The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 23 Classic Mystery Stories

There was the consideration that I was acquainted with the woman, which intruded a personal element I didn’t like, but $6500 more than counterbalanced that small annoyance.

When I handed Joey the fresh drink I said, “How soon can you come up with the money?”

“How soon can you do the job?” he countered.

“Let’s get something straight,” I said coldly. “I get paid the full amount in advance. Those are the terms. We don’t even discuss when I do the job until the money’s in my hand.”

He flushed slightly. “The full amount?”

“Every cent,” I assured him. “Apparently you didn’t hear those rumors from a very hep source.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you had you’d know I always get paid in advance.”

After considering this he said, “I did hear you never let a client down. But suppose something goes wrong? Then I’m out six and a half grand for nothing.”

“My jobs never go wrong. If, by some remote chance, this one does, you get your money back. Satisfaction guaranteed — clean hit or full refund.”

When he continued to look doubtful I said testily, “I’ve never crossed a client yet. I have a reputation for professional ethics to maintain. I don’t accept money and then fall down on the job. If you don’t like my conditions, go find yourself another boy.”

“I believe you,” he said quickly. “It may take me a few days to raise the money, though. How about Friday afternoon?”

Friday evening was when my other job was scheduled. I said, “Make it before five or I won’t be here. Bring it in hundred-dollar bills.”

“Okay,” he said, finishing his drink and rising. “Then the deal’s definitely on?”

“It’s on,” I assured him.

That evening I waited until after midnight, then made a reconnaissance of the address listed in my instructions from The Arranger.

The Sterling Road apartment house was near Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. The name Grandview was a grandiose misnomer, because the only view from it was an identical apartment building on either side and another across the street. They weren’t exactly tenement buildings, but they weren’t high-class either. It was a typical workingman’s neighborhood, neither classy nor slummy.

There was no one on the street at that time of night and the March weather was too cold for anyone to be sitting outdoors on the stoops. I entered the building without anyone seeing me, bypassed a self-operated elevator, and took a flight of stairs to the third floor.

The Yale key let me into 3-C. It was a furnished apartment consisting of a front room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. It was heated by hot-water radiators, and whoever had rented the place had adjusted the valves so that the rooms were comfortably warm.

There was no back door, which I didn’t much like — it’s always nice to have a choice of exits. However, there was never any trouble when The Arranger planned things, so it didn’t worry me too much.

I knew the planning had been thorough. For instance, I didn’t have to worry about the possibility of the subject arriving accompanied by some friend, because The Arranger would take care of that. How was none of my concern. Perhaps it was known that the subject never picked up winnings in front of witnesses — maybe because he owed too much money and didn’t want his creditors to find out he’d made a killing. Whatever the reason, The Arranger never left such matters to chance.

Without removing my thin leather gloves, I took out the .38 automatic I had brought, fitted the silencer to it, and put it in the top drawer of the dresser in the bedroom. A gun with a foot-length silencer attached to it is a pretty bulky object, and I preferred not to bring it in with me the next time I came to the apartment, which would be early in the evening. There was always the chance that at that time I might be seen by some tenant in the hall, and that big bulge under my coat would make me remembered.

After thoroughly checking the place, I turned off all the lights and left as quietly as I had arrived.