James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

Automatics cracked; pencil points of flame appeared in a semicircle, bullets hummed through the smashed window and thudded into the opposite walls.

“There’s quite a bunch of them out there,” Conrad said. “Get moving, Tom!”

O’Brien had got the telephone down on the floor. Conrad could hear him dialling.

“It’ll take them the best part of a quarter of an hour to get out here unless there’s a prowl car near by. If these punks rush us…”

Conrad crawled over to where Mallory was sitting.

“You bleeding?”

“A little. It’s okay. Just nicked me. I wish I had a gun.”

Conrad caught a movement at the window. He swivelled round, his arm coming up. He fired as a shadowy figure moved away. He heard the thunk of lead against bone, and then the sound of a body slumping to the ground.

“Well, that’s one of them,” he said grimly.

The still night was made hideous by machine-gun fire. Plaster came down on top of him as he hurriedly flattened out on the ground. Slugs sprayed against the opposite wall: glass and wood splinters joined company with ricochetting bullets.

“Like Tunisia all over again,” Mallory muttered as he flattened out beside Conrad. He never let a chance go by of reminding anyone of his war service.

“Got headquarters yet?” Conrad called over to O’Brien.

“Just about. The goddamn phone’s gone dead, but I got through in time.”

“Let’s get over to the door. We’ve got to stop them rushing us.”

Conrad crawled to the splintered door and peered cautiously into the darkness. On the far side of the pool he caught sight of a man running along the tiled walk. O’Brien took a snap shot at him, and the man disappeared into the shadows with a yelp of pain.

“We’re not bad, are we?” Conrad said, and grinned. “That’s two in the bag.”

“I’m going to make a grab for the tools,” O’Brien said. “We’ve got to get that pencil.”

“Watch it,” Conrad cautioned. “Better wait.”

O’Brien crawled forward, ignoring Conrad’s warning. He got his head and shoulders beyond the doorposts and his hand had hold of the tool-case when a burst of automatic rifle fire made him duck down. Bullets whizzed over his head. He began to move back cautiously.

“I’ve got it.” He looked back into the darkness. “Here, Mallory, see if you can get the drain cover off.”

More machine-gun fire started up and for a long moment the three men lay pressing themselves into the floor as a hail of lead tore down more plaster and pulverized the walls.

“Look out!” Conrad snapped as he raised his head. He had seen two men come running along the tiled walk, guns in hand.

Both O’Brien and Conrad fired at them. One of them swerved and fell into the pool. The other tossed his gun high into the air, took two staggering steps and fell flat on his face.

“That’s three up,” Conrad said. “I’ve only four more slugs left. What have you got?”

“I’ve a couple of spare clips,” O’Brien said. “You hold your fire and let me take care of this.”

He crawled nearer to the door.

Mallory said “I’ve got it! The sonofabitch didn’t want to come, but it’s come.”

“See if you can find the pencil. Careful how you handle it,” Conrad said, watching O’Brien. “Don’t let them see you, Tom.”

O’Brien fired out into the darkness, cursed under his breath and fired again.

Two machine-guns opened up on him. In the brilliant flashes Conrad saw him suddenly lifted off the ground and swept backwards as if riding a giant wave.

“Get his gun and guard the door,” Conrad said and crawled over to O’Brien. He bent over him trying to see in the darkness. “Tom! Are you hurt?” He knew it was a stupid question. O’Brien had caught the full blast of the machine-guns.

Conrad pulled out his flash-light and shielding it with his coat, he turned it on.

O’Brien looked up at him in the dim light, his face, the colour of putty, was twisted in agony.

“It wasn’t an accident, Paul,” he gasped, struggled to say something else and then choked blood.

Conrad lifted his head.

“Take it easy, Tom. Don’t try and talk.”

O’Brien struggled, clutching hold of Conrad’s arm.

“Ferrari… my kid…” He managed to get out, then his eyes rolled back and he slumped against Conrad.

Conrad touched the artery in his neck, shook his head and lowered him to the floor. He turned quickly as Mallory started firing.

He was in time to see three men coming along the tiled walk, bent double and running. Mallory hit one. The other two opened up with riot guns.

Conrad fired over Mallory’s ducking head and saw the second man pitch into the pool. The remaining man rushed forward, spraying lead in front of him, sending a creeping carpet of death towards the open doorway.

Conrad wriggled back, dragging Mallory with him. For a long moment of time, they huddled against the wall while slugs sang around the room.

Then more guns started up on the far side of the pool: sharp reports of revolvers, and then the yammering sound of a Thompson.

The man firing into the changing room stopped firing. Conrad was in time to see him bolt back the way he had come.

Gunfire raved and crashed outside.

“Sounds like our boys have arrived,” Conrad said shakily. He went cautiously to the door. As he looked out into the darkness the gunfire suddenly ceased and a silence fell over the pool that could almost be felt.

Out of the darkness came the burly figure of Sam Bardin.

“Paul?”

“Right here.” Conrad came out into the open. “Phew! That was quite a battle.”

“Got the pencil?”

“I haven’t had time to ask. Poor Tom bought it.”

“He did? That’s tough.” Bardin turned on his flashlight and swung the beam around the ruined changing room. “They certainly made a hash of this. There’re five of Maurer’s mob outside, deader than mackerel. Two others got away.”

“Find that pencil?” Conrad asked Mallory.

“Sure,” Mallory said. “I’ve got the sonofabitch,” and he waved the gold pencil above his head.

A black Cadillac swung into the narrow lane that ran alongside the east wall of the Paradise Club and drove fast down the lane to the gates that guarded the rear entrance to the club.

The driver slowed down, flicked his lights off and on: twice fast, twice slow, and then sent the car forward as the guard opened the gates.

The guard stepped up to the car and peered at the driver. He caught his breath in a gasp of surprise, stiffened to attention and saluted.

The Cadillac moved on up the circular road and pulled up outside the rear entrance to the club.

A short, thick-set man got out of the car, looked uneasily to right and left, then walked up the steps and rapped on the door.

The guard who opened the door gaped, and his florid face changed colour.

“Why, Mr. Maurer…” he gasped.

“Shut your goddamn trap!” Maurer snarled. “Where’s Gollowitz?”

“In Mr. Seigel’s office,” the guard said, stepping back hurriedly.

Maurer’s swarthy face was tight with rage, and there was a bleak murderous expression in his eyes.

He walked down the passage, paused for a moment outside Seigel’s office, his head bent to listen. A murmur of voices came through the door panel, and Maurer’s face tightened. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The office was full of tobacco smoke. Seated near the desk in a semi-circle were Seigel, McCann and Ferrari. Gollowitz sat behind the desk, a cigar in his fat white fingers.

The four men looked around sharply as Maurer came in. The only one who didn’t react to his sudden appearance was Ferrari. The other three stared at him as if they were seeing a ghost.