Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

She was doing a lot of quick thinking now on her own account. A millionaire’s son had fallen for her! It was the chance of a lifetime, might never happen again. If she let anything happen to him here tonight, where would she be? He’d be through with her, never look at her again. All she’d get out of it would be a lousy ten per cent commission. On the other hand, if she got him out of this jam, saved him for herself, who could tell what it might lead to? She’d be a fool not to think of herself first, and the hell with her employers!

“Wait a minute — wait a minute. I gotta think!” she said to him, and held his head in her hands.

He smiled a little out of the corner of his mouth, but she didn’t see that. He went right ahead singing his love-song close to her ear: “—diamonds and orchids and a mink coat and a penthouse way up in the air to which nobody but me would have the key. There’d be nothing too good for my baby! And at night — you’d have love!”

She rumpled her blazing hair and smote herself distractedly on the forehead.

“I gotta get you outta here! I gotta think of number one. Sh-h — not so loud, don’t let ’em hear you or we’re sunk!”

“Spoken like a lady,” he agreed humorously. “You’re — you’re just an angel in an evening gown.”

She had sobered up all at once. She glanced furtively around over her shoulder.

“Nurse your drink; make it last,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re in the red enough as it is. I’ve got to think of an out for you — for both of us. You shouldn’ta come here. Do you know what this place is?”

“I knew the minute I came in,” he said calmly, “but it was too late to do anything about it by that time. What could I do?”

“Here’s the set-up,” she hissed, her shoulder touching his. “They’re going to clip you a century apiece for every drink the two of us have had. You say no to them and you get the beating of your life. They hold you in the back of the flat until your check has a chance to go through at the bank in the morning. Then they give you knock-out drops and you come to riding around in a taxi somewhere. It’s no use trying to catch up with them after you’ve come out of the repair shop; we change addresses about once a week.” She clenched her fist and brought it down on the table-top. “They’re not going to make a dent in my baby’s bankroll, not when I’ve got all those fancy trimmings coming to me! Once they find out who you really are, they’ll clip you twice as much. They won’t leave you anything but your shorts—”

“You’ve been peeking,” he observed dryly. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself, but she failed to see any humor in it.

“Tear up any cards or means of identification you’ve got on you, quick! If worse comes to worst, we can say you’re just a poor hash-slinger at one of your father’s restaurants, out on a spree; you haven’t a dime; you borrowed the clothes from a friend. But I can think of a better way still, a way that we won’t have to do any explaining.” She rose from the table. “I’m going inside and get my — my powder-puff.” She gave him a wink. “You sit tight here, keep everything under control until I get back. Don’t get into any argument because you’re no match for them. They carry blackjacks and brass knuckles.” He saluted her with two fingers, and she disappeared out the back way. Skip sat there grinning at his own thoughts, which seemed to afford him considerable amusement. “The old oil,” he remarked to himself. “The same old oil gets all of them.”

The waiter stuck his head in and glanced meaningfully at the two half-empty glasses. Skip gave him no encouragement. He sauntered over and leaned both hands heavily on the table. Skip stared up at him coldly. He may have been amused by the antics of Rose Gordon, but he didn’t seem to find this funny.

“Who sent for you?” he demanded brittlely.

“You drinkin’ any more?” rumbled the waiter.

“Who wants to know?” countered Skip, starting to breathe faster.

“Then suppose you pay off. We’re closing up—”

“Fair enough,” said Skip, dangerously calm. “How much do I owe you?”

The Caliban of a waiter didn’t bother jotting anything down. “Three hundred and fifty dollars,” he announced matter-of-factly, his pig-eyes boring into Skip’s.

Skip Rogers drew out a crumpled five-dollar bill. “Bring me four dollars change,” he ordered contemptuously, “and consider yourself damn lucky!”

The waiter didn’t waste any more time. He simply turned his head and whistled warningly over his shoulder. Instantly the man in the tuxedo appeared in the doorway. He was coatless now and rolling up his shirt-sleeves preparatory to going to work. Behind him was another gorilla, appearing on the scene now for the first time. They both made for the table, nice and slow, nice and easy, as though there was no hurry about this at all. Skip’s chair went over backwards with a bang and he was on his feet, facing the three of them. The waiter swung at him, a blow that would have felled an ox. Skip ducked it nimbly and came back like a flash with a less powerful but better aimed jab that landed on the Frankenstein’s nose. Blood spurted and he gave an animal roar of fury.

“Here I go!” thought Skip philosophically as the other two spread out fan-shape on either side of him.

Suddenly Rose Gordon’s voice rang out sharply from the doorway, harsh and strident maybe but sweeter than the song of Lorelei at such a time.

“Turn around! Get away from him, all of you! This is one guy you don’t touch! Hand over the key to the front door, Shorty, and hurry up about it!” She had her hat and coat on and she was holding a small revolver in her hand, waving it at the three of them. Her eyes were menacing slits. No one looking at her could have doubted that she would have used it without hesitation. The three of them slowly backed away from Skip Rogers, hands at shoulder-level. The one called Shorty drew out a door-key and tossed it down on the floor. “Grab that,” she ordered Skip. “I’ll hold ’em until you get the door open!”

“Ladies first,” he countered. “I’ll do the holding. You unlock and wait for me down on the street.”

She passed the gun to him and slipped out, the key in her hand. “We’ll get you, baby! You’ll be sorry for this!” the erstwhile manager breathed virulently after her as she went. The sound of a most undignified but effective “raspberry” or Bronx cheer came drifting back from the hallway.

When Skip joined her on the sidewalk in front of the house five minutes later, he had somebody else with him, the unfortunate middle-aged gentleman who had been sitting with the blonde earlier in the evening. His collar was torn, he had a black eye, and he was almost dazed by his sudden release. Skip shoved him into a taxicab, then hailed another for his rescuer and himself.

“I’m going home with you tonight,” he told her matter-of-factly. “They may try to come after you and — well, I owe you that much anyway.”

If his words were strangely un-loverlike, she didn’t seem to notice. She snuggled down contentedly against his shoulder and sighed. She was visioning herself in a bathtubful of eau de Cologne in a penthouse twenty stories above the street, with him pacing impatiently back and forth outside her boudoir.

When she woke up in the morning, he was gone and it seemed hard to believe that he had ever been in the dingy furnished room with her. She looked around it, and she knew she was getting out right then. Not only because there were better things in store for her but also because it was dangerous to stay there alone; her former employers were liable to look her up at any moment. She packed the few things she had and told her landlady with an air of noblesse oblige that she could keep the balance of the week’s rent.