He Won't Need it Now (5 page)

     Clive went out of the room into the bathroom. Duffy lay with his eyes shut, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.
     Joe went over to the wagon and poured himself out a drink. He took it neat, then punched himself on the chest with his fist.
     Clive came back with a wet towel. The little guy held out his hand, but Clive walked over to Duffy. “Let me do it.”
     “Well, well, did you hear, Joe?” the little guy was surprised. “Clive wants to do it.”
     Clive went on one knee beside Duffy and mopped his swollen bruised face with the towel. Duffy looked at him through a puffy eye. Then Clive put his hand on the side of Duffy's head, made his fingers into claws and dragged his nails down Duffy's face.
     The little guy ran across the room and pulled Clive away. Clive had flecks of foam at the sides of his mouth. “That'll teach him,” he said shrilly. “He won't hit me again in a hurry.”
     “You might have broken your nice nails,” the little guy said sharply. “That ain't the way to go on.”
     Duffy pushed himself up on the couch and lowered his legs to the floor. Joe watched him, a big grin on his face. “Ain't he a pip?” he said, admiringly.
     The other two turned and watched him too. Duffy was sitting up now, his head sunk on his chest. He remained like that for several minutes, then he put both hands on the couch and levered himself to his feet. His face was a mask of blood. Swaying, he made a little tottering run at Clive, who hastily got behind the little guy.
     Joe stepped in front of Duffy. He said, “Still looking for trouble?”
     Duffy swung a leaden arm, but Joe hit him in the ribs again, stepping in close and driving at Duffy a jarring jolt. Duffy opened his mouth and said “O!”, then he fell on his knees.
     Just then the telephone bell rang. The three started and looked at the telephone. It continued to ring.
     “That's bad,” the little guy said, looking worried.
     They waited, all concentrated on the sound of the bell. It rang for several seconds, then it stopped.
     Joe dragged Duffy on to the couch again. He heaved him up and looked at the little guy.
     “Bring him round,” the little guy said.
     Joe pulled Duffy's ears. He took them in each hand and tugged as if he were milking a cow. Duffy groaned and tried to get his head away.
     “He's here now,” Joe said.
     The little guy stood quite close to Duffy. “Come on,” he said loudly, “spill it. Where's that goddam camera?”
     “Somebody stole it,” Duffy mumbled only half conscious.
     The little guy stood back. “Christ!” he said. “Did you hear that? He said someone stole it. This bird must be nuts to hang on so long.”
     The telephone bell began to ring again. Clive said suddenly, “Perhaps it's Mr. Morgan.”
     The little guy said, “Quiet,” and looked at Duffy. Duffy lay with his eyes shut, but he had heard all right. His brain wouldn't think, but he remembered all right. The little guy hesitated, then went over to the 'phone. He unhooked the receiver from its prong.
     “Hello?” he said in his tight voice.
     He stood listening. Then he said, “You got a wrong number, buddy,” and hung up. He shook his head. “Some guy wanting this bird,” he jerked his thumb at Duffy. “Suppose you try him again, Joe?”
     Clive took a step forward. “Why don't you burn him a little?” he demanded. “This is wasting time.”
     The little guy looked at Joe. “Do you think you can shake him loose?” he said.
     Joe grinned. “Yeah,” he said; “give me a little time. This pip thinks I am playing with him, don't you, bright boy.”
     Duffy was getting light-headed, but he felt a little strength stealing into his legs. “Wait a minute,” he said with difficulty.
     “Can't you believe what I tell you? Some bird stole the camera before I left the dame's house. I've just come back. I ain't got it on me, have I?”
     The little guy put his hand on Joe's arm.
     “Maybe he's telling it straight,” he said.
     Joe shook his head. “That guy couldn't tell it straight to a priest,” he said.
     The little guy looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Look at the time,” he said.
     Clive said, “It's all talk... talk... talk... talk!”
     The little guy patted him on his arm. “If he ain't got the camera, what can I do?”
     Duffy sat up slowly and passed a hand over his face gently. Near by, on the arm of the couch, was an ashtray. One of those affairs with a leather spring that gripped the arm. It was quite a heavy thing. Duffy put his hand on it, then with one movement, he picked it off the arm of the couch and tossed it through the window. The glass shattered, making a high tinkling sound. Some of the glass fell in the street below.
     The little guy said, “Clever, ain't he?”
     Clive ran to the door. “Let's skip before the cops come up,” he said.
     The little guy said, “Sure we'll go.” Then he looked at Puffy. “We'll be back, bright boy.”
     He followed Clive out of the room.
     Joe clouted Duffy on the side of the head. The blow knocked him off the couch on to the floor. “We'll get together by'n by,” he said, and went to the door hurriedly, then he paused, looking at Duffy lying there. He came back and kicked Duffy very hard in the ribs.
     The little guy put his head round the door.
     “Come on, Joe,” he said, “we gotta get out of this.”
     Joe followed him from the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
     Duffy lay on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chin. After they had been gone some time, he began to sob a little.
     

     
     A VOICE SAID, “What a guy!”
     Duffy forced one swollen eyelid back and tried to see who it was. A blurred figure was standing over him. He thought it might be Joe again, so he shut his eye and lay still.
     “Bill!”
     That wasn't Joe, he thought; it sounded like McGuire. Duffy raised his head painfully. “I think you've come a little late,” he said with a faint groan.
     McGuire said, “My Gawd!” and meant it. “What the hell have you been doing with yourself?”
     Duffy turned a little to the wall.. He wasn't quite ready for any bright talk. “Gimme a break,” he said faintly.
     McGuire was so upset and astonished, he just stood gaping at Duffy. Then he looked round the room, seeing the overturned furniture, the mess of the blood, and the blood-smears on the wall. “What's been going on round here? Jeeze! This looks as if a massacre came off not so long ago.”
     Duffy said through his clenched teeth, “ME, I'm it.”
     McGuire took another look at him, then hurried into the bathroom. He found a small bowl and a towel. He filled the bowl with tepid water, and came back to Duffy again.
     “Come on, soldier,” he said. “Let's make you look a bit shipshape.”
     “Suppose you go take a pill,” Duffy said with difficulty.
     “Now come on.” McGuire put the bowl on the floor and dropped the towel into the water. He squeezed the towel and began wiping Duffy's face with awkward care. He was as tender as a woman to Duffy.
     Duffy said suddenly, “Hi, you rat, be careful of my nose.”
     McGuire said, “You don't call that a nose any more, do you?”
     When he cleared the dried blood away, he took the bowl into the bathroom and changed the water. Deep down, a burning anger smouldered against those who had done this to Duffy. McGuire was one of those guys who made few friends, but when he had picked one, he stuck. He was, on the surface, casual and a great kidder, but he'd stick like a burr and fight once he had found a friend. Duffy and he had knocked along together on the
Tribune
for some little while. They had quarrelled, kidded and doubled-crossed each other, but let anyone else start anything then they'd side up together and beat hell out of the intruder.
     He filled the bowl with water again and walked back to Duffy.
     “For God's sake, you must be losing your grip or something,” Duffy mumbled from the couch.
     “What now?”
     “Listen, dimwit, instead of pulling this Flo Nightingale act, what the hell's wrong in giving me a drink?”
     McGuire put the bowl down on the table. “You're right,” he said. “This business startled me.” He went over to the wagon and poured out two stiff Scotches. He was going to hold the glass to Duffy's mouth, but Duffy took the glass from him roughly. “For the love of Mike,” Duffy said, “don't you think I can help myself to Scotch?”
     They both felt better after the drink. McGuire said, “Was that some woman you brought home who set about you like that?”
     Duffy put his glass on the floor and sat up very slowly. He put his hands over his groin and his mouth twisted. McGuire watched him uneasily. “You all right?”
     “Sure, I'm all right,” Duffy said. “I'm fine.”
     “All right, tough guy, but you can take it easy for a moment. Here, lie back, will you?”
     Duffy swung his feet over the side of the couch, then he stood up. As soon as his legs had to take his weight, he bent in half. He would have fallen forward if McGuire hadn't taken his arm.
     “I'm getting soft, I guess,” Duffy said, sweat starting out on his face.
     McGuire led him back to the couch and sat him down.
     “Quit this stuff,” he said impatiently. “Lie down, or I'll smack your ears for you.”
     Duffy sank back on the couch. He was glad to.
     McGuire poured him out another Scotch, and after that he felt his strength coming back.
     “Suppose you tell me what happened?”
     “Sure. I ran into three toughs who pushed me around.”
     McGuire shook his head.
     “Do you want me to call in the cops?”
     “This ain't for the cops.”
     “Okay, what now?”
     “What's the time?”
     “It's getting on for ten o'clock.”
     Duffy groaned. “What a hell of a night I had,” he said, resting his head on his hands.
     McGuire went over to the telephone and dialled a number. Duffy watched him curiously. He heard the line connect with a little plop, then McGuire said, “Sam here, honey.” Then, after a pause he went on. “This crazy loon's got himself into a jam. You ought to see him. Gee! He look's terrible. Yeah, someone pushed him around. Well, I don't think he's capable of taking care of himself, so I'm bringing him right round to you. Fix up the spare bed for him, will you?” He stood listening for quite a while, then he said, “Coming right now,” and he hung up.
     Duffy said heatedly, “If you think you're going to turn that wife of yours loose on me....”
     “Pipe down,” McGuire said sharply, “you're doing what you're told. Listen, you small-time prizefighter, you come on your feet or you come on your ear, it's all the same to me.”
     “Okay, I'll come.”
     McGuire had quite a job getting him over to his place, but he did it. The taxi-driver who brought them took an extraordinary interest in Duffy. He helped McGuire get him out of the cab and up the steps. Then he stood there, shaking his head.
     McGuire got a little heated about it. “All right, all right,” he said; “ain't you seen someone pushed around before.”
     “He ain't been pushed around,” the taxi-driver said, looking Duffy over, “someone's been making love to him.”
     McGuire shut the door in his face.
     On the third floor Alice was waiting for them in the passage. A tall, dark girl, with black hair dressed low that set off her olive complexion, and gave her just a slight foreign look. Her large eyes, alight with life, were now large and scared.
     It didn't matter how low Duffy felt, Alice always made him feel good. When she saw him, she put her hand quickly to her mouth. Her skin went a little paler, so that it looked almost oyster colour in the sunlit corridor. Her eyes filled with tears, but that was as far as she would show her feelings.
     “Bill Duffy!” she said, “how could you?”
     McGuire said, “A real fighting drunk, ain't he?”
     Duffy tried a grin, but it was so painful to him and to look at, he hastily took it off his face. “This ain't anything,” he kidded; “you ought to've seen me when I put Dempsey to sleep.”
     “He's light-headed,” Alice said,, but she put her hand on his arm. “Get him inside quickly, Sam.”
     McGuire said, “I'll be glad to. The way he's leaning on me, you'd think he's hurt.”
     They took him into McGuire's little flat. A pleasant four-room box of a place, bright and comfortable. Everywhere, Alice had left something of herself. The neatness, the sweet-smelling flowers, the shine of the stained boards, showed the woman's hand. Duffy looked round the sitting-room regretfully. Whenever he saw it, he felt a faint hunger. He had never made a secret about it. If McGuire hadn't married Alice, he would have. The three of them were close linked.
     When McGuire got him undressed and into the cool sheets, he relaxed, and the pain that was riding his body gradually began to ease. Alice came in a moment later, fixed his pillow, fussed round him with a scent bottle, and Duffy loved it.
     McGuire looked at his watch. “Let the animal sleep,” he said to Alice. “I gotta go and work. Keep away from him. If he gets fresh, call a cop.” Then looking at Duffy, he said, “Take a nap, soldier, I'll have a little chin with you later.”
     Duffy said, “I'll steal your wife from you.”
     Alice and Sam exchanged glances, Duffy watched them through his swollen eyes. He thought they looked a swell pair. He shut his eyes for a moment, then found it was too much trouble to open them again.
     Alice looked down at him. “What can have happened to the poor dear?” she said, keeping her voice very low.
     McGuire put his arm round her and they left the room together. “He said three toughs set about him,” he said, when they were in the living-room. “Let him have a good sleep, then we'll hear something more. I'll get back early tonight.”
     “Sam!” Duffy's voice was urgent.
     McGuire went back into the bedroom. “Go to sleep, you big loon,” he commanded.
     “Listen, Sam.” Duffy raised his head. “I want you to find out all you can about a girl called Annabel English, a guy called Daniel Morgan and whoever works for him. Dig in and get the lowdown on them. Don't miss a thing. Also find out what you can about Cattley the dope-peddler. Get that, and I'll rest all right.”
     McGuire took out a note-book and jotted down the names. “All right,” he said; “it all sounds screwy to me, and I'm bursting with curiosity, but I'll get you the dope, but in the meantime, take it easy.”
     When McGuire got back in the evening, Duffy was still sleeping.
     Alice said, “He's been that way all day.”
     “Sure, that's the best thing that could happen to him. Suppose we eat, and then maybe he'll be ready to talk.”
     While Alice was serving up, Duffy woke. He got into a dressing-gown and came out into the sitting-room. He looked a lot worse than he felt.
     Alice said, “Bill Duffy, go straight back to bed!”
     “I wish you two wouldn't pick on me,” Duffy said, sitting in an easy chair, “I'm feeling good. Hi, Sam, what about a drink?”
     The other two looked at each other helplessly.
     “A hopeless soak,” Sam said sadly. “You better go back.” Duffy shook his head. “You two birds had better be careful,” he said, “I've just had a little fast training, and I'll get tough.”
     McGuire settled the argument by producing a bottle of rum, a squeezer, some fresh limes, and a bottle of absinthe. He set about making up some Bacardi Crustas.
     “Make 'em big and strong,” Duffy said, “I want to get cockeyed tonight.”
     Alice looked round the kitchen door. “I've been waiting for that all day,” she said.
     “My wife's an awful drunkard,” Sam said.
     “You're telling me?” Duffy stood up to look at himself in the mirror. He took one glance, grimaced and sat down again. “I remember, before you knew her, when she got so stewed that it took ten cops to handle her.”
     Sam poured out the drinks. “That's old stuff,” he said, “you don't know what she's like now. Give her a few shots of rum, and it takes an army to handle her.”
     Alice came in. “When you two loafers've finished pulling my reputation to bits, come on in and eat.”
     They followed her into the kitchen, Duffy walking slowly, careful not to touch anything, and Sam with the big shaker in his hands.
     They sat round the table Duffy found it was difficult to eat, but he made a good show. They talked about general things until the meal was over. Both Alice and Sam were burning with curiosity, but they let Duffy have his head. When they had finished, they went back into the sitting-room. Alice sat herself on the arm of Duffy's chair, and McGuire stood in front of the empty fire-grate.
     Duffy said, “I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I guess you'd better have it from the start, and then we'll go into the whys and whats after.”
     He told them everything. How he met Morgan, what Morgan wanted him to do, how he went to the house and took the photographs, how the camera was stolen, how he found Cattley on the lift-shaft, how he got rid of the body, the meeting with the three toughs. He gave them the whole works.
     When he had finished, there was a long silence. Then McGuire said, “You've started something this time.”
     “I've not only started something, but it's something I'm going to finish.”
     Alice ran her long fingers through his hair. “I know it's no good me saying anything, but don't you think you've done enough?”
     Duffy put his fingers tenderly on his face, his eyes were suddenly very bleak. “No one can push me around like this and not know something about it,” he said softly.
     Alice got off the arm of his chair and walked over to the fireplace. She stood looking down at Duffy, her big eyes were sad. “You men are all alike,” she said; there was a faint undertone of bitterness in her voice. “All tough guys, who come home hurt!”
     Duffy looked over at Sam. “Suppose we forget that for a moment,” he said; “tell me what you found out about Annabel English.”
     Sam began to fill a pipe. “That dame's going to get herself into trouble one of these days,” he said, fumbling around for some matches. Alice took a box off the mantelshelf and gave them to him. “One of these days, she going to be stuck for a sucker, and then she'll be landed in the cooler.”
     Duffy said, “I want facts, not an extract from
True.”
     “Well, in brief, she's Edwin English's daughter. I supposed you guessed that?”
     Duffy looked startled. “No,” he said seriously, “I should have thought of that, but I didn't.”
     “Do you mean Edwin English, the politician?” Alice asked.
     Sam nodded shortly. “Yeah,” he said, “Annabel's the wild one of the family. English stands for anti-vice, you know all about his racket. Annabel's his big thorn. I guess she about crucifies the old man. About three years ago they agreed to part. He set her up in a swell apartment, and gave her a big allowance, on condition that she behaved herself, and didn't give him any cause for getting in bad with his voters.”
     Duffy said, “I'd just hate to be an anti-vice candidate with a daughter like that.”
     Sam nodded. “You bet,” he said, “this little dame's a nympho-something or other, I forget the word. You know, she's hot for anything in pants.”
     “You mean nymphomaniac?” Alice said, “isn't that rather strong?”
     “Strong?” Duffy broke in. “Say listen...” He paused, changed his mind, and went on, “never mind. It ain't too strong. Go on, Sam.”
     “The old man's for ever steaming himself in case she breaks out, and stains the family name. You know the type of thing. The other politicians are just praying that she does start something. They all hate English like hell. I don't wonder at it. That guy's mind is so narrow, he overbalances everytime he uses it.”
     “Anything more?”
     Sam shrugged. “A lot of hushed-up scandal that won't help you much,” he said. “English has paid plenty during the last two years, keeping her out of gaol and out of the papers. She goes to every smut night-club in town. She's on the list for getting smut cine-films for private exhibition. She's had three or four fancy boys who've been mixed up in shady business. And so on. Not a nice little girl.”