12 Chinks and A Woman (3 page)

     Fenner shook his head. “I'm still playin' hunches,” he said. “Somethin' tells me that the cops are best outta this.”
     Paula glanced at the clock. It was getting on to five. “I've got some work to do,” she said. “You won't get anywhere right now.”
     Fenner said impatiently, “Stick around, stick around. Ain't you on my payroll no more?”
     Paula settled herself more comfortably. When he was like this she knew it was better to let him have his way.
     “Unless this dame contacts me, the case will peter out. I've got no lead to go on. I don't know who she is. She might come from anywhere. All I know is she's got a sister who's interested in twelve Chinamen. If the dead Chink was one of them, there are only eleven for her to be interested in now. Why did she give me all that dough, and then take it on the lam?”
     “Suppose she saw someone she knew, got scared, and lost her head?” Paula put in softly.
     Fenner thought this one over. “Did you see anyone who might have given her a scare?”
     Paula shook her head. “You know what the
Baltimore
lobby's like that time of day.”
     “It's an idea.” Fenner got up and began walking up and down the gaily patterned carpet. “If that's how it went, then we've gotta stick around this telephone for her to ring back. Maybe she won't ring, but if she does, I want to know about it quick.”
     Paula groaned.
     “Yeah, I guess you'd better run home, pack a bag an' move in. You can sleep on the lounge.”
     Paula got to her feet. “You go home and sleep in your nice warm bed, I take it?”
     “Never mind what I do. I'll let you know where you can get me.”
     Paula put on her hat and coat. “If the office downstairs knows that I'm sleepin' here, they'll begin to think things.”
     “That's all right. They know I'm particular. It won't blow into a scandal.”
     Paula swept out, shutting the door with a firm click behind her. Fenner grinned and grabbed the telephone. He dialed a number.
     “D.A. office? Give me Grosset. Tell him Fenner wants him.”
     Grosset came through after a barrage of crackles. “Hello, Fenner. You changed your mind and want to talk?”
     Fenner grinned into the receiver. “Not just yet, pal,” he said. “I want you to talk instead. This Chink you found lyin' around. Did you find anythin' on him that might help?”
     Grosset laughed. “By God, Fenner! You've got a nerve. You don't expect information from me, do you?”
     Fenner said seriously: “Listen, Grosset, this case hasn't started to break yet. I got a hunch that when it does, someone's goin' to yell murder. I want to stop it before it starts.”
     “I warn you, Fenner, if you're holding back anything it's going to be just too bad for you. If something happens that I could've stopped, and I find you knew about it, I'm going to ride you.”
     Fenner shifted in his chair. “Skip it, Jughead,” he said impatiently. “You know I'm in my rights to keep my client covered. If you like to play ball an' give me the information, I'll turn it back to you with interest if I think trouble's startin'. How's that?”
     “You're a smooth bird,” Grosset said doubtfully. “Still, what I know won't be much good. We found nothing.”
     “How did they get him in?”
     “That wasn't so difficult. They brought him in a big laundry basket, up the trade entrance, and unpacked him in an empty office before shooting him into your room.”
     “Don't try to pull that one,” Fenner said. “They didn't bring him to me. They left him in the empty office.”—Grosset made a noise like tearing calico.
     “Did anyone see the guys who brought him?”
     “No.”
     “Well, thanks, pal. I'll do the same for you one day. Nothin' else? Nothin' that seemed odd to you?”
     “Plenty that seemed odd, but nothing that adds up. The guy had his throat cut and someone sewed it up for him. That's odd. Then he'd marks all over his back as if someone had beaten him up with a whip some time. That's odd too.”
     Fenner stiffened. “What was that? Someone had beaten this Chink up?”
     “That's right. He'd got weals all over him. That mean anything to you?”
     “Not just yet, it doesn't, but it helps,” Fenner said, and hung the receiver on its prong. He sat staring at the telephone for several minutes, his face blank, and a puzzled look clouding his eyes.
     Paula, coming back a couple of hours later, found him sitting slouched in his chair, his feet on the desk, tobacco ash all over his coat, and the same puzzled look in his eyes.
     She put a small suit-case on the lounge and took off her hat and coat. “Anything break?”
     Fenner shook his head. “If it wasn't for that dead Chink, I'd write it off as easy money. Those guys wouldn't have risked carting the stiff all the way up to my office unless they were mighty anxious to get me out of the way.”
     Paula opened her case and took out a book. “I've had my dinner,” she said, sitting in the padded chair near the desk. “I'm all set. If you want to be excused, you can go.”
     Fenner nodded. He got up and brushed himself down. “Okay,” he said. “I'll be back in a little while. If she rings, tell her I want to see ,her bad. Get her address and still feed her syrup. I want to get close to that dame.”
     “I was afraid of that,” Paula murmured, but Fenner went to the door without hearing her.
     Just outside, two men, dressed in black suits, stood shoulder to shoulder. They looked like Mexicans, but they weren't. Fenner thought they were Spaniards, but then he wasn't sure. Each of them had his right, hand in the coat pocket of his tight-fitting suit. They were dressed alike: all in black, black fedoras, white shirts and dazzling ties. They looked like some turn that comes first on a vaudeville bill, only when you got a look at their eyes you began to think of snakes and things that hadn't any legs.
     Fenner said, “Want to see me?” He knew without being told that two guns were pointed at his belly. The bulge in the coat pockets couldn't lie.
     The shorter of the two said, “Yeah, we thought we'd drop in.”
     Fenner moved back into the office, Paula slid open the desk drawer and put her hand on Fenner's .38. The short guy said, “Hold it.” He talked through his teeth, and he made his message convincing.
     Paula sat back and folded her hands in her lap.
     The short man walked into the outer office and looked round. There was a puzzled expression on his face. He went over to the big cupboard where Paula kept the stationery and looked inside. Then he grunted.
     Fenner said, “If you'll care to wait, we can give you a hot meal and a bed. We like you guys to feel at home.”
     The short man picked up the heavy ash-tray that was by his hand and looked at it thoughtfully, then he smacked Fenner across his face with it very hard. Fenner dropped his head on his chest, but he didn't move quickly enough. The embossed edges of the tray caught him high up on the side of his face.
     The other man pulled out a blunt-nosed automatic from his pocket and jammed it into Paula's side. He jammed it so hard that she cried out.
     The short man said, “Start something and we'll spread the twist's guts on the mat.”
     Fenner pulled out his handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it to his face. The blood ran down his hand as he did so, and stained his shirt cuff. “Maybe we'll meet again,” he said through his teeth.
     “Back flip against the wall. I want to look this place over,” the short man said. “Get goin' before I hang another one on you.”
     Fenner suddenly recognized them as Cubans. They were the kind you ran into on the waterfront of any coast town if you go south far enough. He stood with his back to the wall, his hands raised to his shoulders. He was so furious that he'd've taken his chance and started something if Paula hadn't been there. He somehow felt that these two were just a shade too tough to take chances.
     The short Cuban ran his hands over Fenner. “Take your coat off and give it to me,” he said.
     Fenner tossed it at him. The Cuban sat on the edge of the desk and felt through the lining very carefully. He took out Fenner's note-case and examined that. Then he dropped the coat to the floor. Again he went up to Fenner and patted him all over. Fenner could smell the spiced food he had been eating recently. His fingers itched to grab this creature round the neck.
     The Cuban stepped back and grunted. He then turned his head. “You— come here.”
     Paula's mouth set in a line, but she stood up and took a step forward. “Don't put your filthy hands on me,” she said quietly.
     The Cuban said something to the other man in Spanish. The other man jerked his head at Fenner. “You come here.”
     Fenner moved across the room, and as he went past the short Cuban hit him on the back of his head with his gun butt. Fenner went down on his knees, dizzily, and fell forward on his hands. The Cuban kicked at him with his square-toed shoe, catching him where his collar ended, below his ear, in the soft part of his neck. It was a very hard kick and Fenner rolled over on his side.
     Paula opened her mouth to scream, but the other Cuban poked her with his gun barrel. Instead of screaming, she caught her breath in agony, and folded up at the knees.
     The Cuban caught her under the armpits and held her straight. The short man took hold of her dress by the bottom of the hem and peeled it over her head, entangling her arms and smothering her in it. Then he searched her, ripping her clothes when he had to. He didn't find what he was looking for, and with a vicious spurt of rage he slapped her with his open hand. The other Cuban tossed her on the lounge and then sat on the corner of the table.
     The short Cuban searched the office quickly. He didn't make any mess and he acted as if he'd done that sort of job before many times. Then he went into the outer office and searched that too.
     Fenner heard him moving about, but he couldn't get his muscles working. He tried to get up, but nothing moved at his frantic efforts. A red mist of rage and pain hung like a curtain before his eyes.
     It was only when they had gone, slamming the office door behind them, that he managed to drag himself up from the floor. He put his hand on the desk to support himself, and looked round the office wildly.
     Paula was sitting in a huddle on the lounge. She'd got her head free from her dress, and she was crying with rage. “Don't look at me, damn you!” she said. “Don't look at me!”
     Fenner lurched into the outer office and into the small washroom on the left. He ran the cold water into the hand basin and bathed his face carefully. The water was very red when he had finished. He walked a little more steadily to the wall cupboard and found a half bottle of Scotch and two glasses. He took a long drink. His head ached like hell. The Scotch burnt him, but it knitted him together. He poured another two ounces into the other glass and wandered back into the office.
     Paula had got herself straightened out. She had bundled her torn underclothes into a corner of the lounge. She was still crying quietly.
     Fenner put the Scotch on the edge of the desk, near her. “Put it down, baby,” he said. “It's what you want.”
     She looked at him and then at the Scotch. Then she reached forward and snatched up the glass. Her eyes blazed in her white face. She threw the whiskey in Fenner's face.
     Fenner stood very still, then he took out his bloodstained handkerchief and wiped his face. Paula put her face in her hands and began to cry properly. Fenner sat down behind his desk. He unpeeled his whiskey-soaked collar and dropped it into the trash basket, then he wiped his neck carefully with the handkerchief.
     They sat there for several minutes, the silence only broken by the harsh sound of Paula's sobs. Fenner felt like hell. The back of his head threatened to split open. The side of his face ached with a deadly throb, and the grazed, livid bruise on his neck smarted from the whiskey. He selected a cigarette from his case with fingers that trembled a little.
     Paula stopped crying. “So you think you're tough,” she said, without taking her head from her hands. “You think you're good, do you? You let two cheap gunmen walk in here and do this to us? My God, Dave! You're slipping. You've got soft and you've got yellow. Did you see what they did to me, while you were lying about on the floor, you sleeping beauty? I teamed up with you because I thought you could look after yourself and you could look after me, but I was wrong. You sat around and got soft . . . do you hear? You're yellow and you're soft! Then what do you do? You let them walk out of here and you crawl round to the bottle. Okay, Dave Fenner, I'm through. When I want a guy to rip my clothes off, I'll ring you up. You can hold the lamp for him.” She beat the cushions with her clenched fists and began sobbing again. Then she said, “Oh, Dave . . . Dave . . . how could you let them do that to me?”
     While she had been talking Fenner just sat there, his face wooden. His eyes were half shut, and they looked like chips of ice. He said, when she had finished, “You're right, honey. I've been sittin' around too long.” He got to his feet. “Don't run out on me now. Just take things easy for a day or so. Shut up the office. I'm goin' to be busy.” He jerked open his desk drawer, snatched up the .38, shoved it down the front of his trouser band, and adjusted the points of his vest to cover the butt. Then he walked quickly out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
      
     An hour later, changed and neat again, Fenner thumbed a cab and gave a downtown address. As he was rushed through the heavy evening traffic he sat staring woodenly before him. Only his tightly clenched fists, that lay on each knee, indicated his suppressed feelings.
     The cab swerved off Seventh Avenue and plunged into a noisy back street. A moment later it stopped, and Fenner climbed out. He tossed a dollar to the driver and picked his way across the pavement, avoiding the group of fighting kids milling around his feet.
     He ran up a long flight of worn steps and rang the bell. The door opened after a while, and an old, disreputable woman squinted at him.
     “Ike in?” he said shortly.
     “Who wants him?”
     “Tell him Fenner.”
     The old woman slid the chain on the door and pulled it open. “Careful how you go up, mister,” she said. “Ike's restless tonight.”
     Fenner pushed past her and mounted the dark stairs.
     The stench of stale cooking and dirt made him wrinkle his nose. On the first landing he rapped at a door. He heard a murmur of voices, and then a sudden hush. The door opened slowly and a slim, muscular lad with a pointed chin like a hog's looked him over.