The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (49 page)

“With the right referee you could,” I agreed, “but there isn’t any referee now.”

He ignored me and walked over to Milly. “Where’s the diary?” he demanded.

“I don’t know anything about it.” Milly held her head up and faced him boldly, proudly. I never saw anybody more poised. “If Cory kept a diary, she certainly never showed it to me. Why don’t you ask her?”

Altman’s face was ugly. “You tell me,” he said, “or I’ll break every bone in your body!”

“He can’t ask Cory,” I said, “because he’s murdered her.”

Altman turned on me. “Shut up, damn you!”

“Had help, I’ll bet.” I was trying to distract his attention from Milly. “Ben never saw the day he could whip a full-grown woman.”

He lashed out with a wicked left. He wasn’t thinking or reasoning, he just peeled that punch off the top of the deck and threw it at me, and I rolled my head, slipping the punch and letting it go past my ear.

“Missed,” I said. “Your timing is off, Ben.”

With a kind of whining yelp, he wheeled and grabbed a gun from a drawer and brought it up, his face white to the lips. In that instant, my life wasn’t worth the flip of a coin, but Pete grabbed him.

“Not here, Ben! These walls are almost soundproof, but they could hear a gun. Let’s get them out of here.”

Ben must have caught the expression on Milly’s face from the corners of his eyes, because he turned on her.

“Why, no, Pete.” Altman was himself again. “We’ll keep him here. I think he’ll be the way to make this babe talk. She might get very conversational when we start burning Morgan’s toes.”

Milly Casey, cute as she could be usually, looked sick and scared. “Now tell us where the diary is and we’ll let you both go.”

“Don’t tell him a thing, Milly. That diary is our ace in the hole.”

Farber gave me a disgusted look. “Shut up! Don’t you realize when you’re well off?”

“Sure, and I’d like it if Ben blew his top again and started shooting. We’d have the law all over the place in minutes, quicker than you could trip a blind man.”

Altman was mad, but he was cold mad now, and he was thinking. He had a temper, but he had more than an ounce of brains.

As for me, I was sure I had guessed right. Corabelle had been murdered, but was her murder as well covered as that of Garzo? If it had happened out of town, as seemed likely, it might not have gone off so smoothly. It was an idea. Also, two men had done the job on Garzo—which two?

As if in reply to my question, the short, dark man who had been with Altman came into the room, and I saw the side of his face. He had been one of them. Who used the knife?

Altman? That did not seem logical, as Altman was too smart to do his own work. He was a fist and gun man, not apt to use a knife. Yet the man had been tall with broad shoulders and who else fitted that but Ben?

“All right, let’s get them out of here,” Altman said changing his mind suddenly. “We’ll take them where we can do as we like. If they don’t talk, we’ll just get rid of them and hunt for the diary. After all, how many hiding places can there be?”

“It must be in the place where this babe lived,” Pete suggested.

“Now,” Ben Altman said.

“Okay, boss, with pleasure!” The blackjack sapped me behind the ear, and I went down hard. I faded and must have gone limp as a wet necktie, but I wasn’t quite out because I remember hearing them complaining about my weight.

Next I knew, I was on the floor of a car. They had their feet resting on me, and we were driving. I’d passed out again, because we were already climbing, and I thought I could smell pines. This time, they were really taking us out into the country. All that was happening was like a foggy dream through which a few rays of intelligence found their way.

When I became conscious again, I could hear a faint sound as of someone not far from me, but I kept my eyes closed. I was lying on a rough wood floor with my cheek against it.

“Leave him with the babe,” Farber was saying. “Let’s rustle some chow.”

“Is he still out cold? I haven’t looked at him.”

“He’s cold,” Pete said. “I clipped him good, and I’d been wanting to do just that.”

They went out and closed the door, and I opened my eyes to slits. They were scarcely open when hands touched me, and I let them close again, liking the hands. Very gently, I was turned over, and praise be, I’d had the sense to keep my eyes closed, for in the next minute, my head was lifted, and Milly was kissing me and calling me a poor, dear fool.

Now in one sense, the term is unflattering, but when a good-looking girl holds your head and kisses you, who is to complain? I stayed right in there, taking it very gamely, until, inspired by what was happening, I decided it was time to do something about it and responded.

Milly let out a gasp and pulled away. “Oh, you—!”

“Ssh?” I whispered. “They’ll hear you.”

“Oh, you devil! You were awake all the time!”

“Yes, thank the Lord, but Milly, if I was dead and you started fussing over me like that, I’d climb right out of the coffin!”

She was blushing, so to ease her embarrassment, I asked, “How many of them are there?”

“Two. Pete Farber and the one called Joe. They’re waiting for Ben Altman to come back. Kip, what are we going to do?”

“I wish I knew.” I sat up, and my head swam. “If we could get away from here and lay hands on that diary, Mooney could do the rest. Do you know where we are?”

A quick look around the room had indicated there was nothing there to be used as a weapon. Carefully, I got to my feet, leaning against the wall as the room seemed to spin.

We had no time. Once Altman returned, and I had no doubt he was searching Milly’s apartment for the diary, we simply would have no chance.

“Open the door and walk out there. I’ll wait by the door. You go out and turn on the charm. Tell them you’re hungry, too, and then keep out of the way.”

She went without a second’s hesitation, and as she stepped through the door, I heard her say, “What’s the matter? Do I have to starve, too? Why don’t you give a girl a break?”

“Eat!” Farber’s voice was hearty. “Sure! Come on out, babe! It may be hours before the boss gets back, and maybe we could make a deal, you an’ me.” I could imagine the smirk on his face. “I don’t think the boss is goin’ about this in the right way.”

“You’d better have a look,” Joe warned, “and see if the chump is still bye-bye.”

“You have a look,” Farber said. “When I hit ’em, they stay hit.”

Joe’s footsteps sounded, and the door opened. Joe stuck his head in, and that was all I needed. The blow landed just below and slightly behind his ear, and he started to fall. I grabbed him before he could hit the floor and threw a punch to the wind.

“How’s about it, babe?” Farber was saying. “Ben’s a tough cookie, but why should you get knocked off? You give me all the right answers and maybe we can figure out something. An’ let me tell you, kid. I’m the only chance you’ve got.”

With Joe’s necktie I bound his hands behind him and then tied his ankles with his belt. Milly was keeping Joe busy with conversation and hesitations. I stuffed a handkerchief into Joe’s mouth, and started for the door with his gun.

“Hey, Joe!” Farber yelled. “This dame’s okay! Come on out!”

Joe’s gun was on my hip, but I wasn’t thinking of using it yet. Milly was sitting on Pete’s lap and was keeping his head turned away from the door.

Something warned him, probably the extended silence. He turned his head and opened his mouth to yell. Milly was off his lap like a shot, as he lunged to his feet to meet a left hook to the teeth.

Farber was in no shape to either take it or dish it out, but he tried. He didn’t reach for a gun; he just came in throwing punches. I stabbed a left to the mouth and threw a bolo punch into his belly, and he went to his knees, but as he fell, his mouth open and gasping, I hooked again to his jaw. For an instant, I waited for him to get up, but his jaw was broken, and he was moaning. Taking the gun out of his pocket, I threw both guns into the brush as we headed for the road.

There was no car. There was a road toward the highway, but we didn’t take it. We ran into the woods at right angles to the highway, and I took the lead, running until Milly’s face was white and she was gasping.

We slowed to a walk and headed downhill in the right direction. Almost before we realized it, we reached a highway. We were lucky, the first car stopped, and one look at Milly seemed to satisfy him that we needed help.

O
NCE IN TOWN
, I put Milly in a cab to headquarters. “Tell Mooney all about it.”

“Where are you going?”

“To your place, after that diary. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

“No…I honestly did not know she kept one, although she did sit up late writing sometimes.” She paused a moment. “One thing that might help. Did you ever read Poe’s ‘The Purloined Letter’? It was one of her favorite stories. At least she spoke about it a good deal.”

A second cab got me to the apartment house. Having Milly’s key, I went right in. Nobody was there; nobody seemed to have been there. Maybe “The Purloined Letter” was a clue; the chances were that it was not. Yet I had some ideas of my own.

Corabelle Ryan had not gone to San Francisco by accident. She was hoping to get away from Altman. She did not get away, but the diary was not with her. Result: It must be where she had lived with Milly.

Wherever it was, I had very little time. From then on, things were going to move fast. Much would depend on how soon Ben found I was on the loose once again. Altman could not know what was in the diary, but he was afraid of what it might be. She might have threatened him with it for her own protection.

It was a two-bedroom apartment, with a living room, kitchenette, and bath. I recognized Milly’s room at once from some clothes I’d seen her wear and the fact that it was obviously in use. The other room did not appear to have been occupied for several days.

The bureau offered nothing a quick search could reveal. The pockets of the clothes hanging in the closet took but a minute, boxes on the shelf, under the carpet, behind pictures, the bed itself. I checked her makeup kit, obviously a spare, and one of those small black cases that for a time every showgirl or model seemed to have. Nothing there.

For thirty minutes, I worked, going over that apartment like a custom’s agent over a smuggler, and then I heard the faintest click from the lock. When I looked around, a hand was coming inside the door, and then he stepped into the room, a tall man with broad shoulders.

It was Horace, Candy Pants himself, and he held a knife low down in his right hand, cutting edge up. There was no love light in his eyes as he moved toward me.

It was like a French poodle baring his teeth to reveal fangs four inches long. From some, I might have expected it, but not from him. He did not say a word, just started across the room toward me, intent and deadly. He was unlike anyone I had ever seen before, but suddenly I got it. He was hopped up on amphetamines.

With his eyes fixed on mine, he closed in. It was like me that I did not think of the gun I carried. The drugs made him dangerous. Hopped up as he was, he could still handle a shiv, and I moved around, very cautious, studying how I’d better handle him. It was not in me to kill a man if I didn’t have to, and quite often there are other ways. His eyes were on my stomach, and that was his target. If you’re afraid of getting cut, you shouldn’t try to handle a man with a knife, just as you should lay off a fist fighter if you can’t take a punch.

Feinting, I tried to get that right hand out away from his body, but he held it close, offering me nothing. He took a step nearer, and the blade came like a striking snake; I felt the point touch my thigh. Jerking back, I swung a left that caught him alongside the head, and he almost went down.

He was catlike in his movements, and he turned to face me. His eyes had noted the blood on my leg, and he liked the sight of it. He moved closer.

He was coming for me now, and grabbing a pillow, I snapped it at his face. He ducked and lunged, and it was the chance I wanted.

Slapping his knife wrist out of line with my body, I dropped my right hand on his wrist and jerked him forward, throwing my left leg across in front of him. He spilled over it to the floor, and he hit hard. The knife slithered from his hand and slid under the bed. He struggled to get up, one of his arms hanging awkwardly—broken, I was sure.

He came up, staggering, and I threw a left into his belly. He fell near the bed, the knife almost under his hand. As I knocked it away, my shoulder hit Corabelle’s makeup kit. It crashed to the floor, scattering powder, lipstick and—

My eyes fastened on the mirror, and on a hunch, drawn by the apparent looseness of it, I ripped the mirror from its place, and there, behind it, were several sheets of paper covered with writing, possibly torn from a diary. I grabbed them and backed off.

“All right, I’ll take that!”

“You will like—!” It dawned on me that it was not Candy Pants speaking but Ben Altman, and he had a gun. The makeup kit was in my left hand, and I threw it, underhanded, at Ben; then I went for him.

The gun barked, and it would have had me for sure if I had not tripped over Candy Pants, who was trying to get up. Ben kicked at my head, but I threw myself against his anchoring leg, and he went down. We came up together and he swung the gun toward me as I came up, jamming the papers into my pocket.

By that time, I was mad. I went into him fast, the gun blasted again, and something seared the side of my neck like a red-hot iron. My left hooked for his wind, and my right hacked down at his wrist. The gun fell, and I clobbered him good with a right.

Suddenly, the apartment, the knives, guns, and Horace on the floor were forgotten. It was as if we were back in the ring again. He slipped a jab, and the right he smashed into my ribs showed me he could still hit. I belted him in the wind, hooked for the chin, and landed a right uppercut while taking a left and right. I threw a right as he ducked to come in and filled his mouth full of teeth and blood. I finished what teeth he had with a wild left hook that had everything and a prayer on it.