“Yeah,” whispered Walcott. “But suppose Hymie is in there?”
“That'll be swell.”
“But the heat might go on. You oughta have some help. Why don't you call headquarters and—”
“And get 'em down here on a false alarm?” grunted Nason. “I'm in bad enough as it is.”
He hesitated, glanced up and down the hall. There was a window at the rear end, and he stepped to it, opened it and looked out. Faintly outlined against the rear of the building was a network of fire escape, a branch of which apparently scaled the side of Alpert's living room—some room, at least, where the light was on.
He made his plan then, because he knew the truth of what Walcott had said. He might need help. He pulled the youth close.
“I'll give you a couple of minutes to get down in the alley here. Watch this window. If I move the shade, beat it for a telephone and get Fitz down here—I'll need him. If you don't see anything you'll know I've drawn a blank.”
“And then what?”
“Then”—a wry grin twisted Nason's somber face—“we'll leave town together.”
He gave Walcott a push, watched him until the elevator door closed behind his back. He waited a full two minutes longer; then he pressed the mother-of-pearl button at the side of the door, and slid his right hand into his pocket, fitted it around the cool metal of Leo's automatic.
A moment later he heard the soft tread of footsteps, realized that if Alpert asked who he was, and he gave his name, it might ruin his scheme. A sudden burst of inspiration gave him the name of Alpert's lawyer.
A voice said: “Who is it?” Nason spoke quickly, from way down in his throat. “Sol Hirschbaum.”
The knob turned and Nason waited until the door started to open. He moved with it, slapping his shoulder against the panel. The door gave a foot or so, caught against some object; Nason's weight crashed into this object, knocked it aside as he barged forward.
Alpert was slammed against the wall of a tiny entryway. Beyond him, at the far side of an expensively-furnished and softly lighted living room, sat Rita Jordan. The bull-necked Hymie had spun towards the door, was clawing at his shoulder- holster.
Nason said: “Take it out, Hymie, and see what it gets you.”
Hymie hesitated with his hand at his lapel, met Nason's hostile gaze for an instant, dropped the hand. Nason poked the white-faced and astounded Alpert with his gun, said: “Get in there,” as he closed and locked the door.
Alpert backed into the living room, his hands half-raised, although nothing had been said about them. A frightened expression twisted his fatty face now, and his thick-lipped mouth hung open. He kept backing until he felt the divan against the calves of his legs; then he dropped down on it beside Rita Jordan.
Nason gave the girl a quick, searching glance. She sat stiffly erect on the edge of the divan, her hands tightly twisted together in her lap. Her eyes were wide and round, and there was fear in their depths.
Nason moved slowly across the room to the windows. He saw that the first one, by the fire escape, was open, that a faint draft was sucking the drawn shade outward. Reaching down, he raised the shade halfway, glanced out; then he turned to face Hymie, and Moe Alpert.
CHAPTER V. DRINK TO THE DEVIL
HYMIE continued to stand in the middle of the room, his thick homely face sullen and malignant, until Nason said: “Just stand right there,” and went around behind him and took his gun. Slipping it into a pocket of his coat, he moved away, added, “Now sit down with your pal—so I can watch the both of you.”
For a few seconds, while Nason studied Alpert and Hymie, he considered the time element. It would take Walcott two or three minutes to find a telephone at this hour; it would take another eight or ten minutes before Fitzpatrick could get here. Say twelve minutes altogether. He decided to use the time to try and plug the gaps in his half- completed theory of what had happened.
“You've been pretty lucky tonight,” he said finally, looking at Rita Jordan.
“I know it.” The girl's voice was jerky, uncertain. “I—I think they were going to kill me.”
“So,” went on Nason, “if I were you, I'd come clean. I want to know where you fit. You and Steig—”
“We were going to be married,” the girl said, her voice flat and hopeless. “Only I wasn't satisfied. I knew he worked for Alpert, but he always had a lot of money—and he would not tell me where he got it. I was afraid that after we were married, maybe something would happen. I didn't know what—only I was afraid.”
The girl hesitated a moment, continued in the same low tone.
“But he promised me we could go away. To Philadelphia—I've got a brother there. Sam said he'd tell Alpert he was going to leave next week and—”
“Oh—” Nason's voice held a thin, metallic ring, and a mirthless smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe I get it now.” He looked at Alpert. “I guess you are the reason those other three jewel breaks were so neat.
“You could be your own fence, huh? And Steig was in on it with you—your guard. But you were afraid to let him go. So you figured a way to rub him out. You told him you were going to rob your own store to make it look like you were just another victim. But your real reason was to put him out of the way.”
“You're nuts.” Alpert licked his lips. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You know, all right,” Nason said ominously. “And I know you put the finger on Steig in the hospital.” He went on to explain how he had checked up with the clerk at the hospital. “And if these two hoods had asked what room Steig had, you'd been clean on this. But when you called 'em at the Greek's, you gave 'em the room number.”
NASON moved slowly forward, his dark eyes hard and glaring. “One of your punks planted those stones on Donigan.”
“No,” wheezed Alpert. “You got me wrong.” His eyes were shifty now, his forehead moist with sweat. “Why should anybody do that?”
“I can guess that part, too—now,” Nason answered. “You imported Hymie and Leo—you don't need to worry about him anymore—and you told Steig they'd do the job and leave him tied in a chair. Maybe slug him a bit to make it look better. Only you knew they were going to rub Steig out when they finished.
“Donigan surprised the break. The trouble was”—Nason's voice thinned out—“he thought Steig would be on his side. He turned his back and Steig, the rat, shot him. It was either that or go to jail when your punks talked. And Steig didn't know then that he was on the spot.
“Then,” Nason's lips pulled back, “I've got an idea somebody called you and told you what had happened. It would look funny, a cop who was on to that kind of a job being shot in the back. The first thing we'd think of was that somebody he'd trusted shot him—which had to be Steig.
“So you planted the stones and put Donigan's gun back in his holster to make it look as if Donigan was the crook and Steig was honest— when we found him dead; to make us think just what Fitzpatrick did think. So that—”
A sudden gasp from Rita Jordan that was like a half-stifled scream, tensed Nason's muscles. Then a rough voice said:
“All right. Drop it!” For a fraction of a second Nason hesitated. The voice came from behind—there was a doorway here, he remembered, which led to the apartment's other rooms. He glanced over his shoulder. The man in the doorway who held the heavy automatic was thin, swart, black-eyed. A stranger. He was smiling now and perfect white teeth flashed in the overhead light.
Nason dropped the gun. It hit the side of his shoe as it fell, and he forced a smile, spoke to Alpert. “So I was wrong about one part? You imported three hoods instead of two.”