Ричард Деминг - Whistle Past the Graveyard [= Give the Girl a Gun]

“Fine,” I said. “All we have to do is try every door in the city. Including the inside doors, since there’s no label on it saying it isn’t just a room key.”

“You don’t think very fast, Moon,” the inspector said sourly. He handed the key to the uniformed lieutenant, “Get a house-to-house canvass started, with this place as an axis. You’re looking for a good-looking blonde of about twenty-seven.” He turned his eyes to me. “Know how she was dressed, Moon?”

“Probably in an evening gown,” I said. “We were supposed to go out tonight.”

Mouldy Greene said, “She had on a green formal held up by her neck.”

When we both looked at him, he elaborated, “Just by a kind of cloth dog collar, I mean. No shoulder straps.”

Warren Day turned back to the lieutenant. “That ought to be enough of a description to make her stand out in this neighborhood. My hunch is she’s somewhere nearby as I don’t imagine Alberto would want to go too far for a phone and he wouldn’t want to leave her alone too long, even if he’s got her tied up. You’ve got Thomaso’s description, you’ve got the girl’s and you’ve got a key. I’ll give you two hours to find her.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, saluted and left the tavern.

There was nothing more we could do but await the results of the canvass. I went back to El Patio with Mouldy to wait and the inspector went home. Before he left, Day had calmed down enough to be a little ashamed of his previous display of temper, and he made oblique amends by brusquely instructing one of the remaining cops to phone me at El Patio the moment there was any news of Fausta.

The lieutenant managed to make the deadline Warren Day had set, but he only just made it. It took the police almost exactly two hours to locate Fausta. By then it was after one A.M., El Patio was closed, and Mouldy and I were seated at the bar alone when the call came.

It was from the cop Day had instructed to phone me, and all he could tell me was that Fausta had been found tied and gagged in a rooming house, she was unharmed and she was at that moment on her way to El Patio in a squad car.

“You’ll have to get the details from Miss Moreni,” he said. “I wasn’t with the team that found her, and all I know is what the lieutenant told me.”

Fifteen minutes later Fausta came in escorted by two large policemen. Ordinarily Fausta is immaculate, but now her green formal was wrinkled, her lipstick smeared all over her face from the gag that had been in her mouth, and her blonde hair was tumbled every which way.

I am not very demonstrative, particularly before an audience, but after the strain of the last few hours my first impulse was to grab Fausta in my arms and kiss her. I got as far as rising from my bar stool before I noticed the expression in her eyes, then hurriedly changed my mind and reseated myself.

Fausta stopped directly before me, balled fists on her hips, and her lovely brown eyes flashed fire.

“Manny Moon, this is all your fault!” she announced. “If you would get yourself a decent job instead of working at this horrible profession that gets you mixed up with...”

Then she caught sight of herself in the bar mirror and stopped short, an expression of horror growing on her face. Turning her back on all of us, she ran toward the powder room.

When Fausta finally rejoined us, she was as immaculate as usual except for the wrinkles in her gown. Apparently she had calmed Somewhat, but there was still a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

“Just what has been going on tonight, my one?” she demanded of me.

“I thought you’d be able to tell me,” I said mildly.

“I was talking to you on the phone when this man came out of the closet,” she said. “He hit me with something, and the next thing I knew I was lying on a bed in a damp basement, tied up and gagged. Why do you allow such men in your apartment? And what are you going to do about catching him?”

“He’s been caught, Fausta. He’s dead.”

Her eyes grew wide. “You... you killed him, Manny?” she asked weakly.

“A cop killed him,” I said. “He tried to outshoot the cop’s riot gun with a twenty-two pistol. Don’t feel bad about it. He’s no great loss.”

“Who was he?” she whispered.

“A young hood named Alberto Thomaso. Somebody hired him to kidnap you. We think his boss must have been Walter Ford’s killer, but we aren’t sure because Alberto died without talking. Did he tell you anything at all?”

Fausta shook her head. “I did not even see him, except for a flashing glimpse from the corner of my eye just before he hit me. When I woke up, I was tied and he was gone.”

Patrolman Larkins put in, “The lieutenant who detailed us to bring Miss Moreni home said they found her in a basement room over on Third about four blocks from some tavern. I didn’t understand what tavern he was talking about.”

“The one the kidnaper phoned from,” I said.

Fausta said, “That must be the lieutenant who was talking to the landlady where they found me. I heard her tell him the man who kidnaped me rented the room only that morning. The lieutenant said he guessed he picked it because it had a private entrance to the alley and he could come and go without being seen. They found a stolen panel truck in the alley, and they think he used that to take me from your apartment.”

I asked Fausta if she didn’t think we ought to have a doctor look at her to make sure she didn’t have a concussion from Alberto’s leather sap.

“I am all right except for a little headache,” she said. “See the bump I have?”

Turning her back to me, she lifted the blonde tresses over one ear to disclose a small black-and-blue lump. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Is that all?”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Fix it up,” she said imperiously.

Fausta knows I regard such antics as kissing a hurt to make it well as puerile, which was why she demanded the attention. She was merely taking her small revenge for being involved in what, understated, was an unpleasant evening.

I looked at Mouldy, who only grinned at me. The two cops looked politely disinterested.

Rather self-consciously I leaned forward and lightly kissed the bruise.

That was a mistake, for I might have known she wouldn’t let it drop there.

“That is better,” she said briskly, dropping her hair back in place and turning to face me. “But the gag also bruised my lips.” She looked at me expectantly and I growled, “I’ll fix that later.”

“Go ahead, Sarge,” Mouldy advised. “Don’t let us bother you.”

“Go to hell,” I said.

“Manny is bashful,” Fausta informed the two cops in a conspiratorial aside. “Would one of you like to fix my hurt?”

“Manny is also jealous,” I announced. “The first Swede or Irishman who takes that invitation will have to gum his food in the future.”

Then, since she was asking for it, I grabbed Fausta’s wrist, jerked her up against me and kissed her right in front of Mouldy and the two cops.

The minute our lips touched I not only lost my inhibitions, I lost my awareness that we had an audience. But just before smoke began to issue from my ears, I was reminded that we did have one.

Mouldy Greene burst into wild applause.

Pushing Fausta away, I said to Mouldy. “You’re a moron,” and walked behind the bar to mix myself a drink.

“Fix a couple of nightcaps for the officers while you are back there,” Fausta said in a deliberately smug voice.

She knows it infuriates me when she turns smug after succeeding in making me drop my reserve.

On the assumption that since the killer had become panicky enough to have Fausta kidnaped once, he might try it again, I laid down some rules before I left El Patio.