No Orchids for Miss Blandish Part 18

"You don't tell me he takes her out through the front entrance?" he said.

Maisey was suddenly feeling faint. The room was moving slowly up and down with the motion of a s.h.i.+p.

"There's a back entrance," she said, "through the warehouse next door."

Rocco smiled. He was now sure he hadn't wasted his money.

"That Scotch seems to have been a little too much for you, baby," he said. "Come and lie down."

"You've got something there," Maisey said. "I feel terrible."

Rocco pulled her out of the chair. She staggered against him and would have fallen if he hadn't caught hold of her.

"Whoops! Someone is rocking my dream boat," she said and clung hard to him.

Rocco looked at the clock on the mantel. The time was a little after three. He guided Maisey to the divan and lowered her gently onto its wide softness.

"The same old, old story," she said, her eyes closed. "The guy says strictly business and it's always strictly something else."

Rocco lowered the blinds.

He believed in the right atmosphere.

Maisey sighed happily when he took her in his arms.

CHAPTER FOUR.

1.

FENNER arrived at the foot of the dirt road leading to Johnny's shack soon after four o'clock in the afternoon. He had driven hard and fast, and he was sharply conscious of the possibility that some of the Grisson gang could be coming after him.

Before leaving town, he had paused long enough to telephone Paula, telling her where he was going.

"I think I'm on to something," he said. "Call Brennan and tell him what's cooking. Tell him to come to Johnny's place fast."

"Why don't you wait for him?" Paula asked anxiously. "Why go out there alone?"

"Quit worrying," Fenner said. "Tell Brennan," and he hung up.

But now, as he drove his car off the road and behind a thicket, he began to think Paula's suggestion had been a sensible one. This place was miles from anywhere: it was lonelier than a pauper's grave.

He got out of the car, satisfied himself it couldn't be seen from the road, then he started up the dirt road towards Johnny's shack.

Half-way up the road, he paused to pull his gun and slide off the safety catch. He was pretty sure none of the Grisson gang had got ahead of him, but he wasn't taking any chances.

The evening sun was hot, and Fenner, who hated walking, cursed under his breath as he left the dirt road and started along the twisting path that led directly to the shack.

Two hundred yards ahead of him, he could see the dense wood through which he was walking open out onto a clearing. He slowed, picking his way silently, his eyes and ears alert.

A blue-winged jay suddenly flew out of a tree close by with a flapping of wings that startled Fenner. He looked up, his heart skipping a beat and then he grinned.

I'm as jittery as an old maid with a man under her bed, he told himself, and moved on cautiously to the edge of the clearing. He paused behind a tree and looked at the shabby wooden shack that stood in the center of the clearing.

It looked as if Johnny was at home. The door stood open and wood smoke curled lazily from the single chimney.

Keeping his gun hand down by his side and out of sight, Fenner walked silently over the rough gra.s.s until he reached the front door. He paused just outside the shack to listen.

He could hear Johnny humming to himself. He moved forward and paused in the open doorway.

Johnny, his back turned, was bending over the stove. He was cooking bacon in a frying pan. The smell of the bacon made Fenner's nose twitch.

Fenner looked quickly around the large dirty room. The gun rack, holding two shotguns was by the door, well away from Johnny.

He stepped into the room, covering the old man with his gun.

"h.e.l.lo, Johnny," he said softly.

Johnny stiffened, then shuddered. He straightened and turned very slowly. His red, raddled face went slack with fright at the sight of Fenner. His dim, watery eyes opened wide at the sight of the gun in Fenner's hand.

"Take it easy," Fenner said. "Remember me, Johnny?"

The old man seemed to be having trouble with his breathing.

"What are you pointing that gun at me for?" he croaked.

Fenner lowered the gun.

"Remember me?" he repeated.

Johnny blinked at him, frowning.

"You're the guy from the newspaper, aren't you?"

"That's right," Fenner said. "Sit down, Johnny, I want to talk to you."

Johnny lowered himself onto an upturned box. He seemed glad to get the weight off his legs. He shoved the frying pan off the direct heat of the stove and then with a shaking hand, he rubbed his bristly chin while he squinted up at Fenner.

"Now listen, Johnny," Fenner said, "you could be in bad trouble. You could go to jail for a long stretch. You wouldn't like that, would you? No booze; no nothing. You come clean with me and I'll cover you. All I want from you is some information."

"I don't know nothing about nothing," Johnny said. "I don't want you around here. I just want to be left alone."

"Riley and his mob were here about three months ago, weren't they?" Fenner asked.

Johnny stiffened. He looked wildly around the room as if seeking a way of escape.

"I don't know nothing about Riley."

"Listen, you old fool," Fenner said sharply, "lying won't get you anywhere. They had the Blandish girl with them. Riley called his girl friend from here. She's talking. So far, she has only talked to me, but if she starts talking to the cops, you'll be in trouble. They'll work you over, Johnny, until you do open your mouth. Now come on. Riley was here, wasn't he?"

Johnny hesitated, then with a cunning expression in his eyes, he nodded.

"Yeah, that's right. He and Bailey and Old Sam and a girl. They didn't stay long; not more than ten minutes. I wouldn't have them here. They were too hot. I wasn't taking a chance of getting in bad with the cops so I told them to keep moving. Riley called his girl, then they got back into their car and beat it. I don't know where they went."

But the way he told it, the way he looked convinced Fenner he was lying.

"Okay, Johnny," he said mildly. "That puts you right in the clear. Just too bad you don't know where they went Blandish is offering a reward for information. Wouldn't you like to lay your hands on fifteen thousand bucks?"

Johnny blinked. It was now over three months since he had buried Riley, Bailey and Old Sam, and what a job that had been! Schultz had promised him a cut of the ransom money, but he hadn't had it. He knew the ransom had been paid. He had taken the trouble to go into town and buy a newspaper. He had been double-crossed and he felt mean and bitter about it.

"Fifteen thousand bucks?" he repeated. "How do I know I would get it?"

"I'd see you got it, Johnny," Fenner said.

Better not, Johnny told himself. It was too dangerous to monkey with the Grisson gang.

He shook his head reluctantly.

"I don't know nothing," he said.

"You're lying," Fenner said and moved over to the old man. "Do you want me to work you over, Johnny? Like this?" He hit Johnny a backhand slap across his face: not a hard blow, but hard enough to make the old man rock and nearly fall off the box. "Come on! Spill it!" Fenner went on, raising his voice. "Where's Riley? You can either pick up fifteen thousand bucks or take a beating! What's it to be?"

Johnny cringed away.

"I don't know nothing," he said desperately. "If you want to know anything ask the Grisson gang. They were right here. They fixed Riley..." He stopped, his raddled face turning grey.

"The Grisson gang?" Fenner stiffened to attention. "How did they fix Riley?"

But Johnny was staring past Fenner through the open door. His expression of terror chilled Fenner's blood.

Fenner looked over his shoulder. He saw a shadow fall across the open doorway: the shadow of a man with a Thompson gun in his hands.

Then everything seemed to happen at once.

Fenner dived to the floor, well clear of Johnny. He rolled towards a big iron tank that stood across a corner of the room: a tank in which Johnny used to store his horse feed when he owned a horse. As he jerked himself behind the tank with one swift movement, there came the violent and continuous sound of the Thompson firing.

A stream of lead ripped into Johnny's chest. The old man was thrown over backwards. He rolled over, twitching, then his body went limp. Seconds later, Fenner was nearly deafened as slugs hammered against the side of the tank. He crouched down, his heart thumping, his breath whistling through his clenched teeth.

For three or four seconds the slugs beat against the side of the iron tank, making a noise like a giant rivet-gun at work. Then the shooting stopped. The sudden silence was nearly as violent as the gun fire had been.

Fenner wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand. He guessed the Grisson gang had arrived. He was in a h.e.l.l of a jam. He knew if he attempted to look around the side of the tank, he would have his head blown off. His one hope was that Brennan would be arriving soon, but would he arrive in time?

He flattened himself in the dust and put his ear to the wooden floor. He couldn't hear anything. He doubted if any of the gang out there would have the nerve to come in and tackle him.

Then he heard the murmur of men's voices. There was a pause, then a man shouted, "Come on out! We know you're in there. Come out with your hands in the air!"

Fenner grinned crookedly. Not likely, he told himself, if you want me, come and get me. He waited.

The Thompson started up again. The noise made Fenner wince. He could hear some of the slugs dropping into the tank, having cut their way through the outer side of the tank. The gun stopped firing.

"Come on out, punk!" a voice bawled.

He lay motionless and silent.

He heard a man say, "Give it to me! Get down flat, both of you."

Fenner stiffened. He knew what was coming. They were going to blast him out with a pineapple. He flattened down, protecting his head with his arms. The few seconds' pause of silence seemed an eternity. Then he heard something drop on the floor. The bomb went off with a devastating bang. The blast lifted him and tossed him against the side of the tank.

He rolled over onto his back, choking and gasping. For a moment, everything became very clear and sharply etched. He could see the roof of the shack above him. It was sagging. As he watched, there came the sound of splintering wood, then the roof came cras.h.i.+ng down on top of him.

Something hit him a violent blow on the side of his head. Bright lights flashed before his eyes, then he felt himself falling into a black, bottomless pit.

2.

The darkness was suddenly pierced by a hot, hard light. Fenner heard himself groan as he raised his hand to s.h.i.+eld his eyes.

"You're okay," a distant voice said. "Come on; come on. Don't just lie there pitying yourself."

Fenner made the effort. He opened his eyes and shook his head. He became aware of a man bending over him. The man's face swam into focus. He recognized Brennan, and he slowly sat up.

"That's the idea." Brennan said. "You're okay. What's all the fuss about?"

Fenner nursed his head in his hands.

"Who's making a fuss?" he demanded, and then grunted as his head began to ache violently. Hands took bold of him and hoisted him to his feet. "Don't rush me!" he went on, leaning on the arm of a policeman. "h.e.l.l! My head feels as if it has been kicked by a horse."

"No horse around here," Brennan said cheerfully. "What happened?"

Fenner drew in a deep breath. He felt stronger now. Gently he ran his fingers through his hair and winced, but finding he hadn't a hole in his head, he managed to grin wryly.

"Seen anyone around?" he asked.

"Just you and what's left of Johnny," Brennan said. "Who let off the pineapple?"

"Johnny dead?"