“The man who wrote that note killed Fowler—”
“Yeah? And where did you get it—from a little boy on the corner?”
‘I’m trying to tell you. That note was in Fowler’s pocket—”
“You’ll hang yourself with stories like that.” Her voice was glacial.
“If you’ll let me finish you’ll quit trying to think I’m a murderer. I went back to the Sunset after I left you here early this morning. I have a key to the back door so I can get in late when there’s a poker game. Toby locks the front when the bridge players leave.”
“You knew Fowler was dead?”
“I knew something screwy was going on. Fowler didn’t leave the club after you rowed with him at the table.”
“We heard his car.”
“We didn’t. That’s what tipped me off. Fowler has a roadster a block long. That was a small car we heard leave the Sunset. I’d heard rumors around town about a slick bird with the cards who was due for a fall. Several of the boys thought it was Fowler—but it wasn’t. Fowler was a straight player. When I found him stabbed this morning I thought he’d been rubbed out by mistake. I was mad when I left and phoned the police.”
“And now?”
“Now I know who killed him. I saw the guy on his hands and knees crawling on the side porch by the bridge room. I saw the same guy knock off Rice on the boat tonight. After we left the Four Leaf Clover I trailed him—”
“The dicks have a word for it—blackmail, and accessory after the fact. You’ll like playing daisy chain in a Florida road camp.”
“Call it what you want. He’s going to pay plenty. There’s important stakes to warrant two snuff-outs in twenty-four hours.” Ben lowered his voice. “Why this mug’s a sap. I trailed him to the Sunset just before I came here. He’s got something hidden there—and I know where it is. He took part of it home with him tonight. I’m through with this lousy racket—broke one day and winner the next. Let somebody else take the risk on this deal. We’ll cut in on the profit—”
“Once I thought I loved you, Ben,” Millie said dreamily. He had a queer feeling that the words were dragged from her by some force beyond her control. “You were a good gambler, and knew your stuff. That was before you started playing another man’s game, and betting into one-card draws. If you dropped this damfoolishness I might learn to care for you again.”
“Meaning you’re not in with me now.” Eckhardt carefully measured each word.
“Meaning more than that, Ben. You’re not going to have anything to do with this—whether you like it or not. I stuck with Zorrio until I heard he was a killer—but I was nearly dead myself by then. I’m not going to let you start on the same road he went. I’ll keep my mouth shut so long as you do the same. If you contact this double killer—I’ll contact the police. You can gun for me if you want to—and we’ll meet in the morgue when Caprilli’s torpedoes are through burning your feet. Now get out! You can come back when you see things my way!”
He pulled himself to his feet, looming menacingly by the side of the bed. “You’re a stinking squealer, Millie,” he stated flatly. “And you’ll hear from me on this deal. You’ve got me now—but Caprilli won’t always be so handy.” He started through the door into the other room, and turned. “You might remember that Caprilli’s torpedoes like to have good clean fun with the ladies, too.”
She remained taut and motionless as his soft footsteps crossed the living-room, negotiated the short passage to the back stairs, and cautiously descended. A cramp struck sharply at her left foot. She winced, but did not change her position. Infinitely careful, she was sliding the automatic from under the pillow. Finally it lay just under the sheet, close to her face.
Her breathing grew more regular. Her blue eyes closed, and she stirred uneasily, then lay quiet again. For forty minutes, dragging heavy-laden toward the dawn, the palm tree scraped against the screen, and Millie did not stir. Then the soft click of the latch on the back door reached her ears.
She lay quiet for ten minutes longer, before she jumped from the bed, and ran barefoot down the stairs to shoot the bolt on the back door. Back in bed, she shoved the pistol under the pillow, and took a long grateful breath.
“What a goddam fool!” she whispered to the shadows on the wall. “He sits here spilling his guts about what he’s going to do—and can’t even hear the man who followed him in standing in the other room!”
Chapter XI
“Can you eat?”
Stan shifted himself uneasily in bed and tried to blink away a vision of Doris Buchanan placing a breakfast tray on a chair beside him. His head felt unaccountably light in spite of the additional weight of a turban-like bandage He touched the swathed linen with an explorative finger, winced at the contact, and attempted a cheerful grin which turned out to be sickly.
“Breakfast?”
“You can call it that.” Doris helped him sit up, and arranged a pillow at his back. “It’s two o’clock. The day is Monday, and you have five stitches in your head. You owe Dr. Carter five dollars, too. He sewed you up last night with grapevine stitch, and came in again this morning. He says you’ll live—if I can get you to take some nourishment—light broths—”
“Ugh!” Stan shuddered and turned his head away.
Doris, placed the tray on his lap. “I brought you iced grapefruit, some creamed chicken, toast and marmalade and coffee—”
“I can’t understand doctors,” said Stan, as he attacked the grapefruit. “Why do they sew up a man’s head when he’s starving to death? I’ll be ready to get up after this.”
“That’s what you think. Last night you were dead on two counts and now you’re going to get up. In case you
