Fenner’s eyes narrowed. All he had to do now was to wait for them to come back, and then give it to them. Before he could make up his mind whether to hunt for a phone and get in touch with Grosset or to just wait and handle it on his own, he heard a car draw up outside and a car door slam.
He stepped quietly back into the bedroom, letting the .38 slide into his hand. He stood just inside the room, holding the door open a few inches.
He heard the front door open and shut. Then a light snapped on in the hall. He moved out a little and peered over the banisters. The two Cubans were standing in the hall. They were very tense, listening. Fenner remained where he was, motionless. The Cubans each held a large suit-case in their hands. He saw them exchange glances. Then the short one murmured something to the other, who put his case down and came up the stairs fast. He came up so fast Fenner hadn’t time to duck back.
The Cuban saw him as he rounded the bend in the stairway and his hand flew to the inside of his coat. Fenner drew his lips off his teeth and shot him three times in the belly. The noise of the gun crashed through the still house. The Cuban caught his breath in a sob and bent forward,-holding himself low down.
Fenner jumped forward, heaved him out of the way, and dived down the stairway as if he were taking a header into the water.
The short Cuban had no chance to get out of the way. The sudden crash of gun-fire had paralyzed him, and although his hand went unconsciously to his hip, he could not move his feet.
Fenner’s two hundred pounds of bone and muscle hit him like a shell. They both crashed down on to the floor, the Cuban underneath. The Cuban had given one high-pitched squeal of terror as he saw something coming at him, then Fenner was on him.
The crash made Fenner’s head spin and for a second or two he was so dazed that he could only lie, crushing the Cuban flat. His gun had shot out of his hand as he went down, and as he struggled to his knees he was dimly conscious of a jabbing pain in his arms.
The Cuban didn’t move. Fenner cautiously got to his feet and stirred him with his foot. The odd angle of the Cuban’s head told him all he wanted to know. He’d broken his neck.
He went on his knee and searched the Cuban’s pockets, but he didn’t find anything. He looked inside one of the suit-cases, but it was empty. The smear of blood on the lining confirmed his idea that they were taking the body away in bits.
He found his gun and cautiously went upstairs to have a look at the other Cuban. He, too, was as dead as a sausage. He lay twisted in a corner, his mouth drawn up, showing his teeth. Fenner thought he looked like a mad dog. A quick search revealed nothing, and Fenner went downstairs again. He wanted to get out of this fast. He turned off the light in the hall, opened the front door and stepped out into the night.
Outside, the car still waited. There was no one in it, but Fenner let it stay. He walked down the street, keeping in the shadow, and it was only when he got into the Fulton Street crowds that he relaxed at all.
A taxi took him back to his office. During the short ride he had decided on a plan of action. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor and hurried down the passage to his office.
A light was still burning, and for a moment he hesitated before entering. Then, keeping his hand on his gun, he turned the handle and walked in.
Paula was sitting in an arm-chair before the telephone. She jerked up her head quickly as if she’d been asleep.
“Why haven’t you gone home?” Fenner said shortly.
Paula indicated the telephone. “She might have rung,” she said quietly.
Fenner sat down beside her wearily.
Paula said, “Dave, I’m sorry about—”
“Skip it,” Dave said, patting her hand. “You were right to blow off. Right now things are happenin’. Those two Cubans got hold of that girl, killed her and carved her up. I caught them cartin’ her away. They’re dead. I killed ’em both. Don’t interrupt. Let me tell you fast. The cops must be kept out of this. This is between me and whoever started it. Those cheap punks are only the dressin’. They ain’t the whole salad. Take a look at that.” He gave Paula the letter he’d found in Marian’s bag.
Paula read it through. Her face had gone a little pale, but otherwise she was calm. “Key West?” she said.
Fenner’s smile was mirthless. “That make you think?”
Paula puzzled.
“That dame wanted to find her sister. She said she didn’t know where she was. Why didn’t she tell me Key West? You know, baby, it looks like a plant. There’s something very funny about this business.”
“Who’s Pio?” Paula said, reading the letter again. “And who’s Noolen?”
Fenner shook his head. There was a hard look in his eyes. “I don’t know, baby, but I’m goin’ to find out. I’ve got six thousand dollars of that girl’s money, an’ if I have to spend every dollar of it, I’m goin’ to find out.”
He went over to the telephone and dialed a number. While the line was connecting, he said, “Ike’s goin’ to earn some of that dough I’ve been slippin’ him.”
The line connected with a little plop. Fenner said, “Ike?” He waited, then he said, “Tell him Fenner. Tell him not to be a jerk. Tell him if he don’t come to this phone at once, I’ll come down and kick his teeth in.” He waited again, his right shoe kicking the desk leg continuously. Then Ike’s growl came over the wire.
“All right, all right,” Fenner said. “To hell with your game. This is urgent. I want to find someone I can contact in Key West. Do you know anyone down there? He’s gotta have an in with the guys that count.”
“Key West?” Ike grumbled. “I don’t know anyone in Key West.”
Fenner showed his teeth. “Then rustle up someone who does. Ring me back right away. I’ll wait.” He slammed the receiver down on its cradle.
Paula said, “You going down there?”
Fenner nodded. “It’s a long way, but I think that’s where it’ll finish. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m going to see.”
Paula got to her feet. “Do I go with you?”
“You stick around here, baby. If I think something’s goin’ to start, I’ll have you down. Right now you’ll be more of a help here. Grosset’s got to be looked after. Tell him I’m out of town for a few days, but you don’t know where.”
“I’ll go over to your place and pack a bag for you.”
Fenner nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “do that.”
When she had gone, he went over to his reference shelf and checked the air time-table. There was a plane for Florida at 12.30. He glanced at his watch. It was five past eleven. If Ike phoned back quickly, he could just make it.
He sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette. He had to wait twenty minutes before the phone jangled. He snatched the receiver.
“The guy you want is Buck Nightingale,” Ike said. “He’s got his finger in most pies down there. Treat him easy, he’s gotta brittle temper.”
“So have I,” Fenner said unpleasantly. “Fix it for me, Ike. Tell him that Dave Ross’ll be down on the next plane an’ wants introductions. Give me a good build up. I’ll tell Paula to put a check in the mail for five hundred bucks for your trouble.”
“Sure, sure,” Ike’s voice was quite oily. “I’ll fix it for you,” and he hung up.
Fenner dialed another number. “Paula?” he said. “Hurry with that packing. I’m catching the 12:30 plane. Meet me at the airport as fast as you can make it.”
He pulled open a drawer, took out a check-book and signed five blank checks quickly. He put his hat and coat on and looked round the office thoughtfully. Then he snapped off the electric light and went out, slamming the door behind him.