“All right,” Newell said in a sort of ice-like voice, “I’ll show you my hand—since I’ve got the gun. The track does payoff plenty. Mark Droyster never knew, because I kept the books and he was tied up in a dozen other different places. But I didn’t kill him or Joe Dance.”
“And you trailed us all the way down here to tell me that?” Smith said.
Newell laughed. “Don’t be funny. I came here to do what I tried to do earlier tonight.”
The boss just said, “Yes?” but my knees were banging together. I looked at Newell’s gun. It must be awful lonesome, I thought, with six feet of dirt over your face. But I couldn’t get close to Newell, not close enough to do nothing.
The boss said, “Earlier tonight you tried to kill us, Newell. Now you say you are going to finish it. Yet you claim you are a very innocent boy. I think you are a very funny boy. You tried to make me and the police think you were drunk this afternoon, when Dance’s corpse was planted in my office. You—”
“I was drunk, if you must know. I was in jail until just a few minutes before I found you and Gargantua in the alley.” He leveled the gun at Smith’s head. “I think you know too much, Smith. Maybe I should knock you off.”
“You tried hard enough once already,” I said.
Newell laughed. “Tried? There in the alley? That’s a joke. If I’d tried, you wouldn’t be kicking now.” He threw the light toward the boss. “No, Smith, I don’t want to kill you. In the alley tonight I merely tried to wing you, lay you up for a few days with a bullet in the leg. Or maybe scare you off the Droyster case. But I didn’t really expect that. You’re too dumb to keep your nose clean.”
Smith said, “Perhaps you need another drink, Newell—to sober you up. What are you driving at, anyway?”
“I’ve decided to change my tactics, Smith. Instead of putting you and that baboon in the hospital, I’m going to buy you off this case.”
The boss rubbed his hands together. “How interesting!”
“Two grand, Smith, to forget Droyster’s suicide?”
“Gracious!” Percival Smith said. “Willie, we must choose more generous company. We’ll settle for four thousand, Newell.”
“You’re a fool, Smith!”
“Four thousand?”
Well, I’d never thought the boss would do that. I’d sooner look at Newell’s gun than have Smith do this kind of business. “Cripes, boss, don’t do it! We—”
Newell said, “I must be crazy, but I’ll give you three grand.”
“It’s a deal,” the boss said.
That must have made Newell happy. He laughed. “I’ve heard different about you, Smith, but I guess you like dough as well as the next one.”
“Money is money, no matter what type hand handles it.”
This was slaying me and I’m not kidding. Me and Smith maybe don’t do everything real gentle, but having him do this was like finding out there is no Santa Claus. “Boss…”
Newell threw the light more on me. “The gorilla doesn’t like your way of working, Smith.”
“He will,” the boss said, “when I whistle.”
I got it then. Newell put the back end of the pencil flash in his mouth. He still kept his light on us, but having the flash in his mouth freed his left hand. He used the hand to drag out a pocketbook that was just about busting with dough. He put the pocketbook between his knees. He got three one grand bills from it with his left hand. I was set.
Newell moved closer to hand the three grand to the boss.
He let the gun point away from me a little. That was bad. I was on my toes, just like in the good old ring days. The boss reached out for the three grand. He whistled real soft between his teeth.
I let go. It was a wallop that would have floored the champ ten or twelve years ago. Newell saw it coming, tried to swing the gun. The gun got all tangled up in the boss’ fingers. My knuckles smashed Newell’s cheek and the flash popped out of his mouth. He staggered, but he hung to the gun.
The boss twisted. I stepped in and hit Newell again. It was fine. The punk nearly left the floor. He sailed clear across the small room. I heard him hit the floor.
The boss picked up the flash, threw it on Al Newell.
Newell made a couple of tries and got his pins under him. The boss kept the gun on Newell. I picked up the slim punk’s dough, put it back in the pocketbook, and handed it to him.
His eyes were nasty looking in the light from the flash. “I’ll remember this, Smith!”
“Tish, tish, such talk—when I’ve got the gun.” He cocked his head, looked at Newell a minute. “It will be a shame, Newell, a downright shame.”
“What do you mean?”
“That face of yours, it’s so handsome.”
Newell lost some of his fire. “Listen now, Smith…”
“Willie will make mincemeat of you, Newell—unless you tell us the whole story of the guy in the closet.”
“Now look here, Smith! You’d better watch your step. It wouldn’t be healthy if you set that gorilla on me!”
“Indeed it wouldn’t—for you. Come now, tell me. You killed Droyster to get the dog track, didn’t you? Dance found out and you killed him to cover it.”
“No, Smith, you’re all wrong.” He was sort of having trouble with his voice. It kept shaking like a hula dancer. “I swear you’re wrong! I didn’t even know Dance was dead until my lawyer came to headquarters tonight to get me out of jail.”
The boss didn’t say nothing for awhile. Then he said, “Okay, Al, if that’s the way you want it. How many of your boys are outside?”
“None, Smith, I came alone.”
“Very well. We can’t stay here all night. If you want to be stubborn, we’ll have
