No Orchids for Miss Blandish (16 page)

"Just around the corner. Take us two minutes."

Maisey hesitated, then she got to her feet.

"The risks we poor girls have to run for a little dough," she said. "Well, okay, but remember--no funny business."

"The idea never entered my head," Rocco lied.

He had a convenient little apartment on the third floor above a filling and garage station with a back entrance though a courtyard that was used as a parking lot.

Maisey was surprised to see how nicely the big sitting room-bedroom was arranged and kept. The furniture was of light oak. A few rugs made islands on the polished floor. The chairs were big and overstuffed. There was a vast divan capable of sleeping four people: five at a pinch.

Maisey stood gaping at the divan.

"That's pretty ambitious for a little guy like you, isn't it?" she asked as he helped her off with her coat. "I'd have thought you would have got lost in that desert."

"You'd be surprised what goes on in that bed," Rocco said with a wink. "Me--I like plenty of room to maneuver in."

"I'll say you do," Maisey said admiringly and giggled.

As she began to wander around the room, peering at his possessions, Rocco fixed two stiff drinks.

"Come and sit down, baby," he said, "I want to talk business to you."

Maisey lowered herself into one of the big lounging chairs. It was so deep, her knees were higher than her head. As Rocco handed her the highball, he looked with interest at what he could see of her from where he was standing.

"Talk away," Maisey said. "I'm listening."

Rocco waved his glass at her. Maisey drank half the whiskey in her glass, then blew out her cheeks.

"Say, this is strong enough to knock over a pregnant mule."

"You think so?" Rocco said and patted her exposed knee. "But then you're no pregnant mule."

Maisey giggled. She didn't often get a chance to drink good Scotch. As Rocco offered her a cigarette, she emptied her glass.

"I'll give you a refill," Rocco said, taking her glass to the cabinet.

"Only a small one," Maisey said, settling herself comfortably, "or I'll get cockeyed."

"Why should you worry?" Rocco said as he sloshed four inches of whiskey into the glass and a little soda. He put the glass within her reach, then he sat opposite her.

"I'm looking for a smart girl who can get me some information. This is strictly confidential, baby. I want to get a line on the Grisson gang. You're on the inside. You could get me what I want."

Maisey didn't like this idea at all. She was scared of Ma Grisson. Monkeying with Ma could be dangerous. She drank some of the whiskey while she attempted to think. To Maisey any form of thinking came hard. Rocco could almost hear her brain creak.

"If the idea doesn't jell, baby," he said, "forget it. I'll play you some records instead. I've got a great library of jazz, but if you want to pick up a steady thirty bucks a week, here's your chance."

"What sort of information do you want?" Maisey asked cautiously.

"I'm not fussy," Rocco said. "I haven't been in the joint since Ma took over. Anything illegal going on in there?"

Maisey belched gently.

"Plenty," she said. "I get the jitters sometimes in case there's a raid."

"Don't be coy," Rocco said, "Let's have some details."

Maisey wagged her finger at him.

"Let's have some money first, bright boy."

Rocco sighed. Women seemed, these days, he thought, to think only of money. He took out his roll, thumbed off twenty one dollar bills and handed them to Maisey.

"I trust you, sweetheart," he said, wondering if he was wasting his money. "Now give me something."

Maisey finished her drink. She was feeling a little dizzy.

"Let's see." She frowned up at the ceiling. "They've got a roulette table. That's illegal, isn't it? Then upstairs they have a brothel. That's illegal too. I'll tell you something else. All the doors are made of steel and there are steel shutters to the windows. By the time the cops break in, I'll bet there'll be nothing to see."

Rocco looked at her unhappily. He knew most of what she had told him. He tried another angle.

"Where were the boys going just now?" he asked. "I saw Flynn, Woppy and Slim in the Dodge heading out of town."

Maisey crossed one long leg over the other. Rocco blinked. From where he sat, he could see plenty.

"I wouldn't know," she said. "Flynn said it was business."

She blew out her cheeks. "Phew! that Scotch is strong! He said they wouldn't be back until nine. How's about another drink?"

Patiently, Rocco fixed her another drink.

"Keep trying," he said. "Is there anything out-of-the-way going on in the club? Anything odd?"

Maisey groped for her drink and nearly dropped it.

"Whoops! That nearly lost good liquor," she said. "I think I'm just a little bit plastered."

"Not you," Rocco said, helping her put the drink on the table. "You're just happy."

"Yeah, maybe." She tried to focus him without success. "I'll tell you something: Slim's got a girl friend."

Rocco shook his head.

"No, baby, not Slim. He's never had a girl friend, and never will have. He's not built that way. Try something else."

Maisey glared aggressively at him.

"Are you calling me a liar? I'm telling you he's got a girl who he keeps locked in a room upstairs."

Rocco felt a sudden quickening of excitement. Could he be getting somewhere with this dumb chick?

"Why does he keep her locked up?" he asked.

Maisey fanned herself with her hand, shaking her head.

"Search me. Mind you, if that streak of horror took a notion for me, I'd have to be locked up if he was to get anywhere with me." She giggled. "I'm sorry for her. Slim scarcely ever leaves her. He stays in that locked room with her nearly all the time."

Rocco was getting intrigued.

"Have you ever seen her?"

"Just once, but I hear, every night before the club opens, Slim takes her for a walk. They don't stay out long. I reckon he just walks her around the block and brings her back. I got to the club a little early: my watch was wrong. That's when I saw her. Slim and the girl were coming down the stairs. I only got a glimpse of her because Ma appeared and hustled me into the Ladies' room."

"What was the girl like?" Rocco asked, listening intently.

"I didn't see her face. She had a scarf over her head and pulled across her face, but there was something queer about her. She walked down the stairs as if she couldn't see --the way blind people walk."

"Ma know about all this?"

"Sure, and Doc too. Doc goes up to her room every day."

Rocco thought for a moment. This might be worth investigating, he thought.

"I want to see this girl," he said. "How do I do it?"

Maisey smiled drunkenly at him.

"I'm not stopping you. Stick around the club between ten and eleven and you'll see Slim and her taking a walk."

If Slim was going to be out of town until nine, Rocco thought, there wouldn't be much chance of seeing this mysterious girl tonight.

"You don't tell me he takes her out through the front entrance?" he said.

Maisey was suddenly feeling faint. The room was moving slowly up and down with the motion of a ship.

"There's a back entrance," she said, "through the warehouse next door."

Rocco smiled. He was now sure he hadn't wasted his money.

"That Scotch seems to have been a little too much for you, baby," he said. "Come and lie down."

"You've got something there," Maisey said. "I feel terrible."

Rocco pulled her out of the chair. She staggered against him and would have fallen if he hadn't caught hold of her.

"Whoops! Someone is rocking my dream boat," she said and clung hard to him.

Rocco looked at the clock on the mantel. The time was a little after three. He guided Maisey to the divan and lowered her gently onto its wide softness.

"The same old, old story," she said, her eyes closed. "The guy says strictly business and it's always strictly something else."

Rocco lowered the blinds.

He believed in the right atmosphere.

Maisey sighed happily when he took her in his arms.

FENNER arrived at the foot of the dirt road leading to Johnny's shack soon after four o'clock in the afternoon. He had driven hard and fast, and he was sharply conscious of the possibility that some of the Grisson gang could be coming after him.

Before leaving town, he had paused long enough to telephone Paula, telling her where he was going.

"I think I'm on to something," he said. "Call Brennan and tell him what's cooking. Tell him to come to Johnny's place fast."

"Why don't you wait for him?" Paula asked anxiously. "Why go out there alone?"

"Quit worrying," Fenner said. "Tell Brennan," and he hung up.

But now, as he drove his car off the road and behind a thicket, he began to think Paula's suggestion had been a sensible one. This place was miles from anywhere: it was lonelier than a pauper's grave.

He got out of the car, satisfied himself it couldn't be seen from the road, then he started up the dirt road towards Johnny's shack.

Half-way up the road, he paused to pull his gun and slide off the safety catch. He was pretty sure none of the Grisson gang had got ahead of him, but he wasn't taking any chances.

The evening sun was hot, and Fenner, who hated walking, cursed under his breath as he left the dirt road and started along the twisting path that led directly to the shack.

Two hundred yards ahead of him, he could see the dense wood through which he was walking open out onto a clearing. He slowed, picking his way silently, his eyes and ears alert.

A blue-winged jay suddenly flew out of a tree close by with a flapping of wings that startled Fenner. He looked up, his heart skipping a beat and then he grinned.

I'm as jittery as an old maid with a man under her bed, he told himself, and moved on cautiously to the edge of the clearing. He paused behind a tree and looked at the shabby wooden shack that stood in the center of the clearing.

It looked as if Johnny was at home. The door stood open and wood smoke curled lazily from the single chimney.

Keeping his gun hand down by his side and out of sight, Fenner walked silently over the rough grass until he reached the front door. He paused just outside the shack to listen.

He could hear Johnny humming to himself. He moved forward and paused in the open doorway.

Johnny, his back turned, was bending over the stove. He was cooking bacon in a frying pan. The smell of the bacon made Fenner's nose twitch.

Fenner looked quickly around the large dirty room. The gun rack, holding two shotguns was by the door, well away from Johnny.

He stepped into the room, covering the old man with his gun.

"Hello, Johnny," he said softly.

Johnny stiffened, then shuddered. He straightened and turned very slowly. His red, raddled face went slack with fright at the sight of Fenner. His dim, watery eyes opened wide at the sight of the gun in Fenner's hand.

"Take it easy," Fenner said. "Remember me, Johnny?"

The old man seemed to be having trouble with his breathing.

"What are you pointing that gun at me for?" he croaked.

Fenner lowered the gun.

"Remember me?" he repeated.

Johnny blinked at him, frowning.

"You're the guy from the newspaper, aren't you?"

"That's right," Fenner said. "Sit down, Johnny, I want to talk to you."

Johnny lowered himself onto an upturned box. He seemed glad to get the weight off his legs. He shoved the frying pan off the direct heat of the stove and then with a shaking hand, he rubbed his bristly chin while he squinted up at Fenner.

"Now listen, Johnny," Fenner said, "you could be in bad trouble. You could go to jail for a long stretch. You wouldn't like that, would you? No booze; no nothing. You come clean with me and I'll cover you. All I want from you is some information."

"I don't know nothing about nothing," Johnny said. "I don't want you around here. I just want to be left alone."

"Riley and his mob were here about three months ago, weren't they?" Fenner asked.

Johnny stiffened. He looked wildly around the room as if seeking a way of escape.

"I don't know nothing about Riley."

"Listen, you old fool," Fenner said sharply, "lying won't get you anywhere. They had the Blandish girl with them. Riley called his girl friend from here. She's talking. So far, she has only talked to me, but if she starts talking to the cops, you'll be in trouble. They'll work you over, Johnny, until you do open your mouth. Now come on. Riley was here, wasn't he?"

Johnny hesitated, then with a cunning expression in his eyes, he nodded.

"Yeah, that's right. He and Bailey and Old Sam and a girl. They didn't stay long; not more than ten minutes. I wouldn't have them here. They were too hot. I wasn't taking a chance of getting in bad with the cops so I told them to keep moving. Riley called his girl, then they got back into their car and beat it. I don't know where they went."

But the way he told it, the way he looked convinced Fenner he was lying.

"Okay, Johnny," he said mildly. "That puts you right in the clear. Just too bad you don't know where they went Blandish is offering a reward for information. Wouldn't you like to lay your hands on fifteen thousand bucks?"

Johnny blinked. It was now over three months since he had buried Riley, Bailey and Old Sam, and what a job that had been! Schultz had promised him a cut of the ransom money, but he hadn't had it. He knew the ransom had been paid. He had taken the trouble to go into town and buy a newspaper. He had been double-crossed and he felt mean and bitter about it.

"Fifteen thousand bucks?" he repeated. "How do I know I would get it?"

"I'd see you got it, Johnny," Fenner said.

Better not, Johnny told himself. It was too dangerous to monkey with the Grisson gang.

He shook his head reluctantly.

"I don't know nothing," he said.

"You're lying," Fenner said and moved over to the old man. "Do you want me to work you over, Johnny? Like this?" He hit Johnny a backhand slap across his face: not a hard blow, but hard enough to make the old man rock and nearly fall off the box. "Come on! Spill it!" Fenner went on, raising his voice. "Where's Riley? You can either pick up fifteen thousand bucks or take a beating! What's it to be?"