Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 8 — November, 1938)

Lomac had a big joint on the boulevard, something like a transplanted Spanish castle. You and I, if we pooled every cent we could get our hands on, wouldn’t be able to buy a foot of land in that district, because our names aren’t in the Blue Book. Mine isn’t, anyway. But little things like that never bothered Nick Lomac. He bought himself an acre and built himself a house. The citizens paid for most of it, thinking they were buying bricks for a new airport. And the citizens paid for most of the upkeep. Nick Lomac knew all the angles.

I rang, and a servant opened the door to me. I asked if Mr. Lomac was in, and told who I was.

When I paced into the parlor, Nick Lomac stared at me without smiling, put down the highball he was sipping, and said: “Sit down, Thompson.” The servant vanished.

I didn’t sit. I hadn’t come to do any sitting.

“Where is he, Lomac?” I said.

He blew smoke from his nostrils. Despite his lack of size, you’d never make the mistake of underestimating Nick Lomac. You’d never made it twice, anyway. He was little, but so was Napoleon, so’s your wife, probably.

“What’s the trouble, Thompson?” he said softly.

I would have enjoyed fooling around with him, but there was no time for it. A glance told me we were alone in the room, and that was enough. I said, “Where’s Joe Evans?”

“Who?”

I snapped, “You want to hear me talk?”

“Well,” he said, shrugging, “I certainly would like to have an explanation of some sort, Thompson.”

“All right, you’ll get it. But, first, let me tell you something. If Joe Evans dies, Lomac, you burn for it. So it might be a good idea if you went to a phone right now and told your gorillas to lay off. If I were you I wouldn’t take any chances.”

I watched him when I said that, but might as well have been watching the outside of an egg. His face didn’t change. His eyes didn’t blink. “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he said.

I threw my guesses at him. “Vanetti was murdered. Moeller, your right-hand worm, stole the key to his room Monday night; then later you sent some boys up to get rid of Vanetti and fake the suicide. Joe Evans and I were wise when we saw the set-up. You had us watched. When Evans phoned me about those photographs he’d taken, those hot pictures, you snatched him. Where is he?”

It didn’t even jar him. He smiled that oily smile of his and said, “You’ve been seeing too many movies, Thompson.”

I said, “I hope you’ve seen a few. Then you’ll know what this is.”

I showed him my gun. Muzzle first. He took a quick backward step. A lot of tough lads get the jitters when you aim guns at them.

“Where is he, Lomac?” I said.

“Thompson, you’re crazy.”

“Where is he?”

He dragged in a deep breath. The kind you need when you get a hollow feeling in your mid-section. “Well,” he said, “it so happens I do know where Evans is. But I didn’t have a thing to do with him being there.”

“Where is he?”

“Over on Dexter Street. The Dexter Social Club. You go over there and you’ll find him.”

“And you’re not responsible,” I said sarcastically, “for his being there.”

“No.”

“Of course not,” I agreed. “Oke, Lomac, you’re coming with me.”

“Me?”

“If you think I’d let you out of my sight, you’re crazy.”

He threw out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll order the car,” he said.

I let him pick up the phone. What the hell, I had a gun on his back, and wouldn’t he be the world’s biggest fool if he tried any stunts? Besides, I couldn’t use my own car unless I forced him to drive it. You can’t drive and hold a gun on a man at the same time.

He said into the phone: “Tell Andy to bring the car around front right away.” Then he forked the phone and looked at me and said nothing.

I should have been tipped off right then. If he’d been really scared, he would have done a lot of talking. About how he wasn’t responsible for what had happened, and so forth. But he just stood there, looking at me. Looking at the gun in my fist.

In a couple of minutes a horn tooted outside. I put the gun in my pocket and kept my hand on it. “You first,” I said.

We walked out and down the hall and out the front door into the darkness, Lomac first, me a couple of steps behind. Everything was in order, I told myself. The guy was scared and he was going to take me to the joint where Joe Evans was imprisoned. When he got me there, his gorillas might make a play to keep me there, but that was a bridge we hadn’t yet reached. The point was, we were on our way.

Yeah...

So he walked down the steps toward the waiting car, and I started after him. And suddenly I was a slice of cheese between two thick slices of bread. Because while I centered my attention on Lomac’s chauffeur, reasoning that a certain amount of trouble might emanate from that direction, two lusty lads folded in on me from the flanks and laid hold of me.