He Won't Need it Now

     She climbed out of the bath and grabbed a bath-robe, which she hastily wrapped round herself. Her eyes were like pinpoints Duffy said, “I'll give you five minutes to fix yourself up, then come out quietly. Don't start anything I'm leaving the door open.”

     He stepped out of the bathroom backwards. A new voice said, “Drop that gun.”

     Duffy stood quite still. The voice said, “Go on, put the gun on the floor Don't turn round vet until you've got rid of the gun.”

     Duffy put the gun down carefully on the floor at his feet and turned his head. Murray Gleason was standing quite close to him. His hard grey face was cold. He held a Luger in his hand.

     Annabel said, “He knows too much.”

     Gleason nodded. “So it seems,” then he said, “hurry up and come out. I want you to help me with this bird.”

     Duffy stood there, his hands half raised, cursing himself for being so careless. The little note-book burnt in his pocket. It looked as if he were getting into a mighty tight jam.

     Gleason said, “Come away from that gun.”

     Duffy turned slowly. “You don't mind if I sit down?” he said, moving over to an arm-chair. “Something tells me that I'm going to need a little rest.”

     Gleason watched him. “Don't pull anything,” he said.

     Duffy took a cigarette from the box on the table and thumbed the table lighter. He sat down, keeping his hands on the chair arms. He thought Gleason was a trifle jumpy. There was a little twitch going on at the corner of his mouth.

     “You've pointed a gun at me before,” he said.

     “That was unfortunate. We were interrupted.” Gleason sat on the corner of the table, swinging a long thin foot.

     Annabel came out of the bathroom. She stood near Gleason. Her face was very hard, and her eyes were frightened.

     Duffy looked at her, then he said, “What now?”

     Gleason said, “I want that note-book.”

     Duffy nodded. “Sure, I can understand that. I told you before, it's in the mail.”

     Annabel said breathlessly, “He's lying.”

     Duffy shrugged. “You think so? Ask yourself, what would you do? I guessed it was important, so I put it in an envelope and posted it to an address in Canada. When I want it, I just write for it.”

     Gleason's eyes narrowed. “Maybe we could persuade you to write for it.”

     Duffy mashed the cigarette into the tray. “Meaning what?”

     “We've got ways....”

     “Be your age. You can't scare me. Do you think anything you can do to me would pry me loose from something I want? If you want to have that book, talk terms.”

     Gleason let the barrel of the Luger fall a shade. It pointed at Duffy's waistcoat.

     “How much?” he said.

     Annabel said. “You mad?”

     Gleason frowned at her. “Let me handle this.”

     Duffy studied his finger-nails. “What's it worth to you?” he said at last.

     Gleason showed his teeth in a little grin. “I'd pay five hundred dollars for it,” he said casually.

     Duffy got to his feet slowly. “Okay,” he said, “if that's all you rate it, why bother?”

     Gleason jerked up the gun. “Sit down,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh.

     Duffy just looked at him. “Wake up, louse,” he said evenly. “You've got nothing on me. That heater don't mean anything now.”

     Annabel said with a little hiss, “Shoot him low down.”

     Duffy glanced at her. “Hell,” he said. “At one time I got a kick out of looking at you, you murderous little bitch.”

     Gleason got to his feet and stood hesitating. His face was almost bewildered. Duffy said to him, “I'm on my way. When you want that note-book back, give me a ring. I'm in the book.”

     Gleason said, “Wait.”

     Duffy shook his head. He wandered to the door. “You won't get anywhere by letting the gun off. You'll never find the book without me being around.”

     Gleason's arm dropped to his side. “Well, five grand,” he said with an effort.

     Duffy shook his head, he opened the door. “Don't rush it,” he said, “take your time. Think about it. I'll wait.” He pulled the door behind him and walked to the elevator. He suddenly felt very tired and his brain refused to think. He slid the grille and stepped into the elevator and pressed the ground-floor button.

     Outside, he beckoned to a yellow cab, and in a short time he was again climbing the stairs to McGuire's apartment. He opened the door with his key and went in. The clock on the mantelpiece stood at 1.45. He tossed his hat on the sofa and wandered over to the apple-jack, that was still standing on the table. The bottle was light; it was nearly empty. He made a little face. Then he drained the bottle and put it down on the table again. He held his breath for a moment, then gently puffed out his cheeks. The stuff was good.

     He stood perfectly still and listened. The apartment was very silent, except for a faint rumbling of Sam's snores. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the fireplace, then remembering Alice, he went over and picked it up, putting it carefully in the ash-tray.

     With legs that felt rubbery with fatigue, he walked to the spare room and gently opened the door. The room was in darkness. He could hear Olga breathing softly.