The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

The other two had come back. Rocco pulled my picture out of his pocket. “I traced that dummy wire you got, sending you to Philly. The clerk at the telegraph office identified her as the sender, from this picture. Ask her why she wanted to get you out of town, and then come up here and case your layout! Ask her why she was willing to pay thirty bucks for a little wood box, when she was living in a seven-buck furnished room! Ask her who she is! You weren’t at the Reading trial, were you? Well, I was! You’re riding for a fall, chief, by having her around you. She’s astoolie!”

He turned on me. “Who are you? What does he mean?”

What was the good of answering? It was five to five on the clock. I needed Burns bad.

The other one snarled, “She’s the patsy’s sister. Chick Wheeler’s sister. I saw her on the stand with my own eyes.”

Milton’s face screwed up into a sort of despairing agony; I’d never seen anything like it before. He whimpered, “And you’re so beautiful to have to be killed!”

I hugged the negligee around me tight and looked down at the floor. “Then don’t have me killed,” I said softly. It was two to five, now.

He said with comic sadness, “I got to if you’re that guy’s sister.”

“I say I’m nobody’s sister, just Angel Face that dances at your club. I say I only came here ’cause — I like soft carpets.”

“Why did you send that fake telegram to get me out of town?”

He had me there. I thought fast. “If I’m a stoolie I get killed, right? But what happens if I’m the other kind of a doublecrosser, a two-timer, do I still get killed?”

“No,” he said, “because you were still a freelance; your option hadn’t been taken up yet.”

“That’s the answer, then. I was going to use your place to meet my steady, that’s why I sent the queer wire.”

Rocco’s voice was as cracked as a megaphone after a football rally.

“She’s Wheeler’s sister, chief. Don’t let her ki—”

“Shut up!” Milton said.

Rocco just smiled a wise smile, shrugged, lit a cigarette. “You’ll find out.”

The phone rang. “Get that,” Milton ordered. “That’s her guy now. Keep him on the wire.” He turned and went running up the stairs to the floor above, where the other phone was.

Rocco took out a gun, fanned it vaguely in my direction, sauntered over.

“Don’t try nothing, now, while that line’s open. You may be fooling Milton, you’re not fooling us any. He was always a sucker for a twist.”

Rocco’s buddy said, “Hello?”

Rocco, still holding the gun on me, took a lopsided drag on his cigarette with his left hand and blew smoke vertically. Some of it caught in his throat, and he started to cough like a seal. You could hear it all over the place.

I could feel all the blood draining out of my face.

The third guy was purring, “No, you tell me what number you want first, then I’ll tell you what number this is. That’s the way it’s done, pal.” He turned a blank face. “Hung up on me!”

Rocco was still hacking away. I felt sick all over. Sold out by my own signal that everything was under control!

There was a sound like dry leaves on the stairs and Milton came whisking down again. “Some guy wanted an all-night delicatess—” the spokesman started to say.

Milton cut his hand at him viciously. “That was Centre Street, police headquarters. I had it traced! Put some clothes on her. She’s going to her funeral!”

They forced me back into the silver sheath between them. Milton came over with a flagon of brandy and dashed it all over me from head to foot. “If she lets out a peep, she’s fighting drunk. Won’t be the first stewed dame carried outa here!”

They had to hold me up between them, my heels just clear of the ground, to get me to move at all. Rocco had his gun buried in the silver folds of my dress. The other had a big handkerchief spread out in his hand held under my face, as though I were nauseated — in reality to squelch any scream.

Milton came behind us. “You shouldn’t mix your drinks,” he was saying, “and especially you shouldn’t help yourself to people’s private stock without permission.”

But the doorman was asleep again on his bench, like when I’d come in the first time. This time he didn’t wake up. His eyelids just flickered a little as the four of us went by.

They saw to it that I got in the car first, like a lady should. The ride was one of those things you take to your grave with you. My whole past life came before me, in slow motion. I didn’t mind dying so terribly much, but I hated to go without being able to do anything for Chick. But it was the way the cards had fallen, that was all.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” I said to myself, “than growing into an old lady and no one looks at your face any more.” I took out my mirror and I powdered my nose, and then I threw the compact away. I’d show them a lady could die like a gentleman!

The house was on the Sound. Milton evidently lived in it quite a bit, by the looks of it. His Filipino let us in.