“That will be too bad — for you.”
“You mean you’ll lock us out?”
“No,” said the hotel manager, “you won’t be locked out. You will be locked up—in the city jail.”
“Shucks,” said Quade. “You can’t lock up a man just because he’s behind in his hotel rent.”
A glint came into the eyes of the hotel manager. “I think,” he said, “this can be called more than rent delinquency. Intent to defraud is a better phrase. You’ve been here four weeks, you’ve gotten advances, you’ve charged up all sorts of things, and you haven’t paid one cent. I shall give you until six o’clock this evening. Full payment by then, or…” The manager turned and strode out of the dining room.
Charlie Boston groaned. “We’re sunk, Ollie. We’ll never raise that much money by this evening.”
“I wonder,” said Quade, “how the food is in the city jail.”
A middle-aged man wearing pince-nez got up from a nearby table and came over. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I couldn’t help hearing what the manager said.”
Quade fixed the intruder with a cold stare. “So?”
The man took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “How would you like to earn that — for a half-hour’s work?”
Quade picked up the bill and scrutinized it. “What is the name of the man you want killed, and where can I find him?”
The other chuckled. “It’s not that bad. All you have to do is deliver a letter for me.”
“A letter?” Quade looked at the twenty-dollar bill. “A two-cent stamp will deliver it anywhere in town. Or, if you’re in a hurry, Western Union will deliver it for about forty cents.”
The man with the pince-nez shook his head. “There’s a little more to it than that. Did you observe those two men who were sitting at the table near the door?”
“The ones who are going out now? The rather large men?”
“Precisely. I believe those men will follow you and try to take the letter away. They surely saw me approach you.”
Quade screwed up his face. “A punch in the jaw — for twenty bucks? How about it, Charlie?”
Charlie Boston glowered. “I didn’t take a good look at them. But neither of them was eight feet tall, was they?”
“No,” said the man with the pince-nez. “Neither were that large. You’ll deliver the letter?”
Quade nodded.
The other reached into his breast pocket and drew out a thin letter. Quade took it and read the address: “Martin Lund, 98641 Sunset Boulevard. What do I do, wait for an answer?”
“No, just give the letter to Mr. Lund. But make sure he gets it personally.”
“Suppose he isn’t there? What do I do with the letter?”
“I’m registered at the hotel. My name is George Grimshaw. However, Lund will be at that address. He’s expecting me.”
Quade pushed back his chair. “We’ll go right now.”
At the door of the dining-room, the waiter caught up with Quade and Boston. “Your check!”
Quade bared his teeth, but gave the man the twenty-dollar bill he had just received. After a moment he got $18.30 in change. He tipped the waiter the thirty cents.
There were only a few people in the lobby and Quade had no difficulty in picking out the two men who had left the dining-room just before them. They were standing near the cigar counter.
“O.K., Charlie,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“They’re following,” growled Charlie Boston.
“Yes. It’s odd what man will do to make a living these days. Somehow, I’ve a feeling I’m going to get more than just a punch on the jaw out of this.”
They stepped out of the hotel door and their pursuers were directly behind them. There were two taxicabs parked nearby. Quade stepped up to the first and opened the door.
“All right, Charlie,” he said softly.
He whirled suddenly and sent a sizzling uppercut into the face of the foremost pursuer. He followed it up with a left to the stomach.
The man gasped and reeled back. But he returned instantly with a right that crashed through Quade’s guard and hit him a devastating blow just under the heart. Quade’s back hit the taxicab so hard he bounced away from it, straight into another punch that caught him in the mouth. He went back and again hit the taxicab. To cover up he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk.
But that was all there was to the fight. Charlie Boston panted: “Look at ’em run!”
Quade raised his head. The thugs were indeed running, were already past the hotel entrance and going strong.
“Hell, I hardly hit the one bozo,” snorted Boston. “Oh-oh, looks like you stopped a couple.”
Quade got to his feet and shook his head to clear the bees from it. “What a man’ll do for twenty bucks!” he said disgustedly. He jerked open the door of the taxicab and stepped inside.
The cab driver turned around in his seat. “Those lugs try to slug you?” he asked.
“No!” snapped Quade. “They wanted to play tag with us. We wouldn’t play…. D’you suppose you’ve got time to drive us out on Sunset?”
“Oh, sure. Sure!”
“Damn decent of you,” Quade said politely.
Boston sat down beside Quade and the cab zoomed to the corner. It turned right and the driver gunned the motor. A moment later they made another right turn on to Sunset Boulevard. Quade looked out of the rear window.
“They don’t seem to be following.”
The cab rolled west on Sunset for about ten minutes, then the driver pulled up to the curb. “Here you are!”
The bill was seventy cents. Quade gave the cabby a dollar and waited for his change. The man tried to make it in dimes and couldn’t. He finally gave Quade a quarter and a nickel. Quade gravely handed him back the nickel and received a dirty look in exchange.
“You’re very welcome,” Quade said icily.
The building before which they had stopped was a two-story affair, a row of small stores on the street level, and offices on the second floor. Quade found the entrance and consulted the directory just inside the door.
“Martin Lund, suite seven,” he said.
They climbed the stairs to a dimly lighted corridor. Suite 7 was at the far end. There was light behind the ground glass door and Quade pushed it open.
They found themselves in a small waiting room, furnished in bird’s eye maple. There was no one in it.
Quade coughed loudly. Charlie Boston called, “Anybody here?”
There was no reply. Quade scowled and stepped to the door of a private office. He pushed it open, stuck his head in — and stopped.
A man was sitting in a swivel chair. His head rested on a desk. There was a pool of blood on the desk. Some of it had dripped to the green broadloom rug on the floor.
Boston breathed down Quade’s neck. “Gosh!” he said softly.
“Twenty dollars!” Quade muttered. Then he shook himself and backed into Charlie Boston. “Let’s get out of here — quick!”
Charlie Boston was perfectly willing. He was already descending the stair when Quade was still halfway up the corridor.
Down on the sidewalk with the hot California sun beating down, Quade exhaled heavily. “Did you see a gun anywhere, Charlie?”
There was a film of perspiration on Boston’s forehead. “Uh-uh,” he said. “All I saw was the blood. That was enough. Let’s get out of here.”
“In just a minute.” Quade reached into his pocket and drew out the letter George Grimshaw had given him at the hotel. He looked at it.
“What you goin’ to do with it?” Boston asked.
Quade stuck his finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope. He drew out another envelope and a slip of paper. He looked at the slip and showed it to Boston.
The letter read:
Martin:
Can’t come to your place, but here it is. Meet me in the club house at the track.