“Get away from the table,” I said, pausing within a few feet of him.
He hesitated, pushed back the wooden box on which he was sitting, stood up. Something fell to the floor off his lap. I glanced down. A broad, squat knife lay at his feet. It looked very sharp, deadly.
“Get back to the wall,” I said, advancing on him.
He retreated, his hands raised to his shoulders. There was no shock of fear in his eyes. As I passed the knife I picked it up, dropped it into my pocket.
“Where’s Bat Thompson?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “Who wants him?”
“You’d better talk,” I said. “I’m in a hurry.”
He grinned evilly. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I don’t know any Bat Thompson.”
I edged towards him. “You’d better talk,” I said.
“Who are you? You’re new to the racket, ain’t you? Guys don’t threaten me. I’m everyone’s pal.”
“Not mine,” I said, smacked him across his face with the barrel of my gun.
His head jerked back. A red weal appeared on his harsh skin. His eyes glinted murderously.
“Where’s Bat?” I repeated.
He snarled at me so I hit him again.
“I can keep this up all night,” I told him pleasantly, grinned. “Where’s Bat?”
He pointed to the ceiling. “Top floor; the door facing the stairs.” He began to curse me softly, a mumbling flow of obscenity.
“Alone?” I said, lifting my hand, threatening him.
“Yeah,” he said.
I studied him. He was too dangerous to leave. I decided to provoke him into a fight. It turned out to be a dumb idea.
I nodded, shoved the .38 down the waist-band of my trousers. “Why couldn’t you have said so before?” I asked. “It’d’ve saved you a lot of grief.”
Two terrifying long arms shot out towards me; arms that seemed to stretch like elastic. I thought I was well out of his reach, and was waiting for him to jump me, but the arms came as a surprise. Two hands clamped on my wrists. They felt as if they had been welded to my flesh. He jerked me towards him.
He had twice my strength and the jerk nearly snapped my neck. I cannoned against him, felt his hands whip up to my throat. He was a shade too slow. I got my chin down, so he gripped that; before he could dig his claws into my neck, I sank a punch into his belly with all my weight behind it. He doubled up, snarling, and as I rushed him, he swung his fist, clouted me on the side of the head. It was like being hit with a hammer. I found myself lying on my side, bells ringing in my ears. I twisted over, saw through a red mist the misshapen legs moving towards the door. I grabbed at them, hung on, pulled him down. He fell close, squirmed around and uncorked another sledge- hammer blow. I ducked under it, felt it whizz past my head. My right hand yanked out the .38; holding it in my fist, I punched him in the face with it.
He gibbered with pain, got close, his evil-smelling head under my chin. He clawed at my body with steel fingers. I continued to hit him about his face and head with the gun butt. I couldn’t get much steam into the blows because he was lying on top of me, but I succeeded in making a mess of his face.
He got sick of it before I did, scrambled away, opened his mouth to yell. I rammed the gun barrel into his open mouth.
“Make a sound and I’ll blow your top,” I said.
The cold gun barrel in his mouth terrified him. He gagged, tried to wriggle away, but I forced the barrel further down his throat. He grabbed my wrists, yanked. The barrel shot out of his mouth, but the gun-sight caught his front teeth; they shot out too. He yammered in his throat, flung me off, raised himself up, half crazy with rage and pain, slammed down at me with both fists. If they had landed he would have flattened me, but I rolled against him, stabbed him in his belly with the gun barrel.
He gave a croaking howl, fell back, holding on to himself. Blood oozed between his fingers.
I knelt over him, panting, belted him between the eyes. He passed out.
Getting to my feet I fought to recover my breath. My legs felt weak, my heart thumped furiously. We had only fought for a couple of minutes, but it had been an experience. He had been as strong as an ape.
I left him, made for the stairs. I started up, my hand on the wall, treading cautiously. The stairs were in a bad way, gave under my weight. I kept on, mounted to the first floor, listened.
From one room I heard voices. A woman cursed in a shrill hard tone. A man yelled to her to shut up. I walked along the passage, made for the next flight of stairs.
The door behind me jerked open. I glanced around. A thin, miserable-looking woman half fell into the passage. She wore a dirty kimono, and her hair hung loose.
“Save me, mister,” she gasped, crouching against the wall.
A big, red-faced man, in shirt sleeves, stepped into the passage, grabbed the woman by her hair, dragged her into the room again. The door slammed. The woman began to squeal.
Ignoring her, I mounted the next flight of stairs. I was sweating, uneasy. This was a hell of a joint, I decided.
A naked gas-jet burned at the head of the stairs. It hissed and flickered in the draught. I paused as I reached the landing, looked back. Nothing moved. No one showed.
If Little Louis had been telling the truth I was now facing
Bat’s door. I stepped across the passage, put my ear against the door, listened.
A woman said: “God! I’m sick of this. I was crazy to throw in with a mean jerk like you.”
I frowned, slipped back the safety catch of the .38, put my hand on the door handle.
Bat said: “Aw, the hell with you! I’m sick of you too.” His harsh Brooklyn accent was unmistakable.
I opened the door, went in.
8
A girl, wearing black lace underwear, had her back to me as I entered. Her legs and feet were bare, her blonde hair piled untidily to the top of her head. A cheap imitation tortoise-shell comb failed to capture the straggling ends of hair from her neck. She was standing by a table on which was the remains of a meal and several bottles of whisky.
She turned swiftly as she heard the door open, stared at me. All I could see of Bat was his foot and leg. The girl stood directly in front of him. She was sharp-featured and she stared at me with sultry eyes, one of which was puffed and the other had been socked several days ago. She also had a bruise on her throat and her hand held a tall cool glass of amber fluid.
“Beat it,” she said to me. “You’ve picked the wrong room.”
“I want Bat,” I said between my teeth. “Get out of the way.”
She saw the gun, screamed, dropped the glass.
Bat recognized my voice, grabbed the girl around her waist, crushed her to him. He peered over her shoulder at me, grinned.
“Hello, bub,” he said. His brutal face was the colour of mutton fat.
“Let go of the frail,” I said. “What’s the matter with you. Bat? Milky?”
The girl struggled frantically to get away, but Bat easily held her. I could see his thick fingers sinking into the loose flesh above her hips.
“Shaddap, you,” he snarled in her ear, “or I’ll break your goddamn back.”
She stopped struggling, faced me, her eyes wide with terror, staring at the gun like an idiot child at a moving shadow.
It puzzled me why Bat didn’t go for his gun. I saw his pig eyes glaring, followed the direction. A Luger lay on the mantelpiece, out of his reach.
I laughed. “For God’s sake,” I said, “getting careless, aren’t you, Hat?” I jumped across the room to the gun. It was my own Luger.
