O’Sullivan paused.
The manager was continuing: “Runny eggs, yes sir... You do not want your bacon to break off, I understand... Right away, sir.”
The hotel was old enough not to have elevators, and O’Sullivan trotted up the central stairway to the mezzanine, where he found more stairs, which he climbed to the top floor, the third.
At room 311, the bridal suite, O’Sullivan glanced around at the otherwise empty corridor, withdrew his .45 from his right-hand coat pocket, and knocked with his left.
“It’s open!” an irritated voice called from within.
Gun poised, O’Sullivan went in. The living room of the suite was expansive and expensive — chintz and crystal, overstuffed sofas and chairs, woodwork washed ivory. At a room-service table — its silver tray arrayed with a plate of a largely uneaten breakfast of boiled eggs in twin silver cups and crisscrossing crisp bacon — a man in a green silk dressing robe stood pouring himself a cup of coffee, his back to O’Sullivan.
“Well, at least you’re prompt,” the man said, his manner fussy and patronizing. “Top marks for speed, anyway... if not for preparation of cuisine.”
Dripping with indignation, Alexander Rance turned and held up an egg in its silver cup. “Perhaps you would like to attempt to consume this hardboiled monstrosity?”
Rance’s eyes were on the egg in the silver cup, as he spoke, but his peripheral vision caught something that drew his attention to the man standing before him...
... Pointing a .45 automatic at his head.
O’Sullivan said, “Put that down.”
Rance’s eyes showed white all around. “It’s... it’s just an egg.”
“This isn’t. Put it down.”
Rance did as he was told, muttering apologetically, “I’m sorry... I thought you... I was expecting... Mr., uh, O’Sullivan, isn’t it?”
“You know it is, Mr. Rance.”
A plush pinkish-red brocade sofa was between them. The accountant held his hands high; his eyebrows were almost as high, as he asked, “How did you find me?”
O’Sullivan, not about to betray the manager of the Grand Prairie State Bank, said, “This is the best hotel in the area, and you’re so very particular.”
Rance, working hard to regain his dignity, lowered his hands to waist level, saying, “What may seem ‘very particular’ to you, Mr. O’Sullivan, may simply be another man’s rather more discriminating tastes. But I will be ‘particular’ enough to ask you to do me the courtesy of lowering your weapon.”
“Keep those hands up,” O’Sullivan said.
Not taking his eyes off the accountant for longer than a second, he went to the door, which had the key in it; he then locked the room and went to the bedroom door, opening it, leaning in, gun ready. He quickly scanned the room — large double bed and floral brocade wallpaper; though no maid had been here yet, Rance had made his bed, at the foot of which was a large metal steamer-type trunk that was clearly not part of the bridal suite’s florid furnishings.
O’Sullivan returned to the accountant, said, “You can put your hands down — we’re just going to talk,” and lowered the .45.
“Thank you,” Rance said with exaggerated distress. “Now — what can I do for you, Mr. O’Sullivan?”
“I’d like your files.”
“My files?”
Nodding, O’Sullivan said, “The ledgers, the record books — you had to bring them along, if you were going to close out all those accounts.”
Rance seemed almost amused. “Suppose I did — what good would they do you?”
“They wouldn’t do me much good. But those feds who’re readying indictments against Al Capone could really use them.”
This notion seemed to alarm the accountant. “You wouldn’t even think of doing—”
“Mr. Rance, I’ve obviously already thought of it. But I won’t give them to the G-men if Capone and Nitti give me Connor Looney. Like the wanted posters say — dead or alive. Either one is fine with me.”
Rance was shaking his head. “You’re completely out of my arena, Mr. O’Sullivan — I’m strictly a man of books and numbers.”
“Good. Because that’s what I want: the books with the numbers.”
But Rance was still shaking his head. “I can’t give you those files. My life would be—”
O’Sullivan raised the .45 and cocked it — the click made its small, deadly point.
“All right! All right... They’re in the trunk in my bedroom.”
“Get it. Bring it in.”
Rance gestured, exasperated. “Well, I could use some help.”
“I’ll hold the gun. You get the trunk. I’m particular about that.”
Rance, understandably nervous with the gun pointed his way again, glanced toward a window onto the street. O’Sullivan noted this, and as Rance went into the adjacent room, leaving the door open, O’Sullivan went to that window, and closed the curtains.
In the boarding house across the way, Maguire had already perked up, several minutes before, realizing Rance was talking to someone. Half the time the accountant would deal with room service and other hotel staff, making their lives miserable; so Maguire spying Rance through the window, speaking to someone in his suite, did less than set off an alarm bell.
And then Mike O’Sullivan was in the window, closing the curtains — perfectly framed there, if only for a moment.
That Ford he’d spied earlier... maroon, but the same make as the green one. Had they painted it? Had he been asleep at the wheel?
These and other thoughts rocketed through Maguire’s mind, as he dressed quickly but with his typical methodical precision, omitting his tie. Under the bed he had stowed a canvas bag, and from this he withdrew a long-barreled pump-action rifle. Bowler atop his head, the rifle concealed under his topcoat, he flew down the stairs and strode across the street, paying little heed to the downtown traffic, which was light anyway in this hick burg.
As he headed toward the entrance of the hotel, he didn’t even look up when a car screeched its brakes, swerving to avoid him.
Someone else looked up, though: Michael — who had gotten bored on his watch and started reading his Tom Mix Big Little Book, missing the sight of Maguire passing right by on the driver’s side of the Ford — was startled back into vigilance now, by the squealing brakes. In the driver’s side door mirror, he could see the man in the bowler hat, jogging across the street.
The boy hadn’t seen the gunman very well at that diner; but his father had described the man in detail and, besides, the snout of a rifle was sticking down like a skinny third leg that didn’t quite reach the ground.
The man in the bowler was approaching the hotel now, and Michael slammed his hand into the horn — twice.
The sounds made the man glance back, but he didn’t make eye contact with Michael; and then the man was inside the hotel.
Heart racing, Michael hit the horn again, and again. He paused and repeated the action, and kept it up, getting scared, holding the horn down for a long time, so long that people on the street were stopping and staring.
But where was his father? Why hadn’t the sounds sent him running out of the hotel?
About the time Maguire was reaching under the bed for the bag with his pump-action rifle in it, O’Sullivan was in the bridal suite, keeping his .45 trained on Alexander Rance, who was huffing and puffing as he pushed the large metal trunk out of the bedroom.
Rance glanced at the window, where O’Sullivan had shut the curtains, and complained, “I can’t see well enough — open those back up.”
There was no overhead light, but several of the crystal lamps were on. Sunlight filtering in through the closed curtains cast an eerie glow.
“You can see fine,” O’Sullivan said. “Push.”