Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

It said: “Meet me at the Sheridan Lounge at eleven P.M..” Nothing more, not even a signature.

My wrist watch said a quarter of nine, and the Sheridan Lounge is in the basement of the Sheridan Hotel, just two blocks from where I was parked. If I hurried I could make it by eleven, I thought dourly.

I frowned down at the note, mildly irritated by its terseness. I was in no mood for clandestine romance, if that was what the woman had in mind. But if she had some information about Knight, I could hardly afford to stand her up. Her tone had seemed over-insistent when she said, “I know him only as my husband’s partner,” which might indicate she knew something she was unwilling to disclose in front of Mr. Jones, or might merely be one of the oddly vapid utterances she routinely made without apparent thought.

Resignedly I decided the only way to find out was to be at the Sheridan Lounge at eleven. And since I had not taken time to so much as wash my hands and face since I left my flat at one, I decided to employ the two and a quarter hours before my date to wash and change my shirt.

As no garage comes with my flat, I keep my Plymouth at a public garage up the street. At nine I put my car away for the night and started to walk to my apartment, deciding to take a taxi for my date. I can only drive a car so long before the strain on my thigh muscles caused by operating the accelerator with my false foot begins to cause my thigh to ache.

As I passed the areaway between my place and the building next door, a dim figure stepped from between the buildings and a hand flash shone in my face. Immediately it flicked out again.

“Night watchman,” explained a cheery voice.

Peering through the gloom, I made out a big, chunkily built man with a battered but good-natured face.

“You must be new. What’s the matter with Jim?”

“Sick. You’re Mr. Moon, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Idly I wondered why he wasn’t in uniform, since the block’s regular night watchman was a deputized member of the force. I should also have wondered how he knew my name, but his cheery manner threw me off guard.

The man touched his cloth cap. “Bit dark tonight. Evening, sir.”

“Night,” I said, and walked on two steps.

What felt like a baseball bat, but was probably the flashlight, caught me behind the ear.

I didn’t black out; I only lost the ability to control my arms and legs. Falling forward, I landed on hands and knees, and when a big hand grasped my collar and dragged me into the areaway, I was powerless to do anything about it.

Leaning me against the side of the building in a sitting position, the big man peered down at me with a grin. I gazed up at him stunned, unable to move either arm.

“I ain’t gonna kill you,” the man said. “Just make you even uglier than you are. And when you wake up, remember to stay out of Barney Seldon’s hair. Got that?”

I tried to shake my head, but it only lolled forward.

“I guess you got it,” he decided. “Now I’ll learn you how to kick a field goal.” Tentatively he swung his right foot to limber it up, and added, “Your head is the ball.”

Apparently he was satisfied that he was in kicking shape. With a kind of morbid fascination I watched his foot swing back and his body lean forward to balance it.

My eyes were fixed on the foot, and as it reached the peak of its backswing, a hand snaked from the darkness and clamped about the ankle. The foot went even higher than it intended, the fake watchman’s mouth popped open in surprise and he fell flat on his face.

Before he could scramble as far as his hands and knees, a long lanky form settled in the middle of his back and the new arrival slashed downward with the edge of one palm.

Farmer Cole arose, ran his tongue along the edge of his buckteeth and regarded me without expression. “He got you with a rabbit punch,” he said. “Paralyzed, aren’t you?”

I managed a thick, “Yes.”

“It’ll pass in a minute.”

He stood watching both of us without any particular interest until feeling began to return to my limbs. When my arms and legs would again work, I felt the lump behind my ear and shakily climbed to my feet. Unreasonably I felt irritation rather than gratitude at the Farmer’s sudden appearance.

“You been tailing me?” I asked.

“How do you think I got here?” he said in a bored voice.

This only increased my unreasonable anger. I had always been proud of possessing almost a sixth sense about being tailed, but I had not had an inkling of a suspicion that the Farmer was within miles. Suddenly remembering the equally timely appearance he had made in Carson City, I realized he had been right behind me all day.

“When I need a nursemaid, I’ll let you know,” I said between clenched teeth.

He glanced down at the still unconscious strong-arm man, raised one eyebrow and shrugged. “Boss’s orders, Bud. Personally I don’t care who busts you up. Wouldn’t mind doing it myself.”

“That I’d like to see,” I said, staggering forward and thrusting out my jaw.

“Okay,” he obliged, planting either a right or a left hook on it.

I am not sure which because I didn’t see it.

When I was able to get to my feet the second time, Farmer Cole was nowhere in sight. Shaking the cobwebs out of my brain, I frisked my first assailant, who had progressed to the point of groaning and rolling over on his back.

The guy had come prepared for any contingency. Removing from his pockets a gun, a clasp knife, a set of brass knuckles and a sap, I stacked them in a neat pile a dozen feet away. When I returned, he was sitting up rubbing the back of his neck.

I waited until he had fully recovered his faculties and was on his feet. I figured the blow from Farmer Cole’s edged palm had about the same effect on him the flashlight had on me, and his head must be throbbing with about the same intensity as mine. The right (or left) hook I had taken from the Farmer made the punishment I had absorbed more than the fake watchman’s, however, a matter I felt it necessary to rectify.

He glanced around carefully and asked, “Where’s the other guy?”

“Gone,” I said. “There’s just you and me.”

He allowed a delighted smile to form on his battered lips. “How come you didn’t take off too?”

“Curiosity,” I told him. “I want to see if you can do it when my back isn’t turned.”

He shook his head wonderingly. “I’m almost ashamed to do it, Bud. I got thirty pounds on you, and I used to be a professional.”

“So was I,” I admitted modestly.

“Aw, let’s call it off,” he said. “Shake on it.”

He stuck out a huge right, I grinned and pretended to reach for it. Instantly his left whistled toward my head, I stepped inside, pushed a right jab into his belly, followed with a left uppercut and right and left hooks to the jaw in rapid succession.

In his prime he couldn’t have been more than a tanker, and now he was getting soft. On the other hand I had once been fairly hot in the ring. Not nearly as hot as I thought at the time, now that I look back on it, but nevertheless better than the average club fighter. In spite of a false leg I still have most of my co-ordination, and it was no match. He was staggering like a drunk after the first flurry.

Ordinarily I am not sadistic, but Barney Seldon had ordered his goon to leave permanent marks, and I felt the least I could do in return was leave temporary ones. I could have put him away with the second hook, but I kept him awake and deliberately cut him to ribbons.

When he was ready for the hospital, I went up to my apartment and called a police ambulance. Then, while waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I phoned Warren Day again.