The Asphalt Jungle by W R Burnett

Author:W R Burnett [Burnett, W R]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-ONE

“It’s after two o’clock,” snapped Emmerich, who was pacing up and down impatiently and throwing accusing glances at Brannom as if the private dick were somehow to blame.

Brannom shrugged and poured himself another drink. He was half tight now and felt very self-confident, even reckless. His coat was off, and his dark-blue shirt was open at the neck, the white tie to one side. He had put his shoulder holster away in a drawer and planted the .45 between the cushions on the settee where he was now lounging.

Emmerich had watched this maneuver nervously but had made no comment. A sense of gloomy and inescapable fatality had settled over him hours ago, and he couldn’t shake it off.

“Brannom,” he said, “you’re drinking a hell of a lot.”

“I always drink a hell of a lot.”

“Sometimes you get drunk. You’d better have your wits about you tonight.”

“Half drunk I’ve got more wits than most people—and more nerve!” he added suddenly. “Why don’t you sit down? You’re wearing out my Sears-Roebuck Aubusson.”

“I don’t want any of your insolence,” said Emmerich, turning quickly.

“Relax, will you? You’re not talking to some cokie client, my friend.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment; then Emmerich turned away and finally sat down, put his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin in his hands. Brannom regarded him with marked distaste; then he insolently tossed down his drink and poured another one.

Live and learn! The great Mr. Emmerich—how he’d fooled the public all these years! Why, tonight he looked like a fat old woman, flabby and pale, with trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. The Big Fix! “Bob,” Brannom said to himself, “all these years you’ve just been suffering from an inferiority complex—that’s all that’s the matter with you. These Big Boys… what have they got? Front—nothing but front. And when that slips…!” Brannom laughed curtly and Emmerich turned to look at him.

“Something funny?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about the time my father got run over by a tractor,” said Brannom.

Emmerich turned away in disgust and sat staring morosely at the carpet. Suddenly he remembered his wife lying alone in her dreary bedroom, which smelled of disinfectant and mortality, endlessly turning over the pages of magazines, taking medicine, and complaining in a quietly rancorous voice about everything. Was he at fault? Certainly he’d turned away from her many years ago. But… maybe she’d driven him away. Who could say? Emmerich felt a sudden rush of despondency and restrained a groan; then he took a firm hold on himself, thinking how this slick ape in the blue shirt would laugh at him if he knew what was running through his mind.

He turned at a sound. Brannom had risen and was listening.

“Mr. Emmerich,” he said in a cruel parody of a polite society voice, “I believe our guest is arriving.”

Emmerich got up quickly, and they both stood listening.

Outside, Dix had just parked the car, and he and the little doctor were getting out.

“Who lives here?” asked Dix, staring

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