You Never Know With Women Read online

  He got to his feet.

  “That’s my offer. No questions asked, no trouble and twenty-five thousand dollars for the dagger. I don’t care how you get it, but get it. If you’re not at my place by ten tonight, look out. You’ll find you’ve been meddling with dynamite.”

  “And suppose I get a break and find the dagger and bring it out to your place; what guarantee have I that Redfern won’t be there to hang a frame on me?”

  “My word,” he said curtly.

  We looked at each other.

  “Okay,” I said and shrugged. “If that’s the best you can do, I’ll take the risk.”

  He took out his wallet, dropped a card on the desk.

  “That’s my telephone number. When you have the dagger, give me a ring. I’ll arrange for the guard to let you up to the house.”

  I tucked the card into my vest pocket.

  “Maybe I’ll be seeing you,” I said. “But don’t bet on it.”

  “I’ll be seeing you all right,” he said grimly and stamped to the door.

  “And what else was stolen from the safe, Mr. Brett?” I asked casually. “Any other offers?”

  I watched him narrowly. I didn’t know if he would jump or turn pale or sag at the knees or even have a stroke. According to Gorman and Parker and Veda he should have done one or even two of these things. He didn’t do any of them. He looked over his shoulder and frowned.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  I wasn’t going to mention the compact just in case I had been given a bum steer, but I gave him another hint.

  “Wasn’t there something else in the safe besides the dagger that was of value to you, Mr. Brett?”

  He looked bewildered. It wasn’t an act. He just happened to be bewildered.

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  I was trying not to be bewildered myself.

  “I guess I am,” I said. “Think nothing of it. I haven’t been sleeping too well recently.”

  He gave me a hard stare and went out. I waited until I heard him running down the stairs, then I fished out the bottle of Scotch, poured three inches of it into the office glass and drank most of it without drawing breath. The kids screamed and yelled as they fought each other amongst the rubbish in the vacant lot. A car started up in the street below and drove away with an open exhaust. A mouse popped out of its hole and sneered at me. The girl on the wall continued to smile. She seemed to enjoy the joke.

  “Yeah, it’s funny,” I said to her. “It’s very, very funny and you can laugh all you like. You’re not in this mess: I am.”

  I lifted my feet and placed them tenderly on the blotter and tried to sort it out. So there was a dagger after all, and the compact meant nothing to Brett.

  “How do you like that?” I said to the girl on the wall. “That’s what comes of being smart. No one, to blame but Jackson, the boy detective, Sherlock the second, the punk with a paralysed brain. So I’m right back where I came in, and maybe Fatso’s yarn was true. Maybe that female enigma did walk in her sleep and steal the dagger and leave her compact in the safe. Maybe that’s why Fatso wanted the compact so badly, because Brett would know when he found it in the safe that it was Veda who had swiped the dagger. Maybe I’d better start from the beginning again. Maybe I’d better take this thick skull of mine and swop it for a bottle of Scotch. Maybe no one would want to swop it for a bottle of Scotch. I wouldn’t.” I set fire to a cigarette, rubbed my face with a hot hand and transferred my stare from Miss Cleavage to the telephone. I had a feeling Brett wasn’t bluffing when he said he’d start after me if I didn’t produce the dagger by ten o’clock. If he cracked O’Readen I’d be in a nasty jam. And he was big and rich enough to crack that smiling copper. I pulled the telephone towards me, dialled and waited.

  A voice with an accent like a tin can rolling downstairs hit my ear. “Hollywood Banner.”

  “Give me Al Ryan.”

  After a lot of delay Al asked crossly, “Who is it?”

  “This is Floyd Jackson,” I told him. “How are you, Al?”

  “Terrible,” Al said with conviction. “Don’t bother me now. Call me next week. I’ll be on vacation then.”

  “I want a little information, Al,” I said firmly.

  “Not interested. I’m busy. Be a pal and throw yourself under a train. No one would miss you.”

  “Very, very funny. How’s your wife, Al?”

  “Still horrible. Why drag my wife into this?” Al sounded suspicious.

  “And how’s that little redhead with dimples in her knees .I saw you with at the Brown Derby last week?”

  There was a long, hurt silence.

  “That’s blackmail, Jackson. You wouldn’t stand for blackmail, would you?”

  “I want some information, Al,” I said gently.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? You know I’m always ready to help a guy if I can. What do you want to know?”

  Miss Cleavage and I exchanged smiles.

  “What do you know about a fat flesh-peddler who calls himself Cornelius Gorman?”

  “Not much. He has an office in the Wiltshire Building on Wiltshire Boulevard, been in business five or six years, smart agent, handles a bunch of strippers and makes a good thing out of it. Got into trouble last year with the Mothers’ League for Good Morals and beat a Mann Act rap a couple of months ago, but a guy in his racket is always running into some kind of trouble.”

  I frowned at the mouthpiece of the telephone. Nothing new: nothing I didn’t know already.

  “Does he run any other rackets, Al?”

  “Not that I know of. I don’t think so. He makes a lot of solid dough out of his girls. He might, of course.”

  “Ever heard of a girl who calls herself Veda Rux?”

  “Sure have.” He sounded enthusiastic. “She’s one of Gorman’s strippers. I’ve seen her toss off her clothes. It’s a nice experience.”

  I was getting nowhere fast.

  “Do you happen to know if Gorman has a pal who collects antiques?” I asked hopefully.

  “Antique women?” Al asked, puzzled.

  “No, you dumb cluck. Antiques — pictures, jewellery, stuff like that.”

  “How should I know? He’s pretty thick with Dominic Boyd, who has a lot of jack and a big place on Beverly Hills. Maybe he collects antiques.”

  I pricked up my ears.

  “Is he a tall guy with slicked-down fair hair and a face like a lady horse?”

  “Could be. Natty dresser and looks a bit of a nance.”

  “That’s the fella.” I was excited now. “Who is he, Al?”

  “I don’t know where he came from. He just arrived out of the blue four or five years ago. Some guy I know told me he was one of the booze barons from the North. Made a million or so out of running moonshine in the prohibition days. He’s a dangerous character from what I hear. The same guy said he was a fugitive from an asylum for the insane, but I don’t believe all I hear.”

  I thought all this over.

  “Well, thanks, Al, that’s about all, I guess. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “And forget about that redhead. That was just a business dinner we were having.”

  “And I suppose you were cuddling her because she was cold?” I said and hung up.

  So Gorman was a theatrical agent and Veda was a stripper after all, but my old pal Dominic wasn’t Gorman’s partner: he was a slap-happy ex-booze king of the name of Boyd.

  I turned the whole thing over in my mind for twenty minutes or so. It got me a nice set of theories, but nothing I could take to the bank and cash into hard currency. One thing I was sure about: I would have to produce the dagger by ten o’clock tonight. I wasn’t going to call Brett’s bluff.

  That stuff about the gas chamber worried me. I’d have to persuade Gorman to part with the dagger. I sat for ten minutes or so working out how I was to do it. There were ways and means; the most obvious one would be to go out to Boyd’s place and steal the thing, but I decided
against that. I’d have to play this one safe. I thought some more, then pushed back my chair, closed the window, took a last look round and walked down the six flights of stairs to the street level.

  It took me an hour and a half of driving fast to reach Gorman’s office on Wiltshire Boulevard. The layout of the place made me think I might do a lot worse than become a flesh-peddler myself. The office was located on the eighth floor of the Wiltshire Building. You go through revolving doors into a vast lobby of chromium and green and white rubber block flooring. A row of elevators is on your right; facing you is an arcade of shops where you can buy a flower for your buttonhole or a diamond tiara, according to your bank balance and inclination. To your left is an inquiry desk, a row of telephone booths and a theatre ticket agency. A sign at the head of a broad flight of stairs leading to the basement tells you you can have a haircut, shave, turkish bath and a meal if you can be bothered to walk that far.

  I rode to the eighth floor in an express elevator and walked along some more green and white rubber blocks before I reached double plate-glass doors with Cornelius on one door and Gorman on the other. I looked through the glass at a cute little blonde at a switchboard and behind a railing, well out of reach of clutching hands. The rest of the room was given up to four rows of armchairs. A number of nifty-looking young women were sitting in the chairs and doing nothing in particular.

  I pushed open the swing doors and sauntered over to the switchboard. The young women watched me come. I didn’t hurry. Waiting to be taken on as a stripper can’t be a lot of fun, and if they could get a thrill out of seeing a hundred and eighty pounds of bone and muscle and hot red blood snaking into their grey young lives, that was all right with me.

  “Mr. Gorman,” I said to the blonde trick and leered into her big brown eyes.

  She gave me a look full of repressed yearning and asked if I had an appointment.

  “No,” I told her, “but he’ll see me. Tell him the name’s Floyd Jackson and I’m in a rush.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see how the young women were taking the news. They stared back at me with intent, expectant expressions.

  The blonde trick said regretfully, “Mr. Gorman never sees anyone without an appointment, Mr. Jackson; I’m sorry.”

  “Ask him,” I coaxed. “Call him and tell him I’m here. You’re in for a big surprise, honey. Fatso and I shared the same cell together. You ask him.”

  She giggled nervously.

  “You wouldn’t be kidding? Mr. Gorman doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

  “Tell him. I have a fatal fascination for him. Go ahead, honey, whisper the good news to him.”

  She put through the call while the rest of the young women listened on tip-toe.

  “There’s a Mr. Floyd Jackson asking for you,” she said timidly into the receiver. “He says you’ll see him.” She listened for a moment, her eyes growing big, then she hung up. Will you wait, Mr. Jackson? He won’t keep you long.”

  I thanked her and edged my way towards the young women, but before I could select a chair the door near the railed-off portion of the office opened and a slim, dark girl with a cold, hard face came out.

  “Mr. Jackson?” she asked sharply.

  I moved towards her.

  “Go in, please. Mr. Gorman will see you now.”

  I looked past her to the blonde trick, whose mouth was hanging open, and I winked, then I strolled into a big airy room full of light and cigar smoke and photographs of nice-looking cuties with very little on.

  Gorman sat behind a vast desk covered with papers that may or may not have been contracts, cigar ash and still more photographs. His ball-round face was as empty as a pauper’s purse, and his little black eyes that peered at me over ridges of pink fat were suspicious and alert.

  “An unexpected visit, Mr. Jackson,” he said smoothly. “I must confess I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

  “Came as a surprise to me too,” I said and drew up a leather-padded chair and sat down.

  “Perhaps you have come to return my ring?” he asked and chuckled the way an orang-outang might chuckle before he snaps off your arm.

  “I sold that,” I said regretfully. “I was short of money. A guy promised me fifteen hundred bucks and never paid up.”

  “I see.” He stared at me thoughtfully, went on, “And yet, Mr. Jackson, you have obviously come here for a reason.”

  “Why, sure,” I said, lit a cigarette and placed the match end carefully in the onyx ash-tray. “Yeah, I didn’t blow in to pass the time. How’s Dominic?”

  Gorman lifted one immense hand and studied his well-manicured nails. He was very calm and cool.

  “He’s well enough, Mr. Jackson. A dangerous man, of course. I’m afraid he’s a little annoyed with you. I should keep clear of him if I were you.”

  “It’s a wonder they let him out of that asylum,” I said. “His name’s Boyd, isn’t it? And he’s a collector of antiques.”

  Gorman frowned at his nails.

  “You have been making inquiries then, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I was a private eye once. Difficult to keep one’s nose out of other people’s business once you get the urge.” I flicked ash on the desk to keep the other ash company. “Veda sends her love. Nice girl; a little hotheaded, but nice.”

  “Foolish,” Gorman said, and there was a rasp in his voice.

  “Well, you know how these kids act. She didn’t mean anything by it. Any self-respecting girl would want to slug a pixey like Dominic.”

  “Suppose you get to the point?” Gorman said. “If you haven’t come to return the ring, why are you here?”

  I smiled at him.

  “I’ve come for the dagger.”

  There was a moment’s silence. The little black eyes flickered.

  “I don’t think I know what you mean,” he said at last.

  “I’ve seen Brett.” I stubbed out my cigarette, lit another. “Ever met Lindsay Brett?”

  Gorman said he hadn’t met Brett.

  “Pity: he has a compelling presence. He’s big time, and doesn’t ever let you forget it, and he has also a persuasive manner; a mighty persuasive manner. He wants the dagger back, and he’s convinced me he’ll get it back. So I thought I’d drop by and pick it up.”

  Gorman studied me.

  “And what makes you think I have it?” he asked smoothly.

  “You haven’t,” I said. “Boyd has it but you’re a pal of his and you’re in a jam, so I thought it’d be easier for me to persuade you to persuade him to part with it.”

  “Am I in a jam?” The black eyes glittered like bits of painted glass.

  “You certainly are,” I said and hitched my chair forward. “Brett’s put his cards on the table. If I play with him I’m in the clear. He guarantees me a clean bill. All he wants is the dagger. If he doesn’t get it, then I’m for the high jump and that includes the gas chamber. So what do I do? I make the same proposition to you. Hand over the dagger or I’ll turn you in. All I have to do is to tell Brett the whole story. He already suspects Boyd is at the back of this. I have Veda tucked away, and she’ll be principal witness. To save her skin she’ll throw you two guys to the wolves so fast you’ll be sniffing cyanide before you know the trial’s over. The cards are stacked against you. I have the story, I have Veda, I have the compact and Brett’s guarantee to keep me in the clear. If you can’t persuade Boyd to hand over the dagger you and he are sunk.”

  He took out his gold cigarette-case and helped himself to a cigarette. As he lit it his eyes searched my face. He kept pretty cool, but I could see he wasn’t very happy.

  “Would Brett pay any reward if the dagger was returned?” he asked, and his voice sounded very thin and very scratchy. I grinned at him.

  “You bet,” I said cheerfully. “Twenty-five grand.”

  “I see.” For a moment his face lit up. We might divide the reward between us, Mr. Jackson. Mr. Boyd wouldn’t care about the money. It would be between you and me.”


  “I’m afraid not,” I said, easing myself back in my chair. “You don’t get anything out of this, Fatso. You once said I was tricky and smooth, and that makes me tricky and smooth. Your job is to get the dagger from Boyd. I don’t have to pay you anything because I hold five aces.”

  His face turned the colour of cold mutton fat.

  “I think it would be wiser for you to share the spoils,” he said and leaned forward. “Think again, Mr. Jackson.”

  I kicked back my chair and stood up.

  “I’ll be back here at four o’clock, Fatso. Have the dagger here by then or take the consequences. You’ve played me for a sucker long enough. It’s time you got wise. I’m not taking any excuses. The dagger’s either here at four, or you and your pixey pal can explain your little plot to Redfern. And don’t try any tricks. I’ve put the whole story down in writing and Veda is holding on to it. If I’m not back with her by six tonight, she turns the yarn over to Brett.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment, then I walked out, leaving him sitting behind the desk as quiet and as cold and as deadly as a cobra coiled up in a bush.

  The young women watched me as I came out of the office: They flinched with horror when I slammed the door behind me. The cute blonde trick was still open-mouthed. The hard-faced number who had told me to go into Gorman’s office looked at me with calculating eyes.

  I sauntered across the room, pulled open the glass door and walked into the passage. I let the doors swing to. They were still staring as I moved towards the elevator. I rode down to the street level, opened the door of the Cad and looked up. Eight floors above me, three windows pushed up. The young women, the blonde trick and the hard-faced number stared down at me intently. The blonde trick’s mouth fell open another inch.

  It crossed my mind as I got into the car that all those frails would remember me. It was a cosy thought. Even a punk with a paralysed brain hates to be forgotten.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I HAD three hours to kill before I saw Gorman again,” but that’s not a hardship when you’re in Hollywood. I spent one of them climbing outside the best meal I’d had in years. Nothing was too good or too expensive for Mrs. Jackson’s favourite son that sunny afternoon.