He Won't Need it Now

     Duffy said, “I hope you liked it.” He went quickly to the luggage that was piled on the floor, selected a long strap from one of the grips, and bound the first cop's arms tightly. Then he went over to Olga, picked up the wrap, and covered her with it.

     He moved silently and swiftly. All the time at the back of his brain he could see the jam he was in. He went back to the cop who was coming round. Duffy hauled him on to the settee, retrieved his gun from under the cushion, and stuck it down his waist-band. Then he slapped the cop across the face twice with his open hand.

     The cop opened his eyes, gave a grunt, and then tried to sit up. Duffy said, “Who's behind this frame-up?”

     The cop glared, but didn't say anything.

     Duffy drew his gun and put it close to the cop's face. “I'm in a hurry,” he said, his eyes like chips of ice. “Spill it quick, or I'll hook your eyes out with this gun-sight.”

     The cop suddenly went limp and began to sweat. He mumbled, “Miss English tipped us off. She gave us a nice slice to knock you, resisting arrest. We've worked for her before.”

     Duffy said, “Her father in this racket?”

     The cop shook his head. “He don't know nothing.”

     Duffy went over to Gus, turned him over with his foot, searched in his pockets, and found the roll of notes. He counted them carefully. Then he looked up. “There's ten grand here,” he said. “Was that your cut?”

     The cop shook his head. “That was evidence against you,” he said. “That dame sure wants you out of the way.”

     In the street, Duffy heard a car draw up. He ran to the window in time to see four uniformed police officers tumbling out. Two quick steps took him to the door. Then he slid down the flight of stairs, darted into the kitchen as the front door burst open. Quietly, he let himself out the back door. He could hear the cop upstairs yelling his head off. He told himself that he'd got to make the Buick. He ran round the small garden, paused when he reached the front, and peered carefully round the corner of the house. He could see the police car, and a little way further on was the Buick. He ran hard, not caring how much noise he made. As he reached the Buick and pulled open the heavy door he heard a shout, but he didn't stop. He scrambled into the car, swearing softly and continuously. The cold sweat ran down his face, and he expected to feel the jagged pain of a hot slug smash into him. As he slammed the door to, a gun roared from the bedroom window.

     He started the engine, revved hard, engaged his gear, and shot the Buick down the road. He heard three distinct thuds on the back of the car before he jerked round the corner.

     He said, “It's going to be a grand finish.” And his face stiffened into a hard mask as he swung the quivering car to the bends.

CHAPTER XII

     ROSS WAS HAVING a snack when Duffy drove in. He waddled out of the office, his little mouth tight with food. He nodded at Duffy, gulped, then said, “Anything wrong?”

     Ross always expected trouble. Duffy got out of the car and said, “The wagon's hot. Gimme new plates.”

     For his size, Ross moved amazingly quickly. He went back to the office, and returned with a new set of plates. Duffy helped him change them. Ross said, “You jammed?”

     “Listen, pal, ask nothing and hear nothing. I'm buying this box. Maybe, you won't see me any more.”

     Ross raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his enormous buttocks. “Okay,” he said, “keep her you've looked after me before now.”

     Duffy took out the roll of notes and peeled some off. He stuck them in Ross's belt. “Buy yourself a yacht with that,” he said. Then he climbed back in the car. Ross put his head through the window. “If you want a good hide-out,” he said, “go to the Bronx on Maddiston and tell Gilroy I sent you.”

     Duffy repeated, “Bronx on Maddiston.”

     Ross took his head from the window, glanced out into the street. “It's clear, “he said. “I'm sorry about this.”

     Duffy showed his teeth. “Me too,” he said. “Others are going to share our grief.”

     He raised his hand in a salute, then rolled the Buick into the street again. He drove carefully up Lafayette Street, cut across Broadway to Washington Square and headed for Greenwich Village. He parked outside a drug store and went in.

     Several men were eating at the quick-lunch bar, and Duffy sat on an empty stool. He had a chicken sandwich. He washed it down with three quick drags from the pint flask he had taken from the car. The whisky was rough, but there was plenty of life in it. When he had finished the sandwich, he crossed over to the telephone booths and shut himself in. He dialled the Tribune number and asked for Sam. When Sam came to the 'phone, Duffy said, “Sam? Got any news?”

     Sam said in a low voice, “I gotta see you.”

     Duffy said, “Can you come out to Dinty's? I'll go straight there.”

     Sam said, “Yeah,” and hung up.