The man who came in behind him was a bow-legged ruffian of the same height, a swarthy man with something apish in the slope of his big shoulders, the length of his thick arms, and the flatness of his face. This one’s hat–a grey fedora–was on his head. He shut the door and leaned against it, putting his hands in the pockets of his plaid overcoat.
The first man, having advanced by then some four or five steps into the room, put his hat on a chair and began to take off his gloves.
Madvig, hands in trousers-pockets, smiled amiably and said: “How are you, Shad?”
The white-haired man said: “Fine, Paul. How’s yourself?” His voice was a musical barytone. The faintest of brogues colored his words.
Madvig indicated with a small jerk of his head the man on the chair and asked: “You know Beaumont?”
O’Rory said: “Yes.”
Ned Beaumont said: “Yes.”
Neither nodded to the other and Ned Beaumont did not get up from his chair.
Shad O’Rory had finished taking off his gloves. He put them in an overcoat-pocket and said: “Politics is politics and business is business. I’ve been paying my way and I’m willing to go on paying my way, but I want what I’m paying for.” His modulated voice was no more than pleasantly earnest.
“What do you mean by that?” Madvig asked as if he did not greatly care.
“I mean that half the coppers in town are buying their cakes and ale with dough they’re getting from me and some of my friends.”
Madvig sat down by the table. “Well?” he asked, carelessly as before.
“I want what I’m paying for. I’m paying to be let alone. I want to be let alone.”
Madvig chuckled. “You don’t mean, Shad, that you’re complaining to me because your coppers won’t stay bought?”
“I mean that Doolan told me last night that the orders to shut up my places came straight from you.”
Madvig chuckled again and turned his head to address Ned Beaumont: “What do you think of that, Ned?”
Ned Beaumont smiled thinly, but said nothing.
Madvig said: “You know what I think of it? I think Captain Doolan’s been working too hard. I think somebody ought to give Captain Doolan a nice long leave of absence. Don’t let me forget it.”
O’Rory said: “I bought protection, Paul, and I want it. Business is business and politics is politics. Let’s keep them apart.”
Madvig said: “No.”
Shad O’Rory’s blue eyes looked dreamily at some distant thing. He smiled a little sadly and there was a note of sadness in his musical slightly Irish voice when he spoke. He said: “It’s going to mean killing.”
Madvig’s blue eyes were opaque and his voice was as difficultly read as his eyes. He said. “If you make it mean killing.”
The white-haired man nodded. “It’ll have to mean killing,” he said, still sadly. “I’m too big to take the boot from you now.”
Madvig leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. His tone attached little importance to his words. He said: “Maybe you’re too big to take it laying down, but you’ll take it.” He pursed his lips and added as an afterthought: “You are taking it.”
Dreaminess and sadness went swiftly out of Shad O’Rory’s eyes. He put his black hat on his head. He adjusted his coat-collar to his neck. He pointed a long white finger at Madvig and said: “I’m opening the Dog House again tonight. I don’t want to be bothered. Bother me and I’ll bother you.”
Madvig uncrossed his legs and reached for the telephone on the table. He called the Police Department’s number, asked for the Chief, and said to him: “Hello, Rainey Yes, fine. How are the folks? . . . That’s good. Say, Rainey, I hear Shad’s thinking of opening up again tonight. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, slam it down so hard it bounces. . . . Right.
Sure. Good-by.” He pushed the telephone back and addressed O’Rory: “Now do you understand how you stand? You’re through, Shad. You’re through here for good.”
O’Rory said softly, “I understand,” turned, opened the door, and went out.