said.
“Where is he?”
“He’ll have cleared out of my apartment by now,” she said, frowning. “He’ll go to Little Louis. I think you’ll find him there. He won’t know where to hide. You’d’ve caught him long ago if it hadn’t been for me. He hasn’t any brains.”
“Where’s Little Louis?” I asked impatiently.
She gave me a downtown address in San Francisco.
“Who is he?”
“Just one of the boys,” she said indifferently. “He holes up anyone on the run. Watch your step, Cain. I want you to catch Bat.”
“I’ll catch him,” I said, standing up.
She closed her eyes.
“Well, I don’t look awful,” she said, “that’s something, I guess. I’d hate to die ugly.”
I couldn’t stand the atmosphere any longer.
“So long,” I said.
“Kill him for me, Cain,” she said.
I went.
Waiting for me in the corridor was Tim Duval. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“What did you expect?” he said, shaking hands. “As soon as we read about it, I flew up. All the boys pooled the fare. They wanted to come too, but they couldn’t get away.”
“Am I glad to see you,” I said, slapping him on the back.
“So you should be,” he said, grinning. “Hetty’ll be along soon. She’s coming by train. How’s the kid?”
“Not so bad,” I said. “She’ll be all right in a month or so. It was a close call, Tim.” T scowled at him, added, “I have a job for you.”
He nodded. “I knew it,” he said. “That’s why I came. Bat, eh?”
“Sure,” I said, “only you’re camping outside Clair’s door. So long as I know she’s safe I can get to work. Now don’t argue,” I went on hurriedly as he began to speak. “Bat’s dangerous. He might come here to finish the job. Stick around, Tim. I know Clair will be safe if you’re here. I have things to do.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “And I was planning to get in on a man-hunt.”
I punched him lightly on his chest.
“You watch Clair,” I said. “This man-hunt is going to be between Bat and me.” I led him to Clair’s door. “Not a word about Bat. I’ve told her he’s in jail. Go in and see her for a minute, then get a chair and park outside. I don’t expect to be long.”
I left him before he could protest.
7
The taxi driver slowed, stopped. “This is as far as I can take you, Bud,” he said. “The joint you want is down that alley, if it is the joint you want.”
I got out of the cab, peered down a narrow alley, blocked by two iron posts.
“I guess it is,” I said, gave him half a buck.
“Want me to stick around?” he asked. “It don’t look like your home.”
“It isn’t, but don’t wait,” I said, and walked towards the alley.
It was dark; mist from the sea softened the gaunt outlines of the buildings. The single street lamp made a yellow pool of light on the slimy sidewalk. Not far away a ship’s siren hooted. The sound of moving water against the harbour walls was distinct.
I lit a cigarette, moved on. Little Louis had selected a lonely spot for a home, I thought. The buildings I passed were warehouses, most of them in disuse. The property, the taxi driver had told me, had been condemned and was going to be pulled down. It should have been pulled down long ago.
A half-starved black cat appeared out of the shadows, twisted itself around my legs. I stooped, scratched its head, went on. The cat followed me.
Little Louis’s place was the last building in a row of battered wooden ruins. I flipped my cigarette into a puddle, stood back, looked up at the house. The cat moved delicately towards the puddle, sniffed at the cigarette, howled dismally.
“Some joint, puss,” I said.
The building was a three-storey job; no lights showed, most of the windows had rotten planks nailed across them. It was a proper dump, the kind of building Hollywood favours when creating a chiller atmosphere.
I tried to get round the back of the building, but found it looked on to a kind of reservoir. The stillness and blackness of the water was deceptive. It looked solid.
I went back to the front of the building, tried the front door. It was locked. I prowled around, found a lower window, tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. I went to the next window, heaved. It creaked loudly. I cursed the plank, took out my gun, forced the barrel backwards and forwards until the plank broke away from its rusty nails. I made less noise than I expected. I hoped no one had heard the first creak, which had been something.
I worked on the next plank, got rid of it, and was ready to squeeze through. I looked into the room beyond, saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing. I fished out an electric torch from my hip pocket, turned the beam into the room. It was unfurnished, dirty; a rat scurried away from the light.
With my gun in my right fist, I stepped over the sill, down into the room.
The cat jumped up on the sill, peered at me. I shooed it away. It seemed reluctant to leave me, but it went eventually, jumping down into the darkness outside.
A full minute of breathless listening got me nowhere. Holding my gun-arm tight against my side, I began exploring the room. There were footprints in the dust on the floor; a hand-print by the door. The place smelt of decay, bad drains.
I reached the door, turned the handle, pulled the door gently towards me. I peeped into a dingy passage, lit by a naked gas-jet. I listened. Nothing.
Sliding my torch back into my pocket, I edged out of the room into the passage. Another door faced me. To my right was the front door; to my left a flight of stairs. They looked rotten and broken, and there were no banisters. It was some hide-out.
I crept across the passage to the opposite door, put my ear against the panel, listened. After a moment or so I heard feet scrape on the wooden floor.
I wondered if Bat was behind the door. My heart was beating steadily; I wasn’t excited. I had come to kill Bat, and I was going to kill him.
My hand slid over the brass door-knob. I squeezed it, turned slowly. It made no sound as it turned. When it wouldn’t turn any further, I pushed.
I looked into a narrow, dimly lit room full of wooden packing-cases stacked up along the unpapered walls. In the centre of the room was a table and chair. Near the rusty stove stood a truckle bed, covered with a grimy blanket.
Little Louis sat at the table. He had a deck of greasy playing-cards in his hand, and he was laying out a complicated patience game. He raised his head as I stepped into the room.
Little Louis was a hunchback. The complexion of his dried-up face looked as if it had been sand-blasted. His hard little eyes glinted under thick black eyebrows. His shapeless mouth, like a pale pink sausage split in two, hung open.
He stared at me, his right hand, hairy and dirty, edged off the table to his lap.
“Hold it,” I said, lifted the .38.
His mouth tightened, snarled, but his hand crept back on to the table again.
I moved further into the room, closed the door with my heel, advanced.
He watched me, puzzled, suspicious.
“What do you want ?” he asked. His voice was high-pitched, effeminate.
