Yes, he’d do that. But at the back of his mind, he was aware that money wouldn’t square himself with her. His mind recreated the struggle on the bed. That had been something no other woman he could imagine would have done, and she had done it for him. No, money wouldn’t square that.
The sound of her quick, light breathing told him she was asleep. She had guts, he thought: guts and nerve.
Eventually he fell asleep himself. He dreamed the girl in the drug store, with blood on her white coat, came and sat at the foot of the bed and looked at him. He wasn’t afraid of her.
PART TWO
I
Rico put down his pen and sat back with a little grunt. His swarthy, pock-marked face plainly showed his dissatisfaction. Five hundred and twenty dollars up on last month’s figures. Six months ago he would have been pleased, but now he knew it wasn’t enough. A month’s work for five hundred and twenty lousy dollars, he thought, pushing back his chair. He got to his feet and began to pace up and down. Not enough, he thought, scowling. Already he was overdrawn at the bank. His standard of living had gradually risen, and he was now living well beyond his income. Recently he had moved from his three-room apartment to a six-room one that cost him four times as much. His taste for tailored suits and silk shirts had given him a tailor’s bil he couldn’t set le without pinching himself for ready cash. He had bought himself a Roadmaster Buick, and that had to be paid for. The erotic pleasure he derived from several of his carefully selected hostesses was also a heavy drain on his income; and they had to be paid in cash.
Since the Bruce killing he had stopped dealing in illicit jewellery. He knew Olin was watching him, and until things cooled off a little, it would be unwise to tempt providence. He sadly missed the extra income from his activities as a fence.
He went over to the cellarette and mixed himself a whisky and soda. Three weeks had gone by since Kile had come to him with the mysterious proposition that might put fifteen grand in his pocket. For three weeks Rico had been hunting for Baird, but Baird seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. No one had seen him: all Rico’s spies were hunting for him, and so far had nothing to report.
Kile was fast losing patience. He had been in last night and had bluntly said he would give Rico three more days to find Baird, and if he wasn’t successful the deal was off.
Fifteen grand! Rico sipped his drink and scowled down at his expensively shod feet. Where the hell was Baird? Why hadn’t he got into touch with Rico as he had promised? Had it been Baird who had been chased across the roofs and shot at that night the cop and girl in the drug store had been murdered?
How long ago was that? Rico thumbed back the leaves of his calendar. Twenty-three days. The papers had said the killer had been wounded. Maybe Baird had holed up somewhere and had died. Rico felt sweat start out on his forehead at the thought. If Baird was dead, then the hope of laying his hands on Kile’s fifteen grand was dead, too.
He finished his whisky, went over to the cellarette and made another. Then he lit a cigar and sat down at his desk again. There was nothing more he could do. Every petty crook in town was searching for Baird. Rico had offered a reward for reliable news of Baird, but so far no one had claimed it.
After he had finished his second whisky he decided he would take a turn in the restaurant. It was getting on for midnight, and it was time he showed himself. He went over to a vase of carnations, selected one, stuck it in his button-hole and surveyed himself in the mirror. In spite of his bald head, his pitted complexion and his bloodshot eyes, Rico was quite pleased with his appearance. He adjusted his silk handkerchief, shot his cuffs and turned to the door.
For a moment he stood completely still, scarcely believing his eyes, then with a sharp exclamation, he darted forward, holding out his hand.
‘Baird! Wel , damn it! I was only just this moment thinking about you. Where the hel have you been?’
Baird closed the door and walked across to Rico. He shook hands without enthusiasm, looked Rico up and down and then went over and dropped into the red leather armchair.
‘Get me a drink,’ he said curtly. ‘I need it.’
Rico gave him a quick, anxious glance. Baird was thinner than when he had last seen him, and his face fine drawn. There were smudges under his eyes as if he had been sleeping badly, and he looked surly.
‘I’ve been hunting al over for you,’ Rico said, hurriedly splashing whisky into a glass. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Out of town.’
‘Olin’s stil looking for you,’ Rico said, remembering with an anxious pang that Baird was a wanted man. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have come here.’
Baird made an impatient gesture.
‘You don’t have to get steamed up. I’ve seen Olin.’
Rico stiffened.
‘You mean you’ve talked to him? When?’
‘Gimme that drink, can’t you?’ Baird snarled. ‘I’ve been at headquarters al the goddamn afternoon.’
Rico put the whisky on the desk by Baird’s hand and sat down.
‘What happened?’
Baird drank half the whisky, put the glass down and drew in a slow, deep breath. He reached out and helped himself to a cigarette from Rico’s box, lit it and stretched out his long legs.
‘I got myself a cast-iron alibi,’ he said. ‘Olin couldn’t bust it, so I walked out.’
‘You mean they haven’t anything on you?’ Rico asked eagerly.
‘They never had anything on me,’ Baird said, and his hard mouth twisted into a jeering grin. ‘No one ever saw me. They tried to pin the Bruce killing on me, but they hadn’t any proof. As soon as I could get around again I went
