No Orchids for Miss Blandish Part 23

"Is the Blandish girl in the club?" Brennan asked.

Eddie licked his lips.

"Is that deal still on, Captain? You keep me out of the gas box?"

"It's still on. Is she in there?"

"Yeah."

"How do we get to her?"

Eddie hesitated, then he blurted out, "She's dead, Captain. There was nothing I could do about it. It was Ma. She made Doc knock her off."

Both Fenner and Brennan got to their feet.

"Are you lying?" Brennan asked in a cold, harsh voice.

"I tell you it was nothing to do with me," Eddie said frantically. "Ma always wanted to get rid of the girl, but Slim fell for her. Then we heard this guy was going to talk to Johnny and Ma sent Slim and the boys to fix Johnny. While Slim was out of the way, Ma decided to knock the girl off. I tried to stop her, but you can't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing with Ma once she's made up her mind. She told Doc to give the girl a shot."

Brennan and Fenner exchanged glances. Fenner made a gesture of helplessness. All along, he had expected to hear Miss Blandish was dead: this came as no surprise to him.

"Is there another way into the club except past that steel door?" Brennan asked.

"Through the warehouse next door," Eddie said. "There's a door in the wall on the left as you go in."

Brennan yelled for Doogan.

"Take this rat down to the cells," he said as Doogan came in, "and lay off him, do you hear?"

Doogan grabbed hold of Eddie and hustled him out.

Fenner said, "Maybe it's the best thing. Even her old man hoped she would be dead. I'd better tell him."

"Yeah. Well, I'll fix that old b.i.t.c.h of a woman. Do you want to come along?"

"I'll be along. I'll call Blandish first."

As Fenner reached for the telephone, Brennan ran out, yelling instructions to the riot squad sergeant.

CHAPTER FIVE.

1.

MISS Blandish leaned against the wall, biting her knuckles because she couldn't scream and because she wanted to. She stared in horror at Rocco as he lay on the ornate rug. From the many wounds inflicted on him, blood made snake-like bands across the floor.

Slim stood over him, breathing heavily, his blood-stained knife dangling between his slack fingers. He bent over Rocco and wiped his knife clean on the dead man's coat.

"He won't bother you again," he said and grinned at Miss Blandish. "So long as I'm around, no one will ever bother you."

He went over to the window and looked down in the street. The traffic was heavy and people were crowding the sidewalks, going home. He realized he couldn't show himself with the girl on the streets. She could easily be recognized. He wondered how Ma would cope with this situation. He glanced over at Rocco, then an idea occurred to him. He was immediately pleased with himself. He'd show Ma she wasn't the only one with brains.

He crossed to the closet, opened it and pulled out one of Rocco's suits. He found a s.h.i.+rt and tie. He threw the clothes on the divan.

"Put those on," he said to Miss Blandish. "I've got to get you home somehow. Go on, get into that rig."

Miss Blandish shook her head and backed away. Impatiently, Slim pulled her to the divan.

"Do what I say!" he said, pinching her arm. "Put 'em on!"

Fearfully and reluctantly, she peeled the cheap cotton dress over her head and let it drop to the floor. Then she hurriedly reached for the s.h.i.+rt, aware that Slim was watching her.

They looked at each other. She read the message in his eyes, and clutching the s.h.i.+rt to her, she backed away.

"No... please..."

Slim shuffled over to her and s.n.a.t.c.hed the s.h.i.+rt from her. His mouth was pursed, his breathing suddenly violent, his eyes blank.

Shuddering and unresisting, she let him lead her to the divan.

The clock on the mantel ticked busily. The minute hand crawled on across the ornate clock face. A large bluebottle fly buzzed excitedly over the bloodstain on Rocco's coat. The traffic in the street below halted, moved on with a grinding of gears, then halted again.

Miss Blandish gave a sudden sharp cry.

As the minutes pa.s.sed, the shadows in the room lengthened. Someone in the apartment below turned on a television set. An impersonal voice began to give loud instructions on how to bake a cake. The insistent, domineering voice woke Slim who slowly opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at Miss Blandish, lying flat on her back by his side. She was staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

"That punk makes it sound like a cake is the most important thing in the world," Slim said. He raised his head to look at the clock. The time was twenty minutes past eight. This surprised him. He hadn't realized he had slept for so long. He got off the bed. The sounds of the traffic had died down. The rush hour home had pa.s.sed.

"We've got to go," he said. "Ma'll be wondering where we are. Come on, baby, get into that rig."

The girl got off the bed, moving like a sleepwalker. She put on Rocco's s.h.i.+rt and suit. She had trouble fixing the tie. Slim, sitting on the bed, watched her with childish amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Sort of different, isn't it?" he said. "I used to have trouble with a tie. You get used to it. You look pretty good as a boy." He glanced at Rocco's dead body. "He was a jockey. I got no time for guys who fool around with horses." He kicked Rocco gently. "He got what was coming to him."

Miss Blandish was dressed now. Rocco's suit fitted her quite well. Slim looked at her, nodding his approval.

"You make a fine boy," he said. He stood up and went to the closet and found one of Rocco's hats. "Put this on; hide your pretty hair. You could be my kid brother."

She let him put the hat on her head, standing like a lifeless doll, but cringing a little every time his damp, hot fingers touched her skin.

"Come on," Slim said, "let's go."

He led her into the bathroom, paused to look out of the window down into the yard below, satisfied himself there was no one about, then helped the girl through the window onto the escape.

They went down the escape, Slim holding her arm and pus.h.i.+ng her down quickly. On the last stage, a man looked out of the window as they pa.s.sed. He was fat, balding and elderly.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

Slim looked at him, his yellow eyes gleaming. The man stepped back hurriedly. Slim's pale thin face, his loose mouth and gleaming eyes, his long, unkempt hair hanging from under his hat scared the man silly.

Slim had parked the Buick at the end of the alley. He hustled Miss Blandish to the car and pushed her in. He went around to the driver's seat and got in. He paused to open the glove compartment and to take out the .45 that was always kept there. He put the gun under his right thigh, then he started the car and drove into the main street.

As he headed for the club, the wail of a police siren made him stiffen. He looked into the driving mirror. He saw the traffic behind him pulling over to the right, clearing a broad lane in the middle of the road. He too pulled to the right as he saw three police cars come storming up behind him. They flashed past him. Wondering uneasily where they were going, he followed on behind. After a few minutes, he suddenly realized they were slowing down to stop outside the entrance to the courtyard of the Paradise Club.

In sudden panic, he swung the Buick into a side street, cutting across an overtaking car that braked with a violent scream of tires. He pulled up and looked back in time to see a dozen policemen spill out of the cars and run across the courtyard to the club.

He felt sweat on his face. What was he to do? Where was he to go? He looked at Miss Blandish who was staring blankly through the winds.h.i.+eld. He felt lost and scared without Ma and the steel door and shutters of the club. His sluggish mind tried to cope with the situation.

"Hey, you!"

He looked to his right. A cop was looking into the car, first at Slim and then at Miss Blandish. Slim recognized him. He was the patrolman of the district: a big, fiery-faced Mick who always pushed the Grisson gang around when he had the chance.

"I want you," the cop said and his hand slid to his gun holster.

Slim's hand dropped on the hidden .45, lifted it and fired in one quick fluent movement. The slug hit the cop in the middle of his chest, throwing him half across the sidewalk.

Miss Blandish screamed. Startled, Slim swung his hand in a backhand slap, hitting her across the mouth, jerking her hard back against the car seat.

Several pa.s.sersby flattened themselves on the sidewalk.

Swearing, Slim dropped his gun onto the car seat, then started the car and pulled away, accelerating as a man yelled after him.

Slim was vicious in his fear. His one thought was to get onto the open road where he could use the vast speed of the car.

Fenner and Brennan were just leaving a newly arrived police car as Slim shot the cop. The sound of the gun going off made both men pause. They saw the Buick tearing down the street, scattering other cars.

Fenner ran to the dead cop while Brennan signaled to three motorcycle cops to go after the Buick. They went away with roaring exhausts. Then Brennan joined Fenner who shook his head.

"He's gone," he said. "Who could that have been?"

"One of the Grisson gang," Brennan said grimly. "Come on, let's get at the rest of them. That rat won't get far."

More police were arriving. The street was becoming congested with a gaping crowd.

Inside the club, Ma Grisson watched the activity going on outside through one of the peepholes in the steel shutter that covered her office window.

Flynn peered through another peephole. Woppy cowered against the wall. Doc Williams sat near Ma's desk. He had a gla.s.s half full of neat whiskey in his hand: his face was s.h.i.+ny with sweat, his eyes gla.s.sy.

Ma turned slowly and looked first at Doc and then at Woppy. Flynn stepped back, looking at her.

"Well, here it is," Ma said in a cold hard voice. "This is the end of the road. I don't have to tell you what's ahead of us."

Flynn was cool. His small, flat eyes were restless, but he didn't look afraid. Woppy seemed on the point of collapse. His eyes rolled with terror. Doc took a swig from his gla.s.s, shrugging his shoulders. He was too drunk to have any emotions.

Ma plodded across the room, opened a closet and took out a Thompson machine gun.

"You guys can please yourselves," she said. "I know what I'm going to do. Those coppers won't take me alive. I'll get a h.e.l.l of a bang taking a few of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with me."

Flynn joined her. He too took a machine gun from the closet.

"I'm with you, Ma," he said. "Let's make it quick and gory."

There came a hammering on the steel door. Then a voice, magnified by a loudspeaker bawled, "Come on out, you in there! Come on out with your hands in the air!"

"They'll take some time to bust in," Ma said. She went to her desk and sat down. She put the Thompson on the desk, pointing towards the door. "Okay, boys, leave me. This is my room and this is where I want to die. You find your own holes. Go on... beat it."

Doc said, "Why not let them in?" He finished his whiskey and set the gla.s.s down on the desk. "We have money, Ma. We can hire the best lawyers. We still have a chance."

Ma smiled contemptuously.

"Do you think so? You poor old drunken fool! Go ahead if you feel that way about it. Find yourself a lawyer and see where he gets you. I know better. Just get out of here and leave me alone."

Flynn had already gone. He ran through the dark restaurant to the stairs. The sound of hammering on the steel door made him pause in the lobby. He looked around, then he slid behind the counter guarding the stairs. He rested his Thompson on the counter and waited, his heart thumping, his thin lips screwed off his teeth in a vicious grin.

Woppy came charging out into the lobby. He looked like a rabbit hunted by a fox. As he started towards the front entrance, Flynn yelled at him, "Don't do it or I'll cut you to pieces!"

Woppy spun around and glared frantically at Flynn.

"I've got to get out of here!" he yammered. "I don't want to get killed! I just want to get out of here!"

"You've got nowhere to go now," Flynn said. "You have no future either. Come here."

A gun banged behind Flynn. Woppy's face suddenly became a crimson smear. He fell forward and rolled over, his hands clawing the air.

Crouching, Flynn spun around. Above him at the head of the stairs, two cops had appeared guns in hand.

As Flynn nipped back the trigger of the Thompson, he realized the cops had found a way into the club through the warehouse and this was indeed the end of the road.

The Thompson hammered out its message of death. The two cops seemed to dissolve under the hail of lead. Then another Thompson started up from somewhere above the stairs.

Flynn crouched down as a sheet of lead swept just above his head. He was sweating and grinning, thinking this was the way to die--hit and be hit.

He twisted around, lifted the barrel of his gun and peered around the edge of his cover. The Thompson above yammered out its deadly, roaring note. Four slugs took the top of Flynn's head off. He was firing back as he slumped down onto the carpet in a mess of blood and brains.

Four cops moved cautiously into sight. They looked down into the lobby. Brennan joined them.

"That leaves Doc, the old woman and Slim," Brennan said as Fenner came up.

"One of them got away in the Buick," Fenner reminded him. "Could have been Slim."

Brennan moved out into the open. Cupping his mouth with his hands, he bawled, "Hey, you! Come on out! You haven't a chance! Come out with your hands in the air!"