He Won't Need it Now

• PART ONE. IT BEGINS
  
• CHAPTER I
  
• CHAPTER II
  
• CHAPTER III
  
• CHAPTER IV
  
• CHAPTER V
  
• CHAPTER VI
  
• CHAPTER VII
  
• CHAPTER VIII
  
• PART TWO. IT FINISHES
  
• CHAPTER IX
  
• CHAPTER X
  
• CHAPTER XI
  
• CHAPTER XII
  
• CHAPTER XIII
  
• CHAPTER XIV
  
• CHAPTER XV
  
• CHAPTER XVI
  
• CHAPTER XVII
  

     
     THE LOUNGE of the Princess Hotel was crowded with stragglers, filling in time before going in to dine. At the far end of the room., waiters hovered at the open doors of the restaurant, waiting patiently for someone to come on in and eat. It was just after seven o'clock, and the room was seething with movement as people pushed past small tables to greet friends, or shouted across, whichever way they felt.
     William Duffy sat in a corner, drinking a Bacardi Crusta. The table before him held a number of bottles. The barman was a friend of his and let him mix his own drinks. There was a scowl on his face and he hadn't removed his hat. He just sat there drinking and smoking and scowling. Looking up suddenly, he saw Sam McGuire of the
Tribune
crawling by, muttering apologies as he lurched into small tables. Duffy reached out and touched Sam's cuff. Sam stopped at once.
     “My God!” he said, “I'm goin' blind or somethin'.”
     “You ain't doing so badly,” Duffy said, looking him over. “You ain't quite blind, but you're getting on.”
     McGuire hooked a chair with the toe of his shoe and pulled it towards him. He folded himself down and grinned.
     “You goin' on a bender?” he asked with interest, looking at the collection of bottles before him.
     Duffy signalled the barman, who brought another glass. The barman looked the two of them over with a practised eye. “Ain't goin' to overdo it, are yuh?” he asked in a pleading voice.
     “Okay, don't you worry about us,” Duffy said, picking up the rum and pouring it into the shaker.
     “I hope not, boss,” the barman took another long look and went back to his counter.
     “Poor old George,” Sam sighed, “he's forgotten us since he's moved in with the Big Shots. Listen Bill, make that a strong one. I guess I'm just about all in. If you notice a funny smell in a minute, go away, I shall've died on you.”
     Carefully Duffy added the absinthe, squeezed a lime and spooned in some sugar. He chased some crushed ice round with the tongs before getting a grip, then he sealed the shaker and went to work.
     McGuire lit a cigarette and pushed his hat on to the bridge of his nose. He looked at Duffy carefully while he handled the shaker. Duffy met his eye and grinned. “Go on, I know what you're going to say.”
     “It ain't true, is it?”.
     Duffy nodded his head and poured the shaker's contents into the two glasses. McGuire took his in his hand and rested his nose on the rim of the glass.
     “Mi Gawd!” he said, “you mean old Sourpuss has tossed you out?”
     “Yeah, just like that.”
     Sam sat back and groaned. “What the hell——?”
     “Listen,” Duffy said, “Arkwright and me have been hating each other's guts for a long time. I never gave him a chance to bat me. Today I did. He'd been waiting for the chance and he grabbed it with two hands like a starving man would grab a dollar lunch. O boy! Did it make him feel good! He tossed me out so quickly, I'm still dizzy in the head.”
     “But why, for the love of Mike?”
     “I was young and innocent and you know how these things go. I didn't think he was that sort of a boy, and look, mother, what's happened now.”
     “Skip the comedy.” Sam was sitting up with a fierce look on his broad face. “Did you slip up on somethin'.?”
     “You know me, I don't slip on anything. Anyway, if I do, I cover it up all right. This was a frame. That heel Arkwright has been angling for an interview with Bernstein for weeks, and at last he got it. You know how difficult Bernstein can be. He said that art was out. Mind you, with a mug like that Yid's got on him, I ain't surprised he was a bit touchy Anyway, Arkwright kept right at him until he gave way. I was sent along to get the pictures. I reckoned I had a nice set until I got 'em in the bath, then Mrs. Duffy's son had a shock. Those goddam' plates were fogged, the whole lousy lot. Sabotage, that's what it was. Some smart guy'd tampered with the stock. I tested the remaining plates and they were all duds.” He paused for a pull at his glass. Sam said nothing. His face was flushed and his foot tapped against the leg of the table. Duffy knew he was getting mad. “Well, I explained to Sourpuss and do you think he'd believe me? Not likely! We exchanged a few words, and I guess I got tough, so he ran me inside and they ran me outside.”
     Sam helped himself to another Bacardi Crusta.
     “This may put you in a spot,” he said thoughtfully. “That punk's got the ear of most Art Editors in town.”
     “Sure, I know. Unreliable, fell down on a scoop!”
     Duffy finished his drink and began to mix more Bacardis. “What the hell,” he went on, “it's my funeral anyway. Come on in and feed with me.”
     Sam climbed to his feet. He looked worried. “Ain't possible, soldier,” he said. “I've got to get back and put in some more sweat. Come over in the morning, will you? Alice's goin' to be sore about this.”
     Duffy nodded his head. “I'll be over. Tell Alice not to lose any sleep. I'll get somethin'.”
     “Sure.” Sam clouted Duffy on the back, nearly jerking the shaker out of his hands. “Keep 'em bouncin', brother, keep 'em bouncin'.”
     When he had gone, Duffy finished the last of the Bacardis and, feeling pleasantly drunk, sat back and considered his future with optimism. He glanced over to the far end of the room at the fat man who had been watching him all the evening. You can't go two hours or so with someone's eyes shifting all over your face without feeling it, and Duffy had been vaguely aware of intense scrutiny ever since the fat man had come in.
     Feeling more interested now, he wondered indifferently who he was. In the past, he might have been unusually striking, but he had let himself go and he was running to fat in a big way. He had broad lumpy shoulders that might easily have carried a nasty punch, but he was getting thick in the middle, which told Duffy all he wanted to know. His face was big and fat, and his mouth turned down at the corners, giving him a dismal sneering look. His little eyes were restless and shifted about like black beads.
     Duffy guessed he was on the wrong side of forty-five. He had dough all right. Not only were his clothes good, but they were cut right and he wore them right. There was an air of confidence that money brings; the look that tells you that the bank balance's fat.
     Getting to his feet, Duffy began an unsteady journey to the restaurant, and he purposely made a detour so that he would pass the fat man's table. As he reached the table, the fat man climbed to his feet and stood waiting. Duffy stopped and looked him over. At close quarters he liked him a lot less.
     “I'm Daniel Morgan,” the fat man said as if he were saying Rockefeller instead of Morgan. “Mr. Duffy?”
     Duffy squinted at him, astonished. “Sure,” he said.
     “Mr. Duffy, I want to talk to you. Will you dine with me?”
     Duffy raised his eyebrows. He told himself that he wasn't spending his money, so he said that it was okay with him. Morgan led the way into the restaurant, and Duffy thought his guess that Morgan's wallet was well lined was a good one. He could tell by the way the waiters fawned on the fat man. He got a table in a corner, pretty secluded, and sat down. Duffy took a chair opposite him. Three waiters came bowing round them, and the wine waiter hovered outside the fringe. The
maitre d'hotel
came up smoothly as if he had been drawn along on wheels, and the other wops grouped themselves in a line at the back. Royal stuff, but even then Morgan wasn't satisfied. He wanted the chef. Well, of course he got the chef.
     You either get a big kick out of tossing your weight around like that, or else you feel all hands and feet. Duffy felt all hands and feet.
     The chef and Morgan got into a huddle with the bill of fare. He didn't ask Duffy what he wanted and Duffy was glad of that. He just kept talking in his deep harsh voice and the chef squeaked back at him in broken English until they had put a meal together that seemed to satisfy him. After they had done that, they got some elbow-room. Then Morgan remembered that Duffy was sitting opposite him.
     “You'll excuse me for not asking you what you would like, but on these occasions I feel the choice of a good meal lies in the hands of the chef rather than in the hands of the diner. Consult the chef and you put him on his mettle. I think you will be satisfied.”
     Duffy shrugged. He began to want another drink.
     “I should like to confirm a few details,” Morgan went on; “forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but my questions will eventually be to your advantage, so I must ask for your patience.”
     This long-winded stuff gave Duffy a pain, but he hadn't had oysters for a couple of years, so he let himself go with them.
     Morgan didn't seem to expect an answer, but went straight on. “I believe you resigned from the
Tribune
this afternoon?” he said casually.
     Duffy grinned. “You're partly right there,” he said. “I didn't resign, I was tossed out.”
     “Arkwright is a difficult man.”
     This bird seemed to know all the answers. Duffy laid his oyster-fork on the plate and looked regretfully at the glistening shells. “So what?” he said.
     “You may find it difficult to get a job again.”
     The soup and the sherry turned up then. Duffy looked at the sherry and then at Morgan. Morgan got it all right. “Perhaps you would prefer Scotch?” he asked.
     “These sissy drinks upset my guts,” Duffy said, apologetically.
     The wine waiter was called and a bottle of Scotch materialized. Duffy felt he could cope with anything with that at his elbow. He gave himself a generous shot and dived into his soup again.
     “As I was saying...” Morgan began.
     Duffy raised his head. His eyes were hard. “You seem to know a hell of a lot,” he said sharply, “who told you——?”
     Morgan waved his hand. “Please,” he said, “let me continue. I was saying, you will find another job difficult to get.”
     Duffy laid his spoon down with a sharp clatter. “You know, pal,” he said, “a guy with my experience seldom stands in the bread-line. I've got a swell equipment, I know my job, and if the worst comes, I could set up a studio. I guess you're being mighty pleasant with your sympathy, but I ain't worryin' and I'd hate to have you worry for me.”
     “I'm quite sure,” Morgan said, rather hastily, “you'll get along all right, but I have a proposition that might be extremely useful to help you start that studio.”
     “What is it?”
     “Before we come to that, I wonder if you would enlighten me on a few technical points of your work?”
     “Sure.” Duffy was getting bored with all this. “What'd you want to know?”
     “Would it be possible to get pictures of a person who is unaware of you, in ordinary lighting, in an ordinary room, who probably would be moving about. I want good pictures, not just anything.”
     “It depends a lot on the room,” Duffy said, pouring some more Scotch in his glass and forgetting to put the water in after it. “I wouldn't like to say without seeing the room. It depends so much on the walls, if they reflect the light. If you don't want real art, I could get you pictures all right. Pictures that would reproduce.”
     “You could do that?”
     “Yeah, that wouldn't be so hard.”
     Morgan seemed satisfied with that and went off on another long-winded ramble about nothing at all. They went through the dinner without getting anywhere, and Duffy guessed Morgan was stalling until he had finished the meal. He was right, for when the coffee was served, Morgan lit a cigar for Duffy and one for himself and got down to business.
     “This is a delicate situation,” he said, pursing his thick lips, and letting the heavy smoke slide, almost hiding his face. “I don't want you to know too much about it. The less you know the better for both of us. My wife's being blackmailed and I want to help her out.”
     Duffy grunted. He was surprised, but then you never knew what was coming to you, he told himself.
     “Unfortunately my wife and I don't get on as well as we might.” Morgan fidgeted a little with his liqueur glass. “We don't live together. However, that does not concern you. She is being blackmailed and I'm going to put a stop to it. She won't come to me for help, but that does not alter the situation. I want to catch this blackmailer with the goods. This is where you come in. I want you to get pictures of her giving this crook money, then I can crack down on him. It is no use trying to co-operate with Mrs. Morgan, she wouldn't want me to help her. I can get you into her apartment and you must do the rest. I shall pay you well.”
     Duffy didn't like this. He thought there was a phoney smell that went with it. He shifted in his chair.
     “This sounds like a job for a private dick,” he said, without any enthusiasm.
     Morgan seemed to expect opposition. “I want pictures,” he said with emphasis. “To get them, I must employ an expert. You'll be wanting money pretty soon, and you're an expert. I think it fits, don't you?”
     Duffy told himself that if he was going to pull this job, the dough had to be right.
     “Now as to terms.” Morgan spread his big hands on the table-cloth and looked at them. “I will give you five hundred dollars down, and a thousand dollars for every good picture you turn in.”
     Duffy got his nerve back with a long drink. He was getting pretty high by this time, but he was still cautious. “You must want those pictures mighty bad,” he said, thinking that he could do himself well with fifteen hundred bucks.
     “I do,” Morgan said. “I want them fast too. Will you do it?”
     Duffy waved a hand. “Take it easy,” he said, “you're rushing me. I want to get this straight. You want me to go to your wife's apartment and take pictures of her and someone else and turn these pictures over to you, that right?”
     Morgan was getting impatient, Duffy could see that, but he held himself in with an effort. “That's right,” he said.
     “What happens if she spots me and sends out the riot call?”
     “She won't spot you,” Morgan said shortly. “Let me give you the idea. She is crazy about music and she's rich enough to indulge herself. In her sitting-room she has a small organ loft. This loft's a kind of balcony about ten feet from the floor, looking into the room. It's reached by a special staircase and there is a back entrance to the staircase.”
     Duffy reached for the Scotch, but Morgan put his hand on the bottle. “Don't you think...?” he began, but Duffy took his hand away. He just lifted the fat man's hand and flung it back at him. His eyes looked annoyed.