The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“No? Well, perhaps not. What do you say?”

“But how to get you out of here.” I scratched my head. What about O’Rourke? Would I take him into my confidence? Would he let The Flame go, or—? No. I thought I knew how a cop would feel about that. And I thought of the window, the lamp cord. But there would be a cop in the alley. I might call him off. I might—. I turned to The Flame.

She was at the door, had it partly open, was peering into the hall.

“You can’t — the police — droves of them,” I whispered hurriedly. “The window, maybe, if—”

She shook her head and put her finger on her lips. It was in my mind to detain her now. Not because of any duty to a client, though. Because, well, I didn’t believe a rabbit could slip through that cordon of police.

I shrugged my shoulders. After all, had I made a right decision? Was it because of my client that I let The Flame go? Or was I just anxious for an excuse not to be the one that turned her in? If the Colonel were dead, they might even hold her for murder.

“At Maria’s Cafe, then,” she whispered. And as my hand stretched toward her arm, “I have an ‘out,’ ” and she was gone, closing the door silently behind her.

Perhaps it was the best way out. I wouldn’t be responsible if she were caught now. And I found myself listening for her feet in the hall, listening vainly. Not a sound. But they wouldn’t shoot a woman. They wouldn’t—. And I remembered suddenly that The Flame was dressed as a man, also, with a little pang, that The Flame, for all I knew, might be armed and that—. Damn it, which had I let free in that house? The woman of evil or the girl of good?

I threw open the door and listened. Voices from below, just murmurs. Heavy feet on the floor above. Feet that turned and came down the stairs. Loud feet. A dick nodded to me in the dim light, his hand clutching at the banister.

“I don’t know what the racket is,” he said, “but except for them two servants, the man and his wife upstairs, frightened silly, and who never heard a sound, the house is empty.”

“Yeah.” I tried to listen. Would there be a shout as they caught The Flame, or would there be a shot as The Flame was spotted, lurking in some dark corner? Or, and I waited as the cop looked over my shoulder into the room, and then went on his way.

Maybe there were visions of a crumpled little body at the foot of a flight of stairs, a white, childish face, eyes that had no sparkle — and—.

A minutes, two, three, perhaps five passed. Then feet coming up the stairs; Sergeant O’Rourke’s gruff voice; his hand upon my shoulder, pushing me into the room. And he spoke.

“Hello!” He stood, looking at the open closet door. Then he turned to me, looked at my hand, and the key I held stupidly in it. “You found the key, eh?”

“Sure,” I said. “On the desk, under the blotter, near the phone.” But I still stood by the door, listening.

“Empty, of course.” O’Rourke was in and out of the closet. “Well, Race, it’s a big racket, a big responsibility.” A moment of silence. “Guess I’ll shift the burden, though the orders were to act alone.” He ran fingers through his mottled hair, “I guess I’ll give the Commissioner a buzz.” He reached for the telephone. “It may turn out a mess if we keep it from the press too long, what with the district attorney’s office wondering about it and the entire blame falling on the shoulders of the Commissioner if—. Colonel McBride is quite a lad, you know.”

“Wait.” I held O’Rourke’s hand. “It’s just possible I—”

“I... what?” demanded O’Rourke, his hand gripping the phone.

“I may stir up something. Wait.”

“Wait?” gulped O’Rourke. “Well, I’ll pass the ‘wait’ along to the Commissioner. It’s his show. I don’t want to be an official goat, after all these years.”

We both straightened. The phone rang.

“Now what the hell?” said O’Rourke eagerly, and as he jerked off the receiver, “Yeah, what do you want?”

A moment’s pause, and then from O’Rourke:

“Who wants to know? Who are you? Why, unless I know you, you can’t. All right, he’s here.” O’Rourke pushed the phone to me, his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Guy wants you. Don’t sound like the Colonel. Don’t sound like any one. A mouth full of marbles. Better take it.”

“Race,” said a disguised, mechanical voice, that I couldn’t recognize.

“Right,” I said. “Race Williams.”

“Talk a bit, so I can be sure.”

And I did, pressing the receiver close to my ear and pushing O’Rourke off with my shoulder. O’Rourke had a curious turn of mind.

“Now you talk,” I finished.

“It’s Rudolph Myer,” came the faint message. “Tried to get you at your apartment. The Flame must see you at the Cafe Maria. It means a lot, so she says. Suit yourself about going. Some one may be listening. Why she can’t put over her own message, I don’t know. But she said to come alone, unseen.”

“How did you know I was—”