Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Beanhead nodded sullenly.

“Then get in and sit next to George. I’ll take over from there.”

At the corner they turned right again. A dozen feet from the rear of the car Ross lagged behind a pace.

“Okay,” he said softly. “It’s time for your dramatic line.”

Beanhead pulled open the front door of the car and growled, “I don’t think she’s coming out, George.”

George Mott said, “Why the devil aren’t you—?” then came to an abrupt halt because Ross had slipped into the back seat and was leveling a gun at his head. With a resigned air Beanhead settled himself next to George Mott and pulled the door closed.

Ross reached over the front seat and lifted another forty-five automatic from the thin man’s lap. Dropping it on the rear floor, he leaned forward again to pat beneath Mott’s arms and at his side coat-pockets.

“Rise up and lean forward over the wheel,” he ordered.

When Mott had elevated himself awkwardly over the wheel, Ross felt his hip pockets, then told him to sit down again.

“Know where the Park Plaza is?” the gambler asked.

“Yeah,” Mott said morosely.

“Then head for it.”

George Mott started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

For the most part, St. Stephen was an early-rising town, and by two forty-five a.m., when they parked in front of the Hotel Park Plaza, the city was asleep. There wasn’t a pedestrian on the street or a moving car in sight.

“Before we get out you’d better explain about my gun, Beanhead,” Ross suggested. “I don’t want to cross a hotel lobby with a gun in my hand.”

The squat man said huskily. “This guy can pull a gun faster than you can blink your eyes, George. Don’t make any breaks even if it ain’t in his hand, or you’ll get us both burned.”

“That was well put,” Ross said approvingly.

Slipping his revolver into his holster, he slid from the back seat and waited for the others to get out. When they had climbed to the sidewalk, barely three feet from where the gambler faced them with his hands at his sides, George Mott examined him doubtfully.

“Don’t try anything, George,” Beanhead warned. “Can’t you see he’s just looking for an excuse?”

Ross looked disappointed. “You spoil my fun, Beanhead. It’d be a pleasure to watch your crummy friend thresh around in the gutter with blood bubbling out of his mouth.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the hotel’s front door. “After you, gentlemen.”

Mott and his stocky partner warily circled past the gambler. Ross fell into step a pace behind.

As they entered the lobby, Ross said, “Straight ahead to the elevators. When we get in, both of you lean against the right-hand wall.”

Only one elevator was in operation at that time of night. Beanhead entered it first. As Mott started to get in, his muscles tensed and he glanced over his shoulder at Ross, who was a bare step behind him. But the glint of pleased anticipation in the gambler’s eyes seemed to disconcert him. Meekly he placed his back against the right wall of the car, next to Beanhead. Ross lounged against the opposite wall and regarded the pair benignly.

“All the way up,” he said to the operator.

When they got off the elevator, Ross directed the two men across the hall to another, smaller elevator cage. This had only a four-passenger capacity, and Ross thought it prudent to make his captives stand with their faces pressed to the rear wall while he punched the up button.

The penthouse elevator let them out into a small foyer about six feet square. Across the foyer from the elevator door was the entrance to the penthouse.

Ross had the two men stand side by side in front of the door while he took up a position a foot behind them.

“Ring the bell, Beanhead,” he ordered.

It was several minutes and two repeat rings later before a small metal panel in the door slid back and a pair of eyes peered out at them.

“Oh, hello, George,” Vince Krzal’s voice said sleepily. “Hi, Clancy. What do you want?”

“In,” Ross said. “Open the door.”

“Bix is asleep,” Krzal objected. “It’s almost three a.m.”

“We know how to tell time,” Ross said patiently. “If it wasn’t important we’d be in bed ourselves. Open the idiot door.”

The eyes beyond the slot examined the squat man. “I don’t know this guy.”

“Just call him Beanhead,” Ross said. “I guarantee he isn’t carrying a gun. As a matter of fact, George isn’t either. I’m the only one carrying, and while I’m a little sore at Bix, I don’t plan to shoot him tonight. Open up.”

Grumbling to himself, Krzal unbolted the door and pulled it open. The bodyguard’s hair was tousled from sleep and he wore a robe over pajamas. Something heavy sagged in the right pocket of the robe.

Gently Ross pushed the two men in ahead of him. They entered into a wide front room furnished with modern furniture.

Ross pointed to a sofa against one wall and said to Mott and Beanhead, “Sit there, side by side.”

Vince Krzal looked puzzled when the two men meekly obeyed. “What’s up?” he inquired.

“Go get Bix out of bed,” Ross told him.

Scratching his head, the bodyguard disappeared into the hallway leading to the other rooms of the penthouse. Ross walked over to lean his back against the fireplace mantle, his gaze remaining fixed on the men seated on the sofa.

It was five minutes before Krzal returned, trailed by a sleepy-eyed Bix Lawson. Lawson shambled into the room wearing a purple bathrobe over violent green pajamas. Hands in robe pockets, he blinked at Ross, then at the men on the sofa. He looked a bit surprised when he saw the squat man.

“Hi, Bull,” he said. “When did you get in town?”

“The same time his partner did,” Ross said coldly.

Lawson yawned. “Yeah? Well, what’s so urgent it can’t wait till morning?”

“My temper,” Ross said. “What in hell do you mean by fingering one of my employees for these Syndicate guns?”

The gambler’s tone brought Lawson wide awake. For the first time he seemed to realize the three visitors hadn’t arrived together in friendly companionship. He looked from Ross to them, then back again.

In a slow voice he said, “Vince said something about you guaranteeing they weren’t carrying guns. What’s going on?”

“I didn’t like the way they had my club staked out,” Ross said in a savage tone. “I took their guns away so they wouldn’t shoot anybody. I also told Vince I wasn’t planning to shoot you tonight, but that’s subject to change if you don’t come up with the right answers.”

Lawson examined him doubtfully. Vince Krzal’s fingers closed over the gun in his robe pocket.

Ross said frigidly, “Tell that trained ape you use as a bodyguard to get his hand off his gun or I’ll put a bullet through his thick head.”

Krzal stiffened and his jaw jutted out belligerently. Ross’ indolent stance didn’t change, but suddenly such a palpable wave of impending violence emanated from him, Bix Lawson took an involuntary step backward.

“Get your hands out of your pocket, Vince,” he ordered nervously.

The bodyguard glanced sidewise at his employer. His jaw remained outthrust, but his hand reluctantly came out of his robe pocket, empty. Lawson gave Ross a strained smile.

“I don’t know what’s eating you, Clancy. If somebody passed at one of your people tonight, it wasn’t on my order.”

“No. You just did the fingering.”

“I never fingered anybody in my life!”

Ross said with bitter sarcasm, “I could have sworn it was you who brought this goon, George Mott, into my club tonight and introduced him under a fake name.”