The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

Canavan stiffened at a sudden thought. Renaldo’s killing was merely a protective measure. He had recognized, and been recognized by, someone else in that unit at the bungalow-court. So he had got his throat slit. Canavan said a very naughty word indeed. “Have you seen anyone else in this case but the two punks, Hope?”

Hope shook her head. “They were the ones who were in my room at the hotel.” She added with a measure of pride: “It took both of them to handle me too. I fought like a wildcat and before we were through I’d lost all the buttons that kept my clothes on. One of them put his coat around me and they carted me off just as I am.”

“Look, hon, these monkeys aren’t going to stay away forever. Think you can hop, wiggle or roll over to me?”

At another time her efforts would have been ludicrous. Now they were just painful as hell. The sweat stood out on Canavan’s brow as though he himself were going through all those contortions. Her wrists were strapped behind her and her ankles bound together. Every time she would attain her feet she would fall down again. It was heart-breaking. But finally, after what seemed like hours, she reached Canavan’s side, stood up, teetered drunkenly a moment and fell across the arms of his chair. He attacked the adhesive on her wrists with his strong white teeth. Presently she was free and was busy freeing him.

He stood up, flexing his cramped muscles. Outside and below, as if this room might be on the second floor, there was the muted roar of a car motor and the creak of protesting springs. Probably Reefer coming back, Canavan thought. The single lamp at the end of a cobwebbed drop-cord glowed yellowly. Naturally Canavan’s gun was gone. He had expected that. But at least he was free, and for this he was properly grateful.

Two pairs of feet climbed the stairs beyond the door, and there was a whispered colloquy. Canavan motioned Hope to a spot behind the bed. Then, for want of a better weapon, he caught up the leather cushion from the Morris chair and waited, one hand on the snap-switch of the light-socket. It was odd that in that moment he should see humor in one old leather pillow against a couple of guns, but he did. He was actually grinning when Tubby opened the door.

There was just the fraction of a second that Tubby, paralyzed by surprise, forgot the gun in his hand. Canavan hurled the cushion and followed it with a plunging dive for the chunky man’s knees. He didn’t know that he was carrying the light bulb and the drop-cord with him until he hit. The bulb banged loudly, then a gun, and Tubby came down like a ton of lead on Canavan’s back. Another gun banged, two or three times, and Tubby quit kicking suddenly. Canavan crawled out from under in time to see Reefer, backing away from what he had done to Tubby, lift his gun with a shaking hand.

“Stand still, you!” Canavan said, just as though he had a cannon in each fist. He was propped on his spread hands, with Tubby’s body weighting his legs, as defenseless as a man could possibly be. But Reefer, who had just killed his own partner, was in no condition for careful analysis. He kept on backing away, nerveless fist trying to steady a shaking gun, and quite suddenly there was no floor under his feet. He went down the stairs, end over end, and the gun banged just once. Reefer only screamed once too; then there was a sound like a snapping stick, and silence.

Inside the room, Hope Carewe whimpered like a thoroughly frightened child.

Canavan got to his feet and examined Tubby. Reefer couldn’t have done a more thorough job on purpose. All three slugs had entered Tubby’s heart from the back. Cursing a little, Canavan went down the stairs. He felt no pride of accomplishment in finding that Reefer had suffered a broken neck. That was Reefer’s own doing, not Canavan’s. Swiftly he searched the hood’s pockets, without result. Nor was he any more successful with Tubby. There was not a thing on either of the men to finger their employer.

Canavan stood up presently and draped his topcoat around the shivering girl.

“Come on, hon,” he said. “Let’s go bye-bye now.”

She nodded a wordless acquiescence. They went down the stairs and out to a weed-grown yard. The car was Canavan’s own.