Paul Cain - Seven Slayers

The lieutenant muttered: “Christ! what a character shark! Trusting Gino and Tony!”

“They were going to take a powder, according to Lew’s info,” Demetrios went on. “Gino was going to shag a boat out of Boston for Havana an’ Tony was going to Florida by rail an’ meet him there. Between them they were supposed to have about four hundred grand. Lew told me about it an’ said he’d made a date to meet both of them at Tony’s at a quarter after one tonight. He wanted me to go along, but I couldn’t see it. It looked like a dumb play. Anyway, me an’ him was washed up and I been in bed since ten o’clock.”

The lieutenant snapped: “You’re good enough for us, Demetrios, as a material witness. Get on your clothes.”

“That’s what I get for trying to help you dumb bastards,” Demetrios bleated. He got up and went into the bathroom.

Green stood up, crossed quietly to Doyle and the lieutenant, whispered: “Don’t pick him up. Tell him to stand by for a call in the morning and let him go. I’ll lay six, two, and even he doesn’t go back to bed, but goes out. We can wait outside and if he doesn’t lead us somewhere I’m a Tasmanian watchmaker.”

Doyle looked doubtful, but the lieutenant seemed to like the idea.

He called: “Let it go, Demetrios. But stick around for a call in the morning.”

Demetrios appeared in the bathroom doorway in his pajamas. He looked a little bewildered.

“Can I go back to bed?”

Doyle said: “Sure. Get some sleep. You’ll probably need it. After all, we wouldn’t be getting nowhere in figuring out what this’s all about if it wasn’t for you.”

Demetrios nodded glumly, went over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Doyle grunted, “G’night,” and he and Green and the lieutenant filed out.

Demetrios sat silent for two or three minutes and then got up and went to the door, opened it and looked up and down the hall. Then he closed the door and crossed to the private telephone that stood on the stand beside the bed, beside the regular house phone. He sat down on the bed again and dialed a Schuyler number, said:

“Hello, honey. Listen. The big news just came through. They found ‘im on the New York Central tracks, uptown. Uh-huh. I guess he left the pinwheel at Tony’s an’ picked up Gino on the Boston train. Only Gino saw him first... A couple coppers just stopped by an’ told me. They thought I might like to know.”

He laughed quietly. “Sure, I gave ’em enough so they know he blasted Tony’s. They can figure the rest of it out for themselves. Now, listen. They’re probably waiting for me outside, but I’m going to duck out through the basement.” He glanced at the alarm clock on the dresser. “It’s a quarter of three. I’ll be over there in half an hour at the outside unless they tail me an’ then I’ll have to lose ’em. You throw some things in a bag an’ be ready to leave. We’ll take a little trip. Some place where it’s cool... Okay, baby — ’Bye.”

He hung up, dressed swiftly and took a traveling-bag out of a closet, began stuffing clothes into it.

Green’s car was parked on the other side of Broadway, on Seventy-sixth. He went into an all-night drugstore on the corner and called the Star-Telegram, asked for Kessler.

Kessler grunted, “Hello,” wearily, snapped out of it when he recognized Green’s voice.

“Hey, Nick! I just heard somebody took a shot at you,” he yelped. “You all right?”

“I’m okay. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

“That’s swell!” Kessler whooped. “Everything’s swell! I just put the Star-Telegram exclusive on Sallust to bed. What a story! It oughta be on the streets in an hour.”

Green said softly: “Blondie, if you want to keep your job, and keep the Star out of an awful jam, kill it.” Then, before Kessler could answer, he went on: “I just left Demetrios’ apartment. He’s the tall good-looking Greek that worked for Costain. Doyle and his partner are waiting for him to show, to tail him, but I’m afraid he’ll get past them and I have a very merry hunch where he’s going.”

Kessler interrupted: “But listen, Nick—”

“You listen.” Green’s tone was ominous. “Hold that story for at least an hour, and leap up to Three Thirty-one West Ninetieth with some Law, fast. I’ll be outside, or if I’m not, I’ll be upstairs in Costain’s apartment. Come up, and come quick. This is going to be the payoff on everything that’s happened tonight and it’ll make your Sallust story look like a want ad.”

“But listen...” Kessler sounded like he was about to cry.

Green snapped: “I’m depending on you. Make it fast and make it quiet. And don’t forget to bring along that fifty skins.”

He hung up the receiver and went out and got into his car drove to Amsterdam Avenue, up Amsterdam to Eighty-ninth, turned west. He parked just off Riverside Drive on Ninetieth, about a hundred and fifty feet west of the entrance to Three Thirty-one.

Then he lighted a cigarette and sat still and waited.

The man in the third-floor-front room at Three Thirty-two didn’t smoke any more; he simply waited, his eyes at the slit under the window shade. Occasionally he leaned back in the big chair, but for only a few seconds at a time and only after ten minutes or so of rigid, wary immobility.

At four minutes after three someone knocked at the door. He got up and opened it swiftly. Giuseppe Picelli came in; the man went back to the window.

Picelli sat down, said dully: “Got Solly. Green got away. There was ice...”

“There was ice,” the man at the window repeated slowly. “All right, there was ice. How long were they together?”

“Green came up to Solly — Solly was in his cab. They went into the bar and I called you. Two or three minutes after I came out of the booth, they came out. I went up to them on the sidewalk...”

“And there was ice.”

The man at the window stiffened suddenly, shaded his eyes from the dim light in the room. He peered intently through the slit for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, then stood up and picked up his suit-coat and put it on.

“Come on, Joe. We’re going places,” he said.

He took a big blue automatic out of the pocket of the tweed Chesterfield and stuck it against his stomach, under the belt, pulled the points of his vest down over it.

The two men went together out of the room and down two flights of stairs, out of the rooming house and across the street to Three Thirty-one.

The elevator boy stared wide-eyed at the man who had been sitting at the window.

“Jeeze, Mister Costain,” he stuttered. “I thought — Miss Neilan has been going crazy — calling up the newspapers every few minutes...”

Costain did not answer.

They got off at the fourth floor, went to the door of the front apartment on the right. Costain took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and unlocked it, opened it. They went in and closed the door.

June Neilan was a very pretty platinum blonde with wide blue eyes, orange lips that looked as if they had been put on to stay. She turned and stared at Costain and her creamy skin went gray.

Demetrios’ hand moved swiftly upward across his chest and then he looked at the snub-nosed revolver in Picelli’s hand, changed his mind and dropped his hands to his side, slowly.

Costain said: “Sit down.”

June Neilan walked unsteadily to the nearest chair, sat down. Demetrios stood still.

Costain went to Demetrios and reached inside his coat, jerked a .35 automatic out of a shoulder holster and handed it back to Picelli. Then he doubled up his right fist and swung hard at Demetrios’ jaw. Demetrios moved backward a little and Costain’s fist cut his cheek; two tiny drops of blood started out on the white skin just beneath the cheekbone.