He Won't Need it Now

     He went over to the garage, got into the Buick and drove over to Annabel's apartment. He parked up a side street and walked back. At the entrance to the organ loft, he paused At the corner he could see a flat cap, standing under a street light. He turned quickly and walked once more back to the Buick. He got in and sat there, watching the cop. The rain had ceased, but the pavements were still wet and shiny in the street lights. The cop moved on after a bit, and Duffy went back to the entrance. He opened the door with the key he still had with him, and silently went up the stairs.

     When he got into the loft, he saw Gleason sitting in the room below, nursing an automatic. Sinking on his knee, so that his head did not appear over the balcony, he watched Gleason for several minutes. Then he said in a hard voice: “Put your rod on the floor, or you'll get it.”

     Gleason started, hastily put the gun at his feet, and looked up.

     Duffy stood up and leant over the rail. He kept the Colt steady. “Where's Annabel?” he asked.

     Gleason said in a dry, strangled voice, “She ain't in.”

     Duffy swung his legs over the balcony and sat there. “I'm coming down,” he said. “Don't start anything. I'm itching to blast you.”

     He pushed himself off, breaking his fall with one hand. Gleason's face was a little drawn. He kept both hands folded in his lap.

     Duffy walked over and sat on the edge of the table. He held the Colt down by his side. He reached out a foot and kicked Gleason's gun under a chair, away from Gleason. He said, “I gotta lot to talk to you about.”

     Gleason looked at him, twitched his mouth a little, but said nothing.

     Duffy said, “You've double-crossed me once. You've pulled a fast one at my joint, and another at the Villa. You tried to slap a murder rap on me. Well, you've had fun. Now I'm going to have some.”

     Gleason said in a thin voice, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

     His race was so blank that Duffy stopped talking and stared at him. “Okay, you don't know anything about it,” he said. “What do you know?”

     “I'm dealing it off the top deck,” Gleason said. “I want the book, you got it, and I'm paying for it. I went to the 'Red Ribbon' with the dough as arranged, but you didn't show up. I came back here and you 'phoned. That's all.”

     Duffy rubbed the short hairs on his nape with the flat of his hand. Then he said, “Who killed Weidmer?”

     Gleason shifted his eyes. “That doesn't get you anywhere.”

     “You're wrong. Who killed him? Come on! If you know you'll let yourself out of this.” Gleason said, “But, I don't know.”

     Duffy raised the Colt. “This is my first killing.” He spoke very harshly. His face had gone oyster colour. Two thin lines ran down the sides of his mouth. “I hope I do it right.”

     Gleason's skin went a little yellow, and he opened his eyes very wide. He said, running all his words together, “It was that damned little judy.”

     Duffy pushed his hat to the back of his head. His face glistened in the diffused light. “You damned louse,” he said, “you nearly made me kill you.”

     Gleason lay back in the chair. He looked bad.

     Duffy said, “What's this dame to you?”

     “She's my wife.” Gleason put his hands on his coat lapels to stop them from shaking. “I wish to God I'd never seen her.”

     “So that's it, is it? She killed Cattley and Weidmer and Olga?”

     Gleason shifted. “Who's this Olga you keep bringing up?”

     “Never mind.” Duffy got to his feet. “You ought to watch that dame, she's dangerous.”

     Gleason tried to cross his legs, but couldn't quite make it. He stared down at the carpet. “She's hop screwy,” he said. “I can't shake her. She'd stick a knife into me.”

     “How much jack have you got?”

     Gleason looked up sharply. “You said fifty grand. I got twenty-five here.” He took a long sealed envelope from his inside pocket and laid it on the table.

     Duffy looked at the seal, then he said, “Open it.”

     Gleason tried twice, but his fingers bothered him. Duffy leant over, took the envelope from him, put his gun down on the table, and tore off the end of the envelope. He shook the contents on to the table and looked at it. Then he picked up the thin sheaf of notes and put it in his pocket. He took the note-book out and tossed it into Gleason's lap.

     Gleason looked at him in complete astonishment. Duffy shook his head. “You expected a double-cross, ain't that right? I guess you ain't keeping it long.”

     Gleason thumbed through the book as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Duffy went over and picked up Gleason's gun, took out the clip and then tossed the gun back on the floor. He put his own Colt down his waist-band and adjusted the points of his vest.

     Gleason looked up at him. “This is the first level deal that's happened to me,” he said.

     Duffy's eyes were still hard. “You don't know a thing. You ain't going to keep that list long. Morgan's after it.”

     Gleason stiffened and got to his feet. “Morgan? How the hell did Morgan know?”

     Duffy shrugged. “I guess I talked too much,” he said. “Anyway, that's your funeral.”

     He walked to the door. “I gotta few things to fix, then I'm blowing.”