«This is business,» he said exhaustedly. «Ain’t no white folks comin’ heah. Git me?»
The boy who had laughed said, «Okey, Reno,» and lifted a tall, misted glass.
Reno came up the stairs again, talking to himself. Along the upper hall were many closed doors. There was faint pink light from flame-colored wall lamps. At the end Reno took a key out and unlocked the door.
He stood aside. «Git her out,» he said tersely. «I don’ handle no white cargo heah.»
Pete Anglich stepped past him into a bedroom. An orange floor lamp glowed in the far corner near a flounced, gaudy bed. The windows were shut, the air heavy, sickish.
Token Ware lay on her side on the bed, with her face to the wall, sobbing quietly.
Pete Anglich stepped to the side of the bed, touched her. She whirled, cringed. Her head jerked around at him, her eyes dilated, her mouth half open as if to yell.
«Hello, there,» he said quietly, very gently. «I’ve been looking all over for you.»
The girl stared back at him. Slowly all the fear went out of her face.
EIGHT
The News photographer held the flashbulb holder high up in his left hand, leaned down over his camera.
«Now, the smile, Mr. Vidaury,» he said. «The sad one — that one that makes ’em pant.»
Vidaury turned in the chair and set his profile. He smiled at the girl in the red hat, then turned his face to the camera with the smile still on.
The bulb flared and the shutter clicked.
«Not bad, Mr. Vidaury. I’ve seen you do better.»
«I’ve been under a great strain,» Vidaury said gently.
«I’ll say. Acid in the face is no fun,» the photographer said.
The girl in the red hat tittered, then coughed, behind a gauntleted glove with red stitching on the back.
The photographer packed his stuff together. He was an oldish man in shiny blue serge, with sad eyes. He shook his gray head and straightened his hat.
«No, acid in the puss is no fun,» he said. «Well, I hope our boys can see you in the morning, Mr. Vidaury.»
«Delighted,» Vidaury said wearily. «Just tell them to ring me from the lobby before they come up. And have a drink on your way out.»
«I’m crazy,» the photographer said. «I don’t drink.»
He hoisted his camera bag over his shoulder and trudged down the room. A small Jap in a white coat appeared from nowhere and let him out, then went away.
«Acid in the puss,» the girl in the red hat said. «Ha, ha, ha! That’s positively excruciating, if a nice girl may say so. Can I have a drink?»
«Nobody’s stopping you,» Vidaury growled.
«Nobody ever did, sweets.»
She walked sinuously over to a table with a square Chinese tray on it. She mixed a stiff one. Vidaury said half absently: «That should be all till morning. The Bulletin, the PressTribune, the three wire services, the News. Not bad.»
«I’d call it a perfect score,» the girl in the red hat said.
Vidaury scowled at her. «But nobody caught,» he said softly, «except an innocent passer-by. You wouldn’t know anything about this squeeze, would you, Irma?»
Her smile was lazy, but cold. «Me take you for a measly grand? Be your forty years plus, Johnny. I’m a home-run hitter, always.»
Vidaury stood up and crossed the room to a carved wood cabinet, unlocked a small drawer and took a large ball of crystal out of it. He went back to his chair, sat down, and leaned forward, holding the ball in his palms and staring into it, almost vacantly.
The girl in the red hat watched him over the rim of her glass. Her eyes widened, got a little glassy.
«Hell! He’s gone psychic on the folks,» she breathed. She put her glass down with a sharp slap on the tray, drifted over to his side and leaned down. Her voice was cooing, edged. «Ever hear of senile decay, Johnny? It happens to exceptionally wicked men in their forties. They get ga-ga over flowers and toys, cut out paper dolls and play with glass balls … Can it, for God’s sake, Johnny! You’re not a punk yet.»
Vidaury stared fixedly into the crystal ball. He breathed slowly, deeply.
The girl in the red hat leaned still closer to him. «Let’s go riding, Johnny,» she cooed. «I like the night air. It makes me remember my tonsils.»
«I don’t want to go riding,» Vidaury said vaguely. «I — I feel something. Something imminent.»
The girl bent suddenly and knocked the ball out of his hands. It thudded heavily on the floor, rolled sluggishly in the deep nap of the rug.
Vidaury shot to his feet, his face convulsed.
«I want to go riding, handsome,» the girl said coolly. «It’s a nice night, and you’ve got a nice car. So I want to go riding.»
Vidaury stared at her with hate in his eyes. Slowly he smiled. The hate went away. He reached out and touched her lips with two fingers.
«Of course we’ll go riding, baby,» he said softly.
He got the ball, locked it up in the cabinet, went through an inner door. The girl in the red hat opened a bag and touched her lips with rouge, pursed them, made a face at herself in the mirror of her compact, found a rough wool coat in beige braided with red, and shrugged into it carefully, tossed a scarflike collar end over her shoulder.
Vidaury came back with a hat and coat on, a fringed muffler hanging down his coat.
They went down the room.
«Let’s sneak out the back way,» he said at the door. «In case any more newshawks are hanging around.»
«Why, Johnny!» the girl in the red hat raised mocking eyebrows. «People saw me come in, saw me here. Surely you wouldn’t want them to think your girl friend stayed the night?»
«Hell!» Vidaury said violently and wrenched the door open. The telephone bell jangled back in the room. Vidaury swore again, took his hand from the door and stood waiting while the little Jap in the white jacket came in and answered the phone.
The boy put the phone down, smiled depracatingly and gestured with his hands.
«You take, prease? I not understand.»
Vidaury walked back and lifted the instrument. He said, «Yes? This is John Vidaury.» He listened.
Slowly his fingers tightened on the phone. His whole face tightened, got white. He said slowly, thickly: «Hold the line a minute.»
He put the phone down on its side, put his hand down on the table and leaned on it. The girl in the red hat came up behind him.
«Bad news, handsome? You look like a washed egg.»
Vidaury turned his head slowly and stared at her. «Get the hell out of here,» he said tonelessly.
She laughed. He straightened, took a single long step and slapped her across the mouth, hard.
«I said, get the hell out of here,» he repeated in an utterly dead voice.
She stopped laughing and touched her lips with fingers in the gauntleted glove. Her eyes were round, but not shocked.
«Why, Johnny. You sweep me right off my feet,» she said wonderingly. «You’re simply terrific. Of course I’ll go.»
She turned quickly, with a light toss of her head, went back along the room to the door, waved her hand, and went out.
Vidaury was not looking at her when she waved. He lifted the phone as soon as the door clicked shut after her, said into it grimly: «Get over here, Waltz — and get over here quick!»
He dropped the phone on its cradle, stood a moment blank-eyed. He went back through the inner door, reappeared in a moment without his hat and overcoat. He held a thick, short automatic in his hand. He slipped it nose-down into the inside breast pocket of his dinner jacket, lifted the phone again slowly, said into it coldly and firmly: «If a Mr. Anglich calls to see me, send him up. Anglich.» He spelled the name out, put the phone down carefully, and sat down in the easy chair beside it.