Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Kitty knocked at the door of No. 14a and asked for Mr. Pink. A woman who looked as though the weight of the world’s troubles rested on her bent shoulders told her he was upstairs in the back room — “what he used as a bed sittin’ room, him bein’ fond of sittin’ alone and readin’, and not much struck on pitchers or comp’ny.”

There were two children clinging to the woman’s skirt. She was wiping her hands on a coarse apron. The odor of washing drifted through the house. It was eight o’clock in the evening. Kitty went upstairs through a mist. The mist was across her eyes.

Kitty knocked on the door of the top back room and was bidden enter. Pink was sitting on the edge of a bed, facing the door. On his knee was a gun. He cried out when he saw Kitty, and, as she closed the door behind her, he exclaimed: “What do you want?”

“I’m waiting for Smith,” said Kitty. “We’re partners, you know. We’re in this together.”

Pink scowled at her. “I owe you one,” he said. “You cheated me that night I had him.”

Kitty smiled. “All in the game, Mr. Pink. May I sit down?”

Pink nodded gloomily. He sat leaning forward, with the gun dangling between his legs, loosely held by the butt and trigger. He did not look again at Kitty. She might not have existed.

The minutes passed — five — ten — fifteen.

Kitty began to feel uneasy. What had happened to Bill Smith? Why had he not come? Had things gone wrong? She was as near to panic as ever she had been in her life with that thought.

Pink stirred.

“Bit late, ain’t he?”

“A little.”

Pink settled down into his hunched attitude once again. Five minutes more slipped into eternity.

Kitty kept control of herself. Something was wrong. Bill Smith would never have been late for this appointment — certainly not as late as this.

There was a hitch — an unforseen error — a slip — somewhere; and, at this juncture, a slip might mean death.

“What’s Smith’s game?” demanded Pink suddenly. “Keeping me hanging about with you. What’d he want me for, anyhow?”

“He wanted to come to some arrangement over things,” said Kitty.

Pink sneered. “He’s got a hope.”

Kitty leaned forward. “Listen, Pink. I’m not in the game so far as you and Smith are concerned, so perhaps I can put it better than he can. If you kill him, you’ll kill yourself. You’ve got years of life before you, and Smith’s willing to admit that he owes you something. He proposes to buy you off — with two things, silence and money.”

“Silence?” repeated Pink. “What’s that mean?”

“About Bordington,” said Kitty quietly.

“Eh?” It was sharp, snapped. Pink’s face was alight, his eyes cunning. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Murder,” said Kitty composedly.

It was a tense moment. She saw Pink’s fingers involuntarily tighten on the gun. Her own hand was clutching her little pistol in the pocket at the front of her gown.

Pink took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“You do. You killed Lord Bordington.”

“That’s a blasted lie. See here! I’ll—” Pink’s voice lifted.

Kitty shook her head. “Don’t get excited. I know you did it. Smith knows you did it. We have absolute proof. So why deny it? We wish to make it a basis for bargaining, and I can’t get any farther while you keep shouting out useless denials.”

Pink’s tenseness relaxed a little. His tongue touched his lips.

“I don’t know how you found out,” he said. “Guessed, I suppose, eh? I was after Smith, curse him. I must have missed him by less than an inch. Saw his coat twitch. That fool Bordington was right in the line, and got it fair. I ducked pretty hard, you can bet.”

“Yes,” said Kitty. “And now that we quite understand that you killed Bordington, I want to say that Smith’s offer is this: He will pay you, a certain sum down — I can’t tell you how much, because he’s not here — pay your first-class passage to any distant country you wish, and keep his mouth shut about Bordington, if you call things a deal. Does it appeal to you?”

Pink gloomed a little. “I swore I’d get Smith,” he muttered. “Swore it. It was the first words I spoke when I came round.”

“Yes, but it was a long time ago,” urged Kitty. “You can view things more sensibly now. That matter between Smith and yourself can be ended better than by bullets. You’ve already killed Bordington in attempting to kill Smith. The next time you might kill yourself — at the hands of the law. Smith has only to telephone Scotland Yard, and you’ll hang.”

“I’d blow the whole game,” said Pink savagely.

“What game?” asked Kitty.

He scowled at her. “About Smith.”

“But you can prove nothing. That’s just the point. You’ll hang, and Smith will live on; whereas by taking his offer you get freedom. Now I can’t stay any longer. Am I to tell Smith that you’re considering the suggestion?”

“If you like.” Pink got up. “Where is Smith to-night?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.” There was something in Kitty’s voice which aroused suspicion in Pink’s eyes.

“You’re afraid,” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

“Well — I don’t know. He should have been here. He was anxious to be here. I can’t understand it.”