She pressed the door buzzer. Tommy followed her into the vault.
“Key, please.”
Tommy handed the woman his keys. She put one in the lower lock of Box 365, turned the upper lock with the bank key and said to Tommy: “You oughtn’t to keep both keys together. This way you lose one you lose both.”
“I know.”
She removed the bank’s key and left the vault. Quickly Tommy drew another key from his pocket and inserted it in the upper lock. It turned smoothly. Tommy exulted to himself: “I’m the best damn key man in the country.”
He removed the key as well as his own and dropped them in a pocket. He waited a moment, then closed the door of Box 365 and left the vault. Leaving the bank, he strode to the curb to cross Highland Avenue. A man stepped up beside him and said: “Hi, pal.”
It was Herbie the Lugan.
A chill began to seep through Tommy’s body. “What are you doing here?”
“Not a thing, chum. Not a thing.”
The traffic lights turned to green and Tommy started across the street. Herbie the Lugan trotted along at his side, chattering, “Doing any more bowling lately? Used to play a pretty fair game myself. If you aren’t busy some night I’d like to roll a few lines with you.”
“Sure, sure,” Tommy agreed.
“Tonight?”
They had reached the other side of the street. “Can’t tonight.”
Herbie the Lugan winked slyly. “Date, huh? Somebody said they seen you with a cute package. Blonde.”
“Look, Herbie, I can’t spend the day here gabbing with you. I’m a working man.”
“Work?” smirked Herbie. “What’s that?”
Tommy snorted and strode away from the dapper little man. He walked to McCadden. It took all of his self-control to keep from looking over his shoulder to see if Herbie was following him. As he turned on McCadden he risked a quick sideward glance, but did not see Herbie. He got his car from the parking lot and drove south toward Melrose. On Melrose he drove slowly past the bowling alley and on a sudden impulse pulled into the curb.
He got out of his car and strode into the alley. It was shortly before noon and only one of the alleys was in use.
Rudy, the proprietor, was behind his glass-topped cigar counter. He looked at Tommy in surprise. “What are you doing here at this time of the day?”
I got a tip on a horse, Tommy replied. “I’d like to put a couple of bucks on it.”
“Haven’t you got enough trouble,” exclaimed Rudy. “Why don’t you just take a hammer and hit yourself on the head with it? It’s no worse than taking tips on horses.”
“This is a sure thing.”
Rudy wrinkled his face in disgust. “They’re all sure things.” He shrugged. “What’s the nag?”
“That’s the trouble. I forgot.”
Rudy groaned. “He gets a tip on a horse and can’t remember the horse’s name!”
“It’s running in the third at Belmont. Have you got a Racing Form? I’d know the name if I saw it.”
Rudy reached under the counter and brought out a much creased Racing Form. He unfolded it to the Belmont page and ran down a column with his finger. “Antimacassar, Ned’s Boy, Fighting Don—”
“Fighting Don, that’s it.”
“Fighting Don!” snorted Rudy. “That’s a helluva tip. He’s the favorite. He’ll go to the post at even money.”
“Well, I’d like to put two dollars on him just the same.”
“Okay, two dollars on Fighting Don.”
Tommy drew out a package of cigarettes and, putting one in his mouth, lit it. He leaned against the showcase. “You don’t handle these bets yourself, Rudy? I mean, you give them to a bookie, don’t you?”
Rudy looked at him suspiciously. “I’ve got enough trouble running this bowling alley. Joe Abbott gives me a cut, hot or cold.”
“Who’s Joe Abbott?”
“The bookie.”
“Do I know him?”
Rudy shrugged. “He’s in here often enough. Little fellow with a rogue shirt and sport coat.”
“I think I’ve seen him. He hardly looks smart enough to be a bookie.”
“What brains does it take to be a bookie? But don’t worry about your two bucks. If the nag wins you’ll get your money.”
“I wasn’t worrying; I’m just curious.” Tommy took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly.
“I suppose Abbott lays off his big bets with somebody else.”
Rudy looked at Tommy irritably. “Why all the sudden interest in bookies?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about a guy for whom I did a little key work the other day. He’s got a swanky joint and I was wondering if he mightn’t be a bookie, or something like that. Fellow name of Trent — Willis Trent. Ever hear of him?”
Rudy looked at Tommy steadily. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“Look, Tommy,” the bowling alley man said. “I’m going to give you a bit of advice. The less you have to do with bookies and people like that, the better off you’ll be in the long run. If you know what I mean. Don’t go getting curious about people like... Trent.” He added significantly, “It ain’t healthy.”
Tommy regarded Rudy steadily. “Do I look like a copper?”
“That ain’t the point, Tommy,” Rudy said. “I know who you are, but I’m running a business here, see. I take a couple of small bets on the horses once in awhile. I give the bets to a fellow named Joe Abbott.”
“Who’s Paul deCamp?”
Rudy looked past Tommy at the two men bowling in the alley twenty or twenty-five feet away. He shifted his glance from there to the door. “You’re in the lock and key business, Tommy. You work for a fellow who’s got a little shop up the street. You sell some Yale locks, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t get—”
“You didn’t let me finish. The Yale lock company is to you what Paul deCamp is to Joe Abbott.”
“Mr. Big, eh?”
“He’s a name you hear all the time but you don’t know him. At least not fellows like you and me. I’ve never seen deCamp but I’ve heard a lot of talk about him. I’ve seen his name in the papers. He’s the big fellow.” He looked soberly at Tommy.
Tommy laughed. “I guess it’s about time I was getting back to the shop.”
He nodded and started for the door. Rudy looked after him and as Tommy went out he shook his head. There was a frown on his forehead.
Back at the shop Tommy found Mr. Roan seated at a bench with a pad of paper before him which was covered with figures. He looked up as Tommy entered.
“I’ve been doing some figuring, Tommy,” he said. “I’ve got a proposition. See what you think of it.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve been getting forty-five dollars a week. I’ve been drawing seventy-five a week myself. You know how this business is, some weeks are good, some are bad. Some weeks we take in two hundred, maybe two-fifty. Some weeks there ain’t a hundred. But it’s a sweet little business. If you and I give it all we can, it could be even better. I’m thinking of cutting you in for twenty-five per cent. What do you think of that?”
Tommy frowned. “I don’t see where I’d be gaining anything by that. That means in a bad week I’d only draw twenty-five dollars.”
“No, no, we’d continue to draw the same amount we’re drawing now. You forty-five and me seventy-five. Naturally we’ve got to have a backlog in the business... to take care of the poor weeks. We pile up the backlog from the good weeks. What I meant was, we each continue to draw the same amount of money every week, but at the end of the month we split seventy-five and twenty-five.”
“It’s a deal,” Tommy said, “if we make my drawing account fifty dollars a week.”