He scrambled to his feet and waved his hands at her as she jerked up the gun. “Okay, okay, skip it,” he said impatiently, “this is important. Who are you?”
She tapped her foot on the floor. “What is this?”
“I'll tell you what this is,” Duffy said furiously, “I've been taken for a ride. You've got to get this straight. Listen, Toots, I'm Duffy of the Tribune. Some guy who called himself Morgan spun me a yarn that you were his wife and you were being blackmailed. He wanted me to take photos of the crook who was putting the screws on you. I fell for this guff and came up to the hen-roost here and took photos of you and the guy you slipped the money to. Just as I am reaching for my hat and calling it a nice day's work, some thug hops up, pinches my camera, and heaves me out on my neck. You tell me you ain't Mrs. Morgan. In your own interests you'd better tell me who you are.”
She stared at him and then said finally, “I think you must be mad.”
“Use your head,” Duffy was getting impatient, “can't you see that you're in a spot? Morgan wanted a photo of you with this other guy and he's got it. Ask yourself why.”
She still stared at him and shook her head “I don't understand... I don't believe...”
He slid across to her in one movement and pushed the gun away. “For Krizake,” he said roughly, “will you listen to me? Who was the guy you gave that money to?”
His urgency touched her and she said quickly, “I don't know. I think his name's Cattley...”
Duffy stepped back. “Cattley... of course. By heck! I must be losing my grip. Cattley...” He swung round on her. “What the hell are you doing with a rat like Cattley?”
Her eyebrows came together. “Will you stop asking me questions—?” she began.
“Listen, baby.” Duffy came close to her. His voice had a sharp edge to it. “Cattley's got a name that stinks in this town. Everyone knows him. Cattley the pimp. Cattley the dope. Cattley the slaver. I tell you he's poison to dames like you. You... you've let yourself be photographed with him... and someone's got those photos Does that mean anything to you?”
“But....” she stopped and he saw she had gone pale.
“Yeah! That's made you think. Sit down and tell me quick. Make it snappy; I've got things to do.”
She turned on him suddenly with furious eyes. “You started this,” she stormed at him. “If it hadn't been for you—”
“Forget it!” he snapped at her. “I'm getting those pictures back all right. But you've got to wise me up a hell of a lot before I do.”
The flash of temper was gone almost before it started. She sat down limply on the large settee and tossed the gun on the table. Duffy winced a little. Women were hell when it came to handling guns. He took a quick glance and saw that the safety catch was still down.
“Now come on, come on, let's get down to it,” he said, sitting on the edge of the table. “What's your name?”
“Annabel English,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap.
“What are you? Just a little dame with plenty of dough, running round lookin' for a good time?”
She nodded. Duffy lit a cigarette. “Yeah! I bet you are, and I bet you have a pretty nice time of it What's this Cattley to you?”
Her face flushed and she hesitated. “I—I asked him to get material on the... the underworld.” She stopped. The colour in her face was deep.
Duffy groaned. “For the love of Mike, don't tell me you're writing a book or something,” he pleaded; “a Society-dame-looks-on-the-underworld stuff?”
“I thought it would be amusing,” she said. “It's about the White Slave traffic....”
He threw up his hands. “So you thought you would write a book on the White Slave traffic, did you?” he said, dragging smoke into his lungs and letting it drift from his nostrils. “And you've to pick on the worst hoodlum in town to help you. Well, I reckon you'd better change your ideas and write a book on blackmail. You're going to get a grandstand seat in this racket, and if you ain't careful you're going to pay plenty.”
She looked up swiftly, her face resentful. “What am I to do?”
Duffy slid off the table. “You ain't doing a thing at the moment. I'm getting that camera back. That's the first thing.”
He walked over to the telephone. “Take a look in the book and see if you can find Daniel Morgan in it,” he said, spinning the dial. She got to her feet and began to rustle through the directory While he was waiting for the line to connect he let his eye run over her as she leant forward over the table. “Annabel English,” he thought. “A swell name and a nice little job.”
A sharp metallic voice snapped in his ear, “Tribune here, what department do you know?”
“H'yah, Mabel,” he said. “Dinny in?”
“Hold on an' I'll put you through.”
McGuire came on the line. “Hello, pal,” he said. Duffy thought he sounded a little drunk.
“Listen, soldier,” Duffy said, keeping an edge on his voice. “This is important. Will you meet me at the Princess Hotel right away?”
McGuire groaned. “Aw, what you think I am? I'm goin' home. Listen, bozo, what'll Alice say? I ain't been home all this week.”
Duffy was certain McGuire was drunk. “I'll fix Alice,” he said. “Get going and make it fast.” He hung up as McGuire began to protest again.
Annabel English said, “There are ten Daniel Morgans in the book.”
“That's okay,” Duffy returned. “I'll find him.” He walked over to her. “Now you forget about this... leave it to me. I'll give you a ring tomorrow and let you know how it went.” He paused, looking into her blue smoky eyes. “You all alone here?”
She nodded. “I sent my maid out for the evening, didn't want her to see Cattley....”
“You ain't scared?”
“Why should I be?” She looked startled.
Duffy shrugged his shoulders. “Why, I just thought...” He suddenly grinned at her. “If I get that camera, shall I come back an' see you tonight!”
Her eyes laughed at him, but her face was quite serious as she shook her head. “I shan't be alone....”
“Who's your boy friend...?”
She walked slowly to the door. He could see her smooth muscles moving under the green wrap. He knew that she hadn't anything on under that. She looked over her shoulder. “I think you had better go now,” she said, “I've heard that you newspapermen get funny ideas when you're alone with girls.”
Duffy looked round for his hat and found it near the settee. “Well, what of it?” he said, walking to the door. They stood quite close, facing each other. “What the hell's a girl got to beef about if he does? Ain't that a compliment to the girl, anyway? By heck! I can guess how they'd feel if we didn't get that way sometimes!”
She opened the door and he walked past her. Standing in the doorway, he faced her again. “Well, good night, Toots,” he said with his wide grin, “sleep easy I'm goin' to do things for you.”