorway pulled him into the shelter.
     He said, “I've got to get out of here quick. The bulls know me.”
     Duffy said, “Gilroy's dead.” He spoke as if he had been running a long way. “The cops can't touch you. I've got protection.”
     Schultz snarled in the darkness. “My rod's hot,” he said.
     Duffy held out his hand. “Change,” he said. “They won't look at mine.”
     Schultz passed his over, and took Duffy's. They heard the wail of a siren, and a fast, closed car came swinging round the corner. Duffy stepped out into the street and waved. The car skidded to a standstill.
     Four beefy faces looked at him from the car, suspiciously. He felt the hidden menace of guns, unseen in the dark, threatening him. He stood quite still.
     Then one of them said, “It's okay. I know this guy.”
     Duffy stepped up to the car. “Morgan's gang've just knocked Gilroy off,” he said slowly, putting his foot on the step. “I was there. You've come along at the right time.”
     Hesitatingly, three of the cops got out of the car and stood undecided in the rain, then they turned and walked over to the Bronx.
     Duffy jerked his hand, signaling to Schultz, and followed them. Schultz, walking with elaborate caution, crossed the road and caught up with Duffy.
     Inside, the three cops stood and looked at Gilroy, then walked over and stirred Shep with a foot.
     One said, “He'll be okay. Just a rap.”
     The Sergeant caught sight of Schultz, and his face clouded. Duffy could see the sullen hostile expression blotting out indifference. The Sergeant said, “Where were you?”
     Duffy broke in, “He's okay. He was putting my car away.”
     The Sergeant looked at Duffy, scowled, then said, “You're in the clear now, but watch your step.” There was an ominous threat in his voice. It puzzled Duffy.
     Shep began to move. Straightening his great limbs, and grunting. He raised his head painfully. Duffy thought he looked like a stranded turtle, lying there.
     He said, “It's all right.”
     Shep looked at him blankly, sat up and rubbed the back of his head. He began to swear softly and vilely. When he saw Gilroy, he stopped. He turned his head and looked at Duffy. Then he got to his feet.
     The Sergeant had given instructions for an ambulance; he was wandering round the room, sniffing suspiciously at everything.
     Duffy said to Shep, “They beat it in the rain.”
     Shep put his hand across his eyes and squeezed his temples, as if trying to force his eyes back to normal. He said in his tinny voice, very low and hoarse, “I'll square those rats, you see.”
     Schultz was watching the cops uneasily. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “These birds ain't acting friendly.”
     Duffy went across the room and fixed drinks. He said, “You boys want something while you're waiting?”
     The two cops looked up, their stupid faces brightening. The Sergeant said, “Skip that. You know better.”
     Duffy held the glass in his hand, astonished, but he said nothing. The ambulance came up then. They could hear the siren, and two white-coated attendants scooped Gilroy up and took him away.
     The Sergeant came over to Schultz. “You got a rod?” he said.
     Schultz pulled Duffy's Colt from his holster and handed it over. The Sergeant examined it, his eyes narrowed, and his lips thin red. “We'll look this over,” he said. “It might have a record.”
     Duffy moved forward and took the gun out of the Sergeant's hand. He said in a hard voice, “Tell English I took it from you,” he said. “I want this cannon for a while.”