his face, and his eyes searching the black shadows as he went along. He had no intention of running into any of Carlos’s mob just at present. He knew Carlos must be looking for him. Fenner told himself the next twenty-four hours ought to be a lot more interesting than the last twenty-four hours.
As he approached the waterfront through Negro Beach he saw ahead of him a car drawn up under a lamp standard, with parkers on. He looked hard at the car and came on, slowing his pace and not quite knowing why he did so. Somehow, in the almost deserted dark street that car looked too isolated, too obviously loitering. He suddenly ducked into a doorway because he noticed the curtain of the rear window had shifted. There was no wind, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that someone had been watching him come down the street.
The sound of an engine starting came to Him in the silence, and gears grated, then the car began to move forward slowly. Fenner stood in the doorway until the red tail light disappeared round the bend in the road. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then stepped out on to the pavement again.
He didn’t go forward, but stood very still, listening. Faintly he could hear the whine of a car, and a cold little smile hit his mouth. The car had gone forward only to turn. It was coming back.
He ran across the road fast and stepped into another doorway in the dark shadows. Squeezing himself against the brickwork, he felt for his gun and jerked it from his shoulder holster. He thumbed back the safety catch and held the gun, with its blunt nose to the star-filled sky.
The car swung round the bend. It was gathering speed. Its only lights were its parkers, and as it swept past, a blaze of gun-fire spurted from the side window.
Fenner could hear the patter of bullets thudding against the wall on the opposite side of the road, where he had been. Someone was grinding a Thompson, and Fenner couldn’t help being thankful that he had crossed the road. He fired three times at the car as it went past him. He heard the crash of the glass as the windshield went, and the car lurched across the road and thudded up the curb, then smashed into a shop window.
Running from his doorway, Fenner went a little way up the street, passing the car, and ducked down a dark alley. He went down on one knee and peered round, watching.
Three men darted out of the car. One, he thought, was Reiger. They ran for cover. Fenner got the middle man in his gun-sight and squeezed the trigger. The man staggered, tried to keep his balance, then fell on his face in the road. By that time the other two had darted into doorways. They began firing at the mouth of the alley, one with an automatic and the other with a Thompson. Fenner didn’t bother about the man with the automatic, but the Thompson bothered him a lot. The bullets chipped away the brickwork of the wall, and he had to crawl away from the opening as splinters of concrete made things dangerous.
Remembering the night on the boat, Fenner crawled further away. He wasn’t risking having a bomb tossed at him.
Someone called, “You better duck in here.”
He saw a door on his left open and a figure standing in the doorway. “Shut that door and get under cover,” he shouted. “Look lively.”
It was a woman who spoke. She said unemotionally, “Shall I ring for the cops?”
Fenner slid over to her. “Beat it, sister,” he said. “This is a private row. You stay indoors; you’re likely to get hurt standing there.” Just as he finished speaking a blinding flash and a violent explosion came in the mouth of the alley. A sudden rush of wind flung Fenner forward and he and the woman went over with a crash into the narrow passage of the house.
Fenner rolled over and kicked the front door shut. He said, “Wow! These guys’ve got bombs.”
The woman said with a quaver in her voice, “This joint won’t stand another like that. It’ll fall down.”
Fenner got unsteadily to his feet. “Let me into a front room,” he said quickly. He moved in the darkness where he thought a room ought to be, and stumbled over the woman, who was still sitting on the floor. She wound her arms round his legs and held him.
“Forget it,” she said shortly. “You start firing from my window and they’ll throw another bomb at you.”
Fenner said, “Then let me out of here”—savagely.
Faintly the sound of a siren coming fast reached his ears.
The woman said, “The cops!” She let go of Fenner and got to her feet. “Got a match?”
Fenner made a light and she took the spluttering flame from his fingers. She went over to a naked gas burner and lit it with a plop. She was a short, fat middle-aged woman with a square chin and determined eyes.
Fenner said, “I guess you did me a good turn. If I’d been outside when that pineapple went off, I should have been sticking to the wall. Now, I guess I better beat it before the cops start having a look round.”
The siren came up with a scream and died away in a flurry as brakes made tires bite into the road. She said, “You better stay here. It’s too late to go out now.”
Fenner hesitated, checked his watch, found he had still some forty minutes before meeting the mob, and nodded. “Somehow,” he said, “you remind me of my best girl. She was always getting me out of a jam.”
The woman shook her head. A little gleam of humor showed in her eyes. “Yeah?” she said. “You remind me of my old man when he was around your age. He was quick and strong and tough. He was a good man.”
Fenner made noises.
She went on. “Go down the passage and sit in the kitchen. The cops’ll come in a minute. I know the cops around here. I’ll fix ’em.”
Fenner said, “Okay,” and he went into the kitchen and lit the big paraffin lamp. He shut the door and sat in a rocking-chair. The room was poor, but it was clean. The mat on the floor was thin and threadbare. There were three religious prints on the wall and two big turtle shells each side of the fireplace. He heard a lot of talking going on, but he didn’t hear what was being said. To hear, he would have to open the door, and he thought they might see the light. So he just rocked himself gently and thought about Reiger. That mob was tough all right. His head still swam with the force of the explosion.
Then he felt inside his coat, took out his wallet and peeled off five ten-dollar bills. He got up and put the bills under a plate on the dresser. Somehow he thought the woman wouldn’t like to take money from him, and from the look of the room she needed it.
After a few minutes she came in. She nodded to him. “They’ve gone,” she said.
Fenner got out of the chair. “That’s mighty nice of you. Now I guess I’ll run away.”
She said, “Wait a minute, stranger. Was that Carlos’s mob?”
Fenner looked at her thoughtfully. “What do you know about that mob?” he asked.
Her eyes grew hard. “Plenty. If it weren’t for those bastards, my Tim would be here now.”
Fenner said, “Yeah, it was them all right. What happened to Tim?”
She stood still, a massive figure of granite solidness. “Tim was a good guy,” she said, looking straight at Fenner. “He wasn’t rich, but he got by. He had a boat and he took parties out in the gulf fishin’. Then this Carlos wanted him to take Chinks in the boat. He offered to pay, but Tim wasn’t playing. He was like that. He was strong and tough, and he told Carlos no.
“Carlos couldn’t get his own way, so he kills my man. Well, it ain’t what happens to the one who gets killed. It’s what happens to the one who gets left. Tim died quick; went out like a light. But I don’t forget quick. I guess in time I’ll go dead inside and I’ll find things working out easier than they are now, but right now I’d like to do things to that Carlos.”
Fenner got to his feet. He said gently, “Take it easy. Carlos’ll pay for that all right. It wouldn’t get you anywhere if you did kill him. Leave Carlos to me. I gotta date with him.”
The woman said nothing. She suddenly stuffed her apron in her mouth and her face crumpled. She waved Fenner to the door wildly, and as he went out, she sank on her knees by the rocking-chair.
When Fenner got down to the harbor, Schaife was waiting for him outside the San Francisco Hotel. They went in and had two quick drinks and then Fenner followed him down to the waterfront.
Schaife said, “I’ve got two Thompsons and a lotta shells. Scalfoni’s brought a bag of bombs. God knows if those bombs are any use. He makes ’em himself. That guy’s been itchin’ to throw them at someone ever since he got the idea.”
Fenner said, “He’ll get his chance tonight.”
Kemerinski’s boat was of a good size. Alex and Scalfoni were smoking, waiting. Fenner stepped aboard as Kemerinski appeared from the engine cockpit. He grinned at Fenner. “Everything okay,” he said. “We can go when you say so.”
Fenner said, “Sure. We’ve got nothing to wait for. Let her go.”
