12 Chinks and A Woman

     Carlos took two staggering steps to the door and flung it open. Fenner heard him blundering downstairs and he heard him fumbling at the lock. He stood, his head on one side, listening. Then out of the night came a sound of two Thompsons firing. Both gave a long burst, then there was silence.

     Fenner put his gun away slowly and groped for a cigarette. “I guess I've had about enough of this burg. I'll go home and take Paula out for a change,” he said to himself. He climbed out of the skylight and let himself down the iron ladder. As he did so he heard the sound of a car starting. It was Alex and Kemerinski calling it a day.

     He went round and looked at Carlos. He had a tidy mind. He had had no doubt that those two would do a good job, but he liked to be sure. He need not have bothered. They'd done a good job. He brushed down his clothes with his hand, thinking busily, then he turned and walked back towards Noolen's place.

     Noolen started out of his chair when Fenner came in. He said, “What happened?”

     Fenner looked at him. “What do you think? They're horse flesh—both of them. Where's Glorie?”

     Noolen wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Dead? Both of them?” He couldn't believe it.

     Fenner repeated impatiently, “Where's Glorie?”

     Noolen put two trembling hands on the desk. “Why?”

     “Where is she, damn you!” Fenner's eyes were intent and ice-cold.

     Noolen pointed. “She's upstairs. You can leave her out of this, Fenner. I'm goin' to look after her now.”

     Fenner sneered. “What's the idea? You're not falling for any line of repentance she's likely to hand out, are you?”

     Noolen's face went a faint red. “I don't want any cheap cracks from you,” he said. “After all, she's my wife.”

     Fenner pushed back his chair. “For God's sake,” he said, getting to his feet, “there's no fool like an old fool! okay, if that's the way it stands.” He shrugged. “Quite a dame, this Glorie. Off with the dead money bags and on with the new.”

     Noolen sat there, his hooded eyes fixed, and his mouth a little twisted. He said, “Cut out your cracks, Fenner; I don't like them.”

     Fenner turned to the door. “I'm going to see that dame,” he said. “Where shall I find her?”

     Noolen shook his head. “You ain't,” he said, “Start somethin' here and you'll get a heap of grief.”

     “So? Okay, then I don't see her; but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll be back in an hour's time with the cops and a warrant for her arrest.”

     Noolen sneered. “You got nothing on that dame,” he said.

     “Sure, I haven't. Only a murder rap. Still, what's a murder rap? Small change in your circle.”

     Noolen's fat hands twitched, and his puffy face took on a greenish tinge. “What are you talkin' about?” he said, with stiff lips.

     Fenner moved to the door. “You'll know. I haven't time to play around with you. I either see her now, or see her in jail. I don't give a damn which way it is.”

     Noolen's face glistened in the light of the desk lamp. He said, “Top door on the right upstairs.”

     Fenner said, “I won't be long, and you stay right where you are.” He went out and shut the door behind him.

     When he got to the door en the right at the head of the stairs, he turned the handle and walked in. Glorie started up from a chair, her face white, and her mouth making a big O in her face.

     Fenner shut the door and leaned against it. “Keep your stockings up,” he said slowly. “You and me are just going to have a little talk, that's all.” She dropped back in the chair.

     “Not now,” she said, her voice tight. “It's late—I want to go to sleep ... I'm tired ... I told him downstairs not to let anyone up.”

     Fenner selected a chair opposite her and sat down. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and dug in his vest-pocket for a packet of cigarettes. He shook two loose and offered them.

     She said, “Get out of here! Get out of here! I don't want—”

     Fenner took one of the cigarettes and put the packet back in his pocket. He said, “Shut up!” Then he lit the cigarette and blew a thin cloud of smoke up to the ceiling. “You an' me are going to have a little talk. I'm talking first, then you are.”

     She got out of the chair and started for the door, but Fenner reached out, caught her wrist and pulled her round. She swung blindly for his face with hooked finger-nails. He caught her hand, imprisoned her two wrists in one hand and smacked her face with his other hand. Four red bars appeared on the side of her face, and she said, “Oh!”

     He let go of her hands and pushed her away roughly. “Sit down and shut up!”

     She sat down, her hand touching her cheek gently. She said, “You're going to be sorry for that.”

     Fenner eased himself in the chair so that it creaked. “That's what you think,” he said, yawning. “Let me tell you another little story. It's a story about a nasty little girl and a Chinaman. It'll slaughter you.”

     She clenched her fists and pounded them on her knees. “Stop! I know what you're going to say. I don't want to hear!”—