Rico glanced at the two men not in evening dress. One of them was sitting up at the bar; the other was alone at a corner table, reading a newspaper.
The one at the bar Rico knew by sight. He was tall, slightly built, fair and distinctly handsome. There were dark smudges under his blue eyes that gave him a worn, dissolute look. He was fine drawn as if he didn’t get enough to eat, and his mouth drooped unhappily.
Looking at him, Rico thought sourly that women would be mad about him. He was just the shiftless, pathetic type women would insist on helping. He was not only shiftless, but completely untrustworthy, Rico decided.
He had seen him in the club off and on now for more than a month. His name was Adam Gillis: not what you could call a good customer, but more often than not he brought some girl with him who bought champagne.
Rico wondered how he managed to get hold of these girls: they were all very young, rich and stupid.
He had seen them pass money to Gillis, when they thought the waiter wasn’t looking, to pay for the champagne they invariably ordered.
At the moment Gillis wasn’t drinking. He sat on the stool, staring bleakly at himself in the mirror, his charm switched off, and his years of shabby living plainly written on his face. He looked as if he needed a drink badly, and Rico assumed he was waiting for someone – probably another stupid girl – to buy him one.
With a shrug of contempt, Rico turned his attention to the man reading the newspaper. He hadn’t seen him before, and Rico was a little puzzled by him. He wasn’t the nightclub type. He was tall and lanky and deeply tanned. His eyes were bright and healthy looking. His crew haircut made Rico think of the tennis player, Budge Patty. This fella, Rico thought, had the same out-of-door look: probably a salesman passing through town on the look-out for some fun.
He finished his whisky and went into the entrance lobby to check the register, which was carefully kept by Schmidt, the doorman.
‘Who’s the guy with the crew haircut?’ he asked, as Schmidt drew himself up and saluted. ‘I haven’t seen him in here before.’
‘Name of Dal as,’ Schmidt told him. He was a giant of a man, with a red, cheerful face and enormous moustaches. ‘Had an introduction from Mr Rhineheart so I let him in.’
Rico nodded.
‘That’s okay. Thought I’d check on him. First time he’s been here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t reckon he’s got much money.’
‘The nice guys never have,’ Rico said, shrugging. ‘Okay, Schmidt. Let me know when Mr Kile arrives. I want to see him tonight.’
He wandered back to the bar and paused to look in. Dallas was talking to a red-head in a green evening dress: one of Rico’s hostesses: a girl named Zoe Norton. Rico nodded his approval when he saw the half bottle of champagne on the table. Zoe wouldn’t rest until she had had the other half: she was a keen saleswoman.
Adam Gillis watched Rico in the mirror. He wondered how he had bruised his face so badly. He wished he knew more about Rico: that Rico was coming up in the world was beyond doubt, but how far would he get? What were his nerves like? Had he the guts for a big job?
When Rico went away, Gillis looked at his wrist-watch and frowned. What could be keeping Eve?
She said she’d be here with Kile at ten o’clock. It was get ing on for eleven now. He wondered if he should phone her, but decided it wouldn’t be safe. Kile might answer. No point in making Kile suspicious at this stage of the game.
How he wanted a drink! He looked longingly at the row of bottles along the chromium shelves behind the bar. He hadn’t two dol ars to rub together! Looking thoughtfully at the barman he wondered if he could get credit. Reluctantly he decided not to try. He didn’t want to attract any at ention to himself. The barman was certain to consult Rico.
He felt in his hip pocket for his cigarette-case, opened it and found it empty. Oh, damn Eve! Why couldn’t she come? Angrily he replaced the case in his pocket and began to drum on the counter with his finger-tips.
The barman came over to him and offered him a cigarette from a crumpled pack.
‘I get caught myself like that some nights,’ he said amiably. ‘Makes me want to walk across the ceiling. Help yourself.’
Gillis stiffened with mortification and rage. A damned lackey offering him a cigarette! The blasted cheek of the man!
‘I don’t smoke a barman’s cigaret es,’ he said venomously, ‘Kindly mind your own business and let me mind mine!’
The barman flushed. He looked as if he wanted to hit Gillis, but he swallowed his anger with an effort and put the pack back in his pocket.
‘If that’s the way you feel about it,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I spoke.’
He walked to the other end of the bar and began to polish glasses, his flush deepening as he appreciated more fully the snub he had received.
Gillis got off the stool and walked out into the lobby.
‘Mr Kile hasn’t been in yet, has he?’ he asked Schmidt casual y. ‘I’ve been in the bar and I might have missed him.’
‘He hasn’t been in yet, sir,’ Schmidt said cool y. He had had a lot of experience of the men and women who came to the club, and he prided himself on spotting the wrong one. He hadn’t any use for Gillis; a sponger if ever there was one.
Gillis went into the gentlemen’s retiring room. He washed his hands under the disapproving eyes of the Negro attendant who knew from experience he wasn’t going to be tipped, poured lavender water on a towel and touched
