Tom-Tom Carey grunted and stirred impatiently. Jack Counihan was staring down the road. Andy MacElroy stood stolid in the road, waiting to be told what to do next. The girl never once looked from me to any of these others.
“How did you get in with them?” I demanded. “Talk fast.”
IX
I had told the girl to talk fast. She did. For twenty minutes she stood there and turned out words in a chattering stream that had no breaks except where I cut in to keep her from straying from the path I wanted her to follow. It was jumbled, almost incoherent in spots, and not always plausible, but the notion stayed with me throughout that she was trying to tell the truth—most of the time.
And not for a fraction of a second did she turn her gaze from my eyes. It was as if she was afraid to look anywhere else.
This millionaire’s daughter had, two months before, been one of a party of four young people returning late at night from some sort of social affair down the coast. Somebody suggested that they stop at a roadhouse along their way—a particularly tough joint. Its toughness was its attraction, of course—toughness was more or less of a novelty to them. They got a firsthand view of it that night, for, nobody knew just how, they found themselves taking part in a row before they had been ten minutes in the dump.
The girl’s escort had shamed her by showing an unreasonable amount of cowardice. He had let Red O’Leary turn him over his knee and spank him—and had done nothing about it afterward. The other youth in the party had been not much braver. The girl, insulted by this meekness, had walked across to the red-haired giant who had wrecked her escort, and she had spoken to him loud enough for everybody to hear:
“Will you please take me home?”
Red O’Leary was glad to do it. She left him a block or two from her city house. She told him her name was Nancy Regan. He probably doubted it, but he never asked her any questions, pried into her affairs. In spite of the difference in their worlds, a genuine companionship had grown up between them. She liked him. He was so gloriously a roughneck that she saw him as a romantic figure. He was in love with her, knew she was miles above him, and so she had no trouble making him behave so far as she was concerned.
They met often. He took her to all the rowdy holes in the bay district, introduced her to yeggs, gunmen, swindlers, told her wild tales of criminal adventuring. She knew he was a crook, knew he was tied up in the Seamen’s National and Golden Gate Trust jobs when they broke. But she saw it all as a sort of theatrical spectacle. She didn’t see it as it was.
She woke up the night they were in Larrouy’s and were jumped by the crooks that Red had helped Papadopoulos and the others double-cross. But it was too late then for her to wriggle clear. She was blown along with Red to Papadopoulos’ hangout after I had shot the big lad. She saw then what her romantic figures really were—what she had mixed herself with.
When Papadopoulos escaped, taking her with him, she was wide awake, cured, through forever with her dangerous trifling with outlaws. So she thought. She thought Papadopoulos was the little, scary old man he seemed to be—Flora’s slave, a harmless old duffer too near the grave to have any evil in him. He had been whining and terrified. He begged her not to forsake him, pleaded with her while tears ran down his withered cheeks, begging her to hide him from Flora. She took him to her country house and let him fool around in the garden, safe from prying eyes. She had no idea that he had known who she was all along, had guided her into suggesting this arrangement.
Even when the newspapers said he had been the commander-in-chief of the thug army, when the hundred and six thousand dollar reward was offered for his arrest, she believed in his innocence. He convinced her that Flora and Red had simply put the blame for the whole thing on him so they could get off with lighter sentences. He was such a frightened old gink—who wouldn’t have believed him?
Then her father’s death in Mexico had come and grief had occupied her mind to the exclusion of most other things until this day, when Big Flora and another girl—probably Angel Grace Cardigan—had come to the house. She had been deathly afraid of Big Flora when she had seen her before. She was more afraid now. And she soon learned that Papadopoulos was not Flora’s slave but her master. She saw the old buzzard as he really was. But that wasn’t the end of her awakening.
Angel Grace had suddenly tried to kill Papadopoulos. Flora had overpowered her. Grace, defiant, had told them she was Paddy’s girl. Then she had screamed at Ann Newhall:
“And you, you damned fool, don’t you know they killed your father? Don’t you know—?”
Big Flora’s fingers, around Angel Grace’s throat, stopped her words. Flora tied up the Angel and turned to the Newhall girl.
“You’re in it,” she said brusquely. “You’re in it up to your neck. You’ll play along with us, or else—Here’s how it stands, dearie. The old man and I are both due to step off if we’re caught. And you’ll do the dance with us. I’ll see to that. Do what you’re told, and we’ll all come through all right. Get funny, and I’ll beat holy hell out of you.”
The girl didn’t remember much after that. She had a dim recollection of going to the door and telling Andy she didn’t want his services. She did this mechanically, not even needing to be prompted
