The Glass Key Page 3

  Mrs. Madvig replied: “She’s laying down. She’s not feeling good.”

  Ned Beaumont nodded, waited a moment, and asked politely: “Nothing serious?” He was looking at Madvig.

  Madvig shook his head. “Headache or something. I think the kid dances too much.”

  Mrs. Madvig said: “You certainly are a fine father not to know when your daughter has headaches.”

  Skin crinkled around Madvig’s eyes. “Now, Mom, don’t be indecent,” he said and turned to Ned Beaumont. “What’s the good word?”

  Ned Beaumont went around Mrs. Madvig to the vacant chair. He sat down and said: “Bernie Despain blew town last night with my winnings on Peggy O’Toole.”

  The blond man opened his eyes.

  Ned Beaumont said: “He left behind him twelve hundred dollars’ worth of Taylor Henry’s I O Us.”

  The blond man’s eyes jerked narrow.

  Ned Beaumont said: “Lee says he called Taylor Friday and gave him three days to make good.”

  Madvig touched his chin with the back of a hand. “Who’s Lee?”

  “Bernie’s girl.”

  “Oh.” Then, when Ned Beaumont said nothing, Madvig asked: “What’d he say he was going to do about it if Taylor didn’t come across?”

  “I didn’t hear.” Ned Beaumont put a forearm on the table and leaned over it towards the blond man. “Have me made a deputy sheriff or something, Paul.”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Madvig exclaimed, blinking. “What do you want anything like that for?”

  “It’ll make it easier for me. I’m going after this guy and having a buzzer may keep me from getting in a jam.”

  Madvig looked through worried eyes at the younger man. “What’s got you all steamed up?” he asked slowly.

  “Thirty-two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “That’s all right,” Madvig said, still speaking slowly, “but something was itching you last night before you knew you’d been welshed on.”

  Ned Beaumont moved an impatient arm. “Do you expect me to stumble over corpses without batting an eye?” he asked. “But forget that. That doesn’t count now. This does. I’ve got to get this guy. I’ve got to.” His face was pale, set hard, and his voice was desperately earnest. “Listen, Paul: it’s not only the money, though thirty-two hundred is a lot, but it would be the same if it was five bucks. I go two months without winning a bet and that gets me down. What good am I if my luck’s gone? Then I cop, or think I do, and I’m all right again. I can take my tail out from between my legs and feel that I’m a person again and not just something that’s being kicked around. The money’s important enough, but it’s not the real thing. It’s what losing and losing and losing does to me. Can you get that? It’s getting me licked. And then, when I think I’ve worn out the jinx, this guy takes a Mickey Finn on me. I can’t stand for it. If I stand for it I’m licked, my nerve’s gone. I’m not going to stand for it. I’m going after him. I’m going regardless, but you can smooth the way a lot by fixing me up.”

  Madvig put out a big open hand and roughly pushed Ned Beaumont’s drawn face. “Oh, hell, Ned!” he said, “sure I’ll fix you up. The only thing is I don’t like you getting mixed up in things, but—hell!—if it’s like that—I guess the best shot would be to make you a special investigator in the District Attorney’s office. That way you’ll be under Farr and he won’t be poking his nose in.”

  Mrs. Madvig stood up with a plate in each bony hand. “If I didn’t make a rule of not ever meddling in men’s affairs,” she said severely, “I certainly would have something to say to the pair of you, running around with the good Lord only knows what kind of monkey-business afoot that’s likely as not to get you into the Lord only knows what kind of trouble.”

  Ned Beaumont grinned until she had left the room with the plates. Then he stopped grinning and said: “Will you fix it up now so everything’ll be ready this afternoon?”

  “Sure,” Madvig agreed, rising. “I’ll phone Farr. And if there’s anything else I can do, you know.”

  Ned Beaumont said, “Sure,” and Madvig went out.

  Brown June came in and began to clear the table.

  “Is Miss Opal sleeping now, do you think?” Ned Beaumont asked.

  “No, sir, I just now took her up some tea and toast.”

  “Run up and ask her if I can pop in for a minute?”

  “Yes, sir, I sure will.”

  After the Negress had gone out, Ned Beaumont got up from the table and began to walk up and down the room. Spots of color made his lean cheeks warm just beneath his cheek-bones. He stopped walking when Madvig came in.

  “Oke,” Madvig said. “If Farr’s not in see Barbero. He’ll fix you up and you don’t have to tell him anything.”

  Ned Beaumont said, “Thanks,” and looked at the brown girl in the doorway.

  She said: “She says to come right up.”

  IX

  Opal Madvig’s room was chiefly blue. She, in a blue and silver wrapper, was propped up on pillows in her bed when Ned Beaumont came in. She was blue-eyed as her father and grandmother, long-boned as they and firm-featured, with fair pink skin still childish in texture. Her eyes were reddened now.

  She dropped a piece of toast on the tray in her lap, held her hand out to Ned Beaumont, showed him strong white teeth in a smile, and said: “Hello, Ned.” Her voice was not steady.

  He did not take her hand. He slapped the back of it lightly, said, “ ’Lo, snip,” and sat on the foot of her bed. He crossed his long legs and took a cigar from his pocket. “Smoke hurt the head?”

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  He nodded as if to himself, returned the cigar to his pocket, and dropped his careless air. He twisted himself around on the bed to look more directly at her. His eyes were humid with sympathy. His voice was husky. “I know, youngster, it’s tough.”

  She stared baby-eyed at him. “No, really, most of the headache’s gone and it wasn’t so awfully wretched anyway.” Her voice was no longer unsteady.

  He smiled at her with thinned lips and asked: “So I’m an outsider now?”

  She put a small frown between her brows. “I don’t know what you mean, Ned.”

  Hard of mouth and eye, he replied: “I mean Taylor.”

  Though the tray moved a little on her knees, nothing in her face changed. She said: “Yes, but—you know—I hadn’t seen him for months, since Dad made—”

  Ned Beaumont stood up abruptly. He said: “All right,” over his shoulder as he moved towards the door.

  The girl in the bed did not say anything.

  He went out of the room and down the stairs.

  Paul Madvig, putting on his coat in the lower hall, said: “I’ve got to go down to the office to see about those sewer-contracts. I’ll drop you at Farr’s office if you want.”

  Ned Beaumont had said, “Fine,” when Opal’s voice came to them from upstairs. “Ned, oh, Ned!”

  “Righto,” he called back and then to Madvig: “Don’t wait if you’re in a hurry.”

  Madvig looked at his watch. “I ought to run along. See you at the, Club tonight?”

  Ned Beaumont said, “Uh-huh,” and went upstairs again.

  Opal had pushed the tray down to the foot of the bed. She said: “Close the door.” When he had shut the door she moved over in bed to make a place for him to sit beside her. Then she asked: “What makes you act like that?”

  “You oughtn’t to lie to me,” he said gravely as he sat down.

  “But, Ned!” Her blue eyes tried to probe his brown ones.

  He asked: “How long since you saw Taylor?”

  “You mean to talk to?” Her face and voice were candid. “It’s been weeks and—”

  He stood up abruptly. He said, “All right,” over his shoulder while waking towards the door.

  She let him get within a step of the door before she called: “Oh, Ned, don’t make it so hard for me.”

  He turned around slowly, his face blank.

  “Aren�
��t we friends?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he replied readily without eagerness, “but it’s hard to remember it when we’re lying to each other.”

  She turned sidewise in bed, laying her cheek against the topmost pillow, and began to cry. She made no sound. Her tears fell down on the pillow and made a greyish spot there.

  He returned to the bed, sat down beside her again, and moved her head from the pillow to his shoulder.

  She cried there silently for several minutes. Then muffled words came from where her mouth was pressed against his coat: “Did-did you know I had been meeting him?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat up straight, alarmed. “Did Dad know it?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  She lowered her head to his shoulder so that her next words were muffled. “Oh, Ned, I was with him only yesterday afternoon, all afternoon!”

  He tightened his arm around her, but did not say anything.

  After another pause she asked: “Who—who do you think could have done it to him?”

  He winced.

  She raised her head suddenly. There was no weakness in her now. “Do you know, Ned?”

  He hesitated, wet his lips, mumbled: “I think I do.”

  “Who?” she asked fiercely.

  He hesitated again, evading her eyes, then put a slow question to her: “Will you promise to keep it to yourself till the time comes?”

  “Yes,” she replied quickly, but when he would have spoken she stopped him by grabbing his nearer shoulder with both hands. “Wait. I won’t promise unless you’ll promise me that they won’t get off, that they’ll be caught and punished.”

  “I can’t promise that. Nobody can.”

  She stared at him, biting her lip, then said: “All right, then, I’ll promise anyway. Who?”

  “Did he ever tell you that he owed a gambler named Bernie Despain more money than he could pay?”

  “Did—did this Despain—?”

  “I think so, but did he ever say anything to you about owing-?”

  “I knew he was in trouble. He told me that, but he didn’t say what it was except that he and his father had had a row about some money and that he was—‘desperate’ is what he said.”

  “Didn’t mention Despain?”

  “No. What was it? Why do you think this Despain did it?”

  “He had over a thousand dollars’ worth of Taylor’s I O Us and couldn’t collect. He left town last night in a hurry. The police are looking for him now.” He lowered his voice, looking a little sidewise at her. “Would you do something to help them catch and convict him?”

  “Yes. What?”

  “I mean something a bit off-color. You see, it’s going to be hard to convict him, but, if he’s guilty, would you do something that might be a little bit—well—off-color to make sure of nailing him?”

  “Anything,” she replied.

  He sighed and rubbed his lips together.

  “What is it you want done?” she asked eagerly.

  “I want you to get me one of his hats.”

  “What?”

  “I want one of Taylor’s hats,” Ned Beaumont said. His face had flushed. “Can you get me one?”

  She was bewildered. “But what for, Ned?”

  “To make sure of nailing Despain. That’s all I can tell you now. Can you get it for me or can’t you?”

  “I—I think I can, but I wish you’d—”

  “How soon?”

  “This afternoon, I think,” she said, “but I wish—”

  He interrupted her again. “You don’t want to know anything about it. The fewer know about it the better, and the same thing goes for your getting the hat.” He put his arm around her and drew her to him. “Did you really love him, snip, or was it just because your father—”

  “I did really love him,” she sobbed. “I’m pretty sure—I’m sure I did.”

  2

  THE HAT TRICK

  I

  Ned Beaumont, wearing a hat that did not quite fit him, followed the porter carrying his bags through Grand Central Terminal to a Forty-second Street exit, and thence to a maroon taxicab. He tipped the porter, climbed into the taxicab, gave its driver the name of a hotel off Broadway in the Forties, and settled back lighting a cigar. He chewed the cigar more than he smoked it as the taxicab crawled through theater-bound traffic towards Broadway.

  At Madison Avenue a green taxicab, turning against the light, ran full tilt into Ned Beaumont’s maroon one, driving it over against a car that was parked by the curb, hurling him into a corner in a shower of broken glass.

  He pulled himself upright and climbed out into the gathering crowd. He was not hurt, he said. He answered a policeman’s questions. He found the hat that did not quite fit him and put it on his head. He had his bags transferred to another taxicab, gave the hotel’s name to the second driver, and huddled back in a corner, white-faced and shivering, while the ride lasted.

  When he had registered at the hotel he asked for his mail and was given two telephone-memorandum-slips and two sealed envelopes without postage stamps.

  He asked the bellboy who took him to his room to get him a pint of rye whisky. When the boy had gone he turned the key in the door and read the telephone-memoranda. Both slips were dated that day, one marked 4:50 P.M., the other 8:05 P.M. He looked at his wrist-watch. It was 8:45 P.M.

  The earlier slip read: At The Gargoyle. The later read: At Tom & Jerry’s. Will phone later. Both were signed: Jack.

  He opened one of the envelopes. It contained two sheets of paper covered by bold masculine handwriting, dated the previous day.

  She is staying at the Matin, room 1211, registered as Eileen Dale, Chicago. She did some phoning from the depot and connected with a man and girl who live E. 30th. They went to a lot of places, mostly speakies, probably hunting him, but don’t seem to have much luck. My room is 734. Man and girl named Brook.

  The sheet of paper in the other envelope, covered by the same handwriting, was dated that day.

  I saw Deward this morning, but he says he did not know Bernie was in town. Will phone later.

  Both of these messages were signed: Jack.

  Ned Beaumont washed, put on fresh linen from his bags, and was lighting a cigar when the bellboy brought him his pint of whisky. He paid the boy, got a tumbler from the bathroom, and drew a chair up to the bedroom-window. He sat there smoking, drinking, and staring down at the other side of the street until his telephone-bell rang.

  “Hello,” he said into the telephone. “Yes, Jack.… Just now.… Where?… Sure.… Sure, on my way.”

  He took another drink of whisky, put on the hat that did not quite fit him, picked up the overcoat he had dropped across a chair-back, put it on, patted one of its pockets, switched off the lights, and went out.

  It was then ten minutes past nine o’clock.

  II

  Through double swinging glazed doors under an electric sign that said Tom & Jerry’s down the front of a building within sight of Broadway, Ned Beaumont passed into a narrow corridor. A single swinging door in the corridor’s left wall let him into a small restaurant.

  A man at a corner-table stood up and raised a forefinger at him. The man was of medium height, young and dapper, with a sleek dark rather good-looking face.

  Ned Beaumont went over to him. “ ’Lo, Jack,” he said as they shook hands.

  “They’re upstairs, the girl and those Brook people,” Jack told him. “You ought to be all right sitting here with your back to the stairs. I can spot them if they go out, or him coming in, and there’s enough people in the way to keep him from making you.”

  Ned Beaumont sat down at Jack’s table. “They waiting for him?”

  Jack moved his shoulders. “I don’t know, but they’re doing some stalling about something. Want something to eat? You can’t get anything to drink downstairs here.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “I want a drink. Can’t we find a place upstairs where they won’t see us?�
��

  “It’s not a very big joint,” Jack protested. “There’s a couple of booths up there where we might be hidden from them, but if he comes in he’s likely to spot us.”

  “Let’s risk it. I want a drink and I might as well talk to him right here if he does show up.”

  Jack looked curiously at Ned Beaumont, then turned his eyes away and said: “You’re the boss. I’ll see if one of the booths is empty.” He hesitated, moved his shoulders again, and left the table.

  Ned Beaumont twisted himself around in his chair to watch the dapper young man go back to the stairs and mount them. He watched the foot of the stairs until the young man came down again. From the second step Jack beckoned. He said, when Ned Beaumont had joined him there: “The best of them’s empty and her back’s this way, so you can get a slant at the Brooks as you go over.”

  They went upstairs. The booths—tables and benches set within breast-high wooden stalls—were to the right of the stairhead. They had to turn and look through a wide arch and down past the bar to see into the second-floor dining-room.

  Ned Beaumont’s eyes focused on the back of Lee Wilshire in sleeveless fawn gown and brown hat. Her brown fur coat was hanging over the back of her chair. He looked at her companions. At her left was a hawk-nosed long-chinned pale man, a predatory animal of forty or so. Facing her sat a softly fleshed red-haired girl with eyes set far apart. She was laughing.

  Ned Beaumont followed Jack to their stall. They sat down with the table between them. Ned Beaumont sat with his back to the dining-room, close to the end of his bench to take full advantage of the wooden wing’s shelter. He took off his hat, but not his overcoat.

  A waiter came. Ned Beaumont said: “Rye.” Jack said: “Rickey.”

  Jack opened a package of cigarettes, took one out, and, staring at it, said: “It’s your game and I’m working for you, but this isn’t a hell of a good spot to go up against him if he’s got friends here.”

  “Has he?”

  Jack put the cigarette in a corner of his mouth so it moved batonwise with his words. “If they’re waiting here for him, it might be one of his hang-outs.”