“This is my entrance.”
“Oh.”
“Will you be able to find it when you come tonight?”
“Am I coming tonight?”
“What do you think?”
“I guess I am.”
“You're not only coming,” she said, “but you're going to work for me.”
“Hell,” I said. “I've got a job.”
“How would you feel if I told Pug you didn't work for the Vineyard?”
“I'd feel bad.”
“Well,” she said; “drop around tonight.”
CHAPTER TEN
I DROVE through town to the Arkady and parked Pug's car. Some tourists were loading a sedan in front of the hotel. I was so tired I could hardly walk. I went down a stairway with a sign over it: Turkish Bath. A Finn with a square face was sorting out towels in the office. I told him I wanted to steam out. He opened a locker for me.
“Get me a paper.”
“Yes, sir.” He started out.
“Hey I Get that Negro, Charles, too.”
I undressed and picked up a towel and went in the steam room. The air was full of white steam that smelled of menthol. It made my eyes smart. I put the towel on a bench and sat on it. My body was already wet from the steam. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. I felt my muscles begin to go soft.
The Finn reached in the door and tossed me a newspaper. I unrolled it. It was an extra on the fire and shooting at Gus Papas's. The headline read: Gangster Armies Battle! The first paragraph said that anarchy reigned in Paul County. I read the story. It said that at least thirty men had engaged in a fierce gun battle at the Joyland Recreation Park, and that at least one had been killed. More, it said, were believed to be in the burned building. The shooting had lasted for nearly fifteen minutes. A search was being made for Gus Papas and the owner of an automobile found mysteriously wrecked by the building. The rest of the story was a description of the scene. Pug Banta's name wasn't mentioned.
If it was anarchy now, I thought, what would it be when they found out one of the bodies was that of Caryle Waterman? Then there would be hell to pay: possibly a state investigation. I put the paper on my knees and inhaled the steam. An investigation was what I wanted. They'd find out the Vineyard's connection with vice and gambling, and that would get the Grayson girl out. Everything would be jake, only I'd probably be dead.
I wondered about the Princess. Why had she saved me? Was she afraid of what I might do to the Vineyard? Or did she need somebody in bed? My guess was that it was a combination of things. She was bored with herself, and not afraid of me. In fact, the opposite. She said she liked big men. I was a big man. But one thing I knew: if I didn't play along with her, she'd let Pug knock me off, no matter how good I was. That would please Pug.
I closed my eyes. The steam was beginning to relax me. I thought, almost contentedly, of the things I had to do. I had to get rid of Pug Banta. I had to get the Grayson girl out of the Vineyard. And find Oke Johnson's murderer. And there was my date with the Princess. That was plenty.
I looked for the Johnson story in the paper. It had dropped back on an inside page. There wasn't much new. The police were following several promising leads, according to Chief of Police Piper. Near the bottom there was a paragraph saying a Mrs. G. A. Kellerman, of 467 Fern Street, had seen an odd prowler about the time Johnson was shot. The story didn't say what was odd about the prowler.
I tossed the paper on the floor and came out of the steam room. Charles was waiting for me.
“I want a change of clothes, Charles. And some whisky and breakfast. Eggs and bacon and a sirloin steak.”
“Yes, sir.” He started to go away.
“And Charles. You remember Ginger?”
“Yes, Mr. Craven.”
“She come in yet?”
“About an hour ago, Mr. Craven.”
“Okay,” I said. “Scram.”
The Finn was a good rubber. His hands were strong, but he was careful of the sore places. I don't know what he thought of my assortment of bites and bruises. He didn't say anything about them. Charles came back with clothes, whisky and breakfast while I was on the table. I made the Finn stop while I had a drink. Then he rubbed me some more. Newsboys were crying 'Extra' in the street. The Finn made me go in a room with dry heat. It was very hot in there; the sweat ran off me. He came with a hose and turned cold water on me. It made me jump around. I dried myself and put on clean underwear. I poured some whisky in my coffee and drank it. Then I drank the orange juice. I felt fine. I went to work on the steak.
“It sounds so crazy,” Mrs. Kellerman said, giggling.
“Tell me, anyway,” I said. “You don't want Mr. Johnson's killer to go unpunished, do you?”
“The poor man,” she said.
Mrs. Kellerman was a thin woman in a blue dress with worn places on the elbows. She twitched when she talked, as though someone was goosing her with a feather. She'd already told me the story of her life, including the
