man for securing a bonded position under false pretenses-I don't need a murder charge to hold him, Johnny. I just need an airtight charge.”
“It might be easier than talkin' to the lawyer.”
“How?”
“Willie'll be in town sometime tonight.”
“He will? That's fine. You bring him around.”
“I still think you ought to scoop Freddie right now.”
“I happen to have a little more at stake in this thing than you do, Johnny. You bring Willie around tonight.”
The phone clicked in Johnny's ear, and he hung it up slowly. He sat and stared at the wall. A couple of days ago he had wished for a ravelled thread in the fringe that would lead back to the counterpane. Now there were as many threads as fringe and still remarkably little that a man could put his finger upon exactly.
Johnny roused himself finally and looked around for his clothes.
He walked into the bar from the lobby and watched Fred work his way up the shining mahogany, polishing with a rhythmic sweep of a long arm. The bartender looked up as he sensed his audience and threw the bar rag behind him. “Hope we're a little busy tonight. Damn time drags so when we're not… you workin' two shifts lately, Johnny? Seems like every time I see you you're in uniform.”
“Getting ready for the next depression,” Johnny told him. “Manuel around?”
“Out in back. He'll be right-here he is now.”
The slim dark boy ducked under the counter with a trayful of glasses which he set down on the bar. “'Lo, Jonee. Up early?”
“Medium. You got a blade, Manuel?”
“But of course.”
“Like to borrow it a few minutes.”
Manuel reached into a hip pocket beneath his wraparound apron and carefully removed a pearl-handled knife whose silvered blade slithered silently open at the pressure of a finger. Johnny accepted it and laid it thoughtfully across his palm.
“I wanted it for a gag, but this damn thing doesn't look a bit funny.”
Manuel smiled. “Ees not meant to be fonny.”
“No? Tell me something, hotshot-what happens when you got to get to this thing in a hurry? In that hip pocket you'd be starched an' ironed before you ever got it sprung.”
The smile widened. “If I theenk the need for hurree ees approach', Jonee, eet ees no longer een the heep pocket. Eet ees move a leetle closer to the
Johnny shrugged. “I don't dig you knife men at all. Be back in a few minutes with this.”
“No hurree. Earth ees the bes' for remove the blood, like a plant in the lobbee.”
“You bloodthirsty little spick!” Fred growled at him. “Didn't the man tell you it was a gag?”
The dark, innocent eyes widened. “But of course. I heard heem say so, deedn't I?” He picked up his tray of glasses and moved on past them, and his back was to Fred as his left eyelid flickered ever so slightly at Johnny.
“He thinks you're gonna use that thing,” Fred rumbled.
“He thinks it more than you think,” Johnny agreed. He made a short, sharp downward stroke with the graceful blade. “You believe the kid can really cut the mustard with this hatchet?”
Fred rubbed his chin. “I'll take him on trust. Couldn't feel comfortable around him knowin' for sure.”
Johnny snicked in the blade, slipped on the safety, and dropped the knife in a pocket. He saluted the mildly interested Fred and walked on out through the lobby which drowsed in the dinner hour quiet. He crossed directly to the switchboard and entered through the little gate, and Myrna's orange head bobbed up inquiringly from her book. The half smile of inquiry on her face faded upon recognition. “What do
“A few pearls of wisdom, C.O.D.”
“For you I have nothing,” she said flatly. “I went along with you once, and it was a mistake.”
“Who says it was a mistake, Myrna?”
“Never mind.” Her voice was resentful.
“Police talk to you?”
Her lip curled. “Two hours. Nosy bas-” She looked up at him.
“What'd you tell them?'
“The same thing I'm telling you. Nothing. Not one thing.”
“You think that was smart?
“Would I have done it if I'd thought it wasn't? Come on, blow, wise guy. I'm busy.”
Johnny nodded. He reached in his pocket and took out the knife, and Myrna's chair started to inch away from him. She was backed into the corner by the time he slid the safety off and flicked out the blade. He had the entire front of the switchboard to himself, and the eyes behind the horn rimmed glasses were enormous.
Still without a word Johnny laid the opened knife on the bakelite front of the board and pushed it toward her with his left hand. “Take a look,” he suggested.
“L-look-?” Her voice was a croak.
“Did you know the boy up in 938, Myrna? A knife just like this sliced his face to ribbons. You sure you know what league you're playin' in these days?” She stared mutely, a hand at her throat. “You and Hans pullin' oars in the same boat, maybe? You know what happened to Hans?”
“Stop-” The tip of her tongue circled her lips swiftly. Her voice strengthened. “Stop it. And get out of here. And get that damned knife out of here. Who the hell do you think you are?”
Johnny retrieved the knife, folded in the blade, tapped the solid casing on his palm, and returned it to his pocket. Myrna rolled her chair back out of its corner, her hands patting ineffectually at the wild hennaed hair. Her face was ghastly, and the lips bloodless.
Johnny half turned to go and then looked back. “Last chance, Myrna.”
“Get out of here! Fast!”
He shook his head commiseratingly. “I gave you an out, kid. I'm not even gonna feel sorry for you when they come for you with the knife. I wish I had your nerve, that's all.”
She looked around wildly for something to throw, and her voice rose hysterically. “Damn you, get out-!”
No score, Johnny thought to himself as he re-crossed the lobby. She's scared, though, and not of my palaver. She may come around yet when she thinks it over.
He entered the bar and stepped behind it at its nearer end, and the boy Manuel looked up from his preoccupation with lime squeezing. Johnny silently offered him the knife.
“Ah, senor!” the slim youth said cheerfully, wiping his hands on his apron. “Eet deed not take long?”
“Not long. Thanks.”
“No cause.”
Johnny moved on to the kitchen. It was Mrs. Carl Midler's dinner time, and Mrs. Carl Muller interested Johnny.
Chapter X
Willie Martin lay on his back in the big double bed in the hotel room, and the cigarette in the corner of his mouth trailed lazy spirals of gray-blue smoke upward. He looked up at Johnny sitting on the far edge of the bed, and his crisp voice broke the little silence. “This is not exactly the party I had in mind for the night I got back, Johnny. Maybe we should take the bit in our teeth and go out on the town?”
“Stop racin' your motor,” Johnny told him. “I got someplace for you to go later, anyway, if Shirley doesn't call. I told you she was in a bad mood.”
“You did tell me.” The lean, poised face returned to its brooding inspection of the eddying haze of his
