Ned Beaumont pursed his lips and stared gloomily at O’Rory under brows drawn together. “You want me to rat on him, of course,” he said.
“I want you to go into the Observer with the low-down on everything you know about him being mixed up in–the sewer-contracts, the how and why of killing Taylor Henry, that Shoemaker junk last winter, the dirt on how he’s running the city.”
“There’s nothing in the sewer-business now,” Ned Beaumont said, speaking as if his mind was more fully occupied with other thoughts. “He let his profits go to keep from raising a stink.”
“All right,” O’Rory conceded, blandly confident, “but there is something in the Taylor Henry business.”
“Yes, we’d have him there,” Ned Beaumont said, frowning, “but I don’t know whether we could use the Shoemaker stuff”–he hesitated– “without making trouble for me.”
“Hell, we don’t want that,” O’Rory said quickly. “That’s out. What else have we got?”
“Maybe we can do something with the street-car-franchise extension and with that trouble last year in the County Clerk’s office. We’ll have to do some digging first, though.”
“It’ll be worth it for both of us,” O’Rory said. “I’ll have Hinkle–he’s the Observer guy–put the stuff in shape. You just give him the dope and let him write it. We can start off with the Taylor Henry thing. That’s something that’s right on tap.”
Ned Beaumont brushed his mustache with a thumb-nail and murmured: “Maybe.”
Shad O’Rory laughed. “You mean we ought to start off first with the ten thousand dollars?” he asked. “There’s something in that.” He got up and crossed the room to the door he had opened for the dog. He opened it and went out, shutting it behind him. The dog did not get up from in front of the wine and gold chair.
Ned Beaumont lit a cigar. The dog turned his head and watched him.
O’Rory came back with a thick sheaf of green hundred-dollar bills held together by a band of brown paper on which was written in blue ink: $10,000. He thumped the sheaf down on the hand not holding it and said: “Hinkle’s out there now. I told him to come in.”
Ned Beaumont frowned. “I ought to have a little time to straighten it out in my mind.”
“Give it to Hinkle any way it comes to you. He’ll put it in shape.”
Ned Beaumont nodded. He blew cigar-smoke out and said: “Yes, I can do that.”
O’Rory held out the sheaf of paper money.
Saying, “Thanks,” Ned Beaumont took it and put it in his inside coat-pocket. It made a bulge there in the breast of his coat over his flat chest.
Shad O’Rory said, “The thanks go both ways,” and went back to his chair.
Ned Beaumont took the cigar out of his mouth. “Here’s something I want to tell you while I think of it,” he said. “Framing Walt Ivans for the West killing won’t bother Paul as much as leaving it as is.”
O’Rory looked curiously at Ned Beaumont for a moment before asking: “Why?”
“Paul’s not going to let him have the Club alibi.”
“You mean he’s going to give the boys orders to forget Ivans was there?”
“Yes.”
O’Rory made a clucking noise with his tongue, asked: “How’d he get the idea I was going to play tricks on Ivans?”
“Oh, we figured it out.”
O’Rory smiled. “You mean you did,” he said. “Paul’s not that shifty.”
Ned Beaumont made a modest grimace and asked: “What kind of job did you put up on him?”
O’Rory chuckled. “We sent the clown over to Braywood to buy the guns that were used.” His grey-blue eyes suddenly became hard and sharp. Then amusement came back into them and he said: “Oh, well, none of that’s big stuff now, now that Paul’s hell-bent on making a row of it. But that’s what started him picking on me, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ned Beaumont told him, “though it was likely to come sooner or later anyhow. Paul thinks he gave you your start here and you ought to stay under his wing and not grow’ big enough to buck him.”
O’Rory smiled gently. “And I’m the boy that’ll make him sorry he ever gave me that start,” he promised. “He can–“