James Chase: Fast Buck

Dallas took out his wallet, selected two tens and dropped them on the desk.

‘That should cover five minutes of your precious time,’ he said. ‘I want to know as much about Kile as you can tell me.’

Favell hurriedly pocketed the bills.

‘I don’t know a great deal,’ he said, relaxing. ‘By the way, you can keep your trap shut about that red-head. She has a husband in the wrestling racket, and he’s been waiting to pick on me.’

‘Never mind about her: tell me about Kile.’

‘He comes from San Francisco. Hasn’t been here more than a couple of months. He’s bought a big house on Roosevelt Boulevard which he hasn’t paid for yet, and probably never will. Three years ago he was a successful market manipulator and cleaned up a packet, but since then he seems to have dropped out of business. He spends a lot of his time on the race-tracks. He must win more than he loses, as he doesn’t seem to have any other means of making a living.’

‘What’s this about trouble?’

Favell stubbed out his cigarette, and helped himself to another from Dallas’s case.

‘Scandal more than trouble. The guy’s never grown up. His theme song’s wine, women and irate husbands. He specialises in married women, and a couple of husbands have taken shots at him in the past. One of them winged him. It was hushed up, but it didn’t teach him a lesson. He gets into brawls as easily as you get into bed. He drinks too much, and when he’s lit up, he gets tough. For a man of his age he should know better, but he just won’t learn.’

‘Who’s the blonde he’s going around with?’

‘Eve Gil is. Quite a dish, isn’t she? He took her out of the Follies about a month ago and set her up in an apartment on Roxburgh Avenue. It can’t last long. He’s a love ’em and leave ’em Joe, but from the look of her she’ll get what she can out of him before he gives her the gate.’

‘They cal ed on the Rajah of Chittabad about an hour ago,’ Dal as said thoughtful y. ‘From what you tell me they don’t sound like people a Rajah would entertain.’

Favell looked interested.

‘They’re not. Are you sure?’

‘Yeah; I saw them go to his suite.’

‘You still working on that jewel robbery?’

‘Sure; it’s Purvis’s main source of income.’

Favell thought for a moment, his polished nails tapping on his blotter.

‘You may be on to something here,’ he said at length. ‘I’ve heard rumours that Kile is in contact with the underworld. Just rumours, mind you; nothing concrete. I’ve never been able to get any proof. He spends a lot of his time at the Frou-Frou Club. It’s run by a wop named Ralph Rico, a small-time fence.

Rico’s slowly moving up in the world. It wouldn’t startle me to hear Kile’s behind him. It might pay off to keep an eye on Rico.’

‘The police haven’t anything on Kile,’ Dal as said, frowning.

‘I know that. I tell you at one time Kile was in the money in a big way. Some of his deals were a little questionable, but then most big-shot financiers do edge over the line sometimes. What puzzles me is he’s been out of business now for two years. Admit edly he’s probably worth a lot stil , but he certainly knows how to spend his money. You could do worse than to look into his association with Rico. He may be planning something.’

‘Okay, I wil .’ Dal as slid off the desk. ‘If you hear anything you think’d interest me, give me a buzz.’

‘Don’t blame me if there’s nothing to it,’ Favel said, reaching for a pile of copy in his In-tray. These rumours about Kile may be a lot of phooey.’

‘I know. Half the tips I get lead nowhere,’ Dal as said gloomily. ‘That’s the hell of this job. Well, so long. Next time you stage an eye operation, better lock the door.’

He went out, tipped his hat to the red-head who was busily typing in the outer office, grinned to himself when she tossed her head at him, and made his way rapidly down to the street.

So she was dead!

Verne Baird crushed the newspaper between his big, powerful hands. His pale eyes ranged over the noisy saloon, packed with people, cloudy with cigarette smoke and strident with voices, laughter and the jangle of a juke-box. No one was looking his way, and he dropped the newspaper on the floor, kicking it out of sight under the booth seat.

Damn her! he thought savagely. To have died like that! It wasn’t as if he had hit her more than once.

A broken neck! It was unbelievable!

He would have to get out of town now. Olin would be certain to pick on him. What a fool he had been to waste a precious hour in this saloon! He should have gone as soon as he had got his get away stake from Rico. Now it wasn’t going to be easy to get out. Every cop in town would be looking for him.

He signalled to the Negro bartender, who came over, his face glistening with sweat.

‘Another beer with a shot of rye,’ Baird said, ‘and snap it up.’

While the Negro went back to the bar, Baird lit a cigarette. He had no qualms about killing this woman. This wasn’t the first time he had killed. The act of taking a life was of no consequence to him. If someone got in his way, he killed them. Even his own life was of no value to him. He knew, sooner or later, the police would corner him, and it would be his turn to die. But so long as he had life in him, he would rage against any interference, any break in his planned routine, and this woman’s death was going to upset his plans. He wouldn’t be free to wander the streets or sit in a saloon or drive the battered Ford along the highway when the mood was in him to escape from the noise and the congestion of the city’s streets. He would have to watch his step. He couldn’t walk into a saloon now until he had carefully checked what exits there were, if a copper was lurking inside, if someone was planning to reach for a telephone the moment he was seen.

He drew his thin lips off his teeth in an angry snarl. Damn her! To have a neck as brittle as that!

He became aware that the Negro was whispering to the barman as he levered beer into a pint glass.

Baird slid his hand inside his coat. The touch of the Colt was reassuring. He watched the Negro carry the drinks across the room, and he could see the excitement of unexpected news in the Negro’s rol ing eyes.

The Negro set the drinks on the table. As he did so, he whispered, ‘A couple of dicks coming down the street, boss. They’re looking in every saloon.’

Baird drank the rye down in a hungry gulp, pushed the beer towards the Negro.

‘Got a back exit?’ he asked, without moving his lips.

The Negro nodded. Baird could see the sweat of excitement running down the ruts in the Negro’s black skin.

‘Through the far door, down the passage,’ the Negro said, and grinned delightedly as Baird flicked a dollar over to him.

‘Take care of the beer,’ Baird said, got up and walked without hurrying across the smoke-filled room to the door the Negro had indicated.

As he pushed open the door someone shouted, ‘Hey! Not that way, mister. That’s private.’

Baird felt a vicious spurt of rage run through him, and he had to restrain himself not to turn and go back to smash the face of the man who had called out. He didn’t look around, but stepped into a dimly lit corridor and walked quickly to the door at the far end.

A fat little Wop in an under-vest, his trousers held up by a piece of string, appeared from a room near by. He was sleepily scratching his bare, hairy arms, and his red, unshaven face was still puffed by sleep.

‘Can’t come this way,’ he said, waving a hand at Baird. ‘The other way, please.’

Baird looked at him, without pausing. The Wop stepped back hurriedly, his mouth falling open. He stood stiffly still, watching Baird as he opened the door and peered into the dark alley beyond.