Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

He glared into the furious face inches from his own, then deliberately picked up his fallen chair, banged it upright and sat down again, his hands loosely on his knees. The seething detective stared down at him, his face a lemon yellow. “Killain!” he began in a strangled tone, and Johnny laughed shortly.

“What is it with you?” he asked the tall man. “I'm supposed to let you muscle me around? You're outta your head, man.” He pointed with a stabbing forefinger. “I'll give you a proposition, which you won't take. We bug each other, for whatever reason, right? I'll come up to the station any day you say. You pick your best man, an' the three of us'll go down in the tank. You'll be able to work off a little steam, maybe, but I'll tell you right now you won't enjoy it. How about it, sport?”

Attracted by the previously fallen chair and the raised voices, one of the uniformed patrolmen strolled over to them. “Trouble, sir?” he asked the detective, who drew a deep, reaching breath.

“Nothing!” he said sharply. He glared around the room. “We finished? Then let's get out of here.” Hands on hips, he surveyed Johnny from head to foot. “I won't forget this, Killain.” He strode to the door with never a backward glance, and the herd of technicians followed, some after curious inspection of the corner.

Mickey Tallant emerged from behind the bar, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I was watchin' you,” he told Johnny. “It gets you nothing, that needle.”

“The hell with him.” Johnny bleakly contemplated the door through which Detective Ted Cuneo had just departed, and then he looked back at the Irishman. “He say anything to you about the banditti checkout catchin' two dents in the chassis?”

Mickey Tallant nodded. “Just a spray job, I figure. He caught the overflow.”

“I wonder,” Johnny said slowly. “It was dark out there, Mick. The second character didn't need to know that his partner had already come unscrewed. He did know he'd lost his mask in a roomful of people, an' he might've been makin' sure of no small talk after he left.” Johnny's eyes roamed the front of the bar for the thick-shouldered ex-fighter to whom the tavern owner had spoken previously, but he was not in sight. “I'd like to know what those two had to say to each other when they walked in here.” He looked at the stout man. “Where can I find this Ybarra?”

“Manuel? Hell, Johnny, you heard me ask him that already!”

“I heard you ask him in a roomful of people. It's been known to inhibit answers.”

“Why are you stickin' your nose in this?” the Irishman asked bluntly.

Johnny hesitated. “I started to say I wasn't, but I'll hold off on that until I talk to Manuel. If the guy the kid knocked through the door took two slugs on purpose, maybe I am stickin' my nose in. That would be a little out of line for a barroom stick-up.”

“But that's what it was!”

“Smarten up, Mick. The kid had just been involved in a fixed fight. You know this Ybarra's address?”

“I know it's up in Spanish Harlem,” Mickey Tallant said absently. “I can probably get it for you.” He rubbed his chin slowly. “You think the kid was killed on purpose?”

“I don't know, Mick. He could have been. An' whether he was or not, I keep thinkin' of any one of a dozen little things I could've done different that might've kept him alive. You call the hotel when you get that address. I need clothes.”

“Okay. I'll get you a cab.”

The cab driver stared at Johnny's apron-burnoose, but drove him around to the hotel, because of the one-way streets having to cover three sides of a square to do it. “I'm goin' down the alley,” Johnny told the driver at the hotel entrance. “Go inside an' tell Paul I said to pay you, then tell him to come down in the service elevator to pick me up.”

The cabbie nodded, and Johnny slipped and slid down the snow-filled alley and entered the hotel through the big iron side door. Fifteen feet inside the narrow passageway he could hear the whine of the already descending elevator, and Paul threw open the door. He shook his head gently at sight of Johnny's apron. “What happened to your uniform?” he inquired as Johnny got aboard and he started to take him directly to the sixth floor.

“Guy had hold of my collar when I let go of him.”

Paul nodded as though it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. “I've got Sally lying down up in the lounge on the mezzanine. Amy's with her.”

Amy was the tall colored girl who handled housekeeping nights. “Rogers gone?” Johnny asked.

“Just a few minutes ago. He was pretty decent. He spent most of his time here trying to locate Gidlow.”

“Tell you what you do, Paul,” Johnny said swiftly. “I've got to go out again. You run downstairs an' have Vic get Sophie Madieros in here to hold down the switchboard until the day crew comes on. Then have Amy take Sally over to the apartment and stay there with her till I get there. You and Dominic should be able to keep Vic afloat the balance of the shift if I don't get back. Got it?”

“Got it.” Paul slid the elevator door closed and descended to the lobby, and in his own room Johnny changed quickly. In the mirror he frowned at himself as he knotted his tie, and he retested the puffiness of his mouth.

“-that monkey'd known how to get his shoulder behind it he might've saved himself some splinters,” he murmured half aloud, crossed the room and picked up the phone. Vic Barnes' voice came on the line, and Johnny shook his head. They were really spread a little thin with the front desk man having to take the switchboard, too. “Get me the Rollin' Stone, Vic. Sally's got the number stuck up on the board somewhere.”

“Right,” Vic replied placidly. Johnny could hear him dialing. Vic Barnes was a placid individual, a plump man with graying hair combed straight back from a high forehead, very high color and a shiny face.

“Mick?” Johnny asked abruptly when he had the connection. “Killain. You get that address?”

“You're not goin' up there now? People sleep nights!”

“You get the address?”

“Jesus, what a one-track mind! Write it down.”

Johnny wrote it down, hung up the phone and stuffed the address in a pocket. His mind was on Manuel Ybarra. For looks the ex-fighter reminded him of the rugged fishermen on the Spanish Costa Brava, burly and capable. For an instant he thought of long-ago days under a burning sun on coastal waters edged by miles of dazzlingly white sand beaches. Then he pulled himself up sharply and left the room.

He shivered in the chill reach of the wind, which enveloped him as the taxi's headlights disappeared around the corner; he stared around him at the dingy tenement area revealed in the widely spaced streetlights, and he looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. 5-B. Fifth floor, and these old buildings obviously had never heard of an elevator. Never heard of a buzzer system for the front door, either, he decided; it opened at a touch after he walked up the slippery iron steps that led off the street.

Inside he turned to the dimly lighted stairs and climbed steadily. No heat was wasted on the hallways; the building temperature didn't seem much higher than that of the street outside, but at least there was no wind. A single naked light bulb halfway up each flight illuminated the landings dimly, leaving bulkier shadows at top and bottom. Stale cooking odors pursued him upward as he climbed.

In the poor light of the fifth floor hallway he studied drab and scarified wallpaper and cat-footedly circled doors until he found the lumpy “B” in battered tin. He knocked softly and listened in the quiet to water noises from protesting drains and the creaks and groans of the old building in the winter night. He had to knock again before there was a stirring behind the door.