desk, sweeping papers, the cigarette-box, the rack of fountain pens and the telephone to the floor. He stood up, lifting Rico off his feet. Rico hung in Baird’s grip like a sawdust dol , staring with protruding eyes at Baird’s expressionless face.
‘I said five Cs,’ Baird said softly.
He slapped Rico’s face with his left hand. He slapped it four times, very hard, knocking Rico’s head from one side to the other. The sound of the slaps was like the bursting of a paper bag. Then he let go of Rico, who staggered against his desk, his knees buckling.
‘Snap it up,’ Baird said, ‘or you’l get some more.’
Rico staggered to his desk and sat down. His hand went to his cheek, which had puffed up and had turned the colour of port wine. He opened a drawer, took out a bundle of bills and counted out five of them. With a shaking hand he pushed the bills across the desk.
Baird picked them up, tossed the bracelet into Rico’s lap and pocketed the bil s.
‘Why do you have to do it the hard way?’ he asked. ‘When I want anything, I damn wel get it. You should know that by now.’
Rico didn’t say anything. His fingers caressed his burning face, but he picked up the bracelet and dropped it into his pocket.
‘I’ll let you know where I get to,’ Baird went on as if nothing had happened. ‘I’l be back in a week if she doesn’t croak. I’ve another lit le job lined up that might be something. If you hear of anything that’d fit me, keep it on ice until you hear from me? Okay?’
Rico licked his dry lips.
‘Sure,’ he said hoarsely, his hand stil on his cheek.
‘Well, so long for now. Take a look outside. I don’t want to walk into any trouble.’
Rico made the effort and went to the door. He peered into the restaurant, listened, stepped back.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Go through the kitchens. Don’t let any-one see you.’
‘So long,’ Baird said again, and moved through the dimly lit restaurant, skirting the tables, moving softly, his hands in his pockets, without looking back.
Rico returned to his office and straightened his desk. When he had picked up the various articles that had fallen to the floor, he sat down limply. He took out a mirror from a drawer and examined his reflection. His eyes were hot and intent as he stared at the livid bruise across the side of his face. He put the mirror away, got up and crossed over to a cellarette standing in a corner. He mixed himself a stiff whisky and soda, sat down again, and took the bracelet from his pocket. He studied it for some time. It was a beautiful piece. At a guess it’d be worth five or six grand. But who would buy it? He frowned at the bracelet. It was the best piece he had ever had through his hands; the best and the most dangerous.
He got up and locked the bracelet in a concealed wall safe. He would have to wait and see if the woman died. If she didn’t die it might not be so difficult to find a buyer. But if she did… He grimaced and took a long pull at his glass.
He went into the bathroom, leading off his office. He spent some time holding a sponge of cold water against his burning face, his eyes still hot and intent, his mind busy.
What a guy that Baird was, he thought. Not a nerve in his body! ‘If I want anything I damn well get it,’ he had said, and it was true. Working with a fel a like Baird meant big-time, Rico told himself. It was dangerous, but look what he stood to gain! He gently patted his face dry. He felt no anger or animosity against Baird for hitting him. It was just another proof of his strength of purpose. Baird was like no other crook who came to Rico. No one else would have dared to touch Rico.
Rico adjusted his tie, smoothed down his thinning hair and went back to the office.
He came to a standstill just inside the door, fear clutching at his heart.
Seated in the red leather chair, chewing a dead cigar, was a short, thickset man with a red, freckled face, sandy hair and wide-set, cold, green eyes. He had on a grey suit, a little baggy at the knees and shiny at the elbows; a nigger brown hat rested far to the back of his head.
‘Hel o, Rico,’ he said, eyeing Rico’s face with his bleak, green eyes. ‘Who’s been knocking you around?’
Rico smiled stiffly; his mouth felt frozen.
‘How did you get in here, Lieutenant?’ he asked, coming to the desk. ‘I haven’t seen you in weeks.’
Lieutenant George Olin of the Homicide Bureau crossed one thick leg over the other, took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at it with an expression of disgust. He tossed it into Rico’s trash basket, produced a cigar-case, selected another cigar and put the case back in his pocket.
‘I sneaked in,’ he said, staring at Rico. ‘I hoped to catch you on the wrong foot. Have I?’
Rico tried to laugh. The croaking sound he made deceived neither himself nor Olin.
‘I’m very careful where I put my feet,’ he said, and sat down. ‘What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?’
‘Suppose you tel me,’ Olin said. ‘Had any visitors within the past half-hour?’
Rico poured himself another drink while his mind worked swiftly. Had there been a patrolman watching the club? He didn’t want to admit Verne Baird had just left, but if the club was being watched, and Baird had been seen leaving, it would be awkward to be caught in a lie. But as lying came more naturally to him than telling the truth, he decided to lie.
‘I haven’t had anyone in here,’ he said careful y. ‘The club doesn’t open until eight.’ He glanced at the desk clock. The time was twenty minutes past seven. ‘I’ve been working. Of course, anyone could have come into the restaurant without me knowing: like you did.’
Olin grinned sourly. He knew all about Rico. He knew he was itching to move out of small-time into big-time. He had been watching Rico for months now, waiting for a false move.
