He Won't Need it Now

     Gleason stood in the middle of the room, the note-book in his hands, staring at the floor. Duffy took one look at him, shrugged, and opened the door. Annabel was standing there pointing a .38 at his belly.

     Duffy raised his hands just above his waist very quickly. She said, “Reach up, punk, the roof's not high enough.”

     Gleason came across quickly and jerked Duffy's gun out. Then he said in a low voice, “Walk backwards.”

     Duffy obeyed. Annabel came into the light. Her face was very pale, and it had a scraped, bony look. She looked a hundred years old, standing there hating him with her eyes. Gleason put Duffy's gun into his hip pocket and then went across to Duffy and took the sheaf of notes from him. He gave a little grin. “Too bad,” he said.

     Duffy continued to look at Annabel. He said very evenly and through his teeth, “You'd better let that heater off. I'll kill you if I get the chance.”

     She said, “Sit down.”

     Duffy sat down because he wanted to, not because she told him to. She said to Gleason, “Put the radio on.”

     Gleason looked at her, puzzled, then walked over to the radio, that was a little to the right and behind Duffy. When Gleason turned his back, Duffy saw Annabel stiffen. Her eyes seemed to film over, and her lips came off her teeth. Not understanding, he stared at her, then he suddenly guessed and gave a shout. Annabel shot at Gleason twice. The gun barked, then barked again. Gleason swung round, his face twisted, his eyes startled, unbelieving, frightened, then he crashed over, taking the radio with him.

     “Don't move,” Annabel said to Duffy, swinging the gun round to him.

     Duffy sat very still, looking at Gleason. Then he said through stiff lips, “You poor devil.”

     Annabel said, “I've been waiting a chance to get rid of that punk for some time.” She spat each word at him.

     “They'll burn you for this,” Duffy said coldly.

     “Think so?” she laughed. “Can't you see? Watch me pin it on you.”

     She went over to Gleason's gun, lying on the floor, and picked it up, Then she backed away from Duffy. “I'd like a chance of shooting you,” she said. “So start something if you're tired of life.”

     She wiped the .38 carefully on her skirt, then she tossed the gun beside Gleason. “That's your gun,” she said, covering him with Gleason's automatic.

     Duffy grinned. “So what?”

     She said, “Don't you get it? I'm going to shoot you now. The police will find you. I shot you in self-defense after you killed Gleason. Don't you think I'm cute?”

     Duffy got slowly out of his chair. “You're nutty,” he said evenly, and began to walk towards her.

     She waited until he was within two yards of her, then she pulled the trigger. Her lips were off her teeth and little white specks of foam touched her mouth. The automatic went click—click—click. Then Duffy put his hand on the automatic and jerked it out of her hand. “I took the clip out before you showed up,” he said quietly, then he smacked her across her face with his open palm as hard as he could hit her. She bounced against the wall, slid down, and rolled on her side. She began to scream in a thin reedy tone that sent hot wires into Duffy's brain.

     From the organ loft, a tight voice said, “Pipe down, he ain't hurt you. It was just a slap.”

CHAPTER XIII

     THE LITTLE GUY SAID, “How the hell does one get down from this nest?”

     Duffy looked at him, then he looked at Clive, and then he looked at Joe. Clive and Joe were carelessly holding guns. Duffy said, “You jump.” He went over to the sideboard and began to pour himself a drink.

     Annabel sat up, pressed herself against the wall, and stared up at the three in the loft.

     The little guy swung his short legs over the balcony and let himself drop. He landed on his shoulders with a thud. He sat up carefully and cursed. Then he said, “You come down, Clive; but Joe, you watch these birds and pop 'em if they get tough. You heard that, didn't you, Joe? I said pop 'em if they get tough.”

     Joe leant over the balcony and looked down. He looked a little tired. “Yeah,” he said, “I heard you. I'm watching okay.”

     Clive scrambled over the balcony, making black marks with the toes of his shoes on the wall.

     Duffy drank a little of the Scotch and felt better. He said, “You ain't met these two before, have you?” to the little guy. “The stiff over there was Murray Gleason, and the redhead sitting on the floor showing all she's got is Annabel.”

     The little guy giggled, then said, “My, my, you go places, don't you?”

     Duffy said, “Sure. Well, now you're here, what's next?”

     Clive went over to Gleason, turned him over, and searched him. He found the sheaf of notes and the little pocket-book. He came over with them to the little guy. They both examined the note-book carefully.

     Duffy lost interest in them, he went over to Annabel. He said very quietly, “When you killed Olga you started something. I'm going to pin that on to you, if it takes me a hundred years.”