12 Chinks and A Woman (17 page)

     Scalfoni came running up. “They're fillin',” he said. “Suppose I toss in a few bombs to make sure.”
     Fenner said, “Why not?”
     A few minutes later the shattering roar of the bombs exploding filled the silent harbor, and clouds of dense black smoke drifted from the boats.
     Fenner said to Miller, “Come on, punk, you're going for a ride.” He had to shove Miller in front of him at the end of the Thompson. Miller was so terrified that he could hardly walk. He kept on mumbling, “Don't give it to me. I want to live, mister, I want to live.”
     The others were already in the boat waiting for them.
     When they got on board, Schaife started the engine. “Gee!” he said. This is the grandest night's work I've ever done. I never thought we'd get away with it.”
     Fenner groped for a cigarette and lit it. “The fun'll start as soon as Carlos hears about it,” he remarked. “I said shock tactics would succeed and they have. Now Carlos knows what he's up against, the rest isn't going to be so easy.”
     They ran the boat round the island and signaled to Kemerinski, who started up his boat and joined them outside the harbor. They all got into Kemerinski's boat, Alex dragging Miller along with him. Scalfoni was the last to leave and, before he did so, he opened the cocks and scuttled the boat.
     As he climbed on board Kemerinski's boat he said, “I guess it's tough sinkin' these boats. I could have done with one of them myself.”
     Fenner said, “I thought of that, but Carlos still has a fair size gang, an' he'd have got them back. This is the only way.”
     As Kemerinski headed the boat out to sea he wanted to know what had happened. “I heard the uproar,” he said excitedly. “It certainly got the village steamed up. They guessed what was goin' on, and no one had the guts to go an' watch the fun.”
     Fenner said to Alex, “Bring the punk into the cabin. I want to talk to him.”
     Alex said, “Sure,” and brought Miller down into the small brightly lit cabin.
     Miller stood shivering, staring at Fenner with bloodshot eyes.
     Fenner said, “Here's your chance, canary. You talk and you'll survive. Where can I find Thayler?”
     Miller shook his head. “I don't know,” he mumbled. “I swear I don't know.”
     Fenner looked at Alex. “He don't know,” he said.
     Alex swung his fist hard into Miller's face. There was the faint sound of his arm in flight, then a thud as his fist crushed Miller's face.
     Miller reeled back against the cabin wall, putting his hands to his face.
     “Where's Thayler?”
     “I swear I don't know. If I knew I'd tell you. Honest to God, I don't know. . . .”
     Alex went over to him and pulled his hands away from his face. Blood ran down from his nose and his top lip was split, showing a long yellow tooth. Alex hit him again. He hit him very hard, so that he grunted as he drove the punch home.
     Miller's knees went and he slid down the wall and sat on the floor.
     Fenner repeated coldly, “Where's Thayler?”
     Miller sobbed, and mumbled something. Fenner said, “Okay, leave him to me.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out his gun. He walked over to Miller and bent over him. “Get up,” he said harshly. “I'm not making a mess inside here. Come on up on deck.”
     Miller looked into the gun barrel, his eyes bulging, then he said in a low, even voice, exhausted with terror, “He's over at the Leadler dame's joint.”
     Fenner remained squatting. He was very still. “How did he know about it?” he said at last.
     Miller leaned his head against the wall. Blood continued to drip from nose and his eyes never left the gun. “Bugsey phoned him,” he whispered.
     “Bugsey?
     “Yeah.”
     Fenner drew a deep breath. “How do you know this?”
     With Miller, fear had worn itself out, leaving him with the calmness of death. He said as if he was very tired, “I was just goin' over when you arrived. Thayler phoned me. He said Bugsey had got him on the phone and told him where the Leadler dame was hiding. Thayler said for me to come and he was gettin' Nightingale too.”
     Fenner straightened and ran to the cabin door. He shouted to Kemerinski, “Push your tub. We've got to get back fast.”
     Kemerinski said, “She can't do any more. She'll bust.
     “Then bust her,” Fenner said. “I want more speed.”
      
     When the boat slid into Key West harbor Fenner said, “Alex, you take this Miller to Noolen. Tell him to hide him until I give the word, then I'll hand him over to the cops.” Alex said, “Hell! Suppose we bump him an' shove him into the drink?” Fenner's eyes snapped. “Do what I say.”
     Schaife was already making the boat fast. They all crowded off the boat. Then Fenner saw the sedan parked in the shadow. He yelled, “Get down— look out!” and flung himself flat.
     Out of the side window of the car came gunfire. Fenner had his gun out and fired three times. The others had fallen flat except Miller, who was apparently too dazed to do anything. A stream of bullets from the sedan cut across his chest and he crumpled up soundlessly.
     Scalfoni suddenly got to his feet, ran a little way towards the car and tossed his last bomb. Even as the bomb left his hand, he clawed at his throat and went over solidly. The bomb, falling short, exploded violently and rocked the car over on its side.
     Fenner scrambled to his feet yelling like a madman and rushed across the street firing from his hip. Three men crawled out of the car. One of them fumbled with a Thompson. They all seemed dazed with the concussion. Fenner fired at the man with the Thompson, who pitched forward on his face. Schaife came blundering up, charged one of the remaining men and went over with him, hammering at his head with his gun butt.
     The remaining man twisted aside and fired point blank at Fenner, who hardly noticed the streak of blood that appeared suddenly in the middle of his right cheek. He kicked the man's legs from under him, stamped on his wrist so that his gun fell from his hand, and then leaned over him, clubbing him senseless with his gun butt. As he straightened up another car came round the corner and charged down. Out of it, gunfire.
     Fenner thought, “This is the bunk.” He zig-zagged behind the overturned sedan. Bullets chipped the street at his feet. Schaife, trying to get under cover, gave a croaking yell and began to walk in circles. More gunfire from the car, and down he went.
     From behind the sedan Fenner fired four shots at the other car, then he glanced round to see who was left. Alex and Kemerinski had got back to the boat. Even as he looked, Kemerinski opened up with the Thompson. The night was suddenly alive with gun flashes and noise.
     Fenner thought that it was time he got moving. Alex and Kemerinski in their position could take care of any number of hoods. He wanted to get to the bungalow. He waited his opportunity, then, keeping the overturned car between him and the line of fire, he backed away quickly and ducked down the nearest alley. ,
     In the distance he could hear the sound of police whistles and he dodged down another alley away from the approaching sound. He was too busy to risk getting hauled in by the cops.
     A taxi crawled past the alleyway as he emerged into the main street. Running forward, Fenner signaled the driver, who crowded on brakes. Fenner jerked open the door, giving the driver the bungalow address. “Make it fast, buddy,” he said. “I mean fast.”
     The driver engaged his gears and the taxi shot away. “What's breaking around here?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road. “Sounds like a battle going on.”
     “Sure,” Fenner said, leaning back, “battle's the right word.”
     The driver leaned his head out of the cab and spat. “I'm glad I'm going the other way. It sounds kind of dangerous around here.”
     Fenner didn't let the driver take him right to the bungalow. He got him to stop at the corner of the road; then he ran fast down towards the bungalow. Lights were showing in the front rooms, and as he walked up the short circular drive he saw someone come away from the front door. He put his, hand inside his coat and loosened his gun from its shoulder holster.
     A boy with a peaked cap paused at the sound of Fenner's approach, and then came towards him. He was a messenger. He said, “You ain't Mr. D. Fenner?”
     Fenner said, “Sure. Got a telegram for me?”
     The boy gave him an envelope and his book. While Fenner scratched his initials, the boy said, “Been ringin' for quite a while. The lights are on, but no one's at home.”
     Fenner gave him a quarter. “That's how we fool burglars, son, he said, and went on up to the house. He shoved the telegram into his pocket and tried the front door, opened it and stepped inside.
     In the front sitting-room Bugsey lay on the carpet, a small pool of blackish blood making a circle round his head. His gooseberry eyes were half shut and stared sightlessly at Fenner. His mouth puckered, showing his yellow teeth in a frightened, whimpering snarl.
     Fenner stood looking. He could do nothing. Bugsey was dead all right. Fenner pulled his gun out and walked slowly into the hall. He stood listening then he went into the bedroom. Thayler sat in the small tub chair, a look of startled surprise on his face. A little congealed blood traced its way from his mouth to his shirt front. His eyes were blank and fixed.
     Fenner said aloud, “Well, well,” and then he looked round the room. It was easy to see what had happened. Thayler had been sitting facing the door. Possibly he'd been talking to Glorie. Then someone Thayler knew walked in. Thayler must have looked up, seen who it was, not taken fright, and then that someone had shot him through his chest.
     Fenner went over to him and touched his hand. It was growing cold, but there was still a little warmth in it.
     A chair grated as if someone had eased it back. The sound came from the kitchen. Fenner stood very still, listening. The chair grated again. Fenner stepped to the door and peered out. Then, moving very silently, he entered the kitchen, holding his gun forward.
     Nightingale stood holding on to the back of a kitchen chair. He held a blunt nose automatic in his hand, but when he recognized Fenner his hand dropped limply to his side.
     Fenner said, “Hurt?” There was something about the way Nightingale was holding himself that made him ask the question.
     “I got 'em all in my belly,” Nightingale said slowly. He began to work his way round the chair, and when Fenner came over to help him, he said a little feverishly, “Don't touch me.” Fenner stood back and watched him maneuver himself down into the chair. When he finally sat, sweat ran down his face.
     Fenner said, “Take it easy. I'll get a croaker.”
     Nightingale shook his head. “I got to talk,” he said hurriedly. “No croaker can give me a new belly.” He bent forward slowly, pressing his forearms against his lower body.
     “What happened?”
     “I shot Thayler, and that rat Bugsey got me. I thought I could trust him. He put five slugs into me before I could shoot him. Then I fixed him all right.”
     Fenner said, “Why kill Thayler?”
     Nightingale stared dully at the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was very thick. “They killed Curly. That settled it. I wanted to get Carlos, too, but I guess I shan't now.”
     “They killed her because you and she got me out of the fix.”
     “Yeah, but Thayler always wanted her out of the way. She knew too much. She and me, we knew too much. We knew about you.” A little red puddle began to form under his chair. Fenner could see the blood drop very slowly and steadily like a leaky tap. “That bitch Glorie was at the bottom of everything. She and her Chinaman.”
     “What Chinaman?” Fenner asked softly.
     “Chang. The guy they planted in your office.”
     “You knew about that?”
     Nightingale shut his eyes. He pressed his arms against his belly much harder. It was only by doing that, and by bending well forward, that he kept himself from falling apart. He said at last, in a faint, strangled voice, “Yeah, I knew about it. Carlos found out about the Chink. Glorie was cheating with him. When Thayler took her to New York for a trip, Chang went along too. That Chink did jobs for Carlos. Carlos thought he was fooling around with Glorie, so he sent a couple of guys to watch. They found out and they killed him. It was Thayler who had him moved to your office.”
     Fenner stood very still, thinking, “Why? Why to me, for God's sake?”
     Nightingale suddenly saw the growing puddle at his feet. “That me?” he whispered. “Didn't think I had so much blood.”
     Fenner said urgently, “Why? What was his idea?”
     Nightingale shook his head. “I don't know. He'd got some deep game.” He spoke slower, taking more pains to utter each word clearly. “Something phoney happened on that New York trip. Something that started all this.”
     “Chang? Was Glorie fond of him?” Fenner thought he was seeing an end to this business.
     Nightingale shivered a little, but he wouldn't give up. Pain was eating into him and he was dying fast, but he pretended that he wasn't suffering. He wanted to show Fenner that he could take anything that was handed out without a squawk.
     Nightingale said, “She was crazy about him. He was the only man she'd ever met who could give her what she wanted. He was no use to her otherwise, she wanted that Oriental and she wanted dough. So she cheated. . . .” He began to sway a little in the chair.
     “Where is she now?”
     “She took it on the lam when the shooting started. Anyway, Thayler would have given her the heat if I hadn't broken in. I wish now . . . that ... I'd've waited . .. . before I shot him.”
     Fenner was too late to catch him. He rolled off the chair on to the floor.
     Fenner knelt down and lifted his head. “Crotti's a good guy,” Nightingale said faintly. “You tell him I stood by you. That'll make things . . . even.” He peered up at Fenner through his thick lenses, tried to say something and couldn't quite make it.
     Fenner said, “I'll tell him. You've been a good guy to me.”
     Nightingale whispered, “Get after . . . Carlos. He's got a dive . . . back of Whiskey Joe's. ...”
     He grinned at Fenner, then his face tightened and he died.
     Fenner laid his head gently on the floor and stood up. He wiped off his hands with his handkerchief, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Just Carlos now he told himself, then maybe he'd get through with this business. As he put his handkerchief away, he found the telegram. He pulled it out of his pocket and ripped the envelope. It ran: