I gave him the hard eye, and he immediately looked away.
“Well, anyway,” I said, putting down my empty glass, “it’s time we had something to eat. If he really bothers you I’ll talk to him.”
“You’re not to,” she said, walking across the bar at my side. “Those days are over.”
The barman bowed to her as we left. She gave him a nice smile. I was very proud of her.
The captain of waiters personally conducted us to our seats. The table he had reserved for us was on the edge of the dance floor. I noticed a number of the men diners looked at Clair. She was worth looking at.
We sat down. The antipasto was fine. There were salty anchovies bedded on a firm slice of tomato; scarlet peppers soaked in white vinegar; thin bologna sausages; fat white shrimps; transparent slices of ham, and celery stuffed with cottage cheese. We had two large dry martinis to go with it.
Half-way through the meal, the man in the white dinner-jacket wandered in. He seemed to be known. People nodded to him as he stalked between the tables. He passed close to us, and gave Clair a long penetrating stare. She avoided his eyes. I scowled at him, but he didn’t notice. He sat a couple of tables away from us, waved to the waiter, ordered a Rye straight. He lit a cigarette, settled down to stare at Clair.
“I think I’ll drop over and talk to that masher,” I said, suddenly very angry.
Clair gripped my arm. “No, darling, don’t. It’ll spoil everything, and I’m having a lovely time. Please, let’s forget him. I don’t mind.”
She began talking about the restaurant idea, but neither of us had much heart for it now. She was worried, and I was getting madder every moment.
Then suddenly I saw her stiffen. I followed the direction of her eyes. Lydia Hamilton had just entered. She swept down the aisle between the tables before the captain of waiters could escort her, arrived at the table occupied by the man in the white dinner-jacket, sat down. He glanced at her in a bored way, waved to the waiter.
“Now, perhaps we’ll have rest from that guy,” I said. “I’m sorry to see that dame here, but she won’t spoil my dinner.”
The waiter served the broiled steak. It looked very good. For a while we ate. Then I looked up suddenly. The masher was at it again. His half-closed eyes were probing Clair—X-ray eyes.
I looked at Lydia Hamilton. She was on to him. Her face was hard, furious.
“We’re going to have some trouble,” I said to Clair in an undertone. “That dame’s crazy enough to start anything.” I thought it best to warn her.
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when Lydia smacked the man in the white dinnerjacket across his face. He wasn’t expecting anything like that, and he nearly fell off his chair. The sound of the smack cracked through the big dining-room. There was a sudden hush, then Lydia’s strident voice shrilled, “Take your eyes off that whore.”
I found myself on my feet. Clair hung on to my sleeve The grey-haired man cursed Lydia in a loud clear voice, calling her about six’names that are not usually mentioned by handsome men in white dinner-jackets. Then he drew back his fist, punched her in the face.
Lydia fell out of her chair, blood from her nose ran down her chin. People stood up, craned their necks. A woman screamed. The captain of waiters began a slow, cautious walk towards the scene.
The man in the white dinner-jacket stood over Lydia. He continued to curse her; then he drew back his foot to kick her. I jerked my sleeve free from Clair’s clutch, jumped towards him.
There was a sharp crack of gunfire. A spurt of flame came from Lydia’s hand. The man in the white dinner- jacket coughed” once, twice, folded at the knees. He went down. I grabbed the toy gun out of Lydia’s hand. She clawed me down the face with her free hand. I pushed her away, stood back. She stared up at me, her eyes becoming sane again.
“Hello, Hick,” she said. “Why couldn’t you keep your cheap floozie where she belongs?”
I turned from her, looked down at the man lying on the floor. I decided she wouldn’t be able to buy herself out of this jam.
3
Believe me, when a Hollywood movie actress takes it into her head to shoot her boy friend in a swank night club, all hell starts popping.
As soon as it was discovered that the man in the white dinner-jacket was dead, everyone made a dive for the doors. But the captain of waiters was one jump ahead of them. The doors were closed, and the thickset man from downstairs stood with his back against them. He grinned evilly at the crowd, flexed his muscles, invited anyone to try to pass him. The crowd decided that after all they weren’t in a hurry to leave.
“Will you all please take your seats?” the captain of waiters said smoothly. “The police are on the way, and no one may leave without permission.”
People went back to their tables, leaving Lydia alone with her dead. She stood over the body, a serviette held to her bleeding nose. She was still drunk enough not to realize that the man in the white dinner-jacket was dead. She kept stirring him with her foot, saying, “Get up, you swine. You can’t scare me,” but she was beginning to sense the jam she was in, and her voice was going off-key.
It took the police six minutes by my watch to arrive. They came in: three plain-clothes men, four in uniform, a doctor, a photographer and the D.A.’s man.
They went to work in the usual efficient way policemen go to work. It was only when the doctor signed to a couple of the uniformed men to cover the body with a table-cloth that the nicklc dropped in Lydia’s befuddled mind. As they draped the cloth over the body, she let out a screech that set everyone’s teeth on edge.
“Okay, sister,” the Homicide man said, tapping her arm. “Take it easy. It won’t get you anywhere.”
She looked wildly around the room: saw me.
“It’s all your fault, you—” she screamed. “It was you who spoilt my lovely car.”
People stood on chairs to look at me. The Homicide man gave me a hard stare. I sat there, looked back. There was nothing else I could do. It was a pretty nasty moment.
Lydia suddenly made a dive at me, but the cops grabbed her.
“Get her out of here,” the Homicide man said as she began to curse. Even his face registered disgust.
Things quieted down when she had gone. The Homicide man came over to me, asked where I figured in this.
“She’s crazy drunk,” I said. “I don’t figure in it at all. I only grabbed her gun.”
“What’s this about her car?”
“We had a little accident this morning. There was nothing to it.”
He took out his note-book, asked me my name. I told him Jack Cain. My middle name was Jack, anyway. I gave him my address, went into details about the Cadillac, said nothing about the man in the white dinner-jacket trying to mash Clair. I guessed it would come out at the trial, but I wasn’t going to help unnecessarily.
“Any idea why she shot the guy?” the Homicide man demanded.
I shook my head. “I wasn’t watching them,” I lied. “He suddenly punched her, began kicking her. I went to her help; before I could reach the guy, she shot him.”
“Okay,” he said, eyeing me over. I could see he wasn’t entirely satisfied, but he had a lot on his mind. “We’ll be needing you again.”
I said all right, and could we go now?
He sent a cop out to check the licence tag on the Buick. The cop came back, nodded.
“Okay, you can go,” the Homicide man said. “Stick close.”
We made our way out of the dining-room. Eyes followed us. It was nice to get into the lobby. The captain of waiters had Clair’s wrap ready. He dropped it over her shoulders, said he was sorry our evening was spoilt. He sounded as if he was really sorry.
The cigarette girl was standing on a chair, trying to see into the dining-room. Her nakedness had lost its charm for me. She eyed me curiously.
Clair was white and silent. She stood waiting while the check girl found my hat. The peachbloom pyjamas
