Brandon. I bet he makes a pile of jack.”
“What foxes me,” Hughson said, reaching for the whisky I had bought him, “is how a heel like Sherrill ever found enough money to buy a goddamn great schooner like the Dream Ship.”
“They say he floated a company,” Olaf said. “If he had come to me and offered to sell me a piece of that ship, I’d have jumped at it. I bet whoever owns shares in her makes a packet, too.”
I listened, thinking what a marvellous thing it was to meet two guys in a bar and hear the very thing I wanted to hear without even asking.
“That ship sounds fun,” I said casually. “I wouldn’t mind being a member.”
Hughson sneered.
“And you’re not the only one. You haven’t a hope. Only guys in the White Book stand a chance. Every member is hand-picked. If you haven’t got dough Sherrill doesn’t want you. The entrance fee is two hundred and fifty dollars, and the sub works out at five hundred a year. He caters for the big boys, not the proletariat.”
“What kind of a guy is Sherrill? “I asked.
“One of those smooth Alecs,” Hughson said. “Handsome, slick, tough and bright. The kind of heel women fall for. Curly hair, blue eyes, big muscles, and dresses like a movie star. My idea of a genuine, top-drawer, son-of-a- bitch.”
“Any idea why Janet Crosby broke the engagement?”
“That girl had sense. I don’t know what happened, but it’s my guess she saw the red light. All he was after was her money, and I guess she realized that before it was too late. Any girl who marries a runt like Sherrill is heading for trouble.”
Olaf, who was getting bored with this conversation, said, “Do you fellas think the Dixie Kid would make a show against O’Hara? I gotta chance to match him, but I’m not sure it would be much of a fight.”
For the next fifteen minutes we argued back and forth about the Dixie Kid’s merits, then looking at the clock above the bar I saw it was time I got moving.
“I’ll have to leave you guys,” I said, and slid off the stool. “I’ll be around at the gym one of these days. See you then.”
Olaf said he would be glad to see me any time, and would I give his best respects to Paula.
Hughson said to tell Paula he dreamed of her most nights. I left them buying more whisky.
As I crossed the room to the exit I spotted the Wop with the dirty shirt cuffs sitting at a table near the door, still engrossed in his newspaper, and as I pushed open the double swing doors, he casually folded the paper, shoved it into his pocket and got to his feet.
I walked swiftly to where I had parked the Buick, got in, started the engine and drove down the dark alley. From somewhere in the rear another car engine roared into life and a set of parking lights swam into my driving- mirror.
I drove along Princess Street, keeping my eye on the driving-mirror. The car following me was a Lincoln. The blue, anti-dazzle windshield prevented me from seeing the driver, but I guessed who it was.
At the bottom of Princess Street I turned right into Felman Street. The traffic was thinning out, and I drove fast, but the Lincoln had no trouble in sitting on my tail. Ahead of me I could see the red neon sign of the cafe where J had arranged to meet John Stevens. Just before I reached the cafe I pulled sharply into the kerb and braked hard. The Lincoln was following me too closely to do anything but drive straight on. It went past, slowing down.
I nipped out of the Buick and dodged into a dark shop doorway. The Lincoln had pulled into the kerb fifty yards ahead. The Wop got out and looked down the street without attempting to conceal his actions. He was quick enough to spot I had left the Buick, and he walked towards my parked car, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.
I stepped back into the shadows and watched him glance into the empty car, look right and left, and then walk on. He didn’t seem disconcerted when he couldn’t see me, but continued on down the street just like any Spick out for an airing.
I watched him out of sight, then crossed the street by way of the subway and nipped into the cafe.
The wall clock facing me as I entered showed five minutes to nine o’clock. There were only about half a dozen people at the tables: a blonde Bobbysoxer and her boy, two elderly men playing chess, two women with shopping-bags, and a girl with a thin, pinched face at a corner table, drinking milk.
I picked a table away from the door and sat down, opened the Evening Herald and spread it on the table. Then I lit a cigarette and wondered about the Wop. Was he another of Salzer’s playmates or was he a new angle in this business? He was tailing me all right, and making a very bad job of it. Either that or he didn’t care if I knew he was after me. I had taken a note of his car licence number. Another little job for Mifflin, I thought, and that reminded me. I turned to the sports pages and checked the races. Crab Apple had won her race. Well, that was all right. Mifflin wouldn’t mind checking the car number now he had made a little money.
On the stroke of nine the double glass doors pushed open and a tall old man came in. I knew he was Stevens the moment I saw him. He looked like an Archbishop on vacation. He came towards me with that stately walk butlers have when they come in to announce dinner is served. The expression on his face was slightly forbidding, and there was a cautious, distant look in his eyes.
I stood up.
“Mr. Stevens?”
He nodded.
“I’m Malloy. Sit down, will you? Have a coffee?” He put his bowler hat on one of the chairs and sat down. Yes, he would have a coffee.
To save time I went to the counter, ordered two coffees and carried them over. The Bobbysoxer was staring at Stevens and giggling with the bad manners of the very young. She said something to her boy, a fresh-faced youth in a striped jersey and a college cap at the back of his head. He looked over at Stevens and grinned. Maybe they thought it was funny for an Archbishop to come to a Help-Yourself Cafe or maybe the bowler hat amused them. I put the two cups on the table.
“Nice of you to come, Mr. Stevens,” I said, and offered him a cigarette. While he was lighting it I studied him. He was all right. The faithful family retainer who could keep his mouth shut. He could be trusted, but the trouble would be to get him to talk. “What I have to say is in strict confidence,” I went on, sitting down. “I’ve been hired to investigate Miss Janet Crosby’s death. A certain party isn’t entirely satisfied she died of heart failure.”
He stiffened and sat bolt upright.
“Who is the certain party?” he asked. “Surely it is a little late for an investigation?”
“I’d rather not say at the moment,” I told him. “I agree it is late, but only within the past few days have certain facts come to light that make an investigation necessary. Do you think Janet Crosby died of heart failure?”
He hesitated.
“It’s not my business,” he said reluctantly. “Since you ask me, I admit it was a great shock to me. She seemed such an active young person. But Dr. Salzer assured me that in her case a sudden stoppage of an artery would cause heart failure without previous symptoms. All the same I found it hard to believe.”
“I wonder if you have any idea why Miss Crosby broke off her engagement with Douglas Sherrill?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you that without knowing who is making this investigation,” he said primly. “I have heard of your organization and I believe it is well spoken of, but I am not prepared to gossip about my late employer unless I know who I am dealing with.”
That was as far as we ever got.
There was a sudden frozen stillness in the cafe that made me look up sharply.
The double glass doors swung open, and four men walked in. Two of them carried Thompson sub-machine- guns, the other two had Colt automatics in their hands. Four dark-skinned Wops: one of them was my pal with the dirty shirt cuffs. The two with the Thompsons fanned out and stood either side of the room where they had a clear field of fire.
The Wop with the dirty cuffs and a little dago with red-rimmed eyes marched across the room towards my table.
Stevens gave a kind of strangled grunt and started to his feet, but I grabbed him and shoved him back on his chair.
