death.
‘Find out who he is,’ he said.
Juan held out his left hand.
‘Wallet,’ he said, ‘and snap it up.’
I took out my wallet and handed it to him. He found he couldn’t examine it and keep me covered by the gun, so he lowered the gun which was a foolish move. He also took his eyes off me. He was either full of confidence or a bonehead. I didn’t pause to inquire. I hung a right hook on his jaw. I don’t think I’ve ever hit a guy as hard as I hit Juan. The jar that ran up my arm as my fist connected pained me a lot more than it pained him. He went out like a light and I just managed to grab the gun before he hit the carpet.
I turned the gun on the tall man and smiled at him.
‘We seem to be having an exciting evening, don’t we?’ I said.
He looked at me, his face tight with rage.
‘Get out of here!’ he snarled.
‘I’m on my way. I’ll leave the gun with the guy at the gate. I’ll feel safer with it until I get clear of this joint,’ I said, scooped up my wallet and backed to the door.
He sat motionless, his hands on the desk, his face pale under the suntan. What with one thing and the other, he couldn’t have had much of an evening.
I opened the door, edged into the corridor and walked quickly to the lobby.
Suzy was waiting for me.
‘Where have you been for goodness sake?’ she said impatiently. ‘I was about to go home without you.’
‘That’s just what you are going to do,’ I said. ‘I haven’t time to explain why. Get one of the flunkeys to grab a taxi for you. I’m not even waiting for my hat.’
I stepped past her and went to the entrance and down the steps, leaving her gaping after me, too surprised even to speak.
‘Your car, sir?’ the doorman asked sharply.
‘It’s okay. I’ll collect it myself,’ I said, shoved past him and ran down the avenue to where I could see a row of cars.
I didn’t know how long it would take Mr. Royce to come into action, but the quicker I was past the guards at the gate, the safer it would be for me. I located the Buick, gave the attendant a buck and got in. As I drove fast down the drive I took the gun from my pocket and tossed it through the open window into a clump of laurels. I was remembering what Creed had said about being caught with a gun on me without a gun permit. It was a sound move for as my headlights picked out the main gates I saw they were shut.
The two guards, plus a tall, beefy looking man in a slouch hat, stood silent and still, waiting for me to arrive. I slowed down, honked on my horn in the hope they would open the gates, but they didn’t. The headlights of the car lit up the man in the slouch hat. He had cop written all over him. His red, coarse face was a mass of brutality. If you took a lump of brick-red clay, squashed it into the vague shape of a face, stuck a lump on it for a nose, carved a slit in it for a mouth and stuck two match heads in it for eyes you would have a fair portrait of this guy.
An inch or so over six foot, there was a massive power about him in the way he stood, his hands in his trench coat pockets, his great legs apart, his head a little on one side.
I wondered if this was Sergeant Carl Lassiter, who, according to ex-Captain Bradley, was the toughest cop on the Tampa City police force. If he wasn’t, then I didn’t want to meet Lassiter.
This guy was tough enough.
I pulled up.
The two guards moved forward, their hands resting on the butts of their guns. They came each side of the car and opened the doors simultaneously.
‘Keep your hands on the wheel!’ the guard nearest me rapped out.
‘What’s the idea?’ I said, not moving so much as an eyelash.
‘What do you think you’re up to?’
‘Get him out,’ the cop said. He had a husky low voice that came strangely from his bull throat.
The guard on the offside now had his gun in his hand.
‘Get out,’ he said, ‘and keep your hands still.’
I slid out.
‘You guys crazy?’ I said. ‘I’m a temporary member.’
‘Shut up!’ the cop snarled. ‘Look in the car,’ he went on to one of the guards; to the other, he said, ‘Get him inside.’
The guard with the gun jabbed my spine.
‘Move,’ he said, and I walked around the car and into the lodge by the gates; into a large room with a desk, and a rack of rifles, two chairs and an unlit coke stove.
The cop followed me in and looked me over in the harsh light. He took a police badge from his pocket and flashed it, then he said, ‘I’m Sergeant Lassiter. Who are you?’
‘My name’s Sladen,’ I said. ‘What’s the big idea?’
He held out a hand the size of a bath chap.
‘Wallet.’
I gave him my wallet. He took it over to the desk, hooked one huge finger inside it and shot out the contents. He sat down at the desk, shoved his hat to the back of his head, and went through my papers slowly and with police thoroughness.
After he had gone through everything, and there wasn’t much except my business cards, some money, my driver’s licence and a list of my expenses I had jotted down on an odd scrap of paper, he shoved the lot back to me.
While I returned the papers and money to my wallet, he sat staring at me. His scrutiny was the most uncomfortable experience I have ever had. I put the wallet back into my pocket and looked up and met the granite hard pig eyes.
‘Satisfied?’ I asked.
‘You a peeper?’ he asked, biting off each word as if he hated them.
‘I’m a writer.’ I took out one of my business cards and put it down in front of him. ‘Haven’t you heard of Crime Facts? We cooperate with most police forces.’
‘Must be nice for them.’ He heaved his bulk out of the chair and came around the desk. I’m not exactly a midget, but his height and size made me feel like one. The second guard came in at this moment and shook his head at Lassiter.
The sergeant stared at me.
‘Let’s have the rod,’ he said and held out his hand.
‘What rod?’ I asked blankly. ‘What do you mean?’
His coarse brutal face went a deep purple and his eyes gleamed.
‘Lift your arms.’
I did so, and he ran his hands over me quickly and expertly. It was like being patted by a sledge hammer.
‘Where did you dump it?’ he snarled.
‘Dump what?’ I asked, trying to keep the blank expression on my face.
He reached out his huge hand and took hold of my shirtfront.
He breathed garlic and whisky fumes in my face.
‘Where did you dump it?’ he grated, and gave me a little shake. He nearly broke my neck.
I kept still. I knew if I gave him the slightest excuse he would start some rough stuff, and I wasn’t fool enough to imagine I could handle him.
‘I haven’t a gun; I’ve never had a gun. Isn’t that clear?’
He lifted his left hand and slapped me across the face. It was like being whacked with a baseball bat.
I very nearly hit back, but just stopped myself in time. I might have taken him if he had been on his own, but not with the other two guys to step in and hold me while he worked over me.
‘Go on - hit me!’ he snarled into my face. ‘What are you waiting for?’
