Max sat down heavily on the straight chair and said, “Concussion.”
“What?”
“Marylen, you have a concussion. Or had one. I am — or used to be — a reporter. I know how concussions work. They kick your memory back to a time before the accident.”
“Where’s Jerry?” she said, her voice rising in fear. “Is he hurt?”
Max held up his big hand. “Now shut up a minute. Let me start from the beginning. My name is Max Raffidy. I was sitting in a bar.”
Slowly he went through it, with her wide eyes fastened on him. He left out her description of Jerry doubling over and falling to the concrete floor. He left out his own guesses about Jerry. But he did report the phone call to Jerry’s apartment.
When he was quite through she said, “And I thought you were Jerry?”
“I was beginning to think that was my name.”
She looked at him speculatively. “You are a little like him. But not much. Mr. Raffidy, this must have been very difficult for you. I’m very grateful to you. I’ll—”
“What? Call Jerry? He’s out of town. You haven’t got a dime and you’ve got only the clothes I found you in. You haven’t even got a lipstick and you don’t know a soul in town. You came here, met Jerry, and somehow you two got separated and you were beaten up.”
“I can’t stay here, though!”
“Marylen, I’m no hero. I’m a reporter out of a job. Jobs are tight in this town right now. They won’t hire me cold, but if I can walk in with a fat yarn, an exclusive, then I stand a chance.”
Her lips were tight and she had a frightened look. “But — you sound as though something awful might have happened to Jerry!”
“I’m no alarmist, Marylen. But it could happen.”
“I could go right to his apartment and talk to the man you talked to over the phone.”
“I found out last night that some unsavory types are hunting for you, baby.”
She sank back against the pillow. She looked blindly at the ceiling and said, “But I don’t understand!”
“How did you meet this Jerry?”
“A year ago I went to a party with one of the girls who worked in the same office. I wouldn’t have gone, but I was bored. I don’t care for her. She’s too loud. It was a cocktail party at a hotel. I met Jerry there. He’s — very nice. He travels around, selling machinery and seeing that it’s installed properly. He acted very... well, worldly, but he was funny and sweet and shy with me.”
“He came down to see you?”
“Five times. The last time he proposed. He said he had certain details to clean up, business details. He said that we’d go out to the West Coast and that he’d have a little capital to start a business of his own with. He would come down and get me and we’d be married and go West together. Then he phoned me. He sounded nervous, said things weren’t working quite right. He wanted me to come up here. I agreed. He wanted to send me money for the trip, but I said I had enough. He always seems to have plenty of money.”
It was beginning to shape a bit more clearly. Max thought for a while and then said, “Trust me, Marylen. You stay right here. I’ll whip up some breakfast for you. Then I’m going to go to the place where Jerry worked. I’ll see what I can find out...” As she sipped her coffee, he said, “This is a gun, baby. To fire it, you shove this little gimmick down and then pull on the trigger. Every time you pull it will fire, up to eight times.”
“But I don’t—”
“Somebody beat you up, honey, and they might want to try again. If someone knocks on the door, keep quiet. If they try to force the door, let them know you are in here with a gun. If they keep it up, shoot at the door. Okay?”
“If you say so, Max.”
“That’s what I want to hear.”
She called, just as he reached the door, “Please get me an orangy shade of lipstick and a hairbrush and toothbrush and toothpaste.”
The waiting room was paneled in honey-blond wood, with the combination receptionist-switchboard operator behind a square glass window. Latest magazines were on the low tables. Framed pictures on the wall were color photographs of snow scenes.
The girl said, “Mr. Walch will see you now, Mr. Raffidy.”
He went to the door. She touched the release and he pushed it open. Walch had the first office on the left.
He met Max at the doorway. He said, “Max, I was damn sorry to hear about the Chronicle. Tough break, fella. Maybe I can give you a note to a friend of mine.”
“No, Bill. Thanks anyway. This is something else.”
Bill slapped him on the shoulder. “Sit down, boy. Sit down.” Walch went behind the desk, sat down, nibbled the end of a cigar and spat in the general direction of the wastebasket.
Max said, “This is pretty delicate, Bill. A couple of days ago I landed a job fronting for a group of citizens who want to open up a club well outside the city. I contacted a man named Norma. I was told he could get me the stuff my clients want for their club. I talked with Norma about an order of about a hundred thousand. He wanted a guarantee of good faith. I went back to my people and got fifteen hundred cash. Naturally I couldn’t expect a receipt. Norma said we had to have a conference about a percentage cut after he talked to his principals. I was to meet him last night at five. He didn’t show. I called his apartment.”
Walch broke in. “I wondered who made that call.”
“It was your boy Max. Now he’s out of town and I’m in a spot. My clients want to hold off from making any definite commitment for a month or two. Lease trouble on the property they want. They want the fifteen hundred back. I promised it today. I look pretty sick, Bill. I’ve been around enough to know that you people can’t use written records. So you have to go along on faith. What do I do next? I’d hate like hell to spread the word that your outfit had rattled me for a lousy fifteen hundred.”
Bill Walch inspected the end of his cigar. For a moment his face was absolutely blank. He said softly, “I’d hate to think you’d gotten yourself a job with another paper, Max. I’d hate to think this was something fancy.”
“How fancy can I get? That’s your chance, the same way I took a chance with your boy named Norma.”
Bill suddenly smiled, a warm and hearty smile. “We can straighten this out fast, Max, boy. I’m expecting a call from Jerry any minute. When it comes in, I’ll ask him and we’ll soon know. Okay?”
With sinking heart and with an attempt to match Bill’s smile, Max said heartily, “That’ll be fine. Fine!”
Within a few seconds the phone rang. Bill said, “Be good and go back out into the waiting room, will you? This is pretty confidential. Big out-of-town deal.”
On wooden legs Max went to the waiting room. He had the feeling that the gun had been left in the wrong hands. It would feel splendid in his pocket.
It was five minutes before Bill Walch appeared. He came into the waiting room with a wide smile and a long white envelope, saying, “It checked out, Max. Here’s your deposit. Come back and see us when your people get their lease attended to. Tell them that for strictly hands off by the county cops as well as the state boys, we’ll take ten percent of the gross, based on a monthly audit.”
Max went through the motions like a large smiling mechanical toy. He mumbled words of farewell, backed to the door, found the knob, went on down the corridor to the elevators. As he waited for the bronze arrow to swing up to the right floor, he peeked into the envelope. A flat sheaf of bills. All hundreds. Fifteen of them. He slipped the money out of the envelope, folded it once and slid it into his bill clip, behind a few tired fives and ones.
Down to the street he looked both ways, suddenly wary. It had seemed almost too easy. The tough part was to come — telling Marylen that the way Walch handed over the money was conclusive proof that her sweetie was no longer a matter of interest to the census taker.