get an idea in their little pointed heads—you know how it is.”
“No. I’m very slow on the uptake. Tell me more.”
He smiled with his mouth; his eyes were dull yellow flint. “The point is, I like you, Lew. I get a kick out of knowing that you’re in town, in good health and all. I wouldn’t want your name to be bandied about on the long-distance telephone.”
“It’s happened before. I’m still walking around, and feeling pretty good.”
“Let’s keep it that way. I owe it to you to be frank, as one old friend to another. There’s a certain gun that would blast you in a minute if he knew what you been up to. For his own reasons he’d do it, in his own good time. And it could be he knows now. That’s a friendly warning.”
“I’ve heard friendlier. Does he have a name?”
“You’d know it, but we won’t go into that.” Frost leaned forward across the back of the chair, his fingers digging deep into the leather. “Get wise to yourself, Lew. You trying to get yourself killed and drag us down with you, or what?”
“What’s all the melodrama about? I was looking for a woman. I found her.”
“You found her? You mean you saw her—you talked to her?”
“I didn’t get to talk to her. Your goon stopped me at the door.”
“So you didn’t actually see her?”
“No,” I lied.
“You know who she is?”
“I know her name. Hester Campbell.”
“Who hired you to find her? Who’s behind this?”
“I have a client.”
“Come on now, don’t go fifth-amendment on me. Who hired you, Lew?”
I didn’t answer.
“Isobel Graff? Did she sick you onto the girl?”
“You’re way off in left field.”
“I used to play left field. Let me tell you something, just in case it’s her. She’s nothing but trouble—schizzy from way back. I could tell you things about Isobel you wouldn’t believe.”
“Try me.”
“Is she the one?”
“I don’t know the lady.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“Eagle Scout’s honor.”
“Then where’s the trouble coming from? I got to know, Lew. It’s my job to know. I got to protect the Man and the organization.”
“What do you have to protect them against?” I said experimentally. “A murder rap?”
The experiment got results. Fear crossed Leroy Frost’s face like a shadow chased by shadows. He said very mildly and reasonably: “Nobody said a word about murder, Lew. Why bring up imaginary trouble? We got enough real ones. The trouble I’m featuring just this minute is a Hollywood peeper name of Archer who is half smart and half stupid and who has been getting too big for his goddam breeches.” While he spoke, his fear was changing to malice. “You going to answer my question, Lew? I asked you who’s your principal and why.”
“Sorry.”
“You’ll be sorrier.”
He came around the chair and looked me up and down and across like a tailor measuring me for a suit of clothes. Then he turned his back on me, and flipped the switch on his intercom.
“Lashman! Come in here.”
I looked at the door. Nothing happened. Frost spoke into the intercom again, on a rising note:
“Lashman! Marfeld!”
No answer. Frost looked at me, his yellow eyes dilating.
“I wouldn’t slug a sick old man,” I said.
He said something in a guttural voice which I didn’t catch. Outside the window, like his echo vastly amplified, men began to shout. I caught some words:
“He’s comin’ your way.” And further off: “I see him.”
A pink-haired man in a dark suit ran under the window, chasing his frenzied shadow across the naked ground. Itwas George Wall. He was running poorly, floundering from side to side and almost falling. Close behind him, like a second bulkier shadow struggling to make contact with his heels, Marfeld ran. He had a gun in his hand.
Frost said: “What goes on?”
He cranked open the casement window and shouted the same question. Neither man heard him. They ran on in the dust, up Western Street, through the fake tranquillity
“No. I’m very slow on the uptake. Tell me more.”
He smiled with his mouth; his eyes were dull yellow flint. “The point is, I like you, Lew. I get a kick out of knowing that you’re in town, in good health and all. I wouldn’t want your name to be bandied about on the long-distance telephone.”
“It’s happened before. I’m still walking around, and feeling pretty good.”
“Let’s keep it that way. I owe it to you to be frank, as one old friend to another. There’s a certain gun that would blast you in a minute if he knew what you been up to. For his own reasons he’d do it, in his own good time. And it could be he knows now. That’s a friendly warning.”
“I’ve heard friendlier. Does he have a name?”
“You’d know it, but we won’t go into that.” Frost leaned forward across the back of the chair, his fingers digging deep into the leather. “Get wise to yourself, Lew. You trying to get yourself killed and drag us down with you, or what?”
“What’s all the melodrama about? I was looking for a woman. I found her.”
“You found her? You mean you saw her—you talked to her?”
“I didn’t get to talk to her. Your goon stopped me at the door.”
“So you didn’t actually see her?”
“No,” I lied.
“You know who she is?”
“I know her name. Hester Campbell.”
“Who hired you to find her? Who’s behind this?”
“I have a client.”
“Come on now, don’t go fifth-amendment on me. Who hired you, Lew?”
I didn’t answer.
“Isobel Graff? Did she sick you onto the girl?”
“You’re way off in left field.”
“I used to play left field. Let me tell you something, just in case it’s her. She’s nothing but trouble—schizzy from way back. I could tell you things about Isobel you wouldn’t believe.”
“Try me.”
“Is she the one?”
“I don’t know the lady.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“Eagle Scout’s honor.”
“Then where’s the trouble coming from? I got to know, Lew. It’s my job to know. I got to protect the Man and the organization.”
“What do you have to protect them against?” I said experimentally. “A murder rap?”
The experiment got results. Fear crossed Leroy Frost’s face like a shadow chased by shadows. He said very mildly and reasonably: “Nobody said a word about murder, Lew. Why bring up imaginary trouble? We got enough real ones. The trouble I’m featuring just this minute is a Hollywood peeper name of Archer who is half smart and half stupid and who has been getting too big for his goddam breeches.” While he spoke, his fear was changing to malice. “You going to answer my question, Lew? I asked you who’s your principal and why.”
“Sorry.”
“You’ll be sorrier.”
He came around the chair and looked me up and down and across like a tailor measuring me for a suit of clothes. Then he turned his back on me, and flipped the switch on his intercom.
“Lashman! Come in here.”
I looked at the door. Nothing happened. Frost spoke into the intercom again, on a rising note:
“Lashman! Marfeld!”
No answer. Frost looked at me, his yellow eyes dilating.
“I wouldn’t slug a sick old man,” I said.
He said something in a guttural voice which I didn’t catch. Outside the window, like his echo vastly amplified, men began to shout. I caught some words:
“He’s comin’ your way.” And further off: “I see him.”
A pink-haired man in a dark suit ran under the window, chasing his frenzied shadow across the naked ground. Itwas George Wall. He was running poorly, floundering from side to side and almost falling. Close behind him, like a second bulkier shadow struggling to make contact with his heels, Marfeld ran. He had a gun in his hand.
Frost said: “What goes on?”
He cranked open the casement window and shouted the same question. Neither man heard him. They ran on in the dust, up Western Street, through the fake tranquillity
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