“I’ve got a job, thanks.”
“You can work for me between times — nights and on days off.”
Ed studied the deformed man intently. “I still don’t get where this talk is heading. Hell, let’s place our cards on the table. I’m Ed Kirby. I’ve worked all parts of this country. I’ve been a bodyguard for a lot of big and little shots. I never tried to climb too high. And I’ve never been mugged and finger-printed. I’ll work for a price. But it’s got to be a big job or I won’t touch it. I’m not a punk.”
“I didn’t think you were,” observed Fleming, “or I wouldn’t have sent for you. Few men ever get into this room, Kirby. And only a small fraction that get in know where the place is — only those I can trust. You got in. You’re armed. You could kill me easily. But you’d never live to get out.”
Ed Kirby yawned noisily. “So?”
Fleming smiled coldly. “Don’t close your eyes, yet. I haven’t finished.” He took a package of currency from a desk drawer and tossed it to his desk top. “Fives, tens and twenties, Kirby — two grand in all.”
Ed Kirby’s eyes seemed to expand with greed.
Fleming noticed this and became more expansive. “You want this money; Kirby. And I want you to have it.”
“I know, Fleming. I have to earn it. Well, I can. How?”
Fleming laid a snapshot on the desk, drew a heavy automatic from the desk drawer. “That’s a picture of Detective Jim Rawlings of the Homicide Squad. Personally, I haven’t a thing against Rawlings. But others — their identity need not concern you — want him removed. My organization handles little affairs of this kind — expertly and swiftly. The job requires a first-class gunman.”
Ed wet his lips. His eyes were on the package of currency. Fleming’s fingerprints would be on it — latent fingerprints, but valuable evidence. He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “When,” he asked quietly, “do you want Rawlings bumped off?”
The murder-ring chieftain looked at his watch. “Rawlings leaves the Centre Street headquarters a little before eleven at night and goes over to Third Avenue for something to eat — unless he happens to be away on a case. But he isn’t away tonight. Your job is to get him as he passes under the elevated.”
Constriction tightened around Ed Kirby’s throat. For a split second, he wondered if he could take the automatic Fleming was offering him and capture the members of the ring single-handed. But even as the cold metal came into his hand, he could see them spread in well-chosen positions all over the room. He couldn’t hope to win out against such overwhelming odds.
The only things he could do was to play his cards as close to his chest as possible — which was too close for comfort — and to hope for the breaks later on. His voice was a trifle husky when he spoke:
“Okay, Fleming. I’ll handle the bump-off of this headquarters dick. But in my own way. And when do I collect?”
“I’ll arrange the payment through another party. You’ll get your pay immediately I receive word of Jim Rawlings’ demise. Clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well. That’s all, Kirby.”
His bald head nodded dismissal. And that same sardonic contortion was twisting the gash that was his mouth as Ed Kirby pivoted and followed Morengo through the narrow hall to the elevator.
Here he put on the glasses. Holding Morengo’s arm he went down the elevator. Between the time he passed through the door leading outside and stepping into the back of the sedan, a drunk in a dress suit got out of a taxi near the curb and broke into a ribald song:
The tenseness went out of Ed Kirby’s face as he recognized the singer’s voice. He relaxed on the back seat of the sedan. “Dip,” he said, “I’m not going to have much time. I have to report for the 12 o’clock shift at the workings.”
“Me, too, Ed. And I hate night work. It cuts into my good times.”
The sedan braked to a stop half an hour later. The two men got out. And the machine pulled away — silently, and lost itself in the maze of night traffic.
“Take ’em off,” said Morengo.
Ed removed the glasses and looked around. “Centre Street is a long ways from here,” he said, looking at his watch. “You gonna stick with me and watch me turn on the heat when I bump Rawlings?”
“Not me. I’m hunting me an alibi. S’long, Kirby. Be seeing you.”
Ed watched Morengo fade down a cross street, shrugged and hurried towards Broadway. Some distance downtown from where he left Morengo, he became aware of the fact that he was once more being followed. A frown darkened his face. This was one time he had no wish to be followed and watched.
He tried various dodges to make certain that he wasn’t mistaken, then whirled and went back to where his follower stood looking at a window display. Argument was out of the question. Kirby hadn’t the time nor the inclination. There was only one way to get rid of the man. He took it.
His knotted fist slammed into his follower’s face. The man spun around and reached beneath the lapel of his coat. Kirby’s left smacked him down. His head banged the sidewalk. Moaning, his lights went put.
A woman screamed hysterically. “Shut up!” rasped Kirby.
Bystanders crowded close. Ed stood over his victim, scowling, making no move to get away. From around the corner slewed a radio car. A cop jumped from the running board and thrust back the crowd.
“What’s going on here?” he rapped out.
“This guy tried to nick me for my roll,” lied Kirby.
“Yeah? Well, maybe I’d better take you both to the station, and you can shoot off your mouth there.”
“I can do that, too,” Ed grinned.
The station surgeon took charge of the still unconscious man, and Kirby was hustled before the lieutenant on desk duty. The lieutenant, blue-jowled and truculent, glared at Ed Kirby with suspicious eyes as the radio officer turned in an oral report.
“You want to make any charges?” the lieutenant asked of Kirby.
“No. Keep him locked up. Do him good. Can I use your phone?”
The lieutenant called out mockingly to the sergeant at the signal monitor. “Hear that, Sergeant? He wants to use our telephone.”
“I want,” said Ed Kirby, grimly, “to talk with Dave Lawrence of the D. of J. And I want to talk fast. I’m in one hell of a yank.”
Suspicion went out of the police lieutenant’s eyes. “Why didn’t you say all this in the first place?” he snapped.
Ed said nothing. He picked up the phone and spoke a number. “A slight misunderstanding,” he told the voice that answered. “I’m in a mid-town precinct station. Fix it for me. Have them hold the prisoner till I send a man around. Good. I’ll be right down to see you.”
A few minutes later, Ed Kirby left the station by the back entrance. He entered a taxi and was driven to a drab-looking building near City Hall Park. Here he went inside to the offices of the C. I. Bureau of the Department of Justice.
David Lawrence, his chief, met him just inside the door. They gripped hands warmly. The faces of both men were grave. Briefly, for the time was growing short, Ed Kirby outlined his plan of action relative to the make-believe killing of Detective Jim Rawlings. The plan seemed fool-proof.
Lawrence nodded. “It ought to work.”
Ed smiled heavily. “But understand, Dave,” he told the chief, “I don’t like this idea of working with these rats of the underworld even to get evidence.”