TWELVE
Francine Ley yawned and stretched out a long green pajama-clad leg and looked at a slim green slipper on her bare foot. She yawned again, got up and walked nervously across the room to the kidney-shaped desk. She poured a drink, drank it quickly, with a sharp nervous shudder. Her face was drawn and tired, her eyes hollow; there were dark smudges under her eyes.
She looked at the tiny watch on her wrist. It was almost four o’clock in the morning. Still with her wrist up she whirled at a sound, put her back to the desk and began to breathe very quickly, pantingly.
De Ruse came in through the red curtains. He stopped and looked at her without expression, then slowly took off his hat and overcoat and dropped them on a chair. He took off his suit coat and his tan shoulder harness and walked over to the drinks.
He sniffed at a glass, filled it a third full of whiskey, put it down in a gulp.
«So you had to tip the louse off,» he said somberly, looking down into the empty glass he held.
Francine Ley said: «Yes. I had to phone him. What happened?»
«You had to phone the louse,» De Ruse said in exactly the same tone. «You knew damn well he was mixed up in it. You’d rather he got loose, even if he cooled me off doing it.»
«You’re all right, Johnny?» She asked softly, tiredly.
De Ruse didn’t speak, didn’t look at her. He put the glass down slowly and poured some more whiskey into it, added charged water, looked around for some ice. Not finding any he began to sip the drink with his eyes on the white top of the desk.
Francine Ley said: «There isn’t a guy in the world that doesn’t rate a start on you, Johnny. It wouldn’t do him any good, but he’d have to have it, if I knew him.»
De Ruse said slowly: «That’s swell. Only I’m not quite that good. I’d be a stiff right now except for a comic hotel dick that wears a Buntline Special and a bullet-proof vest to work.»
After a little while Francine Ley said: «Do you want me to blow?»
De Ruse looked at her quickly, looked away again. He put his glass down and walked away from the desk. Over his shoulder he said: «Not so long as you keep on telling me the truth.»
He sat down in a deep chair and leaned his elbows on the arms of it, cupped his face in his hands. Francine Ley watched him for a moment, then went over and sat on an arm of the chair. She pulled his head back gently until it was against the back of the chair. She began to stroke his forehead.
De Ruse closed his eyes. His body became loose and relaxed. His voice began to sound sleepy.
«You saved my life over at the Club Egypt maybe. I guess that gave you the right to let handsome have a shot at me.»
Francine Ley stroked his head, without speaking.
«Handsome is dead,» De Ruse went on. «The peeper shot his face off.»
Francine Ley’s hand stopped. In a moment it began again, stroking his head.
«The Candless frau was in on it. Seems she’s a hot number. She wanted Hugo’s dough, and she wanted all the men in the world except Hugo. Thank heaven she didn’t get bumped. She talked plenty. So did Zapparty.»
«Yes, honey,» Francine Ley said quietly.
De Ruse yawned. «Candless is dead. He was dead before we started. They never wanted him anything else but dead. Parisi didn’t care one way or the other, as long as he got paid.»
Francine Ley said: «Yes, honey.»
«Tell you the rest in the morning,» De Ruse said thickly. «I guess Nicky and I are all square with the law … Let’s go to Reno, get married… I’m sick of this tomcat life … Get me ’nother drink, baby.»
Francine Ley didn’t move except to draw her fingers softly and soothingly across his forehead and back over his temples. De Ruse moved lower in the chair. His head rolled to one side.
«Yes, honey.»
«Don’t call me honey,» De Ruse said thickly. «Just call me pigeon.»
When he was quite asleep she got off the arm of the chair and went and sat down near him. She sat very still and watched him, her face cupped in her long delicate hands with the cherry-colored nails.
SPANISH BLOOD
ONE
Big John Masters was large, fat, oily. He had sleek blue jowls and very thick fingers on which the knuckles were dimples. His brown hair was combed straight back from his forehead and he wore a wine-colored suit with patch pockets, a wine-colored tie, a tan silk shirt. There was a lot of red and gold band around the thick brown cigar between his lips.
He wrinkled his nose, peeped at his hole card again, tried not to grin. He said: «Hit me again, Dave — and don’t hit me with the City Hall.»
A four and a deuce showed. Dave Aage looked at them solemnly across the table, looked down at his own hand. He was very tall and thin, with a long bony face and hair the color of wet sand. He held the deck flat on the palm of his hand, turned the top card slowly, and flicked it across the table. It was the queen of spades.
Big John Masters opened his mouth wide, waved his cigar about, chuckled.
«Pay me, Dave. For once a lady was right.» He turned his hole card with a flourish. A five.
Dave Aage smiled politely, didn’t move. A muted telephone bell rang close to him, behind long silk drapes that bordered the very high lancet windows. He took a cigarette out of his mouth and laid it carefully on the edge of a tray on a tabouret beside the card table, reached behind the curtain for the phone.
He spoke into the cup with a cool, almost whispering voice, then listened for a long time. Nothing changed in his greenish eyes, no flicker of emotion showed on his narrow face. Masters squirmed, bit hard on his cigar.
After a long time Aage said, «Okey, you’ll hear from us.» He pronged the instrument and put it back behind the curtain.
He picked his cigarette up, pulled the lobe of his ear. Masters swore. «What’s eating you, for Pete’s sake? Gimme ten bucks.»
Aage smiled dryly and leaned back. He reached for a drink, sipped it, put it down, spoke around his cigarette. All his movements were slow, thoughtful, almost absent-minded. He said: «Are we a couple of smart guys, John?»
«Yeah. We own the town. But it don’t help my blackjack game any.»
«It’s just two months to election, isn’t it, John?»
Masters scowled at him, fished in his pocket for a fresh cigar, jammed it into his mouth.
«So what?»
«Suppose something happened to our toughest opposition. Right now. Would that be a good idea, or not?»
«Huh?» Masters raised eyebrows so thick that his whole face seemed to have to work to push them up. He thought for a moment, sourly. «It would be lousy — if they didn’t catch the guy pronto. Hell, the voters would figure we hired it done.»
«You’re talking about murder, John,» Aage said patiently. «I didn’t say anything about murder.»
Masters lowered his eyebrows and pulled at a coarse black hair that grew out of his nose.
«Well, spit it out!»
Aage smiled, blew a smoke ring, watched it float off and come apart in frail wisps.
«I just had a phone call,» he said very softly. «Donegan Marr is dead.»
Masters moved slowly. His whole body moved slowly towards the card table, leaned far over it. When his body couldn’t go any farther his chin came out until his jaw muscles stood out like thick wires.
«Huh?» he said thickly. «Huh?»
Aage nodded, calm as ice. «But you were right about murder, John. It was murder. Just half an hour ago, or so. In his office. They don’t know who did it — yet.»