“Take it easy, buddy,” a hard voice said.
Duffy raised his eyes. He felt no shock. Standing in the door was a cop, holding a gun in his hand. Just behind him, Duffy could see another flat cap.
Duffy said. “I’m glad you’ve come. They’ve killed my girl friend.”
The first cop said, “Keep your hands still.” The other cop came round and walked slowly towards Duffy, watching him carefully.
Duffy said, “What’s this?”
The first cop said, “Frisk him. He’ll have a rod.”
Duffy said, “You’re dead wrong.” He had left his gun on the settee, when he had carried Olga to the bed. It was lying there, half hidden by a cushion.
The second cop stepped round him cautiously, just as if he were a wild animal that might snap any time. When he got behind him, he ran his hands down Duffy’s clothing, patting firmly. Then he stood back and shook his head. “He ain’t carryin’ one,” he said.
Duffy said, “Listen, you’re wasting time.”
“Just a minute,” the first cop said, “you’re Duffy, ain’t that right?”
Duffy said, “Sure.”
They both looked at him as if surprised that he admitted it. Then the second cop wandered over to the bed and had a look at Olga. He pulled off the wrapper and gaped at her.
Duffy said savagely, “Cover her up, you heel.”
The second cop jerked round. “Keep your trap shut, punk,” he snarled. “Another crack like that and I’ll smack you down.”
The first cop said, glancing at the bed, “She dead?”
“Yeah, this guy used a knife.”
Duffy said, “I came back and found her like that.”
“You hear that? He came back and found her like that!” The first cop grinned. “You’re coming with us… come on.”
“You ain’t charging me with killing her?” Duffy was incredulous.
“Get wise to yourself.” The first cop liked the sound of his voice. “We’ve been tipped off.”
Duffy felt a restricting hand across his chest. “I don’t get that,” he said slowly.
“That dame had a hidden roll salted away in this joint, and you knew it. You made up to her and tried to get the roll away, but it didn’t work. So you rubbed her out, and took the joint to pieces. The roll is on you, now, ain’t that right, Gus?”
The second cop nodded. He walked over to Duffy and put his hand in Duffy’s inside pocket. He pulled out a flat packet of currency.
Duffy said, very evenly, “A frame-up, huh?”
Gus looked at him and grinned. “Between you and me, you’re right. You’re bucking the wrong outfit, mug,” he said.
Duffy said, “You ain’t making this stick.”
The first copper shrugged. “You don’t know the half of it. You’re going for a little ride right now.”
“There’s a bottle of Scotch somewhere,” Duffy said, looking round the room. “Mind if I cut the phlegm?”
Gus passed the end of a thick finger round the inside of his collar. “We’ll cut it, too.”
Duffy walked across the room, conscious of the hard unwavering watchfulness of the cop with the gun. His brain was ice-cold. If they were ready to frame him by such a clumsy method of palming money and planting it on him, they might even knock him off resisting arrest.
He picked up the whisky and filled the two glasses that Olga arid he had used, half full.
As he turned, he intercepted a quick glance between the two cops. He felt himself go very cold. It told him what he suspected. He gave Gus one of the glasses and then wandered over to the other. “I guess I can use the bottle,” he said carelessly.
The gun looked as big as a cannon trained on his vest, but he showed no sign of jumping nerves as he held out the glass. He was just about five feet away from the cop. Then he moved with incredible rapidity. He stepped quickly aside. At the same time he tossed the whisky into the cop’s face.
The cop gave a howl, clapped one of his hands to his eyes, stepped back, and blindly pulled the trigger. The gun crashed. Duffy jumped in, threw himself on the cop’s gun arm, and jerked the gun out of his hand.
The next sound he was conscious of was the breaking of glass; The cop was behaving like a madman, trying to get the whisky out of his eyes. Duffy had no time. He hit the cop, holding the gun by the barrel, between the eyes. Then he whirled round, expecting to run into a blast from the other cop.
Gus was standing with his hands on his belly, staring at his highly polished boots. Duffy saw blood oozing between his fingers. Gus fell on his knees, hesitated, his body swaying. Then he straightened out on his face.
Duffy said, “I hope you liked it.” He went quickly to the luggage that was piled on the floor, selected a long strap from one of the grips, and bound the first cop’s arms tightly. Then he went over to Olga, picked up the wrap, and covered her with it.
He moved silently and swiftly. All the time at the back of his brain he could see the jam he was in. He went back to the cop who was coming round. Duffy hauled him on to the settee, retrieved his gun from under the cushion, and stuck it down his waist-band. Then he slapped the cop across the face twice with his open hand.
The cop opened his eyes, gave a grunt, and then tried to sit up. Duffy said, “Who’s behind this frame- up?”
The cop glared, but didn’t say anything.
Duffy drew his gun and put it close to the cop’s face. “I’m in a hurry,” he said, his eyes like chips of ice. “Spill it quick, or I’ll hook your eyes out with this gun-sight.”
The cop suddenly went limp and began to sweat. He mumbled, “Miss English tipped us off. She gave us a nice slice to knock you, resisting arrest. We’ve worked for her before.”
Duffy said, “Her father in this racket?”
The cop shook his head. “He don’t know nothing.”
Duffy went over to Gus, turned him over with his foot, searched in his pockets, and found the roll of notes. He counted them carefully. Then he looked up. “There’s ten grand here,” he said. “Was that your cut?”
The cop shook his head. “That was evidence against you,” he said. “That dame sure wants you out of the way.”
In the street, Duffy heard a car draw up. He ran to the window in time to see four uniformed police officers tumbling out. Two quick steps took him to the door. Then he slid down the flight of stairs, darted into the kitchen as the front door burst open. Quietly, he let himself out the back door. He could hear the cop upstairs yelling his head off. He told himself that he’d got to make the Buick. He ran round the small garden, paused when he reached the front, and peered carefully round the corner of the house. He could see the police car, and a little way further on was the Buick. He ran hard, not caring how much noise he made. As he reached the Buick and pulled open the heavy door he heard a shout, but he didn’t stop. He scrambled into the car, swearing softly and continuously. The cold sweat ran down his face, and he expected to feel the jagged pain of a hot slug smash into him. As he slammed the door to, a gun roared from the bedroom window.
He started the engine, revved hard, engaged his gear, and shot the Buick down the road. He heard three distinct thuds on the back of the car before he jerked round the corner.
He said, “It’s going to be a grand finish.” And his face stiffened into a hard mask as he swung the quivering car to the bends.
CHAPTER XII
ROSS WAS HAVING a snack when Duffy drove in. He waddled out of the office, his little mouth tight with food. He nodded at Duffy, gulped, then said, “Anything wrong?”
Ross always expected trouble. Duffy got out of the car and said, “The wagon’s hot. Gimme new plates.”
