Clive Cussler - The Spy

They hurried out, leaving Tommy Thompson alone with O’Shay. Tommy said, “This ought to put an end to the rumors that I killed you.”

“You could not on your best day, Tommy.”

The Gopher Gang boss protested the insult and the contempt behind it. “Why you talking like that? We was partners.”

“Sometimes.”

They stood in silence, old rivals taking each other’s measure. “Back,” Tommy muttered. “Jaysus Christ, from where?”

O’Shay did not answer.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Kelly and Butler sidled into the Commodore’s office, trailed by Iceman Weeks.

Brian O’Shay looked them over.

Typical new-breed Gopher, he thought, smaller, compact men. And wasn’t Progress a wonderful thing? Tommy was a throwback to the old days when bulk and muscle ruled. Now clubs and lead pipe were giving way to firearms. Kelly, Butler, and Weeks were built more like himself but dandified in the latest gangster fashion-tightfitting suits, bright vests, florid ties. Kelly and Butler wore polished yellow shoes with lavender socks. Weeks, the Iceman, stood out in hose of sky blue. He was the cool one who would hang back, let the hotheads take the chances, and then swoop in for the prize. In his dreams, the Commodore would die of something quick, and Iceman Weeks would own the Gophers.

O’Shay took three butterfly knives from his coat and handed one to each. They were German made, exquisitely balanced, quick to open, and sharp as razors. Kelly, Butler, and Weeks hefted them admiringly.

“Leave them in the man when you do the job,” O’Shay ordered with a glance at the Commodore, who seconded the order with a blunt threat. “If I ever sees youse with them again, I’ll break your necks.”

O’Shay opened a bulging wallet and removed three return tickets to Camden, New Jersey. “MacDonald,” he said, “will be hanging out in Del Rossi’s Dance Hall soon after dark. You’ll find it in the Gloucester district.”

“What does he look like?” asked Weeks.

“Like an avalanche,” said O’Shay. “You can’t miss him.”

“Get going!” Commodore Tommy ordered. “Don’t come back ’til he’s dead.”

“When do we get paid?” asked Weeks.

“When he’s dead.”

The killers headed for the railroad ferry.

O’Shay pulled a thick envelope from his overcoat and counted out fifty hundred-dollar bills on Tommy Thompson’s wooden desk. Thompson counted it again and stuffed the money in his trousers.

“Pleasure doing business.”

O’Shay said, “I’ll have use for those tong hatchet men, too.”

Commodore Tommy stared hard. “What tong hatchet men would you be wondering about, Brian O’Shay?”

“Those two highbinders from the Hip Sing.”

“How in Christ’s name did you know about them?”

“Don’t let the fancy duds confuse you, Tommy. I’m still ahead of you and always will be.”

O’Shay turned on his heel and stalked out of the saloon.

Tommy Thompson snapped his fingers. A boy named Paddy the Rat appeared at a side door. He was thin and gray. On the street, he was almost as invisible as the vermin he was named for. “Follow O’Shay. Find out where he hangs and what moniker he goes by.”

Paddy the Rat followed O’Shay east across 39th. The man’s fine coat and fur hat seemed to glow as he cut a path through the shabbily dressed poor who thronged the greasy cobblestones. He crossed Tenth Avenue, crossed Ninth, where he neatly sidestepped a drunk who lurched at him from the shadow of the elevated train tracks. Just past Seventh he stopped in front of an auto-rental garage and peered in the plate-glass window.

Paddy crept close to a team of dray horses. Shielded by their bulk, stroking their bulging chests to keep them calm, he racked his brain. How could he follow O’Shay if he rented an automobile?

O’Shay turned abruptly from the glass and hurried on.

Paddy got uncomfortable as the neighborhood changed. New buildings were going up, tall offices and hotels. The grand Metropolitan Opera House reared up like a palace. If the cops saw him, they would run him in for invading the Quality’s neighborhood. O’Shay was nearing Broadway. Suddenly he disappeared.

Paddy the Rat broke into a desperate gallop. He could not return to Hell’s Kitchen without reporting O’Shay’s address. There! With a sigh of relief he turned into an alley beside a theater under construction. At the end of the alley he saw the tail of the long black coat twirl around a corner. He raced after it and skidded around that corner, straight into a fist that knocked him to the mud.

O’Shay leaned over him. Paddy the Rat saw a glint of steel. A needle burst of pain exploded in his right eye. He knew instantly what O’Shay had done to him and he cried out in despair.

“Open your hand!” said O’Shay.

When he did not, the steel pricked his remaining eye. “You’ll lose this one, too, if you don’t open your hand.”

Paddy the Rat opened his hand. He quivered as he felt O’Shay press something round and terrible into his palm and close his fingers around it almost gently. “Give this to Tommy.”

O’SHAY LEFT THE BOY whimpering in the alley and retraced his steps to 39th Street. He stood in the shadows, still as a statue, until he was sure the little weasel didn’t have a partner watching. Then he continued east under the Sixth Avenue El, checked his back, walked to Fifth Avenue, and turned downtown, still studying reflections in windows.

A mustachioed Irish cop directing traffic shouted at a freight wagon to stop so the well-dressed gentleman could cross 34th Street. Doormen-whose blue-and-gold uniforms would have done an all-big-gun dreadnought’s captain proud-scrambled when they saw him coming.

O’Shay returned their crisp salutes and marched into the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

ISAAC BELL SPOTTED JOHN SCULLY’S RED HANDKERCHIEF tied to a hedge. He swung the Locomobile into the narrow road it marked, eased up on the accelerator pedal for the first time since he left Weehawken, and closed the cutout, which quieted the thunderous exhaust to a hollow mutter.

He steered up a steep hill and drove a mile through fallow farm fields that awaited spring planting. The resourceful Scully had procured a milk-can collection truck somewhere, exactly the sort of vehicle that would not look out of place on New Jersey’s farm roads. Bell eased quietly alongside it so the Locomobile could not be seen from the road. Then he heaved his golf bag off the passenger seat and carried it to the hillcrest where the Van Dorn detective lay flat on brown grass.

The laconic loner was a short, round man with a moon face who could pass for a trusted colleague of preachers, shopkeepers, safe-crackers, or murderers. Thirty pounds of fat disguised slabs of rock-hard muscle, and his diffident smile concealed a mind quicker than a bear trap. He was training field glasses on a house down the hill. Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. A big Marmon touring car was parked outside, a powerful machine covered in mud and dust.

“What’s in the bag?” Scully greeted Bell.

“Couple of five irons,” Bell grinned, removing a pair of humpback twelve-gauge Browning Auto-5 shotguns. “How many in the house?”

“All three.”

“Anyone living there?”

“No smoke before they drove up.”

Bell nodded, satisfied that no innocents would be caught in a cross fire. Scully passed him the field glasses. He studied the house and the automobile. “Is that the Marmon they stole in Ohio?”

“Could be another. They’re partial to Marmons.”

“How’d you get a line on them?”