his friend. Reluctantly his hands came down, then up again as he reached down and picked Giardino up and set him on his feet. “Sorry, Danny,” he said, and turned to look for a place to sit.
The crowd parted instinctively to let him through. Johnny sat down in the nearest upright booth and looked around, trying to control his heavy breathing. That end of the restaurant was a mess. Johnny's uniform was in shreds, both forearms gone completely, as well as the entire right leg from mid-thigh. Rough, red streaks, from floor burns, abraded his forearms and his visible leg.
Ted Cuneo raised himself slowly from the wreckage of the booth, his face like ashes. No one had lifted a hand to help him. He glared around wildly until he saw Johnny, then started for him, his hand slapping at a side pocket. He stopped, slapped again automatically, turned and started pawing through booth fragments.
“Your bat slid up under the rope,” Giardino growled at him from the side. “What'cha need it for now?”
Cuneo straightened and turned to look at him, then glanced fleetingly at the rim of spectators. He scowled and shoved his hands into his pockets, his sallow features darkening with angry blood.
On the floor Max Stitt sat up slowly, a hand gingerly at the back of his head. A wet gob of fruit and syrup stains was still visible on what remained of his suit. One knee was split out completely through a trouser leg. Danny Giardino gave him a hand to his feet. Stitt flexed a wrist and fingers, and touched his throat experimentally. Looking at Danny, he reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet. “Owner?” he asked. His voice was a croak.
“Owner, hell,” Danny snorted. “Manager.”
“No trouble,” Stitt said, and swallowed visibly. He started to remove bills from the wallet, looked around at the debris and handed the wallet to Giardino. “Want no trouble,” he said, and swallowed again, hard. “Take out for-”
“What is this?” Ted Cuneo demanded in a hard tone, coming to life. He walked over and planted himself in front of Stitt aggressively. “You're making charges against this man.” A jerk of his head indicated Johnny in the booth.
“No charges.” Stitt's Adam's apple worked painfully. “No charges,” he repeated. He looked at Danny. “Enough? Write you a check if-”
“Plenty, man,” Danny said cheerfully. He separated and removed a thin sheaf of bills, showed Stitt what was left and handed him back his wallet with a flourish. “I like a guy what don't hold no grudge after a little difference of opinion.” He looked at Cuneo. “Well?”
“I'll make my own charges.” Cuneo stabbed a finger at an onlooker. “You saw him-” another jerk of the head in Johnny's direction-“try to assault me.” The onlooker stared back woodenly. Cuneo flushed and whirled to another.
“I'll swear he didn't lay a finger on you,” Danny Giardino said mildly before the detective could speak. He chuckled. “An' by God, he didn't.” He looked pleased with himself.
Detective Ted Cuneo stared at the array of faces ranging from impassive to hostile, cursed under his breath and stamped from the restaurant, the tips of his ears scarlet “Good riddance,” Danny Giardino pronounced when the door swung to behind him. The squat man beamed at the group. “Coffee's on the house, boys. Come an' get it.”
CHAPTER XI
The offices of the Spandau Watch Company presented a deserted appearance to Johnny's inspection. He had knocked at the outer door, opened it after an interval of silence, but had found no redhead at her desk. When he had walked beyond it and tried the door to the inner office, he'd found no Jules Tremaine, either. Retracting his steps, he was debating leaving a note when he heard high heels in the corridor outside.
“Mornin', little sister,” he greeted Gloria Philips as she entered.
“Oh,” she said listlessly. “It's you.” She appeared neither surprised nor pleased to see him, Johnny thought. Dark circles ringed the area under her blue-gray eyes.
“It's me,” he agreed. “Where's Tremaine?”
“He called and said he wouldn't be in this morning. He's not feeling well.”
“Somethin' he ate?”
“I didn't inquire,” Gloria said with more snap to her tone. “Why don't you ask him if you'd like to know?”
“I'm plannin' to. How was your sleep last night?”
“Oh, about the sa-” She pulled herself up. “I don't know who I think I'm kidding. It was terrible. That was an awful thing that happened last night.”
“How'd you hear about the awful thing?”
“Not with anybody's help!” she said swiftly, again with more spirit in her voice. “After that detective called and left me dangling without a word of explanation, I had to know what had happened. I called Jules, and couldn't get him. I called you, and couldn't get you. I called the police, and got bucked around from extension to extension by people who knew nothing, or weren't talking. I finally called Harry. He said he'd had much the same experience, but having more brains than I have he'd started calling hospitals. The third one he found her.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “It must have been-well, awful's the only word I can seem to think of this morning.” “It covers it.” He wouldn't have expected to find her this shaken, Johnny thought. “What did Harry do?”
“He went over there right away. Then he went home for a few hours and went back this morning. He called me about an hour ago. She's on the critical list.” She sat down heavily, little grace apparent in the plump body. “Did you see her?”
He nodded. “You don't want to bear about it,” he said gruffly.
“She was-oh, I don't know-” Gloria Philips ran her palms up over her arms as though suddenly cold. “It makes you wonder if any of us knew what we were getting into in this thing.”
“Specifically, which thing?” Johnny asked her. “Oh, run along,” she said tiredly. “Yap, yap, yap, that's all I hear. Poke a little, pry a little, prod a little. Watch the animals squirm. All I've wanted all along-” She checked herself. “Yeah?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I'm not going to tell you what I've wanted all along. But I'm not going to get it. I feel that I'm not. I feel-oh, run along,” she repeated. “I mean it. I'm not fit to talk to anyone today.”
He moved toward the door. “Harry still at the hospital?” “I guess.”
He left her sitting slumped and hollow-eyed. Enough to shake any woman, when she hears it, he thought on his way to the street. That their incorporated capital can be blown in three bloody minutes.
All the uptown cabs were full. He had to cross the street and hail one going the other way. “Hotel Alden,” Johnny said, and successfully fielded the driver's indignant stare. He settled down for the long ride.
The first person he saw in the lobby of the Alden was Harry Palmer. Striding along with his chin in the lead, the aggressive-looking little man was headed for the elevators.
“Harry!” Johnny called.
Palmer looked startled as he turned a step or two away from a waiting elevator. “You following me?” he snapped.
“Wouldn't dream of it. What's on your mind upstairs?”
“Not a damn thing you can handle. Butt out, Killain.” Palmer stepped aboard the elevator, and Johnny followed right behind. The little man's voice rose. “I said-”
“I heard what you said. Relax.”
“Killain, I'll-” The elevator doors opened, and Palmer stepped off, again followed by Johnny. Palmer glared. “If you aren't the damnedest buttinsky I ever-”
Johnny waited only until the clash of the elevator's doors behind him signaled its departure. He took Harry Palmer by an arm and turned him, took him by the collar of his suit coat and marched him on tiptoe to the wall. Holding him aloft until only the tips of his toes touched, Johnny began a swift-patting manual examination. “Don't kick,” he advised soothingly. “You'll just take all the polish off your shoes on the wall. Ahh-” He removed a blue- steel revolver from inside Palmer's belt. “All you gunmen, Harry, and I haven't found a shoulder holster in the crowd. Don't you read up on what the well-dressed goons are wearin' these days?”
“Give me that damn gun back, Killain,” Palmer stormed when Johnny released him.
“You gonna plug him with me standin' right there, Harry? Then you'd have to plug me. Which'd make it a little
