something?”
“Not just yet,” I said. “You better case off on the Scotch. When you do go into action, you’ll need calm and courage.”
“I’m always calm,” he returned, grinning, “and I’m stocking up in courage.”
I wanted to locate the automatic rifle. It kept banging off near by, but from where I lay, I couldn’t see who was using it. I lay flat, wriggled further out, until my head and shoulders were clear of the protecting counter.
“That’s how guys won the Purple Heart,” Hoskiss said to the red-head. “It’s also a good way to qualify for a funeral.”
I looked around, spotted the sportsman with the rifle. He was kneeling against the front of the counter, and every so often he’d fire blindly at the shuttered windows. He was middle-aged, going bald. Thick glasses sat uneasily on his short fat nose.
“How are you making out, bud?” I asked him. “Think you’re hitting anyone?”
He jumped round with a snarl of fright, swung the gun in my direction. I didn’t wait, but pulled back so fast the red-head squealed with terror.
“Someone say ‘Boo!’ to you?” Hoskiss asked, grinning.
I sat up, wiped my face, shook my head.
“There’s a middle-aged sportsman out there on his own,” I explained. “He’s banging away without even sighting. Maybe I’d better go out and get things organized. This is no way to wage war.”
“Don’t be so bloodthirsty,” Hoskiss said, frowning. “Me and the girl friend find it exciting, don’t we, Tutz?”
The red-head said it was too exciting. The language in which she expressed this opinion startled us.
“I can’t imagine where you girls pick up such talk,” Hoskiss said, pained. “When I was your age–—”
The red-head told him to go boil his head, and she added a couple of other suggestions in case the first one didn’t appeal to him.
It was funny to see a tough guy like Hoskiss turn pink.
Without warning a machine-gun began firing. Bullets smashed through the wooden shutters. A row of bottles above our heads flew into pieces. Liquor and glass showered down on us. The red-head was soused with gin. Whisky poured over Hoskiss’s trouser ends. A piece of flying glass cut my cheek, but I kept dry.
“She’ll taste interesting now if you kiss her,” I said to Hoskiss.
“I can’t stomach gin,” he said, regarding the girl crossly. “Why couldn’t it’ve been Scotch?”
“Well, you can always chew your trousers. You might start a new craze.”
The red-head had collapsed into Hoskiss’s arms, wailing with fright. He shoved her off.
“I don’t love you any more. You smell like hell.”
The sportsman with the automatic rifle began blazing away again. I peeped out.
The nigger drummer rolled his eyes at me. The two pairs of silk clad legs behind the table were still as death. The red-faced man over the other side of the room was glaring angrily at the torn shutters. He suddenly got to his feet, lurched across the room. He was very drunk. As he reached the shutters, the machine-gun started up. He was swept backwards by the hail of bullets. Everyone in the room heard the slugs socking into his body. He landed up on his back, blood ran out of him on to the polished dance floor.
“Real bullets,” I said, wriggling back under cover. “They’ve just killed a drunk.”
“Shocking waste of good liquor,” Hoskiss said, unmoved. He joined me at the end of the counter, looked at the dead man, shook his head. “I feel like letting off my gun now. Childish, isn’t it?”
The door to the dance hall suddenly pushed open and three men came in on their hands and knees. They all carried automatic rifles, all looked business-like.
“Shock troops,” Hoskiss said, beaming. “Now something ought to happen.”
I pulled back as I spotted Don Speratza in the doorway. He didn’t come into the room, but directed the men to take up positions by the window. He was careful not to expose himself more than necessary. I was glad to see him.
The men crawled across the dance floor, crept to the windows and began pouring lead into the night. A sudden yell outside proved they knew their job.
“We might take a little walk before long,” I said. “I’m getting tired of staying one place.”
“Ready when you are,” Hoskiss said, pulling a Mauser pistol from his hip pocket. He thumbed down the safety catch.
The red-head squeaked, “Don’t leave me,” grabbed at him. He threw her arms off impatiently.
“Lay off,” he said roughly. “I got work to do now, Tate.”
Speratza had vanished. I could hear shooting going on at the back of the building. There were yells. It sounded like a break-in.
“Think your boys will take any action?” I whispered.
“They’re on the job now,” Hoskiss said, cocking an ear. “I recognize the sound of a Mauser any place. Hark.”
We could hear a lot of shooting going on outside.
“That’s fine,” I said. “In your official capacity I guess you wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if anyone looked troublesome?”
“You bet I’d shoot,” he said.
“In that case, brother, you’d better go first. I’ll cover your rear.”
“If you want to lead, go ahead,” he said hastily. “I’ll take full responsibility for any deaths you cause.”
Put like that I hadn’t the heart to refuse. I dived for the door, passed into the main hall.
A dim shape standing by the front door twisted round, fired. I felt the wind from the slug fan my face. I shot the dim shape through the head.
“You see how it is,” I said apologetically to Hoskiss. “People just naturally shoot at me.”
“Don’t let it grieve you,” Hoskiss said, peering round the hall. “You go ahead. You’re faster with a gun than I am. I want to come out of this alive.”
There didn’t seem any further opposition in the hall. I made for the door at the foot of the stairs.
“This way, pal,” I said. “Be ready for action.”
I pushed open the door, faced a flight of stairs leading down into a dimly lit basement.
I walked down the stairs, making no more noise than a breath of wind. Hoskiss kept at my heels.
We reached the bottom of the stairs, moved along a passage. I pointed to a thick electric cable running along the wall near the ceiling. Hoskiss nodded, grinned.
At the end of the passage was a door. I paused outside, listened. I couldn’t hear anything.
“Shall we go in?” I whispered in Hoskiss’s ear.
“I suppose so,” he said. “G-men always go in.”
I turned the handle, pushed.
The room was big; elaborately equipped with printing presses. Green shaded lights illuminated the stacks of banknotes piled neatly on benches.
A dead man lay on the floor near the printing press. He had been shot. A small blue-red hole showed in the exact centre of his forehead.
Ed. Killeano knelt on the floor against the far wall. His fat face was yellow and glistening with fear. His pudgy hands were shoulder high, and his eyes started from his head like long stalked toadstools. Clairbold, the intrepid private investigator, complete with his cocoacoloured trick hat, stood over him, a Colt .45 in his small hand.
“Take him away,” Killeano screamed at us as we came in. “Make him put that gun down.”
Hoskiss and I walked over.
“Hello, Fatso,” I said. “Don’t you like our young friend?” I touched Clairbold on his shoulder. “What are you doing here, bright eyes?”
“Call him off!” Killeano shrieked. “Get that gun away!”
Clairbold lowered the gun, cleared his throat apologetically. “I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Cain,” he said. “I was wondering what I should do with this—er—man.”
Hoskiss ran his fingers through his hair. “Who’s this guy?” he asked blankly.
“The greatest private dick since Philo Vance,” I said.
Killeano made a sudden dive across the desk, reached for a sheet of paper. Hoskiss flung him back.
