“Yes,” she said eagerly, “I do.”
He scowled thoughtfully. “The only trouble is he might go up in the air and explode the works before we’re ready. He’s hot-headed, isn’t he?”
Her answer was given reluctantly: “Yes, but”–her face brightened, pleadingly–“I’m sure if we showed him why it’s important to wait until we’ve– But we are ready now, aren’t we?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
She pouted.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said.
“Really?”
“That’s not a promise,” he cautioned her, “but I think we will be.”
She put a hand across the table to take one of his hands. “But you will promise to let me know the very minute we’re ready, no matter what time of day or night it is?”
“Sure, I’ll promise you that.” He looked obliquely at her. “You’re not very anxious to be in at the death, are you?”
His tone brought a flush to her face, but she did not lower her eyes. “I know you think I’m a monster,” she said. “Perhaps I am.”
He looked down at his plate and muttered: “I hope you like it when you get it.”
IX.
The Heels
1
After Janet Henry had gone Ned Beaumont went to his telephone, called Jack Rumsen’s number, and when he had that one on the wire said: “Can you drop in to see me, Jack? . . . Fine. ‘By.”
He was dressed by the time Jack arrived. They sat in facing chairs, each with a glass of Bourbon whisky and mineral water, Ned Beaumont smoking a cigar, Jack a cigarette.
Ned Beaumont asked: “Heard anything about the split between Paul and me?”
Jack said, “Yes,” casually.
“What do you think of it?”
“Nothing. I remember the last time it was supposed to happen it turned out to be a trick on Shad O’Rory.”
Ned Beaumont smiled as if he had expected that reply. “Is that what everybody thinks it is this time?”
The dapper young man said: “A lot of them do.”
Ned Beaumont inhaled cigar-smoke slowly, asked: “Suppose I told you it was on the level this time?”
Jack said nothing. His face told nothing of his thoughts.
Ned Beaumont said: “It is.” He drank from his glass. “How much do I owe you?”
“Thirty bucks for that job on the Madvig girl. You settled for the rest.”
Ned Beaumont took a roll of paper money from a trousers-pocket, separated three ten-dollar bills from the roll, and gave them to Jack.
Jack said: “Thanks.”
Ned Beaumont said: “Now we’re quits.” He inhaled smoke and blew it out while saying: “I’ve got another job I want done. I’m after Paul’s scalp on the Taylor Henry killing. He told me he did it, but I need a little more proof. Want to work on it for me?”
Jack said: “No.”
“Why not?”
The dark young man rose to put his empty glass on the table. “Fred and I are building up a nice little private-detective business here,” he said. “A couple of years more and we’ll be sitting pretty. I like you, Beaumont, but not enough to monkey with the man that runs the city.”
Ned Beaumont said evenly: “He’s on the chutes. The whole crew’s getting ready to ditch him. Farr and Rainey are–”
“Let them do it. I don’t want in on that racket and I’ll believe they can do it when it’s done. Maybe they’ll give him a bump or two, but making it stick’s another thing. You know him better than I do. You know he’s got more guts than all the rest of them put together.”
“He has and that’s what’s licking him. Well, if you won’t, you won’t.”
Jack said, “I won’t,” and picked up his hat. “Anything else I’ll be glad to do, but–” He moved one hand in a brief gesture of finality.
Ned Beaumont stood up. There was no resentment in his manner, none in his voice when he said: “I thought you might feel that way about it.” He brushed a side of his mustache with a thumb and stared thoughtfully past Jack. “Maybe you can tell me this: any idea where I can find Shad?”
Jack shook his head. “Since the third time they knocked his place over–when the two coppers were killed–he’s been laying low, though they don’t seem to have a hell of a lot on him personally.” He took his cigarette from his mouth. “Know Whisky Vassos?”