He Won't Need It Now

Duffy nodded. “I said you were just window-dressing,” he said briefly. “I gave you a break. Now go home and look after that wife of yours.”

Sam scratched his head. “She’s probably feeling a little lonesome right now.”

“Get going.”

“Ain’t you coming?”

“I’m calling on this Shann broad.”

Sam leered. “Three being a mob?”

Duffy nodded. “You got it, soldier,” he said. He watched Sam go over to the parking-place, and then went to the subway on Frankfort Street. Olga Shann had rooms in Brooklyn. He’d never heard of the address, so when he’d got over Brooklyn Bridge he left the subway and flagged a taxi.

He got to the address just after eleven o’clock. He hesitated to ask the taxi to wait. Then making up his mind, he paid him off.

The house was a two-storey villa, with identical models either side, stretching right down the street.

He unlatched the gate and walked up the short gravel path. There was a light showing from one of the second-floor windows. He pressed the buzzer with his thumb, and leant against the wall. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was going to say.

About three minutes ticked off, then a light sprang up in the hall. He could hear the chain being slipped and then the front door opened. A woman stood there, holding the door only partly open. He couldn’t make out her features, she was standing squarely with her back to the light.

“Miss Shann?” he said, taking off his hat.

“Suppose it is,” she said. Her voice had a Garbo tone.

He thought it was a hell of a welcome, but he let it slide. “It’s late for a call,” he said, trying to put his personality across, “but you’ll excuse me, I hope?”

“What is it?”

“I’m Duffy of the Tribune.” He took out his Press pass and flashed it, then he put it back again. “I wanted a word with you about Cattley.”

He saw her stiffen, then she said, “Let me see that Press card.”

He dug it out again and handed it over. She pushed the door to and examined the card in the light. Then she opened the door wide, and said, “You’d better come in.”

He followed her into a small sitting-room. It was modern, but the stuff was cheap. He looked at her with interest. The first thing he noticed about her was her eyebrows. They gave her face an expression of permanent surprise. She was lovely in a hard way. Big eyes with long lashes, a scarlet, full mouth; the top lip was almost bee- stung. Her thick chestnut hair was silky and cared for. Duffy liked her quite a lot.

She was wearing a nigger-brown silk dress, tight across her firm breasts and her flat hips.

“Why Cattley?” she said.

He put his hat down on the table. “This is most unprofessional, but I’m dying for a drink.”

She shook her head. “Nothing doing.” She was very emphatic. “Say your piece and get going.”

“My, my,” he said, “you babes get tougher every day.”

She moved impatiently.

“Okay,” Duffy said hastily. “I’m looking for Cattley.”

“Why should I know where he is?”

“Why, you’re his girl friend, ain’t you?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him for months.”

“He thought enough of you to have your name and address in his pocket-book.”

She shrugged. “Lots of men have girls’ names in their pocket-books. It doesn’t amount to anything.”

Duffy thought she was quite right. “Well, well,” he said, “I guess I’ve come out of my way.”

She went to the door and opened it. “I won’t keep you,” she said.

Outside, Duffy heard a car drive up. “You got visitors.”

He saw a startled look come into her eyes, but she said, “Then you’d better go.”

The buzzer rang loudly. She started a little.

Duffy said, “Can I go out the back way? I’m feeling I might run into trouble.”

She stood hesitating, then she said, “Wait here.” Her voice implored him. The buzzer went again, long and insistently.

Duffy said, “You want me to stay?”

“Yes—I don’t know who it is.”

She went out of the room, leaving the door open. Duffy glanced round, saw another door and went over and opened it. He found himself in a small kitchen. He pushed the door to, and stood looking into the sitting-room, through the small opening.

He heard her at the front door; then he heard her say, “Why, hello, Max.”

“You alone?” the hoarse Voice that spoke made Duffy stiffen. It was familiar. First, he thought it was Joe, but then he knew it wasn’t quite like Joe’s voice. He’d heard it before.

She said, “Yes… what is it?”

Duffy heard footsteps in the hall and he heard the front door close. “What do you want?” her voice was nervy and breathless.

A broad-shouldered man, wearing a black slouched hat, walked into the sitting-room. Duffy had him at once. It was the man who had stolen the camera.

Duffy clenched his fists. Just the bird he was looking for.

Olga came in and stood by the table. Her face was white and a muscle in her throat fluttered.

“But, Max…”

The man glanced round the room suspiciously, then looked at her. His hard eyes raked her from head to foot. “I ain’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “You’re looking swell.” There was no animation in his voice. He sounded as if he were reciting.

She tried to smile, but her lips were frozen. She managed to say, “That’s nice of you.”

He sat himself on the edge of the table and looked at his hands. “You know Cattley’s been knocked off?” he said.

She put her hand to her throat. “No… no, I didn’t know that,” she said.

Max raised his head a little and stared at the kitchen door. Duffy stiffened. Then Max said, “You were sweet on that guy at one time, huh?”

She shook her head. “He meant nothing to me.”

“So?”

“We went around together, but that’s all.”

“You went around together?” He pushed his hat over his eyes. He wouldn’t look at her.

“That’s right… but why… why are you asking me?”

“Just curious.” With the flat of his hand he rubbed the short hairs on his nape. “Did he ever tell you things?”

Duffy could see what a panic she was in. “He didn’t tell me anything… he didn’t tell me anything….”

Max got off the table and went over to the mantelpiece. He examined the photos and fingered the small ivory elephants there. He seemed utterly bored. Then he shrugged. “I thought maybe he had talked to you,” he said indifferently. He put his hand in the inside of his coat and took out a short silk cord. It was dark red in colour. He dangled it in his fingers.

Olga watched him like a rabbit would watch a snake.

He said, “This is a pretty thing, ain’t it?”

She said, “What is it?”

“This? Hell, I don’t know. I found it.” He continued to swing it in his hand.

She said, “Did you?”

“I guess I’ll scram.” He wandered to the door.

“But… but don’t you want—-?”

“I’ll scram,” he said, pausing at the door. “I thought maybe you’d be interested to hear Cattley’s washed up. I see you ain’t.”