The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“And come armed.” There was a sneer in her voice.

“Yes — and come armed,” I told her. A guy may be willing to be a fool, but draws the line at being a damned fool.

“Well—” she said, “I’m willing to cry quits. You owe me nothing. I owe you nothing. Just one promise I want. That — for two—” and stopping and looking at my face, “that for two weeks you’ll enter into no case — no matter what the inducement — no matter what the incentive.”

I thought a moment, and then:

“I’m crossing your plans — your crooked plans?”

“Yes,” she said very slowly, “you’re crossing my plans — my crooked plans.”

Another moment of thought. A straight look into those brown, hard eyes, and I gave her a direct answer.

“I won’t do it.” That was flat. My ethics may be warped, my ideas twisted, but there’s no guy who can say I don’t like my own game, and don’t play that game as I see it.

“All right!” she snapped suddenly. “You’ve had your warning — or rather, should I say — your notice.” And with the slightest twist to those thin, delicate lips, “I suppose you still think — or still say — you’ll come to me when I need you — if I need you.”

I looked her smack in the eyes.

“I still say I’ll come to you if you need me — if you send for me.” And very slowly, “And I still say that I’ll come armed.”

“That’s a threat.” She jerked up her chin.

“You can take it as you please. I’ll pay my debt. For no man can tell when The Flame will be a good citizen — a fine woman. But no man can tell either when—”

“She’d lead Race Williams to — to his death, eh? That’s what you want to say, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” I guess my smile was sort of dead. I won’t say that I loved The Flame. But I will say that I admired her. Certainly, if she was built to do great wrong, she might just as well be built to do great good. You see, the dual personality doesn’t fit in with my practical nature. I always sort of look on it as synonymous with “two faced.” That is, that it’s an outward change, and doesn’t really take place in the individual — but only in the mind of some one who knows the individual. In plain words, there were times when I thought The Flame was all bad, and the good — that youthful, innocent sparkle — was put on to fool others. But fair is fair. There were times also when I felt that The Flame was really all good, and the hard, cruel face — that went with the woman of the night — was put on to hide the real good in her.

There we were, facing each other in that small, sparsely furnished room. The Flame with her back to the curtain by the window, and me with my back against a bare wall, my right hand thrust indifferently into a jacket pocket.

The Flame bit her lip, and emotions you couldn’t lay a finger to ran over her beautiful face. I didn’t bite my lip. I waited. A long minute passed — feet seemed to creak on the worn stairs outside — steal along the hall and stop by the door of apartment 5-C. Just seemed to, you understand. That don’t mean it was nerves on my part. I haven’t any. But I have got a keen pair of ears. Ears that weren’t sure that the sounds — the faint, almost imperceptible sounds they caught — weren’t from the natural, but eerie creakings of an old structure. Let us just say that I liked my back against the wall.

The Flame seemed to be listening too. After a bit, she spoke quickly and hurriedly.

“I’ve played the game as I’ve seen the game. I’ve given you your chance. Now—” she spread out her hands, and her voice was raised — at least, it was shriller, “you stand in my way, Race Williams, and I’ll... I’ll... by God! I’ll crush you.”

There was a curve to the corner of her mouth, a narrowness to those brown eyes from which the sparkle of youth was entirely missing. There was almost a sneer in her words — but certainly there was a threat to them.

“All right,” I told her. “We’ve played the game together and we’ve played it as opponents. I haven’t squawked yet, and I won’t squawk now. I—”

And I broke off suddenly. A knock, not too loud and not too low, upon the outside apartment door.

I swung quickly, half stepped toward that door — and stopped.

“Don’t!” The Flame clutched me by the arm. “I... It’s better not to have it known you came here. Please! The fire-escape. It’s the top floor — a single flight to the roof. Please, Race. It means more than you think, to me.”

“Then it’s not war yet.” I smiled at her now, took a few steps forward, threw back the tiny curtain, flipped the window open higher, and took a last glance over my shoulder at The Flame, who stood there uncertain — at least, seemingly uncertain — for it’s hard to believe that The Flame could be uncertain about anything. So I’ll just say that she stood there in the center of the room.