moving like hell.
I went back to the bedroom and stood sniffing. I'm not one of those guys who can classify a smell quickly, but I knew this stuff all right. It was the kind of scent hot mammas used to get the boys running in circles.
Right then, I was running in circles. I was as mad as a blind man at a strip tease. I went over to the telephone with the idea of getting the cops, then a thought struck me and I sat down to think about it.
Those dollar notes had looked mighty nice, and now some dame had nicked them. I was feeling mighty sore.
After a few quick drags from the rye I felt better, and I got myself dressed. All the time I wondered what the devil I was going to do. The sooner I started in on this the better. I locked up the apartment and went downstairs for my breakfast.
I ordered two lightly boiled eggs, toast and coffee. I was just getting down to serious eating when the guy who rented the apartment opposite walked in. This guy gave me a pain. There are some guys who just can't help giving anyone a pain. You don't know why... they try like hell to put themselves across, but they stick.
I tried to hide behind my newspaper, but I was too late. He came across with an odd expression on his face and sat down.
He said, trying to look shocked, “You didn't ought to have girls in your place, Mason; it gives the building a bad name.”
I said, “You're kiddin' yourself. The place had a bad name long before I moved in. Besides, I don't know what you're talking about. What's all this about dames?”
The waitress came up just then and took his order for tomato-juice and toast. When she had gone, he spread himself over the table. “I saw her when I was getting the paper,” he said. “She came out fast, just like she had been chased out.”
I thought: if I'd seen her, she'd come out faster than that.
“You're nuts,” I said. “Soon as I saw you, I thought your liver had been shot to hell.”
A look of doubt crossed his face, then he came back again. “You can't kid me,” he said, with an attempt to leer. “She was some baby... a real hot mamma.”
I finished my coffee and lit a cigarette. “Do you often get like this?” I said anxiously. “I bet you'll even be able to describe her to me.”
“Sure I can,” he said. “She was tall, blonde, with a make-up that just knocked me. She wore black, and had a large black felt hat, and a gold something or other round her neck. She was moving fast, but I'd know her any time.”
I got to my feet, pushing the chair away with the back of my legs. I looked down at him in concern. “You gotta do something about this,” I said. “You go an' see a croaker... you've been seeing things.”
I walked out of the restaurant, leaving him snorting. Once I was on the street I walked slowly, picking my way through the crowds milling to work.
So she was blonde, tall and dressed in black. A sweet job to look for a dame with that description. Still, she'd got my five grand, and I was going to find her or bust.
Maybe Ackie would know where she fitted in. I turned into a drug-store and rang the Press room, but he wasn't there. They thought he was over at Hank's pool-room having a game, but they weren't sure.
I took a taxi down to Hank's, but he wasn't there either. They thought he'd show up, so I spent a little time practising shots on one of the tables.
I never managed to get the knack of the game, but it interested me, and whenever I got near a table I just had to push the balls around. I got so interested in-a cannon-shot that seemed to be going just right that I lost count of the time. After I had broken my combination up, I thought I'd better give Ackie a miss and get on to the street again. As I was moving, a long, thin dope, dressed like a mock member of the upper crust, wandered in and stood watching me.
He said suddenly, “What about a little game with a dollar or so on for interest?”
I've met these dopes before. They look so damn dumb, you think it's a shame to take their dough, but once they've raised the ante to twenty-five bucks they make the ball do everything but eat a four-course lunch.
I put the cue on the table and shook my head. “I'm through,” I said. “You go an' get some practice.”
He picked up the cue and began potting the red. I expected him to make a hell of a mess of it, but he just went ahead and gave one of the finest exhibitions of shooting I'd ever seen. He slammed the balls into the pockets from every angle, and I just dug them out and rolled them back to him. He got a spin working that made the ball float round the table, and then he finished up with a real snorter that sunk the three balls with one shot.
“I see you've been a beginner some time,” I said, thinking I was lucky not to have played this guy.
He leant over the table to dig out a ball, and his coat shifted up over his hip. I saw the handle of a gun sticking out of his hip-pocket. “Me? I'm punk,” he said. “I just like pushin' the balls around.”
I took a close look at this guy. He still looked a dope, but when you examined him closely, his eyes gave him away. This guy was tough. He'd got a hanging lip that gave him the soft look, but his eyes were suspicious and hard.
He was quick to see my interest, and he leant against the table and began to clean his nails with a pocket-knife. “Ain't seen you around before?” he said, his voice rising a little, making it a question.
I shook my head. “Just looked in for a pal,” I told him. I wondered who he was, so I thought a little harmless talk wouldn't waste my time.
“I guess I've seen your face before,” he said, without looking up.
“Yeah? Maybe you have.”
“You wouldn't be Mason, the news writer?” He overdid it. He knew who I was.
