Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton

Author:Donald Hamilton [Hamilton, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781781162347
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2013-03-22T15:18:00+00:00

15

I picked up my car in the woods nearby, where I’d hidden it earlier, waiting for Rosten. She was already trying to get the Cadillac loose; I could hear her spinning the wheels as I drove away. Back in my hotel room, I shed my wet clothes in the middle of the rug, and got into the flashy pair of silk pajamas that went with my hoodlum act.

There was no point in sitting by the phone like a teen-aged maiden waiting for a date. If it rang, I’d hear it. I got into bed and fell asleep at once, and dreamed of a dark goddess rising from the sea with a shining spear. I knew the spear was meant for me, and I watched her approach while the great cat stalked majestically by her side, ready to spring if I should move a muscle... The phone rang. I sat up, made a face at my subconscious, and looked at my watch. I’d slept an hour and a half, if you could call it sleeping.

The phone rang again. I picked it up and said, “Yeah?”

“Petroni?” It wasn’t at all the voice I’d expected to hear. “Jim?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Jim, this is Teddy. Teddy Michaelis.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I—I’m down in the lobby. Can I come up?”

“You can try,” I said. “If you make it, the door will be unlocked. Turn the knob and you might even be able to fight your way into the room. I’ll be plugging for you all the way.”

I hung up, rose, fixed the lock, and heaved my discarded clothes into the bathroom. I combed my hair and put on slippers and a dressing gown that a Chicago tart might have found irresistible if she were drunk and not wearing her contact lenses. Mac had really gone all out to costume me for the part. It shouldn’t have bothered me. After all, I’d worn a Nazi uniform a couple of times in the line of duty, and sung the Horst Wessel in guttural German, and said nasty things about Jews. Being a Grade B gangster was a breeze.

I heard the rapping of high heels outside and turned to face the door. Teddy slipped into the room, eased the door closed, and leaned against it, breathless, clutching a small blue satin purse to her bosom. I noticed the purse first. It seemed to contain something considerably bulkier than it had been designed for.

“Well,” I said, “what’s this all about?” Then I looked at her more sharply. “What the hell happened to you?”

It was a bad night for fashion. The long white gloves were gone, and the shiny blue dress had got a drink spilled down the front. The extravagant bubble skirt was crushed as if she’d been sleeping in it, making love in it, or at least lying down in it very carelessly, perhaps crying. Her small face seemed to bear out the last hypothesis. It had the unbecoming blotched look that follows an emotional crisis accompanied by tears.

“What’s the pitch, bitch?” I demanded.

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