rung, and then he put his weight on it. The fire-escape creaked and slowly came down.
Duffy went up first, then Gilroy, then Schultz. On the first landing, Duffy stood aside, whilst Schultz opened a window. He did it very easily. They all climbed into a dark corridor.
Duffy said, “It’s on the first floor.”
They walked quietly forward, Duffy a little ahead, the other two on either side of him, a few steps in the rear. Duffy held a powerful flash directed on the floor. He kept the beam down, but the reflection lit up the frosted panelled doors. At the end of the corridor Duffy read, “Morgan Navigation Trust Co.”
“Here,” he said.
Schultz examined the lock, bent over it, then stepped back. He said in a low voice, “Go ahead.”
Duffy pulled the Colt from his waist-band and gently opened the door. Then he walked in.
The office was big. Steel files lined the walls. There were three large flat-topped desks. Three typists’ desks, holding typewriters. The centre desk had a number of telephones.
Duffy said, “Morgan’s room is over there, I guess.”
He wandered over to a door at the far end of the office and went through. The room was smaller than the outer office, but it was more luxurious.
Duffy went round the desk and sat down. He tried the drawers, but they were all locked. He looked over at Gilroy. “I guess we won’t disturb anything. Morgan might tumble. I’ll just plant the notes and we’ll blow.”
Schultz said, “Maybe there’s a heap of dough in this joint.” He said it wistfully.
Duffy took the roll of counterfeit money from his pocket, spread them flat. He leant forward, picked up a framed calendar and took off the back. Then he put the notes in the calendar and replaced the back.
“You like that?” he said.
Gilroy nodded. “That’ll be difficult to find.”
“You’ll be surprised.” Duffy pulled the telephone towards him and dialled a number.
While the line buzzed, the three stayed motionless. Only Gilroy showed he was anxious. His big eyes rolled continuously.
The line connected. English said, “Who’s that?” He sounded sharp.
Duffy drawled into, the ’phone, “I’ve got Morgan sewed up,” he said. “If your boys make a call at his office early tomorrow, they can safely slap a charge on him.”
“Where are you?”
“It don’t matter. Look, this is a tip off. Morgan’s got twenty-five grand in phoney notes hidden in his desk calendar. Could you make that stick?”
English was silent for a moment, then he said, “You certainly get action, don’t you? We’ll make it stick all right.”
Duffy said, “Morgan Navigation Trust Co.”
“I know.” English hung up gently.
Duffy pushed the telephone away from him and stood up. “Let’s go,” he said.
They walked out of the office, carefully relocking the door, down the fire-escape, into the pouring rain.
Shep was still sitting there, fondling his gun. They climbed into the Buick, and Schultz started the engine.
Shep said, “All right?”
“Easy,” Duffy returned, lighting a cigarette. “Morgan’s going to get a mighty big shock tomorrow.”
Gilroy said out of the dark, “English has got to be pretty leery to pin anything on that bird.”
Duffy forced a thin stream of smoke down his nostrils. “English can handle him all right,” he said. “You see.”
Schultz said, “We go back, don’t we?”
Duffy nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “the hay wants hitting.”
As Schultz headed East, Shep said in a confidential whisper to Duffy, “I thought I’d have a woman tonight. You know, just to celebrate the five grand.”
Duffy nodded sleepily. He began to think about Olga.
“It’s a hell of a night to look for a woman, ain’t it?” Shep went on gloomily.
Duffy grunted. He wished Shep would shut up.
Schultz had been listening. He said, “For God’s sake, Fat, what you want with a woman?”
Shep giggled self-consciously, and Gilroy joined in.
“He’s got the dough, why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? Lay off him,” he said.
They drove two blocks in silence, then Shep said to Duffy, “Ain’t you got a woman?”
Duffy turned his head slightly. He could just see Shep’s pace, stuck like a turnip on his shoulders, as the street lights flashed past, lighting Shep at regular intervals.
“Think about your own troubles,”’ his voice was cold. “I’ll think about mine.”
“You bet,” Shep said hastily. “I didn’t mean a thing.”
Gilroy broke in, “Did English say anything about dough, “when he talked to you?”
Duffy shook his head, then remembering that Gilroy couldn’t see him, he said, “No.”
The Buick ran along the kerb, slowed, and came to a stop outside the Bronx.
Schultz said, “Hop out. I’ll take her over to the garage.”
They climbed out and hurried down the basement steps, the rain beating down on them.
Gilroy unlocked the door and they entered quickly. The passage was dark. Gilroy swore softly. “Where the hell’s Jock got to”?” he said, speaking of the thin man. “He ought to be still up.”
“Maybe he’s got himself drunk,” Shep said. “I gave him ten bucks out of my split.”
Gilroy groped around and switched on the light. “You come and have a drink?” he said to Duffy.
Duffy said, “Sure, my feet are wet. I could do with a shot of Scotch.”
Gilroy led the way down the passage, and walked into the bar. The first thing that caught his eye was the thin man. He was lying on his back, his hands and legs sprawling, and his face a mask of blood.
The little guy said sharply, “Reach.”
Gilroy and Duffy raised their hands. Shep dropped on his knee, drew his Luger and fired at the little guy all in one movement.
Joe, stepping behind the door, tapped Shep with the butt of his gun as he fired. Shep gave a little cough and fell on his hands and knees. He looked like a stricken elephant.
Duffy said between his teeth, “Don’t touch him again.”
Joe looked at him in wonder, then he grinned. “My, ain’t you a pip?” he said admiringly.
The little guy said apologetically, “Take it easy. Don’t move. I’d hate to pop this heater, but I gotta do it if you crowd me.”
Gilroy said, hardly moving his rubbery lips: “What you want?”
“We want the pip,” Joe said. “Ain’t he hung a rap on Clive? Well, sure we want the pip. I wanta bounce him a little, don’t I?” He looked triumphantly at the little guy. Then he walked over to Duffy, grinning from ear to ear. He feinted with his left, and hit Duffy on his ear, with a tremendous swinging punch that started from his ankles.
Duffy saw it coming a split second too late. A bomb burst inside his head. A bright light blotted the room out.
“Spill his guts,” the little guy said with a snigger. “Go on, Joe, burst him open.”
Joe walked over to Duffy quickly with long, sliding steps. He put his hand down on Duffy’s body, seized Duffy low and swung him off the floor. He lifted him quite easily and smashed him down on the boards, as if he were dumping coal.
The little guy said, “Let’s get him out of here.”
Joe said, “Sure.” He dragged Duffy to his feet and began pulling him to the door.
Gilroy stood like a waxwork, only his great eyes rolling in terror. The little guy looked at him, curling up his tight mouth.
“Here it is, nigger,” he said, and squeezed the trigger. The gun crashed. Gilroy stood with his hands folded over his belly, gradually sinking at the knees. His curiously coffee-coloured skin glistened with sweat. He went down very slowly. First on his knees, then a little on one side. His hip-bone struck the floor hard, and his face followed, cutting the flesh on the boards.
The little guy stood over him, looking at Joe. “Shall I finish him?” he asked.
