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.
He folded his arms and waited.
NINE
The white-jacketed Japanese boy opened the door, bobbed his head, smiled, hissed politely: «Ah, you come inside, prease. Quite so, prease.»
Pete Anglich patted Token Ware’s shoulder, pushed her through the door into the long, vivid room. She looked shabby and forlorn against the background of handsome furnishings. Her eyes were reddened from crying, her mouth was smeared.
The door shut behind them and the little Japanese stole away.
They went down the stretch of thick, noiseless carpet, past quiet brooding lamps, bookcases sunk into the wall, shelves of alabaster and ivory, and porcelain and jade knickknacks, a huge mirror framed in blue glass, and surrounded by a frieze of lovingly autographed photos, low tables with lounging chairs, high tables with flowers, more books, more chairs, more rugs — and Vidaury sitting remotely with a glass in his hand, staring at them coldly.
He moved his hand carelessly, looked the girl up and down.
«Ah, yes, the man the police had here. Of course. Something I can do for you? I heard they made a mistake.»
Pete Anglich turned a chair a little, pushed Token Ware into it. She sat down slowly, stiffly, licked her lips and stared at Vidaury with a frozen fascination.
A touch of polite distaste curled Vidaury’s lips. His eyes were watchful.
Pete Anglich sat down. He drew a stick of gum out of his pocket, unwrapped it, slid it between his teeth. He looked worn, battered, tired. There were dark bruises on the side of his face and on his neck. He still needed a shave.
He said slowly, «This is Miss Ware. The girl that was supposed to get your dough.»
Vidaury stiffened. A hand holding a cigarette began to tap restlessly on the arm of his chair. He stared at the girl, but didn’t say anything. She half smiled at him, then flushed.
Pete Anglich said: «I hang around Noon Street. I know the sharpshooters, know what kind of folks belong there and what kind don’t. I saw this little girl in a lunchwagon on Noon Street this evening. She looked uneasy and she was watching the clock. She didn’t belong. When she left I followed her.»
Vidaury nodded slightly. A gray tip of ash fell off the end of his cigarette. He looked down at it vaguely, nodded again.
«She went up Noon Street,» Pete Anglich said. «A bad street for a white girl. I found her hiding in a doorway. Then a big Duesenberg slid around the corner and doused lights, and your money was thrown out on the sidewalk. She was scared. She asked me to get it. I got it.»
Vidaury said smoothly, not looking at the girclass="underline" «She doesn’t look like a crook. Have you told the police about her? I suppose not, or you wouldn’t be here.»