I nodded and walked through the entrance, down the steps on to the dark, lonely street. I put my hand on the gun butt in my pocket and felt a little more courageous.
‘Don’t shoot me in the excitement,’ I said as Peters came to the door.
He laughed.
‘You worry too much. I’ll take care of you.’
He sounded a trifle too confident. I wished now I had thought up a safer idea to catch this gunman.
‘Watch it,’ I said and, feeling naked and pretty scared, I started to walk along the badly lit street, keeping a tight grip on the gun butt.
About thirty yards down the street I saw a big guy, leaning against the wall, smoking. He gave me a casual glance and as I passed him, he murmured, ‘I bet your knees are knocking.’
I didn’t look at him, but kept on.
The walk to the hotel seemed endless. Every time a car passed me, my hair stood up on ends. Whenever a man appeared, my heart skipped a beat. Even a black cat running across the road made me jump. When I crossed the road and climbed the steps to the hotel lobby, I was sweating: I paused for a moment to wipe my face, then walked in.
Larson was thumbing through his magazine. He glanced up and nodded. A thickset man sat in one of the basket chairs, reading a newspaper. As I passed him, he said, ‘Scaife’s in your
room. Don’t shoot him as you go in.’
I nodded, climbed into the ancient elevator and was dragged up to the first floor. Before getting out, I peered cautiously up and down the passage. I couldn’t see anyone lurking there, so I crossed the passage, rapped on my door, pushed it open and stepped cautiously to one side.
‘This is Sladen coming in,’ I said into the darkness.
The light snapped on.
‘Come on in,’ Scaife said. He was sitting in my armchair. I saw he had found my bottle of Scotch. Half of it had gone down his throat from the look of the bottle.
I entered and shut the door.
‘Quiet as the grave,’ he said. ‘Maybe the guy was bluffing.’
‘If you had seen him you wouldn’t be drinking my whisky so nonchalantly. He wasn’t bluffing.’
Scaife grinned.
‘A two cent gunman doesn’t scare me off whisky.’
I went over and poured myself a large drink.
‘You’ll have a pretty good story to write, won’t you?’ Scaife went on. ‘What are you going to call it - my death grapple with a hophead?’ And he laughed.
I drank half the whisky at a swallow and felt a little better.
‘You guys can afford to laugh: you’re not out on a limb,’ I said as I began to strip off my suit.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Scaife returned. ‘It’s all in a day’s work. I hope we get this punk.’
‘So do I,’ I said, putting on a dark suit. ‘That’s better. I don’t show up so well now.’ I finished my drink. ‘Well, I guess I’d better buy myself a dinner. Can’t say I’m hungry.’
‘We’ve got two of our boys in the bar and one’s stuffing his guts in the restaurant,’ Scaife said. ‘You buy yourself a good blow out. Nothing will happen to you there.’
‘I’m not there yet,’ I said, making for the door. ‘Well, so long.’
‘I’ll be right behind you with Peters. Don’t walk too fast.’
‘I won’t.’
I went down the stairs, nodded to Larson and walked to the hotel door. I looked into the street. There was a car parked opposite. I could see two men sitting in it.
‘Those two are okay,’ said the man who was sitting in the basket chair. ‘They’re our boys.’
I nodded, walked down the steps and moved off towards the Bell Tavern that was on the corner, some hundred yards from the hotel.
I had to force one leg in front of the other as I walked down the deserted, dark street. My eyes were everywhere. A car swung into the street and I nearly dropped in my tracks, but as it pulled up outside a tobacconist store and the driver got out, I kept on with an effort. I had my gun half out of my pocket as I passed the car, and I was ready to duck, but nothing happened. Breathing heavily, I pushed open the restaurant door and stepped into the brightly lit bar.
There were some twenty people drinking and talking in there, none of them even looked my way. I shed my coat, transferring my gun to my jacket pocket, then I went over to the bar and ordered myself a double Scotch. While I was waiting, I glanced around. Two beefy men with glasses of beer in front of them sat by the restaurant door. They looked at me and one of them winked. My eyelid felt stiff as I returned his wink.
Apart from these two, the rest of the drinkers looked harmless enough. I finished my whisky and went into the restaurant. I got a table with my back to the wall facing the entrance, and sat down. I spotted the third cop at a table across the room. He was munching contentedly and he gave me a cheerful grin. He seemed to be appreciating his assignment. I hoped he had his gun handy. I ordered a steak and trimmings. As I waited for it, I wondered if I were going to get it down. I felt damp behind the ears, and my stomach was fluttering like a flag in a breeze. But when the steak arrived it was so tender and good, I worked through it without trouble and felt a lot better for it. All the time I ate I kept looking at the restaurant entrance, half-expecting to see the gunman appear, and knowing I was alarming myself for nothing. He wouldn’t get past the two guys out in the bar, I told myself, and wished I believed it.
I paid my bill and sat staring at the tablecloth for a few minutes. I had to keep to my schedule, but it was nice and comfortable and safe in this restaurant, and I wasn’t looking forward to another walk in the dark.
The detective across the way was staring at me and, as I met his eyes, he glanced at his watch and then at the door. It was a gentle hint for me to get moving. I reluctantly shoved back my chair and walked to the bar entrance.
‘Here I go,’ I said to one of the beefy men sitting by the door.
‘About time,’ he growled. ‘I want to get home sometime tonight.’
I thought it was pretty heartless of him, but could see his point of view. I went over and collected my hat and coat and went out on to the street.
I had taken seven steps towards the Florian club when it happened.
III
A big, black car without lights shot out of a dark turning. As soon as I saw it had no lights, I knew it was coming for me. I had no chance to duck back into the restaurant; it was coming too fast for that. There was no sheltering doorway at hand. I was right out in the open and I felt as naked as a fly on a wall.
I got the gun out and started running towards the car with the crazy idea of running past it before it could get at me. I caught a glimpse of the driver: a little man with his hat pulled down low over his face, crouching down behind the wheel. There was another man in the back of the car with what looked like a riot gun in his hands. The barrel was resting on the top of the open window.
I lifted the .45 and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a crash that deafened me and its kick back nearly had the gun out of my hand. It was a lucky shot. The slug smashed the windshield of the car which swerved crazily as the riot gun opened up with a deafening clatter.
If the car hadn’t swerved, I should have been cut down by the stream of slugs that smashed into the sidewalk about a yard ahead of me.
I threw myself face down in the gutter. The car lurched across the road, the on-side wheels missing me by about three feet. It crashed into a lamp standard.
I rolled over. The dark night lit up with the revolver flashes as my bodyguards came into action. Slugs hummed through the air, more glass in the car smashed. I hugged the road, feeling sweat on my face, scared silly. I listened to the thud of running footfalls. Lying still, my gun hand thrust forward, I looked over at the car.
The offside door hung open. I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, crouching behind the car, then the riot gun opened up again and a stream of slugs passed just above me. I took a snapshot at the crouching figure. My
