Ned Beaumont, wearing a hat that did not quite fit him, followed the porter carrying his bags through Grand Central Terminal to a Forty-second Street exit, and thence to a maroon taxicab. He tipped ti-me porter, climbed into the taxicab, gave its driver the name of a hotel off Broadway in the Forties, and settled back lighting a cigar. He chewed the cigar more than he smoked it as the taxicab crawled through theater-bound traffic towards Broadway.
At Madison Avenue a green taxicab, turning against the light, ran full tilt into Ned Beaumont's maroon one, driving it over against a car that was parked by the curb, hurling him into a corner in a shower of broken glass.
He pulled himself upright and climbed out into the gathering crowd. He was not hurt, he said. He answered a policeman's questions. He found the hat that did not quite fit him and put it on his head. He had his bags transferred to another taxicab, gave the hotel's name to the second driver, and 1-muddled back in a corner, white- faced and shivering, while the ride lasted.
'When he had registered at the hotel he asked for his mail and was given two telephone-memorandum-slips and two sealed envelopes without postage stamps.
He asked the bellboy who took him to his room to get him a pint of rye whisky. When the boy had gone he turned the key in the door and read the telephone-memoranda. Both slips were dated that day, one marked 4:50 P. M., the other 8:05 P. M. He looked at his wrist-watch. It was 8:45 P. M.
The earlier slip read: _At the Gargoyle_. The later read: _At Tom & Jerry's. Will phone later_. Both were signed: _Jack_.
He opened one of the envelopes. It contained two sheets of paper covered by bold masculine handwriting, dated the previous day.
_She is staying at the Matin, room 1211, registered as Eileen Dale, Chicago. She did some phoning from the depot and connected with a man and girl who live E. 3oth. They went to a lot of places, mostly speakies, probably hunting him, but don't seem to have much luck. My room is 734. Man and girl named Brook_.
The sheet of paper in the other envelope, covered by the same handwriting, was dated that day.
_I saw Deward this morning, but he says he did not know Bernie was in town. Will phone later_.
Both of these messages were signed: _Jack_.
Ned Beaumont washed, put on fresh linen from his bags, and was lighting a cigar when the bellboy brought him his pint of whisky. He paid the boy, got a tumbler from the bathroom, and drew a chair up to the bedroom- window. He sat there smoking, drinking, and staring down at the other side of the street until his telephone-bell rang.
'Hello,' he said into the telephone. 'Yes, Jack . . . Just now. . . Where? . . . Sure. . . . Sure, on my way.'
He took another drink of whisky, put on the hat that did not quite fit him, picked up the overcoat he had dropped across a chair-back, put it on, patted one of its pockets, switched off the lights, and went out.
It was then ten minutes past nine o'clock.
Through double swinging glazed doors under an electric sign that said Tom & Jerry's down the front of a building within sight of Broadway, Ned Beaumont passed into a narrow corridor. A single swinging door in the corridor's left wall let him into a small restaurant.
A man at a corner-table stood up and raised a forefinger at him. The man was of medium height, young and dapper, with a sleek dark rather good-looking face.
Ned Beaumont went over to him. ''Lo, Jack,' he said as they shook hands.
'They're upstairs, the girl and those Brook people,' Jack told him. 'You ought to be all right sitting here with your back to the stairs. I can spot them if they go out, or him coming in, and there's enough people in the way to keep him from making you.'
Ned Beaumont sat down at Jack's table. 'They waiting for him?'
Jack moved his shoulders. 'I don't know, but they're doing some stalling about something. Want something to eat? You can't get anything to drink downstairs here.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'I want a drink. Can't we find a place upstairs where they won't see us?'
'It's not a very big joint,' Jack protested. 'There's a couple of booths up there where we might be hidden from them, but if he comes in he's likely to spot us.'
'Let's risk it. I want a drink and I might as well talk to him right here if he does show up.'
Jack looked curiously at Ned Beaumont, then turned his eyes away and said: 'You're the boss. I'll see if one of the booths is empty.' He hesitated, moved his shoulders again, and left the table.
Ned Beaumont twisted himself around in his chair to watch the dapper young man go back to the stairs and mount them. He watched the foot of the stairs until the young man came down again. From the second step Jack beckoned. He said, when Ned Beaumont had joined him there: 'The best of them's empty and her back's this way, so you can get a slant at the Brooks as you go over.'
They went upstairs. The booths—tables and benches set within breast-high wooden stalls—were to the right of the stair-head. They had to turn and look through a wide arch and down past the bar to see into the second-floor dining-room.
Ned Beaumont's eves focused on the back of Lee Wilshire in sleeveless fawn gown and brown hat. Her brown fur coat was hanging over the back of her chair. He looked at her companions. At her left was a hawk-nosed long-chinned pale man, a predatory animal of forty or so. Facing her sat a softly fleshed red-haired girl with eyes set far apart. She was laughing.
Ned Beaumont followed Jack to their stall. They sat down with the table between them. Ned Beaumont sat with his back to the dining-room, close to the end of his bench to take full advantage of the wooden wing's shelter. He took off his hat, but not his overcoat.
A waiter came. Ned Beaumont said: 'Rye.' Jack said: 'Rickey.'
Jack opened a package of cigarettes, took one out, and, staring at it, said: 'It's your game and I'm working for you, but this isn't a hell of a good spot to go up against him if he's got friends here.'
'Has he?'
Jack put the cigarette in a corner of his mouth so it moved batonwise with his words. 'If they're waiting here for him, it might be one of his hang-outs.'
The waiter came with their drinks. Ned Beaumont drained his glass immediately and complained: 'Cut to nothing.'
'Yes, I guess it is,' Jack said and took a sip from his glass. He set fire to the end of his cigarette and took another sip.
'Well,' Ned Beaumont said, 'I'm going up against him as soon as he shows.'
'Fair enough.' Jack's good-looking dark face was inscrutable. 'What do I do?'
Ned Beaumont said, 'Leave it to me,' and caught their waiter's attention.
He ordered a double Scotch. Jack another rickey. Ned Beaumont emptied his glass as soon as it arrived. Jack let his first drink be carried away no more than half consumed and sipped at his second. Presently Ned Beaumont had another double Scotch and another while Jack had time to finish none of his drinks.
Then Bernie Despain came upstairs.
Jack, watching the head of the stairs, saw the gambler and put a foot on Ned Beaumont's under the table. Ned Beaumont, looking up from his empty glass, became suddenly hard and cold of eye. He put his hands flat on the table and stood up. He stepped out of the stall and faced Despain. He said: 'I want my money, Bernie.'
The man who had come upstairs behind Despain now walked around him and struck Ned Beaumont very hard in the body with his left fist. He was not a tall man, but his shoulders were heavy and his fists were large globes.
Ned Beaumont was knocked back against a stall-partition. He bent forward and his knees gave, but he did not fall. He hung there for a moment. His eyes were glassy and his skin had taken on a greenish tinge. He said something nobody could have understood and went to the head of the stairs.
