unevenly between his teeth. He was scowling as he joined Davis at the bar.
I shot up the stairs and out of sight, glancing back after I’d rounded the corner to make sure he hadn’t seen me. He hadn’t. Davis was combing his hair, a fixed grin on his face. Flaggerty was buying himself a drink.
I walked along the passage to room 5, listened to the hum of voices from inside and then moved on. There were three other doors in the passage, but I didn’t bother with them. I headed for the second lot of stairs.
Half-way up I heard someone coming along the lower passage; I took the remaining stairs three at a time. I found myself in a dimly lit passage with two doors facing me.
Footsteps went along the lower passage, a door opened and then shut.
I stepped over to the first door facing me and listened. Silence. I moved along to the next door, listened. A voice was speaking, but the words were lost. I stood there, my ear to the panel, waited. Then I heard a muffled groan that set my teeth on edge. I was sure Brodey, was in there.
Any moment Sansotta might discover I wasn’t in room 5 playing poker. As soon as he’d found that out, he’d be looking for me. If I was going to do anything, I’d have to do it now and fast.
I turned the handle. The door wasn’t locked; it gave as I pushed.
I walked in.
On a bed in the corner of the room was a bald-headed man in a grey lounge suit. There was blood on his face and shirt front. One eye was closed and bruised, and a patch of broken skin showed by his right ear where he had been punched. His wrists and ankles were roped to the bed, and he was gagged.
Standing over him was a short, thickset man in a baggy brown suit. He was bow-legged and his battered, apish face was moronic and cruel. He was raising his great hairy fist as I walked in.
“Grab some cloud, Bat,” I said.
He stiffened, then without moving his body he looked over I his shoulder. His small pig eyes hardened when he saw me. His right hand moved, but I showed him the Luger.
“I shouldn’t, Bat,” I said gently. “I’m Cain.”
That held him. Slowly he raised his hands to shoulder height. He grinned at me. His teeth were black and broken.
“Hullo, bub,” he said.
“Get over to the wall,” I said, watching him, “and face it.”
“You’re my meat, bub,” he went on, grinning at me. “Not now, but later. I’m as good with a rod as you.”
“We’ll try it sometime,” I said. “Get over to the wall.”
Still grinning, he sidled over to the wall.
“Turn,” I said.
He turned.
I stepped up to him and belted him over his head with the gun barrel. I hit him as hard as I could. He slumped down on; his hands and knees, but he wasn’t out. He had the hardest head in the world. He squirmed round, grabbed at my legs. He nearly had me over. I kicked him off, hit him again with the butt of the gun. I hit him so hard the gun jumped out of my hand. He stretched out flat.
I cut the ropes that tied Brodey to the bed and sat him up. He fell off the bed before I could catch him. He was out.
As I stooped to pick him up, the door jerked open and Sansotta walked in. He stopped, gaped at me, at Bat; then his hand flashed to his hip pocket.
I let go of Brodey, flung myself at Sansotta’s legs. We went down in a squirming heap. He clubbed at my head with his fist, but I wriggled away, caught him a bang under his right eye. His head snapped back, but he was on his feet before I was on mine. He was as fast and as tricky as a lizard.
The Luger had vanished under the bed. Bat was stirring, trying to sit up. Brodey was lying like a dead man a few feet from me. Sansotta jumped me. I caught him round his waist, I dragged him down, belted him about the body.
He tried to fight me off, but my weight was too much for him. He gave a strangled yell, but I had him by the throat. I squeezed.
Green gaberdine trousers came into the room. I threw myself sideways, but I was too late.
Something that felt like the Empire State Building descended on my head.
6
I opened my eyes. Bat grinned at me. “Hullo, bub,” he said. “How you feel?” I fingered a tender lump on the back of my head, grimaced. “Lousy,” I said. He nodded, looked pleased. “I guessed it,” he said. “But it ain’t nothing to what’s coming to you.”
I grunted, and looked around the room. It was fair sized, windowless and contained a bed on which I was lying, and a chair on which Bat was sitting. High up in the ceiling was a naked electric light bulb. The room wasn’t clean.
“How long have I been out?” I asked.
Bat grinned again. “Three-four hours,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He seemed to regard the whole business as the best joke in the world. “You ain’t so tough,” he added as an afterthought. His short, greasy hair was matted with blood where I had hit him, but he didn’t seem to worry about it.
“Where’s Brodey?” I asked.
“Him? They put him somewhere. That guy’s nuts. He don’t know what’s good for him,” Bat returned, fishing out a package of cigarettes and lighting one. He tossed the package and a box of matches to me. “Have a smoke, bub, you ain’t got so long to live.”
I lit a cigarette. “What’s cooking?” I asked.
He shrugged. “They’ll be along to see you when they’re through with Brodey,” he told me. “You’ll know soon enough.”
I wondered what had become of Jed Davis. I hoped he’d ducked out in time.
“Well, well,” I said, trying to blow a smoke ring. It didn’t come off. “I’m not curious. I’ll wait.”
He grinned some more. “Don’t start anything smart,” he said. “I’m as fast with a rod as you are— faster.”
I laughed at him. “You’ve kept it quiet then,” I said.
A tiny spark of rage burnt in his pig eyes. “Whatja mean?” he demanded, leaning forward.
“Bat Thompson doesn’t mean anything to me,” I said. But Chester Cain means plenty to you. Work it out for yourself.”
“Yeah?” he said, his face a dusty red. “Listen, I could take you any time with a rod, see?” That’s what you say.”
“Watch, punk,” he said, getting to his feet.
He crouched. There was a blur of white as his hand moved; a .38 sprang into sight. It was a fast, smooth draw. It surprised me.
“How’s that?” he asked, twiddling the gun around on his thick finger.
“Do that standing in front of me when I’m heeled, and you’d be a dead pigeon,” I said.
“You’re a liar,” he said, putting the gun away, but there was a look of doubt in his eyes.
“All right, I’m a liar, but I can beat you to the draw easy. I’ll tell you why. You waste time. You don’t co- ordinate your movements.”
“Don’t what?” His eyes opened a trifle.
“You’re all wrong. Show me again.”
He stared at me, his curiosity battling with his rage. Then he set himself, the gun jumped into his hand. It was fast and smooth. I knew I’d have to be extra good to beat him.
“Yeah,” I said, “the holster’s in the wrong position. I thought that was the trouble. It’s too high. You want to sling it lower. You waste time catching at the butt. When you get the rod out you have to lower the barrel before you fire. See ? Wastes time.”
