Joe paused in the doorway, holding Duffy by his shirt-front. “Let the punk bleed,” he said, with a snarl. “It takes longer that way, don’t it?”
The little guy giggled and pushed his gun back in his holster. “You get ideas,” he said.
Joe admired himself.
“Don’t I?” he said, walking down the passage, pulling Duffy with him.
He said over his shoulder, “I’m going to give myself a grand time with this bum.”
The little guy followed him closely. He opened the front door, and together they stepped out into the driving rain. The sudden cold driving shower of water brought Duffy to, his senses. He placed his legs firmly against the step and arched his body. Joe was brought up short. He swore at Duffy, who swung a punch blindly into the darkness. He hit Joe on the nose. He so startled Joe that the big tough let him go and reeled back, took a false step and almost went over.
Duffy scrambled away hastily, just as Schultz began blazing away from across the road. Schultz’s .45 roared three times. Duffy felt a slug thud into the wall above his head.
The little guy fired twice at Schultz, his gun cracking like dry wood snapping, only much louder. Duffy fumbled at his waist, and pulled out his Colt. He crouched in the shadow, trying to see where Joe was. The rain blinded him, and the solitary street light, about fifty feet away, threw only black shadows.
Holding the gun, Duffy began to back further into the dark. He wanted to cross the road and get over to Schultz. Further down the road, the blackness was intense. He thought, if he could get there, he could cross in safety. He felt his heart beating hard against his ribs, but he wasn’t scared. He felt a strong sense of exhilaration flooding through him.
Schultz began firing again. Three sharp sounds. Duffy could see the flash from the gun. He crossed the road, running bent double.
Faintly, somewhere at the far end of the street, came the faint blast of a whistle, then a low drumming of a nightstick being beaten on the pavement.
Schultz called to him, “The cops.”
Duffy ran forward again, keeping to the wall, hugging the dark shadows. Schultz from a doorway pulled him into the shelter.
He said, “I’ve got to get out of here quick. The bulls know me.”
Duffy said, “Gilroy’s dead.” He spoke as if he had been running a long way. “The cops can’t touch you. I’ve got protection.”
Schultz snarled in the darkness. “My rod’s hot,” he said.
Duffy held out his hand. “Change,” he said. “They won’t look at mine.”
Schultz passed his over, and took Duffy’s. They heard the wail of a siren, and a fast, closed car came swinging round the corner. Duffy stepped out into the street and waved. The car skidded to a standstill.
Four beefy faces looked at him from the car, suspiciously. He felt the hidden menace of guns, unseen in the dark, threatening him. He stood quite still.
Then one of them said, “It’s okay. I know this guy.”
Duffy stepped up to the car. “Morgan’s gang’ve just knocked Gilroy off,” he said slowly, putting his foot on the step. “I was there. You’ve come along at the right time.”
Hesitatingly, three of the cops got out of the car and stood undecided in the rain, then they turned and walked over to the Bronx.
Duffy jerked his hand, signaling to Schultz, and followed them. Schultz, walking with elaborate caution, crossed the road and caught up with Duffy.
Inside, the three cops stood and looked at Gilroy, then walked over and stirred Shep with a foot.
One said, “He’ll be okay. Just a rap.”
The Sergeant caught sight of Schultz, and his face clouded. Duffy could see the sullen hostile expression blotting out indifference. The Sergeant said, “Where were you?”
Duffy broke in, “He’s okay. He was putting my car away.”
The Sergeant looked at Duffy, scowled, then said, “You’re in the clear now, but watch your step.” There was an ominous threat in his voice. It puzzled Duffy.
Shep began to move. Straightening his great limbs, and grunting. He raised his head painfully. Duffy thought he looked like a stranded turtle, lying there.
He said, “It’s all right.”
Shep looked at him blankly, sat up and rubbed the back of his head. He began to swear softly and vilely. When he saw Gilroy, he stopped. He turned his head and looked at Duffy. Then he got to his feet.
The Sergeant had given instructions for an ambulance; he was wandering round the room, sniffing suspiciously at everything.
Duffy said to Shep, “They beat it in the rain.”
Shep put his hand across his eyes and squeezed his temples, as if trying to force his eyes back to normal. He said in his tinny voice, very low and hoarse, “I’ll square those rats, you see.”
Schultz was watching the cops uneasily. He said out of the corner of his mouth, “These birds ain’t acting friendly.”
Duffy went across the room and fixed drinks. He said, “You boys want something while you’re waiting?”
The two cops looked up, their stupid faces brightening. The Sergeant said, “Skip that. You know better.”
Duffy held the glass in his hand, astonished, but he said nothing. The ambulance came up then. They could hear the siren, and two white-coated attendants scooped Gilroy up and took him away.
The Sergeant came over to Schultz. “You got a rod?” he said.
Schultz pulled Duffy’s Colt from his holster and handed it over. The Sergeant examined it, his eyes narrowed, and his lips thin red. “We’ll look this over,” he said. “It might have a record.”
Duffy moved forward and took the gun out of the Sergeant’s hand. He said in a hard voice, “Tell English I took it from you,” he said. “I want this cannon for a while.”
Thick red veins knotted at the Sergeant’s neck. His watery blue eyes bulged. He didn’t say anything, but walked out, jerking his head at the other two.
When they had gone, Schultz said uneasily, “Those guys seem to hate us.”
Duffy stood frowning at the floor. Then he said, “I don’t like this. Maybe English’s loosing his grip.”
He went to his room and dialled. When English answered, Duffy said, “We’ve had a shooting here.” His voice was tense and sharp. “Morgan’s mob knocked off Gilroy and tried to iron me out. They got away.”
English said, “You got to be careful.”
Duffy grinned mirthlessly at the mouthpiece. “You telling me,” he said. “What I want you to know is the cops seemed kind of unfriendly. You’re giving me protection. I don’t like to have it come back on me. These birds were only keeping their hands off me with an effort.”
English said softly, “You’re wanted for a murder rap. You can’t expect too much.”
Duffy stared at the opposite wall. “How long’s your protection going to last, once Morgan’s out of the way?”
English said immediately, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m getting the papers to run the whole case tomorrow, clearing you. You see, you’ll be in the clear tomorrow.”
Duffy said, “We’ve fixed Morgan. You’ll pay twenty-five grand into my bank, tomorrow?”
English said, “Sure, tomorrow. When they got Morgan I’ll do that.”
Duffy said, “’Bye,” and hung up. He walked across to the window and looked out, lifting the blue blind away from the window and peering round the side. The rain ran down the window. He could only see faintly the street light. He dropped the blind and went once more to the telephone. It began to ring. Its sudden violence startled him. He sat on edge of the bed and pulled the receiver towards him.
Alice’s voice said, “Oh, Bill.”
He said, “Why, for God’s sake! It’s nearly two o’clock. What makes you call at this time?”
She said, her voice uneven, “Sam just heard. They say there’s been shooting at the Bronx. I was so frightened. I thought something had happened to you.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“They called him up. He’s gone down to headquarters. You are all right?”
