Dan Marlowe - The Fatal Frails

“It's your knowledge of certain circumstances I'm tryin' to line up on my side,” Johnny told him. “What's the price?”

“You've heard of ethics, Mr. Killain? Legal ethics?”

“Nobody doin' business with these people has ethics,” Johnny said positively. “What're they payin' you?”

“I think that you had better leave now. Immediately.”

Johnny shook his head at the attempted dignity in the shaken voice. “You know I'm gonna do business with someone, Ernest. Why not with you?” He studied the moist-looking face across the desk. “Use your phone?” he asked abruptly, and without waiting for permission pulled it toward him. He picked up the metal tel-e-list from in front of Faulkner and thumbed the indicator down to the W's. A touch sprang it open.

“Here! What do you think you're doing?” The lawyer came halfway up out of his chair and then sank back into it.

“Callin' a mutual acquaintance,” Johnny said, dialing the number listed for Madeleine Winters. Across from him Faulkner removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the faint sheen visible on his white forehead. “I noticed the other night she had a phone in the living room and another in the bedroom. This the unlisted number?” He shook his head in mock regret at the lack of response from the man behind the desk.

“Harry, darling?” the phone cooed in Johnny's ear.

“You tryin' to make me jealous? This is Killain, from the Duarte.”

“How did you get this number, Killain?” Her tone had hardened up like wet leather in the desert sun, he thought admiringly. This woman really had a cutting edge.

“You know anything that's not for sale if the price is right?” he asked her. “Let's get to somethin' important. I want to see you. How about your place tonight? Around nine?” He could almost hear the gears going around beneath the ash-blonde hair.

“Tonight?” she began doubtfully, and then her voice firmed up. “All right. I'll arrange it.”

“Fine. I'll be there.” Johnny nodded casually to a whey-faced Ernest Faulkner as he replaced the phone.

“Are you trying to get me in trouble?” the lawyer croaked.

“Nothin' like that, Ernest,” Johnny soothed him. He moved the indicator on the tel-e-list again, opened it at the P's, and pointed out Palmer's number to the wide-eyed lawyer. “Don't forget to call Harry. You know how he likes to keep posted.”

On his way through the waiting room Johnny bowed gravely to a ramrod-straight Miss McPartland, who looked right through him.

At three minutes to nine that night Johnny walked up the stairs in Madeleine Winters' apartment building, avoiding the elevator. At the door he pushed the white button in the left jamb. Chimes, he was sure, but he couldn't hear them. The place must be well-insulated. Or soundproofed.

Harry Palmer opened the door. “How you do get around, man,” Johnny said to him, and walked inside. Behind him he heard the solid snick of the lock as the door closed again. At the far end of the huge white-and-gold room, Madeleine Winters stood erect with her hands clasped loosely at her waist. She had on something that looked to Johnny like black lounging pajamas, but he had to forgo a closer look.

A big man, who seemed to overflow in all directions from the armchair in which he sat, lumbered to his feet at Johnny's entrance. He had no neck at all, but a lot of face, hammered flat. “This the guy?” he asked hoarsely. Nobody denied it, and he moved forward. His jacket rested on the back of his chair, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled back to disclose thick, hairy forearms.

Johnny circled slowly, one eye on Madeleine Winters. “No sheets on the pretty furniture to keep the blood from splashin'?” he chided her. “You're-” He broke off as the big man rushed him. Johnny side-stepped and put two hundred thirty-eight pounds into the hardest right-hand kidney smash he had in him as the man went by. The big man sucked in his breath, hard. Before he could turn, Johnny was in behind him and, with a bladed hand, chopped savagely twice at the stubby neck. It should have dropped him; all it did was turn him around. Johnny lowered his shoulder, set himself and sank his left hand out of sight in the ponderously advancing, bulbous stomach. He followed it with a right, and the big man went to his knees with a crash that jiggled the shades on the wall lamps. He looked mildly surprised.

Johnny set himself again as the man dropped his fists to the floor for leverage, hoisted his rump in the air and started up. From an angle Johnny blasted him with a right to the bridge of the nose that rolled the big man on his side. Blood spurted. The big man shook his head gingerly, drew one knee up under him, thought it over a second and straightened the leg out again. Johnny found a handkerchief and wrapped his right hand in it gently.

“I hope you're satisfied,” Madeleine Winters said bitterly from the back of the room.

No one answered her. Johnny pointed at an amazed Harry Palmer. “Outside, you.” Johnny strode to the chair, picked up a jacket with enough material in it for a horse blanket and threw it at the little man. “An' take your garbage with you.” He moved in on the bloody-shirted man weaving to his feet, grabbed him by an arm and shoulder and half pushed, half dragged him to the door. He opened it with one hand and spun his burden out into the corridor. He looked back at the still motionless Palmer. “Out, man.”

“You know what we agreed, Madeleine!” the little man cried shrilly. He scuttled sideways like a crab as Johnny left the door and advanced on him, but there was no fear in his face. “You know what we agreed!” His voice trailed off in a squeak as Johnny's hand closed down on his coat collar. Backing and struggling, Johnny marched him to the door on tiptoe, thrust him out and banged it shut. For an instant there was an impotent drumming of fists on the outer panels, and then silence reigned.

Johnny walked back down the length of the room to where Madeleine Winters had seated herself, on the royal blue couch. He removed his jacket, straightened his shirtsleeves, unbelted his trousers and restored his shirt-tails, and put the jacket back on. “Who was payin' for the breakage an' redecoration?” he asked her casually. “Harry darlin'?”

“I told him it was stupid!” she exclaimed spiritedly. “If Max couldn't do it, that clown certainly couldn't.”

“I got news for you, lady. That clown would eat Max for lunch an' me for dinner if he ever got himself untracked. He sopped up more'n the first wave at Anzio, an' he wasn't even close to bein' out. He just decided the size of the job hadn't been taken care of in the wage scale. Us businessmen are like that. We don't-” The phone rang shrilly on the gate-legged table across the room. “That's Harry darlin' from the lobby, pantin' to know if you need the cops to keep me from poundin' on your lily-white body,” Johnny told Madeleine Winters. “If you think you know, tell him.”

The blonde rose languidly and walked to the phone, every movement as studiedly graceful and carefully rehearsed as any on a Broadway stage. “Hello? No, you fool! Next time you'll listen to me. I said no! No! Don't you understand English?” She banged the phone down and turned to survey Johnny from beneath long lashes. “I don't know that I've ever met a man as sure of himself,” she said thoughtfully. She smiled. “But who am I to say it's not justified?”

“What's this agreement with Harry darlin' he was yodelin' about goin' through the door?” Johnny asked her. He removed the handkerchief from his right hand and inspected the knuckles.

The green eyes glinted with amusement. “A suggested pact not to engage in an auction for the merchandise you're selling.”