“Right in here,” came Danny Hester’s voice, low pitched, urgent.

  With the gun at my back I stumbled into the light, then stopped.

  A few paces away across a deep pile carpet a dame stood—tall, statuesque, her white hands folded demurely in front of her. Her blonde head was held high on her long neck. There was a faint smile playing about her lips.

  Genevieve Troy.

  “Get him through to the other room,” said Danny. “You keep him there, Genevieve.”

  She said nothing, but that faint smile was still on her face. She crossed to a door on the other side of the room, opened it and looked out. Then she beckoned to me.

  I didn’t move right away, but the gun was jabbed against my spine. I went across the room and through the door. Genevieve closed it behind me. I looked at her.

  She said in a husky voice, “Don’t try any tricks. Big brother’s watching.”

  Chapter 3 ... holes in several heads ...

  It was a small room, furnished sparsely. It reminded me of the anteroom to some big shot’s office, except that instead of a reception desk there was a small table with a bowl of flowers on it and an indoor vine trailed across one wall. There were two chairs, a scatter rug, an old fashioned oil painting on one wall and that was about all. There was another door opposite the one through which we had entered. There were no windows. A single light shielded by a bowl shone from the ceiling.

  “How does big brother come into the act?” I asked her. She went on smiling.

  “I was speaking metaphorically.”

  I said, “Where did you get around to learning big words?”

  The smile went. “I’ve been around,” she said. Then added, “There’s somebody right outside that door. You try anything fancy and see what happens to you.”

  I said, “You’re scaring me to death.” I leaned against the small table and folded my arms across my chest.

  She was standing in the center of the small room, obviously waiting.

  I said, “Looks like Danny Hester’s got the run of this joint.”

  She made no answer.

  “Guards on the gate fixed. Knows the ways in and out. Maybe Jacob Troy gave him a latchkey, too.”

  She looked at me. There was no expression in her eyes. “You can figure as much as you like, Larry Kent, you’ll get no place.”

  She studied me. Something seemed to strike her suddenly, “How did you get this way? I mean—sticking your nose into other people’s affairs and getting it cut off along with your head?”

  I said, “I’m a reformer. I’m cleaning up the rackets, starting with big shots who marry the first dumb blonde they fall over.”

  I was trying to get her mad but it was like hacking at Mount Everest with an ice-pick.

  She said, “Keep right on talking. It’s good for my nerves.”

  “You got any?”

  “Why not?” She laughed silently, then took a step toward me and stopped. “You know, if you’d been smart, you could’ve got some place, Larry Kent.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “You’re a big, strong boy and I guess you’ve got some brain tucked away in back of that rugged exterior. I could have used a guy like you.”

  “I’m open to offers,” I told her. I figured I was so far along the line it didn’t matter; I was like that drowning guy clutching at soggy straws. “Just what you got in mind, baby?”

  “I don’t like being called baby,” she snapped. She moved a little closer.

  Now I could get the full impact—and brother it was plenty. She wore a perfume that was as subtle as the house gown that clung to her seductively. Her skin was very white and I could see faint blue veins at her temples. She was a big girl—all over.

  “It’s too late to make deals with me, Larry Kent. You pushed it too far. Besides, you made Danny mad.”

  “That’s too bad. Does he make Jacob mad, too?”

  She hauled off and cracked me. The slap made a sound like a pistol shot.

  I said, “Easy. You might wake the baby.”

  I could see she was quivering with rage.

  “Relax,” I told her. “Why should you worry? You’re sitting on twenty million bucks and you’ve got a racketeer boyfriend thrown in. What more you want? The Golden Gloves?”

  I thought she was going to hit me again but she let her hand fall to her side. She even managed a smile, a sour one. “You’re quite a guy, Larry Kent, and you’ve got quite a line. Too bad I didn’t meet you a long time back. I’d have got a kick out of making love to you—and whipping you into line!” She spat out the last words.

  I reached out and grabbed her by the upper arms.

  She stood very still.

  I said, “I go for the loving part, but no dame ever whipped me and got away with it.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Why not?”

  She had her head back a little. She was trying to look cold and distant and dignified and not making out. I could feel her skin trembling a little beneath the shimmering house gown under my fingers.

  I said, “You’re quite a dame.” I pulled her close to me. It wasn’t hard. She swayed all the way there to meet me. Her lips were parted a little, her eyes half-closed. I kissed her. Right then I got another of those explosives in the head—only for once I was liking it.

  Suddenly she tore herself back from me. She gasped, “You great lug. You think you can buy me over—”

  “Did I mention dough?”

  “Oh, I know your kind—”

  “You know hell,” I told her. I grabbed her again and she fought against me for a moment then sagged weakly against my chest. I could feel her panting.

  At last she said, “Larry—Larry, this is crazy—you’ve got to get out of here—”

  “Sure. Which way? The far door?”

  She lifted her head sharply. “That way? No, you fool—” She broke off. I could see her throat working—almost see the thoughts racing in her mind.

  I said, “The way we come in is loaded. Where’s the exit, Genevieve honey?”

  “Call me that again and I’ll carry you out myself.”

  We stared at each other for what seemed a long time, then she said, “Of course you’re taking me for a ride. You’re just using me—”

  “You’re nuts. You’re the big bomb. You’re what strong guys cry for. As if you didn’t know.” I added, “Genevieve honey.”

  She attempted a smile, failed. She was trembling like a teenager being kissed for the first time. And then three sharp knocks sounded on the door back of us.

  She jumped away from me so fast she almost tripped.

  I leaned back against the table.

  The door opened cautiously. Danny Hester was poking his head in. He said nothing for a moment, looked at her and then at me. Then he moved right into the room, drew close to her and said, “What’s eating you?”

  “Danny—Danny, I can’t go through with this.”

  I couldn’t see the expression on his face but I could guess just what he was registering. He said nothing for a moment and then, “Time’s run out, Jenny. Everything’s fixed. Beat it.”

  She drew herself up. She said evenly, “Danny, you can’t push me around.”

  “This is one time I do, baby. Get out there fast.”

  For a moment I thought she was going to buck him, but then without looking at me she sailed out the door.

  Danny Hester turned slowly and there was a hard smile on the corners of his mouth.

  “Making time, Kent?”

  I said nothing.

  “You should’ve told her goodbye.” The smile had become a cruel one. “You won’t be seeing her again, lover-boy.”

  He had a squat automatic in his hand. He jerked it at the far door. “Move over there fast.”

  I moved. I stood near the door. I waited. Nothing happened. I started to turn my head to say something to Hester and the next instant heard the sound of a shot.

  It was muffled by the masking door but it was a shot, all right.

  I turned then and looked at Hester. He was nodding slowly. He went right on waiting for maybe a minute longer, then he pushed past me, threw open the door and stood just inside the doorway, with his gun held smack against my stomach. His head was flung round so he could see right into the other room.

  Tersely he said, “Okay, get in there.”

  I didn’t get it.

  I didn’t get it even when I moved past him, the gun still covering me. Then I found myself in a much larger room with maybe a half dozen Persian scatter rugs littered about the flagstone floor. I had time only to see one dim light showing in the wall above the great line of books ... maybe they were dummies because Jacob Troy was not much of a hand at reading: except stock report. I had a sensation of spaciousness and mustiness; the sort of smell that hangs around a rich guy who’s mean; a big guy who’s shriveled up like a monkey and who has to buy his wives with mink and diamonds and all the things other guys would use to get wives if they had the loot.

  And then I was alone.

  Or it seemed I was alone. I hadn’t heard the door close but Danny Hester was no longer with me. I stood very still for a moment and then heard a sound and whirled round.

  Jacob Troy was lying beside a huge mahogany desk. He was lying on the floor. Both hands were stretched toward me as if he were grabbing at something. But I could see a part of his face and knew that he wouldn’t be grabbing anything anymore.

  But it wasn’t Troy who had made the sound.

  No-Face Lardner was standing a little to one side of him. For once there was a genuine expression on his smooth actor’s pan—a look of unholy glee.

  And then I got it. I took off like I was on a springboard making with a long dive. There was a squat chair set a few feet away, and it was that I headed for, low down, leaping.

  I almost made it. I didn’t hear Lardner’s gun exploding. I didn’t feel anything. He must have fired as I took off, and the bullet churned a parting in my hair and knocked me cold.

  I must have been conscious, but it was a borderline waking, like being in the middle of a nightmare and trying to wake because you’re aware that you are in a nightmare and you’re fighting to wake.

  I knew I’d been hit but I was alive. There must have been quite a lot of blood. My head wasn’t aching so much as vibrating on a high note, like a plucked guitar string. And I was flat on my back. Under my right hand was a gun. I moved my hand away from it.

  There were voices, urgent voices. I didn’t have to open my eyes to identify them; Genevieve and the boyfriend, Danny Hester.

  I heard Genevieve say, “Hubbard’s out there calling—he must have been out of his room—heard the shot.”

  “To hell with that damn butler,” said Hester roughly. “Al—you dropped the gun beside him?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Danny!” Genevieve’s voice became a wail. “You can’t just quit, leave me like this—”

  “You know what to do. Take it easy can’t you—”

  And then I could hear another voice, a strange one, from a long way off calling, “Mrs. Troy. Mrs. Troy.”

  “He’ll be here any minute,” said Hester. “And maybe the rest of the house staff with him. We got to scram, Lardner. I’ll call you, baby.”

  “You can’t do this to me—”

  Then Hester’s snarled reply, “Pull yourself together, can’t you. Get out there and make with the big grief for Hubbard. We’ll go out the side door. See you.”

  There was silence for what seemed like a couple of minutes.

  Cautiously I opened one eye and then the other. From where I lay I couldn’t see Jacob Troy’s body but I knew it wasn’t far away. I couldn’t see anything that interested me all that much. I knew I was alive and I was glad of that, but from there on I had no great interest in anything.

  I knew Genevieve Troy had left the room silently, maybe speeding out to put on her act with Hubbard, the butler. And then there came the sound of hurried footsteps. A door banged some place, deep in the house. There were excited voices. Somebody started howling, and a man’s voice—I took to be Hubbard’s—snapped, “Get that girl out of here, Mrs. Mosely,” and then, “Mrs. Troy, this is terrible.”

  Genevieve’s voice came tight and straight, “I daren’t—I can’t look again. I just can’t bring myself to it.”

  “You wait in the other room, Mrs. Troy. I’ll call the police. I’ll fix everything.”

  “You’d better—get Coburn, hadn’t you?”

  “The lawyer?” Hubbard’s voice sounded surprised. “I hardly think so at this stage, Mrs. Troy.”

  “Never mind. Just get the police and doctor.”

  “Sure, Mrs. Troy. You leave it with me. I’ll use Mr. Troy’s desk phone.”

  Genevieve said, “The other one—the man who must have killed him—is he dead?”

  Curtly Hubbard’s voice came, “I guess so, by the look of his head. All that blood.”

  “I thought I saw his hand move just now—”

  “Please, ma’am, you must get out of here.” He raised his voice and called, “Mrs. Mosely? Mrs. Mosely come here at once and see to your mistress.”

  There was some coming and going and through it I could hear Hubbard dialing the phone, a pause and then, “Police? This is Hubbard, butler at Mr. Jacob Troy’s residence, Burnt Springs. There’s been trouble out here. I’m afraid Mr. Troy is dead. What’s that. Yes, I heard a shot and came down here and found a stranger in the library with Mr. Troy. They both seem dead—”

  While he was talking I raised my head and managed to sit upright. I had to hold my head down for a little time to clear it, and then I got to my feet and staggered over to the wall. I leaned against it.

  I heard the clatter of the phone as it was dropped toward the rest but missed it. I had my handkerchief out and was wiping down my face. I saw a big fat guy, with moon face, shaking like a jelly, standing over by the desk. Both hands were held out like a stage butler’s caught in the act of pilfering the master’s port.

  I said, “They sending a doctor, too?”

  His chin moved up and down but no sound came. His eyes were glazed over like a dead cod’s.

  And then there came a rush of feet. Genevieve Troy hurtled into the room and stopped, swung round to face me and screamed.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I need a wash up. Maybe you can show me some place.”

  Slowly she took her hands from her mouth. Her eyes were big, staring. She stammered out, “Larry,” and the next instant recovered herself and said, “You’re Larry Kent. I’ve seen your picture.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I bet you have.”

  Then the butler moved into action. He came yammering across the room. “I thought this man was dead, Mrs. Troy, and he got up right there while I was calling the cops. I never had such a fright in my life—”

  “Pipe down,” I told him. “Where do I wash?”

  As if habit was reasserting itself, he raised a trembling hand and pointed toward a narrow doorway in one corner of the vast room.

  I nodded, walked over toward it and was almost there when Genevieve called, “Don’t let him walk around, Hubbard. He’s a murderer. A killer! Didn’t you see the gun right under his hand?”

  I turned and looked at her. I said, “I don’t have a gun right now.” I went through the narrow doorway and found myself in a tiny private washroom with a clothes closet, a mirror and all the trimmings.

  I ran the cold water faucet and carefully washed the blood out of my hair. As well as I could see the scalp wound was not deep. It had been enough to knock me cold and as always that part of the head bled profusely. I guess it was that that had saved my life—if Lardner had known I was still breathing, he’d have pumped another slug into me for sure.

  I had my collar loosened off, and I wiped down my shirt and tuxedo and found a comb and fixed myself so I looked at least reasonably human. Then I went back inside.

  There were two more people there. A guy and a woman, and from the way they stared at me I knew they were more members of the household staff.

  Hubbard said, “I advise you—not to give trouble—young man!”

  I saw someone had fed him a cannon. It was a big, old army .45 and he was holding it in both hands. It weaved around a little and I didn’t like the look of that big gun in his shaking hands.

  I said, “Okay, take it easy. I’ll stick around until the cops come.”

  I went and sat in the armchair. They all stood and watched me. Then Genevieve Troy said with obvious effort, “We—we thought you were dead, lying there.”

  “I guess I did, too. It was only a scalp wound. Too bad about that.” I added, “A condemned guy gets privileges, huh?”

  There was silence, all staring at me like I was an exhibit in some freak show.

  I snapped my fingers, “Cigarette, buster!”

  The guy standing close to Hubbard jerked forward. He was dressed in shirt and pants and had the lean, knowing look of a chauffeur. He fumbled in his pants’ pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, which he held out to me gingerly, as if he were afraid I might explode right in his face.

  I took the cigarettes and the lighter. I made a light and pushed the rest of the pack in my pocket.

  He backed away from me sharply.

  I said, “Look, Hubbard, point that gun someplace else, huh?”

  Genevieve Troy seemed to have recovered her nerve. She said, “All of you get out of here. Except you, Hubbard. You keep guard over him. The police will be here presently.” She looked me right in the eye. “It’s quite obvious what happened. This man broke in here. My husband discovered him. He took his gun out of the drawer there and fired at this man—and was promptly killed.”

  There was silence. The other two staff members had moved to the door but lingering, like they didn’t want to miss anything.

  Hubbard said without taking his eyes off me—or his gun either, “Mrs. Troy, do you know this man?”

  “I believe he’s Larry Kent, a New York detective. I saw his picture in a Los Angeles paper only a day or two ago.”

 

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