12 Chinks and A Woman

     Fenner watched him play for a few minutes. Then he leaned over and whispered in Bush's ear: “You're goin' to take an' awful hidin'.”

     Bush studied the cards again, cleared his throat and spat on the floor. He threw down the cards in disgust. Pushing back his chair, he climbed to his feet and led Fenner to the other end of the room. “What you want?” he growled.

     “Two Cubans,” Fenner said quietly. “Both dressed in black. Black slouch hats, white shirts and flashy ties. Black square shoes. Both little punks. Both wear rods.”

     Ike shook his head. “Don't know 'em,” he said; “they don't belong here.”

     Fenner regarded him coldly. “Then find out quick who they are. I want to get after those two fast.”

     Ike shrugged. “What've they done to you?” he said. “I wantta get back to my game—”

     Fenner turned his head slightly and showed the gash on his cheek-bone. “Those two punks came into my joint, gave me this . . . stripped Paula . . . and got away.”

     Ike's eyes bulged. “Wait,” he said. He went over to the telephone that stood on a small table across the room. After a long whispered conversation he hung up and jerked his head at Fenner.

     Fenner went over to him. “Find them?”

     “Yeah.” Ike rubbed his sweaty face with the back of his hand. “They've been in town five days. No one knows who the hell they are. They've got a joint out Brooklyn way. I got the address here. Seems they've taken a furnished house. Got dough, an' no one knows what their racket is.”

     Fenner reached out and took the paper on which Ike had written the address. He got to his feet.

     Ike looked at him. “You goin' into action?” he asked curiously. “Want one or two of the boys?”

     Fenner showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. “I can manage,” he said shortly.

     Ike reached out and picked up a dark bottle without any label. He looked inquiringly at Fenner. “One before you go?” he said.

     Fenner shook his head: He patted Ike on his shoulder and walked out. The cab was still waiting. The driver leaned out as Fenner ran down the steps. “Didn't think that was your home,” he said with a grin, “so I hung around. Where to?”

     Fenner pulled open the door. “You might get far,” he said. “You been learnin' your job by mail?”

     The driver said seriously: “Things are pretty bum these days. You gotta use your nut. Where to, mister?”

     “The other side of Brooklyn Bridge. I'll walk the rest.”

     The cab shot away from the curb and headed for the lights of Seventh Avenue.

     “Someone been knockin' you around?” the cab driver asked curiously.

     “Naw!” Fenner grunted. “My Aunt Fanny likes to keep an edge on her teeth.”

     “A tough old lady, huh?” the driver said, but after that he shut up.

     It was almost dark by the time they crossed Brooklyn Bridge. Fenner paid the cab off and went into the nearest bar. He ordered a club sandwich and three fingers of rye. While he bolted the sandwich he got the girl who waited on him to find out where the address was. She took a lot of trouble, finding it on a map for him. He paid his bill, had another short rye, and went out again.

     Ten minutes' quick walking got him there. He found his way without asking and without making a mistake. He walked down the street, looking closely at every shadow. The house he wanted was on the corner. It was a small two-story affair, with a square box hedge so arranged that it masked the front door completely. There were no lights showing in any of the windows. Fenner pushed open the gate and walked up the slightly inclining path. His eyes searched the black windows for any sign of movement. He didn't stop at the front door, but went on round the back of the house. There were no lights there. He found a window that was open a few inches at the top, and he shone his small torch into the room. It was empty of everything. He could see the dust on the floor boards. It took him a few seconds to raise the window and step into the room. He was careful not to make any noise, and he trod on the boards tenderly.

     Quietly he tried the door, pulled it open and stepped into a small hall. The light of his torch picked out a carpet and a large hall cupboard. The stairs faced him. He stood listening, but no sound came to him except the faint hum of distant street traffic.

     He went up the stairs, the .38 in his hand. His mouth was drawn down a little at the corners, and the muscles of his face were tense. On the landing he paused again, listening. He was conscious of a strange unpleasant smell that was vaguely familiar to him. He wrinkled his nose, wondering what it could be.

     There were three doors facing him. He chose the centre one. He turned the handle softly and edged the door open. The smell came to him stronger now. It reminded him of the smell from a butcher's shop. When he got the door half open, he paused and listened, then he stepped in and pushed the door to behind him. His torch lit up the light switch and he snapped it on.