He hung up, looked up the number of 71 in his little black book, called it. A strange voice answered. Shane said: “Is Nick there?... Is Pedro there?... Never mind — what I want to know is what’s Thelma’s last name? Thelma, the cigarette girl?... Uh-huh — Never mind who I am—
I’m one of your best customers... Uh-huh... How do you spell it?... B-u-r-r... You haven’t got her telephone number, have you?”... The receiver clicked, Shane smiled, hung up.
He found Thelma Burr’s address in the telephone directory: a number on West Seventy-Fourth, off Riverside Drive. He got up and went to the table and took several cigars from the humidor, put all but one of them in the blue leather case. He lighted the cigar and stood a little while at one of the windows, staring at the tiny lights in the buildings uptown. Gusts of rain beat against the window and he shuddered suddenly, involuntarily.
He went to a cabinet and took out a square brown bottle, a glass, poured himself a stiff drink. Then he went out, downstairs to the sixteenth floor. He knocked several times at the door of 1611, but there was no answer. He went to the elevator, down to the lobby.
The night clerk said: “That’s right, sir — 1611, but I think Miss Johnson went out shortly before you came in.”
Shane went to the house phone, spoke to the operator: “Did Miss Johnson get any calls after I talked to her around ten-thirty?... Right after I called — huh?... Thanks.”
He went out to a cab, gave the driver the number on Seventy-Fourth Street.
It turned out to be a narrow, five-story apartment house on the north side of the street. Shane told the driver to wait and went up steps, through a heavy door into a dark hall. There were mailboxes on each side of the hall; he lighted a match and started on the left side. The second from the last box on the left bore a name scrawled in pencil that interested him: N. Manos — the apartment number was 414. He went on to the right side of the hall, found the name and the number he was looking for, went up narrow creaking steps to the third floor.
There was no answer at 312.
After a little while, Shane went back downstairs. He stood in the darkness of the hall for several minutes. Then he went back up to the fourth floor, knocked at 414. There was no answer there either. He tried the door, found it to be locked, went back down to 312.
He stood in the dim light of the hallway a while with his ear close to the door. He heard the outside door downstairs open and close, voices. He went halfway down the stair, waited until the voices had gone away down the corridor on the first floor, went back to the door of 312 and tried several keys in the lock. The sixth key he tried turned almost all the way; he took held of the knob, lifted and pushed, forcing the key at the same time. The lock clicked, gave way, the door swung open.
Shane went into the darkness, closed the door and lighted a match. He found the light switch, pressed it. A floor lamp with a colorful and tasteless batik shade; a smaller table lamp with a black silk handkerchief thrown over it, lighted. The globes were deep amber; the light of the two lamps was barely sufficient to see the brightly papered walls, the mass of furniture in the room. Shane picked his way to the table, jerked the black handkerchief off the table lamp; then there was a little more light.
There was a man on his knees on the floor, against a couch at one end of the little room. The upper part of his body was belly down on the couch and his arms hung limply, ridiculously to the floor; the back of his skull was caved in and the white brightly flowered couch-cover beneath his head and shoulders was dark red, shiny.
Shane went to him and squatted down and looked at the gashed and bloody side of his face. It was Del Corey.
Shane stood up and crossed the room to an ajar door, pushed it open with his foot. The light over the wash basin was on, covered with several layers of pink silk; the light was very dim.
Thelma Burr was lying on her back on the floor. Her green crepe de chine nightgown was torn, stained. There were black marks on her throat, her breast; her face was puffy, a bruised discolored mask, and her mouth and one cheek were brown-black with iodine. There was a heavy pewter candlestick a little way from one outstretched hand.
Shane knelt, braced his elbow on the edge of the bathtub and held his ear close to her chest. Her heart was beating faintly.
He stood up swiftly, went out of the bathroom, went to the door. He took out his handkerchief, wiped off the light switch carefully, snapped the lights out. Then he went out and locked the door, wiped the knob, put the key in his pocket and went downstairs, out and across the street to the cab.
The driver jerked his head towards another lone cab halfway down the block. “That hack come up right after we got here,” he said. “Nobody got out or nothing. Maybe it’s a tail.” He stared sharply at Shane.
Shane said: “Probably.”... He glanced carelessly at the other cab. “You can make yourself a fin if you can get me to the nearest telephone, and then over to 71 East Fifty — in five minutes.”
The driver pointed across the street, said: “Garage over there — they ought to have a phone.”
Shane ran across to the garage, found a phone and called Central Station, asked for Bill Hay worth. When Hayworth answered, he said: “There’s a stiff and a prospective in apartment 312 at — West Seventy-Fourth. Hurry up — the girl’s not quite gone. Call you later.” He ran out to the waiting cab, climbed in, leaned back and clipped and lighted a cigar, watched the other cab through the rear window. They went over to the Drive, down two blocks, turned east. Shane thought for a while that the other cab wasn’t following, but after they’d gone several blocks on Seventy-Second he saw it again. They cut down Broadway to Columbus Circle, across Fifty-Ninth.
In front of 71, Shane jumped out of the cab, said: “That’s swell — wait,” went swiftly across the sidewalk and pressed the button beneath the red number.
The slit opened, a voice that Shane did not know whispered: “What is it you want?”
Shane said: “In.” He stuck his face in the thin shaft of light that came through the slit.
The door was opened and Shane went into the narrow hallway. The man who had let him in was about fifty-five — a slight, thin-faced man with white hair combed straight back from high forehead. He closed the door, bolted it.
Nick was standing behind and a little to one side of the slight man. He held a blunt blue automatic steadily in his right hand. His chin was on his chest and he stared at Shane narrowly through thick, bushy brows. He jerked his head up suddenly, sharply, said: “Put your hands up, you son of a bitch!”
Shane smiled slowly, raised his hands slowly as high as his shoulders.
A bell tinkled faintly above the door, the slight white-haired man opened the slit and looked out, closed the slit and opened the door. Another man whom Shane recognized as one of the stud dealers came in. The slight man closed the door.
Nick jerked his head up again, said: “Upstairs.” He put the automatic in the pocket of his dinner coat, the muzzle held the cloth out stiff.
Shane turned and went slowly up the stairs, and Nick and the man who followed him in came up behind him. The slight man stayed at the door.
On the second floor, Shane put his hands down as he passed the double-door into the big room, glanced in. There were three people, a man and two women, in earnest and drunken conversation at one of the corner tables. There was a couple at a table against the far wall. With the exception of these and a waiter and the man behind the bar, the room was deserted.
Shane spoke over his shoulder to Nick: “Swell crowd.”
Nick took two or three rapid steps, took the automatic out of his pocket and jabbed it against Shane’s back, hard. Shane put his hands up again and went up the second flight to the third floor. Nick and the other man followed him. He stopped at the top of the stair, leaned against the balustrade. Nick went past him and knocked at the tall gray door. It was opened in a little while and the three of them went into the room.