12 Chinks and A Woman

     When she got as far as her step-ins and brassiere she said, “Can't you tell me where you've been?”

     Fenner was busy emptying the drawers into two grips. “I was taken for a ride by a gang of toughs. Just shaken 'em off.”

     “Where are we going?”

     Fenner said evenly, “We're goin' to stay with Noolen.”

     Glorie shook her head. “I'm not,” she said.

     Fenner finished strapping the grips and stood up. He took two quick steps across the room and put his hand on her wrist. “You're doing what I tell you,” he said.

     “Not Noolen's.”

     “That's what I said. I'm not standing for any comeback from you. You can walk, or I'll carry you.”

     He went to the house phone and rang for his check. While waiting, he paced the room restlessly. Glorie sat on the bed, watching him with uneasy eyes. She said, “What are you starting?”

     Fenner looked up. “Plenty,” he said. “This mob started on me, and now I'm finishing it. I'm not stopping until I've bust the mystery right outta this business and got that little punk Carlos so short he'll scream murder.”

     The bell-hop brought in the check and Fenner settled. Then he picked up his grips in one hand and took Glorie by her elbow with the other. “Let's go,” he said, and together they went downstairs.

     They found Bugsey sitting at the wheel of a big car. Bugsey was looking a little dazed, but he didn't say anything. Fenner climbed in behind Glorie. “Noolen's. Fast,” he said.

     Bugsey twisted round in his seat. “Noolen's?” he said. “Why Noolen's? Listen, you don't want to go to that guy. He's the south end of a horse.”

     Fenner leaned forward. “Noolen's,” he repeated, looking at Bugsey intently. “If you don't like it, get out an' I'll drive.”

     Bugsey gaped from Fenner to Glorie. She said, “Go ahead, brave heart, this fella's making his orders stick.”

     Bugsey said, “Oh, well,” and drove off.

     Glorie sat in the corner of the car, a sulky expression on her face. Fenner stared over Bugsey's broad shoulders at the road ahead. They drove all the way to Noolen's in silence. When they swept up the short circular drive Glorie said, “I don't want to go in there.” She said it more in protest than in any hope of Fenner's agreeing. He swung open the door and got out.

     “Come on, both of you,” he said impatiently.

     It was half-past eleven o'clock as they walked into the deserted lobby of the Casino. In the main hall they found a Cuban in shirt-sleeves aimlessly pushing an electric cleaner about the floor. He looked up as they crossed towards him, and his mouth went a little slack. His eyes fastened on Glorie, who scowled at him.

     “Noolen around?” Fenner said.

     The Cuban pressed the thumb-switch on the cleaner and laid it down almost tenderly. “I'll see,” he said.

     Fenner made a negative sign with his head. “You stay put,” he said shortly.

     He cut across the hall in the direction of Noolen's office. The Cuban said, “Hey!” feebly, but he stayed where he was.

     Glorie and Bugsey lagged along in the rear. Fenner pushed open the door of the office and stood looking in. Noolen was sitting at his desk. He was counting a large pile of greenbacks. When he saw Fenner his face went blotchy and he swept the greenbacks into a drawer.

     Fenner walked in. “This is no hold-up,” he said shortly; “it's a council of war.”

     He turned his head and said to Glorie and Bugsey, who hung about outside, “Come in, you two, and shut the door.”

     Noolen sat very still behind his desk. When Glorie came in, he put his fingers to his collar and eased it from his neck. Glorie didn't look at him. She went over to a chair at the far end of the room and sat down. Bugsey shut the door and leaned against it. He, too, didn't look at Noolen. There was a strained tension in the room.

     Noolen managed to say: “What the hell's this?”

     Fenner took one of Noolen's green dapple cigars from the desk box, clamped his teeth on it and struck a match with his thumb-nail. He spent a long minute lighting the cigar evenly, then he tossed the match away and sat on the edge of the desk.

     Noolen said, “You've got a lot of crust, Ross. I told you I wasn't interested in anything you've got to peddle. It still stands.”

     Glorie said in a flat voice: “He isn't Ross. His name is Fenner and he's a private investigator, holding a license.”

     Fenner turned his head and looked at her, but she was adjusting her skirt, a sulky, indifferent expression on her face.

     Bugsey sucked in his breath. His gooseberry eyes popped. Noolen, who was reaching for a cigar when Glorie spoke, paused. His fat white hand hovered over the box like a seagull in flight, then he sat back, folding his hands on the blotter.

     Fenner said, “If you were half alive, the news would have got round to you before.”

     Noolen fidgeted with his hands. “Get out of here, he said thickly. “Private dicks are poison to me.”

     “You and me've got a job to do,” Fenner said, looking at the fat man with intent eyes. “The law doesn't come into this.”

     Noolen said viciously, “Get out!”