Harry Vince came into the outer office, and hurriedly shut
the door behind him, cutting off the uproar of men's voices,
each apparently trying to shout down the other, the sound of
raucous laughter and the shuffling of many feet.
"Sounds like a zoo in there, doesn't it? And—phew!— it
smells like one, too," he said, as he crossed the room,
moving between the empty desks to where Lois Marshall sat at
the telephone switchboard. He carried a bottle of champagne
and two glasses which he set down carefully on a nearby
desk. "You don't know what you're missing, staying out here.
You couldn't cut the atmosphere in there with a hacksaw." He
mopped his face with his handkerchief. "Mr. English says you
are to have some champagne. So here it is."
"I don't think I want any, thank you," Lois said, smiling at
him. She was a trim, good-looking girl around twenty-six or
seven, dark, with severe eyebrows, steady brown eyes and the
minimum of makeup. "I'm not mad about the stuff—are you?"
"Only when someone else pays for it," Vince returned as he
expertly broke the wire cage and thumbed over the cork.
"Besides, this is an occasion. We don't win the Light
Heavyweight Championship every day of the week."
The cork sailed across the room with a resounding pop!
and he hurriedly tipped the foaming wine into a glass.
"Thank goodness we don't," Lois said. "How long do you think
they're going to stay in there?"
"Until they get chucked out. They haven't finished the
whiskey yet." He handed her the glass. "Here's to Joe
Ruthlin, the new Champ. May he continue to flatten them as
he did tonight."
He poured champagne into the second glass.
"Here's to Mr. English," Lois said quietly, and raised her
glass.
Vince grinned.
"Okay. Here's to Mr. English."
They drank, and Vince grimaced.
"Maybe you're right. Give me a straight Scotch any day." He
put down his glass. "Why didn't you let Trixie look after
the board? It's her job."
Lois lifted her elegant shoulders.
"Think of the company she would have to mix in. They know
better than to bother me, but Trixie…"
"Trixie would have loved it. She likes a guy to pat her
fanny occasionally. She thinks it proves she's desirable.
Anyway, those apes in there are more or less harmless.
Trixie would have taken care of herself if you had given her
the chance."
"Maybe, but she's still a kid. Sitting around in an office
until long past midnight isn't the sort of life she should
live."
"You talk like a grandmother," Vince said, grinning. "If
anyone has to stay late, it's always you."
Lois shrugged.
"I don't mind."
Vince studied her.
"Doesn't your boyfriend mind?"
"Do we have to talk nonsense, Harry?"
Her steady brown eyes were suddenly cold.
Recognizing the danger signals, Vince said, "You were with
Mr. English when he started this caper, weren't you?"
"Yes. We had only one small office, the typewriter was on
hire and the furniture, what there was of it, wasn't paid
for. Now we have this place—thirteen offices and a staff of
forty. Good going in five years, isn't it?"
"I guess so." Vince lit a cigarette. "He has the magic touch
all right. It doesn't seem to matter what he takes on. He
has to make a success of it. Fight promotion this week, a
circus last week, a musical show the week before that.
What's he going to do next?"
Lois laughed.
"He'll find something." She looked up at Vince, seeing a
square-shouldered man of medium height, around thirty-three,
with a crew hair-cut, pale brown eyes that looked worried
and uneasy, a good mouth and chin and a straight narrow
nose. "You've done pretty well for yourself, too, Harry."
He nodded.
"Thanks to Mr. English. I'm not kidding myself. If he hadn't
given me the chance I would have been still sweating my guts
out as an accountant with no prospects. You know, sometimes,
I just can't believe I'm his general manager. I can't make
out why the devil he ever gave me the job."
"He has a good eye for talent," Lois said. "He didn't give
you the job because he liked the way you wear your clothes,
Harry. You earn your money."
"I guess I do," Vince said, running his fingers through his
close-cut hair. "Look at the awful hours we keep." He
glanced at his wrist-watch. "Eleven fifteen. This shindig's
going on until two o'clock at least." He finished his
champagne, waved the bottle at Lois. "Have some more?"
She shook her head.
"No, thank you. Does he seem to be enjoying himself?"
"You know what he's like. He's been standing around all
evening watching the other guys drink. Every so often he
puts in a word here and there. He acts like he has just
dropped in on somebody else's party. Abe Mendelssohn has
been trying to corner him for the past hour, but he's having
no luck."
Lois laughed.
"He wants Mr. English to finance his women wrestlers."
"That's not a bad idea," Vince said. "I've seen some of
those babes wrestle. I wouldn't mind getting a job as their
trainer. I'd like to have the chance of showing them a few
holds."
"Better talk to Mr. English. He might give you the job."
The telephone buzzer sounded.
Lois pushed in a plug and picked up the harness she had laid
on the desk.
"English Promotions," she said. "Good evening."
She listened while Vince watched her. He saw one of her dark
eyebrows lift in surprise.
"I'll ask him to speak to you, Lieutenant," she said, and
laid down the harness. "Harry, would you tell Mr. English
Lieutenant Morilli of the Homicide Bureau is calling? He
wants a personal word."
"These coppers!" Vince said, grimacing. "Wants some favor,
I'll bet. A couple of fight dockets or free seats for a
show. You don't want me to disturb Mr. English to talk to
that chiseller, do you?"
She nodded, her eyes serious.
"Please tell him it's urgent, Harry."
He gave her a quick look, then slid off the desk.
"Okay."
He went across the big room and pushed open the door that
led into Nick English's private office. The uproar of voices
surged past him as he went in.
Lois said, "I'm getting Mr. English now."
At the other end of the line Morilli grunted.
"Better get his car to the door, Miss Marshall," he said.
"When he hears what I've got to tell him he'll want some
fast action."
Lois thanked him, plugged in another line and told the
garage attendant who answered to have Mr. English's car at
the front entrance right away.
As she pulled out the plug, Nick English came out of his
office, followed by Vince.
English was six foot three in his socks, and broad, giving
the appearance of massiveness without fat. He was on the
right side of forty, and his hair was jet-black, cut short
and inclined to curl. There were white streaks on each side
of his temples that helped to soften an otherwise hard and
relentless face. He had a high broad forehead, a short blunt
nose, a thin mouth and a square dimpled chin. His eyes were
wide set, pale blue and piercing. He was arresting to look
at without being handsome, and gave an immediate impression
of granite-hard strength.
Lois moved away from the switch-board, indicating a
telephone on a nearby desk.
"Lieutenant Morilli is on that line, Mr. English."
English lifted the receiver.
"What's on your mind, Lieutenant?"
Lois moved quickly over to Vince.
"Better get Chuck out here, Harry. I think he'll be needed."
Vince nodded and went into the inner office.
Lois heard English say, "When did it happen?"
She looked anxiously at the big man as he leaned over the
desk, frowning into space, his long fingers tapping on the
blotter.
She had known Nick English now for five years. She had first
met him after he had thrown up an engineering job in South
America and had opened a small office in Chicago to promote
a gyroscope compass he had invented to be used in petroleum
drilling operations. He had engaged her to run the office
while he had walked the streets in search of the necessary
capital to manufacture the compass.
There had been difficulties, but she had quickly learned
that difficulties and disappointments only made English work
harder. She discovered he had an undefeatable spirit. There
had been times when she had gone without salary and he had
gone without food. His optimism and determination had been
infectious. She knew he must succeed. No one who worked as
hard as he did could fail to succeed. But it had been a year
of no rewards and constant setbacks and had forged a link
between them that she had never forgotten, but at times, she
wondered if he had forgotten. Finally the compass had been
financed and had proved a success. English had sold his
invention for two hundred thousand dollars plus a royalty on
future sales that still brought him in a comfortable income.
He had then looked around for other inventions to promote,
and during the next three years he built up a reputation for
himself as a man who could get money out of a stone. With
his newly acquired capital, he broadened his scope, and went
into the entertainment business, promoting small shows and
nightclub cabarets, and then branching out to bigger and
more ambitious shows.
Money began to pour in, and he formed companies. More money
poured in and he took over the lease of two theatres and a
dozen night clubs. Later, when money became almost an
embarrassment, he moved into the political field. It was his
money that put Senator Henry Beaumont into power and was
keeping him in office.
Looking at English now, Lois realized just how far he had
come and what a power he had become, though she regretted
his rise to a height where she could no longer be of real
use to him, when she was just one of many who served him.
Vince came out of the inner office with Chuck Eagan, who
drove English's car and did any job that English wanted done
without argument or question.
He was a small, jockey-sized man in his late thirties. He
had sandy-colored hair, a red, freckled face, stony eyes and
quick, smooth movements. He was looking at his worst at the
moment: a tuxedo didn't suit him.
"What's cooking?" he asked out of the side of his mouth,
edging up to Lois. "I was enjoying myself."
She shook her head at him.
English said into the telephone mouthpiece: "I'll be right
over. Leave things as they are until I get there. I'll be
less than ten minutes."
Chuck stifled a groan.
"The car?" he asked, looking at Lois.
"At the door," she told him.
English hung up. As he turned the three stiffened slightly,
their eyes on his, waiting for instructions. His solid
sun-tanned face told them nothing, but his blue eyes were
hard as he said, "Get the car, Chuck. I want to be away at
once."
"It's waiting, boss," Chuck said. "I'll meet you
downstairs," and he went out of the room.
"Let those jackals finish the case of Scotch, and then get
rid of them," English said to Vince. "Tell them I've been
called away."
"Yes, Mr. English," Vince said and went into the inner
office. As he opened the door the noise of laughter and
voices came into the silent outer office with a violence
that made English scowl.
"Stick around, will you?" he said to Lois. "I may need you
tonight. If you don't hear from me within an hour, go home."
"Yes." She looked searchingly at him. "Has something
happened, Mr. English?"
He looked at her, then moving over to her, he put his hand
on her hip and smiled.
"Did you ever meet my brother, Roy?"
She showed her surprise as she shook her head.
"You haven't missed anything." He gave her hip a little pat.
"He's just shot himself."
She caught her breath sharply.
"Oh…I'm sorry…."
"Save it," he said, and moved toward the door. "He doesn't
deserve your sympathy and he wouldn't want mine. This could
be messy. Stick around for an hour. If the press get it,
stall them. Tell them you don't know where I am."
He took his hat and coat from a cupboard.
"Did Harry give you some champagne?" he asked, putting the
hat on his head and giving the brim an irritable jerk.
"Yes, Mr. English."
"Good. Well, so long for now. I may call you." He threw his
coat over his arm and went out, closing the door behind him.
***
Chuck Eagan swung the big, glittering Cadillac into a
downtown side street and reduced speed.
Halfway down the street on the right he saw two prowl cars
parked outside a tall building that was in darkness, except
for two lighted windows on the sixth floor.
He drew up behind the parked cars, cut the engine and got
out as Nick English opened the rear door and untangled his
long legs to the sidewalk.
Chuck looked enquiringly at him.
"Want me to come up, boss?"
"May as well. Keep in the background and keep your mouth shut."
English walked across the sidewalk to where two patrolmen
stood on either side of the entrance to the building. They
both recognized him, and saluted.
"The Lieutenant's waiting for you, Mr. English," one of them
said. "There's an elevator that'll take you up. Sixth floor."
English nodded and walked into the dimly lit, stone-floored
lobby. He moved through a smell of garbage, faulty plumbing
and the acid reek of stale perspiration. Facing the entrance
was an ancient elevator scarcely big enough to hold four people.
Chuck slid back the grill and followed English into the
elevator. He thumbed the automatic button, and the cage
started its jerky ascent.
English had left his overcoat in the car. He stood solidly
on the balls of his feet, his hands thrust into the pockets
of his tuxedo, a smouldering cigar between his teeth, his
eyes brooding and cold.
Chuck glanced at him, then glanced away.
Eventually the elevator jerked to a standstill at the sixth
floor and Chuck pulled back the grill.
English stepped into a dimly lit passage. Almost opposite
him was an open door through which a light came, throwing a
square of brightness on the dirty rubber floor of the
passage. Further along the passage to the left was another
door, showing a light through the frosted panel. To his
right, at the end of the passage, was yet another door
without glass. A light showed under the gap between the
bottom of the door and the floor.
Lieutenant Morilli came through the open doorway. He was a
thickset man in his late forties. His lean hatchet face was
pallid, and his small moustache looked start-lingly black
against his white complexion.
"Sorry to break up the party, Mr. English," he said, his
voice pitched low. "But I thought you'd want to come down."
He had the hushed, deferential manner of an undertaker
dealing with a wealthy client. "A very sad business."
English grunted.
"Who found him?"
"The janitor. He was checking to see if all the offices were
locked. He called me, and I called you. I haven't been here
myself much more than twenty minutes."