Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

“Mescal,” she said in a faraway tone when she could get her breath. “National drink. Smooth's mother's milk. Good for babies. Something matter with me. Can't drink it.”

“You drank half a bottle of this-this antifreeze?”

“Cer'ainly. Felt fine, till 'bout ten minutes ago.” She hiccuped gently, cocked her head on one side and looked at him sleepily. “You're the bigges' theeng-”

“Never mind that,” he said harshly. “I came over here to ask you something.”

“Okay. All right. Yes.” She re-enacted the complicated maneuver of rising from the chair, then turned her back to him. Before he realized her intention she had slipped out of the dressing gown with a movement of her hands and a shrug of her shoulders. Beneath it she was wearing the stockings and a white blouse that failed to cover her rib cage-and the rest was Consuelo Ybarra. Johnny felt his eyes bulge as he stared at the soft lamplight polish on the dusky ivory tints of her buttocks.

“What the hell you doin'?” he demanded huskily. “You came to ask,” she said in surprise over her shoulder, then smiled and gestured at herself coquettishly. “All right. Yes.”

“I didn't-” he began, and swallowed it as she turned. She moved toward him, stumbled, fell up against him and threw her arms convulsively around his neck. She was shivering as though with a chill, but Johnny's hands had come up instinctively and filled themselves to overflowing with flesh that was far from chilled. He couldn't see her face, but he could hear her panting.

“Hurt me!” she urged throatily, and moved in his hands. Her dead weight hung suspended from his neck, and her body writhed ceaselessly. “Hurt me!” she demanded despairingly. “Your hands. Your-belt.” Her voice roughened in a hoarse gasp. “Do — something!”

He almost fell getting her through the doorway.

He was on his way out when he remembered. He walked back in beside the bed and, after the first glance at the face on the pillow, avoided looking at it. It was far more naked than the body. “Manuel had a twenty-five caliber Spanish automatic,” he said roughly.

“Si, pis tola.” She might have been a thousand light-years distant.

“Where is it?”

“Bureau-bottom drawer.” Her voice had no resonance. “I hid it.”

He crossed swiftly to the bureau, stooped and dredged ruthlessly amidst the welter of flimsy underwear. His probing hands touched something hard, and he removed it, unwrapped the tightly folded pink slip to its hard core and looked down at the toylike, pearl-handled weapon in his hand. So Manfredi hadn't killed Hendricks. Check that, Killain. He didn't kill him with Manuel's automatic.

He rolled the little handgun back up in the slip and thrust it back in a corner of the drawer.

He returned to the bed, but she spoke before he could. “Don't talk. Go.”

He was surprised to find that it was daylight when he reached the street. Where he had been it had been night for some time.

At the apartment Sally greeted him with a quizzical expression as he slipped out of his coat in the hall. “Well, man?” she queried, hanging up the coat in the closet. “You said afternoon. Where I come from we'd call this evening.”

“I said 'maybe,' too,” he pointed out. “Congress is just gonna have to legislate a few more hours into the day.” He walked into the living room and dropped down in his armchair with a sigh.

“You sound as though it'd been a hard day at the office,” Sally jeered, the corners of her generous mouth curving upward. “What held you up?”

“The alarm didn't go off,” Johnny told her blandly.

“That's the trouble with those strange bedrooms,” she answered thoughtfully. “The alarm never does act like your own.” The smile expanded as she sat down on the arm of his chair. “I wonder why no one's ever done a thesis on that interesting subject?”

“Hush yo' mouf, Ma,” he directed her amiably. “You know I always trot right along home to you.”

“With your shirt tail out,” she gibed, and burst out laughing as he looked down instinctively. She tangled a hand in his thick, unruly hair. “Mr. Killain, you are really something.”

He pulled her from the chair arm into his lap, sliding an arm about her. “You're not so bad yourself, midget.” The little silence was comfortably unstrained.

“I had a telephone call,” she said finally.

He tried to see her face as she lay with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. “Who from?”

“He said it was Mr. Quince.” Her head came up and the brown eyes met his steadily. “But it wasn't. It was the fat man who came over to the hotel that night with the other man.”

“Al Munson,” Johnny grunted. “What'd he want?”

“When he thought he'd convinced me he was Mr. Quince, he asked me what my next move was going to be.”

Johnny sat quietly, but he could feel muscle tension deep within himself. “So what'd you tell him?”

“I told him nothing had changed since you talked to him, and that the status was quo.”

Johnny released a little breath. “I could get you a job in the State Department tomorrow on the strength of that answer, Ma. That was a little bit of all right.”

“You should never try to fool a telephone operator about a telephone voice,” Sally said complacently.

“I wonder how they found out it was Quince doin' the bloodhound bit,” Johnny mused. “'Course, I guess if Turner thought it was important enough to find out what was goin' on in that office, he could spread enough grease so there wouldn't be too many secrets.” He looked up at Sally, who was studying his face. “I was over there today, Ma. Turner's. They're waivin' all claims. You're an heiress.”

“What's the catch?” she asked warily.

“No catch. They just decided for good an' all they can't stand the noise that goes with puttin' in a claim check. Turner laid it on the line. He's ready with the damnedest story you ever heard if the Internal Revenue boys get back to him, but he'd much rather they didn't. By inference, if they don't, what's left is yours.” He grinned at her. “That leaves Turner worryin' about a double cross. He had a man on me today I gave a hot-foot, an' the call to you was just another checkup. Maybe he'll sleep tonight after the answer you gave him.”

“Do you think I should keep quiet?” she asked in a small voice.

“I sure do,” he replied promptly. “I'm a practical man, I hope. Even after the chop you should wind up with a little better'n forty grand. That'll keep me in a lotta bourbon.”

“Yes, but what do you really think?” she persisted. “Morally, I mean.”

“Who's got morals? Not me. Not you, in this case, or you're outta your mind. Internal Revenue is gettin' theirs, aren't they? The only way they could get more is penalties on Turner if they could get him on criminal intent, but his gimmick's so good he'd keep 'em tied up in the courts for years if they went after him. I doubt they could get a conviction.”

“What was this gimmick?” she asked with interest.

Johnny ran through the story Turner had given him for her. “Thinkin' it over afterward, though, it seems to me that the real hook in Internal Revenue's mouth is that just as long as those checks are outstanding, uncashed, there's quite a point involved as to whether they're actually income at any level. The legal eagles would have a field day.” He jabbed her lightly in the ribs with his left hand, and pretended to wince. “Those bones, Ma! At least you can pad them a little with the forty big ones.”

“I could get Charlie a nice stone,” she said wistfully, and dropped back down on his shoulder. “Charlie-” Her muffled voice died away.