but his death was a great relief to me.”
Duffy said, “You’re giving me a grand motive for his killing.”
She slid off the table and came over to him. “You know I didn’t kill him,” she said, “you believe that, don’t you?”
“Go on,” he said, “it don’t matter a damn what I think, it’s what the jury would think that counts.”
She moved away again, and began wandering round the room, fingering the furniture aimlessly as she moved. “Cattley was a brute. He made me visit him. He gave me the key of his apartment. I had to go to him whenever he called. I knew he had some proof of what I did, so when he was killed, I came down to find it. That’s the truth, you do believe that?”
“Sure,” Duffy beamed, “a hophead would believe it.”
She sat down suddenly in the arm-chair and hid her face in her hands. “I’m so unhappy,” she said, her voice breaking; “please be kind to me.”
Duffy came over and sat on the arm of her chair. “When you went into the Johnny just now,” he said casually, “you smuggled something in your pants or some place. You can now go right back to the Johnny and dig it out again. Then you can give it to me.”
She took her hands from her face and leant back. Her face was set. “You’ve got no right to ask for that,” she said, “it is nothing to do with you. It is entirely personal.”
Duffy put his arm round the back of the chair and patted her shoulder. “Go into the Johnny,” he said.
She got out of the chair. Her eyes were very angry. Duffy thought she looked swell. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said, speaking very fast; “I’ve told you the truth, and I’m not giving you anything. Now, understand that.”
Duffy still sat on the chair-arm. He looked her over slowly, his mouth pursed, and his eyebrows raised. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said; “I want whatever you found in this joint, and I’m going to have it.”
She started to say something, but he held up his hand. “Quiet,” he said, “if you don’t like to give it to me, I’ll take it, how’s that?”
Slowly, she began to back to the door. He could see that she was getting scared. He left his seat quickly as she reached the door, and swung her round. She struck him across his nose with her clenched fist. Duffy was quite hurt. He put his hand to his face, felt his nose gingerly, looked at his fingers to see if his nose was bleeding, then he grinned. “Well, of course,” he said, “if that’s the way you want it.”
She struck at him again, but he caught her wrist, then she closed with him, a kicking, biting, scratching handful of outraged loveliness. For a moment, Duffy was busy keeping her nails out of his eyes. He smothered her arms with difficulty, turned her. Crossing her arms across her chest, and holding them tightly by the wrists behind her, he ran into the bedroom and slammed her face down on the bed.
“You Redhead,” he said, panting a little with his exertion. “You going to play ball, or do I have to get rough?”
She said, her voice muffled, “Oh! How I hate you!”
“Come on.”
She remained silent for a minute, then she said, “All right, I’ll give it to you.”
“That a promise?”
“Yes… yes, you beast.”
He grunted and released her. She sat up, her face white and drawn. Her eyes were glittering with hate. He was quite startled to see how vicious she could look.
“Get going,” he said, suddenly losing his good temper.
She said, “Get out of the room. I have to undress.”
He shook his head. “Be your age,” he said, “I don’t trust you.
She got off the bed, and stood, her hair ruffled, her green silk dress crumpled, and battle in her eye.
“I’m not getting undressed with a heel like you looking on,” she said.
Duffy went over to the door and turned the key. He took the key out and put it in his pocket.
“You surprise me,” he said, “fancy you being coy. Sure, I’ll turn my back, but get going.”
He went and looked out of the window. A very faint sound made him jerk round again. She was almost on top of him. In her hand she was holding an empty carafe by the neck. The look in her eyes made him catch his breath. He slid along the wall away from her fast, as she smashed the carafe at him. The glass exploded all round him. The paper on the wall split, where the carafe had struck, sending a stream of plaster running to the floor.
Her face was contorted with murderous fury. He saw tiny white flecks of foam on her lips. She began to call him filthy names. Hurling them at him, through her twisted mouth.
Duffy thought she must be in a kind of fit. He was so startled that he backed away from her. She advanced slowly towards him, her hands held out in front of her, opening and closing. Every time she closed them, her knuckles stood out white. Then she came at him, like a coiled spring unleashed.
Her body struck him with her full weight, and he went back, reeling, off his balance. Her hand shot out and gripped his throat. He could feel the hot burning pain as her long nails dug into his flesh.
Swinging his fist up hard, he hit her on the side of the jaw. He didn’t put any weight behind the blow, but it was a nice smack, all the same. She sagged, fell on her knees, her hands running down his coat front, feebly trying for a grip, then she went forward on her face.
Duffy stepped back and took out his handkerchief. He carefully wiped off his palms, then put the handkerchief back. “For crying out loud,” he said.
He picked her up and put her carefully on the bed. She lay limp, her eyes closed, breathing hard. He made sure that she was right out, before he began to search her. He didn’t like the job, it made him feel like a snake, but he went through with it. Pushed down the top of her girdle, he found what he was looking for. A little red leather note-book. He didn’t wait to examine it there and then, he just put it carefully in his inside pocket, rearranged her dress and left her. He let himself out of the apartment, and brought the elevator up from the ground floor. While he waited for it to come up, he kept an ear cocked for any sound from the flat. It was only when he got into the street that he felt at ease. He noticed, across the road, a big Packard was standing. No one was in it. He crossed the road and glanced inside. He recognized the car as the one that had followed him. It belonged to Annabel English.
“Well, well,” he said. This was getting quite beyond him. He walked a little way down the road, then he flagged a cruising taxi. He gave McGuire’s address. When the cab jerked off, he settled himself back on the shiny leather, and took out the note-book. It was very neat, each page covered with minute writing. Just names and addresses, and against each name was a number of small denominations. He turned the pages, carefully reading each name, hoping to get some clue. At the fifth page he realized that he was reading down a list of New York’s top-liners. He went on.
There was no doubt of that. Well-known names began to jump out of the pages. Wives of bankers, stockbrokers, rich playboys, daughters of millionaires, actors and actresses, councillors, a judge here and there, quite a complete list of people in the public eye and who mattered. Duffy looked for Annabel English’s name, but he couldn’t find it. He held the book in his hand and scratched his head. He thought probably the key lay in the numbers against the names. But it had him beat. He counted the names for something better to do. They totaled just over three hundred. At the end of the book, written faintly in pencil, was a name and address, set apart from the other names. He made it out with difficulty: “Olga Shann, Plaza Wonderland Club”. He put the note-book in his pocket, and leant back brooding. Perhaps, he thought, he’d get a line from this Olga dame.
The taxi swung to the kerb, and he got out. There was something familiar in the taxi-driver’s face. Duffy looked at him hard. The taxi-driver grinned at him.
“You must love that dame,” he observed. “The last time I brought you to this joint you had to be carried, and now, God love me, she’s scratched you to hell again.”
Duffy gave him some money. “One of these days,” he said evenly, “someone’s going to take a dislike to you.”
The taxi-driver grinned some more. “T should worry,” he said.
Duffy left him and walked up the steps to the apartment.
CHAPTER VII
