I stepped over him, closed the door, listened.
Ahead of me were stairs leading to the flat. A pedestal stood at
the foot of the stairs on which was a bowl of orchids. I sneered at it.
The stairs were carpeted with thick green material that gave
comfortingly under the feet, muffled the sound of steps. The walls
were apricot, the banister rail dark green.
A voice called, “Frankie . . . who is it?”
A girl’s voice, strangely familiar.
I stiffened, felt spooked. I knew the voice. I had heard it so many
times before, but even at that it was hard to believe that it was Netta
speaking.
I took a quick step forward, caught a glimpse of silk clad legs and
the hem of a blue dress at the head of the stairs. Then I heard a
startled gasp, the hem of the dress and the silk clad legs vanished.
There was a scurrying of feet.
I sprang up the stairs, didn’t realize they were so steep, stumbled.
I cursed, regained my balance, went on up, hands touching each step
as I went, arrived at a small lobby with three doors facing me.
One of the doors jerked open: Jack Bradley appeared. He wore a
green dressing-gown, stiff white collar and black evening tie. His eyes
were frozen stones, his mouth twisted with fury.
As I stepped towards him, I saw the .38 automatic in his hand,
paused.
“I’ll make you pay for this,” he snarled. “How dare you break in
here!”
I listened, not looking at him. Somewhere a door closed. “Hello,
Bradley,” I said. “Who was your girl friend?”
“I’ll shoot if you try any tricks,” he said. “Get your hands up. I’m
calling the police.”
“Oh, no, you’re not,” I said, “and you’re not going to shoot. You
haven’t a gun permit, and the cops can make things awkward for a
thug like you if you let guns off without a permit.” I spoke rapidly,
hoped my bluff would work, edged towards him.
I saw his expression change, a look of doubt in his eyes. That was
enough for me. I slapped the gun out of his hand, kicked it down the
stairs. He swung at me, but I shoved him aside, entered the room
from which he had come.
The room was empty except for its rich furnishings. A smell of lilac
hung in the air. So it had been Netta, I thought, again felt spooked.
There was a door at the far end of the room. I ran over, tried to open
it, found it locked. I drew back, kicked at the lock, the door burst
open. I looked out into the night from the head of an outside wooden
stairway. As I stood there, I heard a car start up, drive away.
I turned, found Bradley sneaking up on me, a poker in his hand. I
ducked the wild swing, caught his wrist, wrenched the poker out of his
hand, I looked at him. His face was white and his eyes glared.
“I remember you once said you were tougher than Frankie,” I
said. “Here’s your opportunity to show me.”
I tossed the poker across the room. It knocked over a lamp
standard which in its turn knocked over a small table on which stood
bottles and glasses. The crash made a nice noise to my ears.
“You’ll be sorry for this,” Bradley snarled, backing away.
“So you’re not so tough,” I grinned at him. “You’re the guy who
tells other mugs to do your dirty work. Okay, Bradley, you’re on the
spot now. You’d better exert some of that fat and try to get out of it.”
I grabbed hold of him by his dressing gown, shook him, threw him
after the poker. He weighed about sixteen stone, but the bulk of it
was fat.
I walked over to where he lay, sat on the arm of a chair, smiled at
him. He didn’t attempt to get up, glared up at me with eyes a snake’d
be proud to own.
“Remember me, Bradley?” I said. “The guy who doesn’t mind his
own business? I thought maybe you mightn’t recognize me after what
your thugs did to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snarled. “Get out of
here before I call the police.”
“You warned me you’d teach me a lesson, didn’t you?” I went on,
taking out a cigarette, lighting it. “Well, the lesson didn’t stick. But my
lesson will. I’m going to ruin that fat puss of yours, but before I start
on you, you’re going to answer some questions. Who was that girl you
were talking to just now?”
“Nobody you know,” he said, sitting up slowly. “If you don’t get
out, Harmas, I’ll fix you. My God, I’ll fix you!”
I kicked him in his fat chest, sending him over backwards.
“I told you that rats like you are a nickel a gross, didn’t I?” I said,
flicking ash it him. “You don’t know what it is to be tough. Fix me?” I
laughed. “You won’t fix anyone by the time I’m through with you.”
He lay holding on to his chest, his face purple with fury and pain,
but he stayed right where he was.
“Come on, who’s the dame? Talk or I’ll sock you, and keep on
socking you.”
“It was Selma Jacobi,” he snarled. “Now get out!”
I shook my head. “Oh, no, it wasn’t,” I said, kicking him gently. “It
was Netta, wasn’t it?”
His face went flabby. The purple drained away leaving his skin like
tallow.
“You’re mad!” he gasped, struggling up. “Netta’s dead.”
“You’ve given yourself away,” I said, taking off my coat and rolling
up my sleeves. Get up, Bradley. You can try to do what your three
hired thugs tried to do.”
He lay as still as a corpse, looked at me with fear in his eyes.
“Leave me alone,” he said. “You can’t touch me, Harmas. I’m an old
man. I have a weak heart.”
I laughed. “You mean you’re going to have a weak heart,” I said,
drew back my foot and booted him in his fat ribs. “Get up, you heel.”
I had to kick him to his feet, then I hauled off and hit him in the
eye, sent him reeling across the room. He clawed at a bookcase as he
staggered back, trying to regain his balance. The bookcase swayed,
crashed to the floor, spilling books. I picked up the heaviest, flung it at
