I pushed open the swing doors and sauntered over to the switchboard. The young women watched me come. I didn’t hurry. Waiting to be taken on as a stripper can’t be a lot of fun, and if they could get a thrill out of seeing a hundred and eighty pounds of bone and muscle and hot red blood snaking into their grey young lives, that was all right with me.
“Mr. Gorman,” I said to the blonde trick and leered into her big brown eyes.
She gave me a look full of repressed yearning and asked if I had an appointment.
“No,” I told her, “but he’ll see me. Tell him the name’s Floyd Jackson and I’m in a rush.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see how the young women were taking the news. They stared back at me with intent, expectant expressions.
The blonde trick said regretfully, “Mr. Gorman never sees anyone without an appointment, Mr. Jackson; I’m sorry.”
“Ask him,” I coaxed. “Call him and tell him I’m here. You’re in for a big surprise, honey. Fatso and I shared the same cell together. You ask him.”
She giggled nervously.
“You wouldn’t be kidding? Mr. Gorman doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“Tell him. I have a fatal fascination for him. Go ahead, honey, whisper the good news to him.”
She put through the call while the rest of the young women listened on tip-toe.
“There’s a Mr. Floyd Jackson asking for you,” she said timidly into the receiver. “He says you’ll see him.” She listened for a moment, her eyes growing big, then she hung up. Will you wait, Mr. Jackson? He won’t keep you long.”
I thanked her and edged my way towards the young women, but before I could select a chair the door near the railed-off portion of the office opened and a slim, dark girl with a cold, hard face came out.
“Mr. Jackson?” she asked sharply.
I moved towards her.
“Go in, please. Mr. Gorman will see you now.”
I looked past her to the blonde trick, whose mouth was hanging open, and I winked, then I strolled into a big airy room full of light and cigar smoke and photographs of nice-looking cuties with very little on.
Gorman sat behind a vast desk covered with papers that may or may not have been contracts, cigar ash and still more photographs. His ball-round face was as empty as a pauper’s purse, and his little black eyes that peered at me over ridges of pink fat were suspicious and alert.
“An unexpected visit, Mr. Jackson,” he said smoothly. “I must confess I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Came as a surprise to me too,” I said and drew up a leather-padded chair and sat down.
“Perhaps you have come to return my ring?” he asked and chuckled the way an orang-outang might chuckle before he snaps off your arm.
“I sold that,” I said regretfully. “I was short of money. A guy promised me fifteen hundred bucks and never paid up.”
“I see.” He stared at me thoughtfully, went on, “And yet, Mr. Jackson, you have obviously come here for a reason.”
“Why, sure,” I said, lit a cigarette and placed the match end carefully in the onyx ash-tray. “Yeah, I didn’t blow in to pass the time. How’s Dominic?”
Gorman lifted one immense hand and studied his well-manicured nails. He was very calm and cool.
“He’s well enough, Mr. Jackson. A dangerous man, of course. I’m afraid he’s a little annoyed with you. I should keep clear of him if I were you.”
“It’s a wonder they let him out of that asylum,” I said. “His name’s Boyd, isn’t it? And he’s a collector of antiques.”
Gorman frowned at his nails.
“You have been making inquiries then, Mr. Jackson?”
“I was a private eye once. Difficult to keep one’s nose out of other people’s business once you get the urge.” I flicked ash on the desk to keep the other ash company. “Veda sends her love. Nice girl; a little hotheaded, but nice.”
“Foolish,” Gorman said, and there was a rasp in his voice.
“Well, you know how these kids act. She didn’t mean anything by it. Any self-respecting girl would want to slug a pixey like Dominic.”
“Suppose you get to the point?” Gorman said. “If you haven’t come to return the ring, why are you here?”
I smiled at him.
“I’ve come for the dagger.”
There was a moment’s silence. The little black eyes flickered.
“I don’t think I know what you mean,” he said at last.
“I’ve seen Brett.” I stubbed out my cigarette, lit another. “Ever met Lindsay Brett?”
Gorman said he hadn’t met Brett.
“Pity: he has a compelling presence. He’s big time, and doesn’t ever let you forget it, and he has also a persuasive manner; a mighty persuasive manner. He wants the dagger back, and he’s convinced me he’ll get it back. So I thought I’d drop by and pick it up.”
Gorman studied me.
“And what makes you think I have it?” he asked smoothly.
“You haven’t,” I said. “Boyd has it but you’re a pal of his and you’re in a jam, so I thought it’d be easier for me to persuade you to persuade him to part with it.”
“Am I in a jam?” The black eyes glittered like bits of painted glass.
“You certainly are,” I said and hitched my chair forward. “Brett’s put his cards on the table. If I play with him I’m in the clear. He guarantees me a clean bill. All he wants is the dagger. If he doesn’t get it, then I’m for the high jump and that includes the gas chamber. So what do I do? I make the same proposition to you. Hand over the dagger or I’ll turn you in. All I have to do is to tell Brett the whole story. He already suspects Boyd is at the back of this. I have Veda tucked away, and she’ll be principal witness. To save her skin she’ll throw you two guys to the wolves so fast you’ll be sniffing cyanide before you know the trial’s over. The cards are stacked against you. I have the story, I have Veda, I have the compact and Brett’s guarantee to keep me in the clear. If you can’t persuade Boyd to hand over the dagger you and he are sunk.”
He took out his gold cigarette-case and helped himself to a cigarette. As he lit it his eyes searched my face. He kept pretty cool, but I could see he wasn’t very happy.
“Would Brett pay any reward if the dagger was returned?” he asked, and his voice sounded very thin and very scratchy. I grinned at him.
“You bet,” I said cheerfully. “Twenty-five grand.”
“I see.” For a moment his face lit up. We might divide the reward between us, Mr. Jackson. Mr. Boyd wouldn’t care about the money. It would be between you and me.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said, easing myself back in my chair. “You don’t get anything out of this, Fatso. You once said I was tricky and smooth, and that makes me tricky and smooth. Your job is to get the dagger from Boyd. I don’t have to pay you anything because I hold five aces.”
His face turned the colour of cold mutton fat.
“I think it would be wiser for you to share the spoils,” he said and leaned forward. “Think again, Mr. Jackson.”
I kicked back my chair and stood up.
“I’ll be back here at four o’clock, Fatso. Have the dagger here by then or take the consequences. You’ve played me for a sucker long enough. It’s time you got wise. I’m not taking any excuses. The dagger’s either here at four, or you and your pixey pal can explain your little plot to Redfern. And don’t try any tricks. I’ve put the whole story down in writing and Veda is holding on to it. If I’m not back with her by six tonight, she turns the yarn over to Brett.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, then I walked out, leaving him sitting behind the desk as quiet and as cold and as deadly as a cobra coiled up in a bush.
The young women watched me as I came out of the office: They flinched with horror when I slammed the door behind me. The cute blonde trick was still open-mouthed. The hard-faced number who had told me to go into Gorman’s office looked at me with calculating eyes.
I sauntered across the room, pulled open the glass door and walked into the passage. I let the doors swing to. They were still staring as I moved towards the elevator. I rode down to the street level, opened the door of the Cad and looked up. Eight floors above me, three windows pushed up. The young women, the blonde trick and the hard-faced number stared down at me intently. The blonde trick’s mouth fell open another inch.
It crossed my mind as I got into the car that all those frails would remember me. It was a cosy thought. Even a punk with a paralysed brain hates to be forgotten.
CHAPTER NINE
I HAD three hours to kill before I saw Gorman again,” but that’s not a hardship when you’re in Hollywood. I spent one of them climbing outside the best meal I’d had in years. Nothing was too good or too expensive for Mrs. Jackson’s favourite son that sunny afternoon.
With still a couple of hours to use up, I left the restaurant and drove over to the Paramount Film Studios and parked outside the main gates. In case you don’t know, this is as good a way as another to pass the time if you have time to pass. There is always a steady flow of nice-looking frails passing in and out, and they like being whistled at, and there’s always the possibility that Dorothy Lamour might appear in her sarong, but you mustn’t count on it. I saw a lot of cuties who looked like fun, but I was choosy that afternoon. It had to be Lamour or nobody: it turned out to be nobody.
While I waited and leered out of the car window, I made plans for the future. Before very long I should have in my pocket a roll worth twenty-five grand; and that’s a lot of dough. After a little thought I decided I’d take Veda to Miami. I’ve always wanted to go to Miami and act the way millionaires act. I felt it would be good for my general state of health and my inferiority complex. I’d been a poor, trashy dick too long.
Taking a broad view of the whole set-up, I failed to see where I could go wrong. Boyd would have to hand over the dagger: he couldn’t help himself, unless he wanted a stretch in jail. Brett would hand over the twenty-five grand. He had given his word, and when a guy of his standing gives his word, he keeps it. I thought it would be nice to lie about on golden sands with Veda in a swim suit. She had the kind of figure a swim suit likes. I told myself as soon as Brett paid up, I’d nip into a travel agency and book a couple of seats in the first aircraft out to Miami the following day.
Time was getting on now. Maybe someone had tippedLamour I was waiting outside. I regretfully started the engine and drove away. The clock on the dashboard of the Cadillac said it was two minutes to four o’clock when I pulled up outside the Wiltshire Building again. There wasn’t going to be any nonsense this time. I was coming out with the dagger or else. I shot my cuffs, tipped my hat to a more becoming angle and strode across the sidewalk, through the revolving doors to the elevator.
No young women sat in the four rows of armchairs when I paused outside Gorman’s double glass doors. The cute blonde trick sat huddled up by her switchboard and her mouth was closed. She sprang off her seat when I pushed open the doors and clutched at the rail that penned her in.
“The same name and the same guy,” I said, wondering what was eating her. She appeared to be suffering from shock, and her face was the colour of a freshly laundered sheet. I didn’t know whether she’d been caught dipping into the petty cash or whether it was due to seeing me again.
“Go in.” The words popped out of her as if someone had suddenly kicked her sharply with a nail-studded boot. She waved to Gorman’s door, then grabbed up her hat and coat that was lying on a chair, jerked open the little gate and bolted to the swing doors.
I turned to watch her hurried flight. She didn’t wait for the elevator, but scooted down the stairs as if she’d heard someone was giving nylons away free on the floor below.
The outer office seemed very quiet and empty without her. I looked at the closed door that led to Gorman’s office. I looked at the four rows of vacant armchairs, and I had a feeling that things were not what they seemed. My hand slid around to my hip pocket to clutch my gun when a voice with a tin larynx said, “Hold it, mug!”
I looked cautiously over my shoulder. A lean, tall bird in a grey check suit stood behind the last row of armchairs. That would account for the blonde trick’s agitation. He had been snooping there out of sight, waiting for me to arrive. The face under the black slouch hat was better shaved than the face of a rat, but not so attractive to look at.
“Speaking to me?” I asked and was careful not to make a sudden move. The hood looked nervous, and by the whiteness of his knuckle I knew he’d taken in all the trigger slack there was to be taken in.
“Get in there,” he said and pointed to Gorman’s office. “And watch it.”
It crossed my mind that I might not be going to Miami after all, and was glad I hadn’t been impulsive and bought the tickets. I hate throwing good money away. Reluctantly I pushed open Gorman’s door, went in, followed by the hood.
Parker, or Boyd as I’d better call him now, sat in Gorman’s chair. He looked very cold and distant and contemptuous. Standing by the window was another tough who nursed a bluenose automatic. He was short and fat and shabby, and looked like any second-rate gunsel in any third-rate movie. Cornelius Gorman was conspicuous by his absence.
“Hello, pally,” I said to Boyd. “How’s your poor head?”
“This is the one time you’ve been too smart and too tricky, Jackson,” he said. There was a lot of vinegar in his voice. “I’m not going to waste time talking to you. You’re not getting the dagger, and you’re not leaving this room alive. You’re going to answer a question, and then you’re going to have a little accident. You can answer the question right away or I’ll force it out of you. You can please yourself, but whichever way you decide you’re going head first out of that window as soon as you’ve answered it.”
Being tossed out of an eighth-floor window wasn’t my idea of fun, but it didn’t seem worth while to tell him so.
“That won’t get you anywhere,” I said as calmly as I could. “I told Fatso I’ve left a statement. It’ll be in Redfern’s hands if anything happens to me, and then a lot of things will happen to you.”
He sneered distantly.
“I don’t think so. After we’ve dealt with you, we’ll destroy the statement if it exists, but I very much doubt if it does.”