Gaza de Lure was sitting at the piano when Crumb arrived
at the bungalow at 1421 Vista del Paso at a little
after six in the evening of the last Saturday in July. The
smoke from a half burned cigarette lying on the ebony
case was rising in a thin, indolent column above the
masses of her black hair. Her fingers idled through a
dreamy waltz.
Crumb gave her a surly nod as he closed the door behind
him. He was tired and cross after a hard day at
the studio. The girl, knowing that he would be all right
presently, merely returned his nod and continued playing.
He went immediately to his room, and a moment
later she heard him enter the bathroom through another
doorway.
Half an hour later he emerged, shaved, spruce, and
smiling. A tiny powder had effected a transformation,
just as she had known that it would. He came and
leaned across the piano, close to her. She was very
beautiful. It seemed to the man that she grew more
beautiful and more desirable each day. The fact that
she had been unattainable had fed the fires of his desire,
transforming infatuation into as near a thing to love
as a man of his type can ever feel.
“Well, little girl!” he cried gayly. “I have good news
for you.”
She smiled a crooked little smile and shook her head.
“The only good news that I can think of would be that
the government had established a comfortable home for
superannuated hop-heads, where they would be furnished,
without cost, with all the snow they could use.”
The effects of her last shot were wearing off. He
laughed good-naturedly.
“Really,” he insisted; “on the level, I’ve got the best
news you’ve heard in moons.”
“Well?” she asked wearily.
“Old Battle-Ax has got her divorce,” he announced, referring
thus affectionately to his wife.
“Well,” said the girl, “that’s good news—for her—if
it’s true.”
Crumb frowned.
“It’s good news for you,” he said. “It means that I
can marry you now.”
The girl leaned back on the piano bench and laughed
aloud. It was not a pleasant laugh. She laughed until
the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“What is there funny about that?” growled the man.
“It would mean a lot to you—respectability, for one thing,
and success, for another. The day you become Mrs.
Wilson Crumb I’ll star you in the greatest picture that
was ever made.”
“Respectability!” she sneered. “Your name would
make me respectable, would it? It would be the insult
added to all the injury you have done me. And as for
starring—poof!” She snapped her fingers. “I have
but one ambition, thanks to you, you dirty hound, and that
is snow!” She leaned toward him, her two clenched fists
almost shaking in his face. “Give me all the snow I
need,” she cried, “and the rest of them may have their
fame and their laurels!”
He thought he saw his chance then. Turning away
with a shrug, he walked to the fireplace and lighted a
cigarette.
“Oh, very well!” he said. “If you feel that way
about it, all right; but”—he turned suddenly upon her—“you’ll
have to get out of here and stay out—do you
understand? From this day on you can only enter this
house as Mrs. Wilson Crumb, and you can rustle your
own dope if you don’t come back—understand?”
She looked at him through narrowed lids. She reminded
him of a tigress about to spring, and he backed
away.
“Listen to me,” she commanded in slow, level tones.
“In the first place, you’re lying to me about your wife
getting her divorce. I’d have guessed as much if I hadn’t
known, for a hop-head can’t tell the truth; but I do know.
You got a letter from your attorney to-day telling you
that your wife still insists not only that she never will
divorce you, but that she will never allow you a divorce.”
“You mean to say that you opened one of my letters?”
he demanded angrily.
“Sure I opened it! I open ’em all—I steam ’em open.
What do you expect,” she almost screamed, “from the
thing you have made of me? Do you expect honor and
self-respect, or any other virtue, in a hype?”
“You get out of here!” he cried. “You get out now—this
minute!”
She rose from the bench and came and stood quite
close to him.
“You’ll see that I get all the snow I want, if I go?”
she asked.
He laughed nastily.
“You don’t ever get another bindle,” he replied.
“Wait!” she admonished. “I wasn’t through with
what I started to say a minute ago. You’ve been hitting
it long enough, Wilson, to know what one of our kind
will do to get it. You know that either you or I would
sacrifice soul and body if there was no other way. We
would lie, or steal, or—murder! Do you get that, Wilson—murder?
There is just one thing that I won’t do, but
that one thing is not murder, Wilson. Listen!” She
lifted her face close to his and looked him straight in
the eyes. “If you ever try to take it away from me, or
keep it from me, Wilson, I shall kill you.”
Her tone was cold and unemotional, and because of
that, perhaps, the threat seemed very real. The man
paled.
“Aw, come!” he cried. “What’s the use of our scrapping?
I was only kidding, anyway. Run along and take
a shot—it’ll make you feel better.”
“Yes,” she said, “I need one; but don’t get it into
your head that I was kidding. I wasn’t. I’d just as lief
kill you as not—the only trouble is that killing’s too
damned good for you, Wilson!”
She walked toward the bathroom door.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, pausing, “Allen called up
this afternoon. He’s in town, and will be up after dinner.
He wants his money.”
She entered the bathroom and closed the door. Crumb
lighted another cigarette and threw himself into an easy
chair, where he sat scowling at a temple dog on a Chinese
rug.
The Japanese “schoolboy” opened a door and announced
dinner, and a moment later Gaza joined Crumb in the
little dining room. They both smoked throughout the
meal, which they scarcely tasted. The girl was vivacious
and apparently happy. She seemed to have forgotten
the recent scene in the living room. She asked questions
about the new picture.
“We’re going to commence shooting Monday,” he told
her. Momentarily he waxed almost enthusiastic. “I’m
going to have trouble with that boob author, though,”
he said. “If they’d kick him off the lot, and give me a
little more money, I’d make ’em the greatest picture ever
screened!”
Then he relapsed into brooding silence.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Worrying about
Allen?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I’ll stall him off again.”
“He isn’t going to be easy to stall this time,” she observed,
“if I gathered the correct idea from his line of
talk over the phone to-day. I can’t see what you’ve done
with all the coin, Wilson.”
“You got yours, didn’t you?” he growled.
“Sure, I got mine,” she answered, “and it’s nothing to
me what you did with Allen’s share; but I’m here to
tell you that you’ve pulled a boner if you’ve double-crossed
him. I’m not much of a character reader, as
proved by my erstwhile belief that you were a high-minded
gentleman; but it strikes me the veriest boob
could see that that man Allen is a bad actor. You’d better
look out for him.”
“I ain’t afraid of him,” blustered Crumb.
“No, of course you’re not,” she agreed sarcastically.
“You’re a regular little lion-hearted Reginald, Wilson—that’s
what you are!”
The doorbell rang.
“There he is now,” said the girl.
Crumb paled.
“What makes you think he’s a bad man?” he asked.
“Look at his face—look at his eyes,” she admonished.
“Hard? He’s got a face like a brick-bat.”
They rose from the table and entered the living room
as the Japanese opened the front door. The caller was
Slick Allen. Crumb rushed forward and greeted him
effusively.
“Hello, old man!” he cried. “I’m mighty glad to see
you. Miss de Lure told me that you had phoned. Can’t
tell you how delighted I am!”
Allen nodded to the girl, tossed his cap upon a bench
near the door, and crossed to the center of the room.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Allen?” she suggested.
“I ain’t got much time,” he said, lowering himself into
a chair. “I come up here, Crumb, to get some money.”
His cold, fishy eyes looked straight into Crumb’s. “I
come to get all the money there is comin’ to me. It’s a
trifle over ten thousand dollars, as I figure it.”
“Yes,” said Crumb; “that’s about it.”
“An’ I don’t want no stallin’ this time, either,” concluded
Allen.
“Stalling!” exclaimed Crumb in a hurt tone. “Who’s
been stalling?”
“You have.”
“Oh, my dear man!” cried Crumb deprecatingly.
“You know that in matters of this kind one must be
circumspect. There were reasons in the past why it
would have been unsafe to transfer so large an amount
to you. It might easily have been traced. I was being
watched—a fellow even shadowed me to the teller’s window
in my bank one day. You see how it is? Neither
of us can take chances.”
“That’s all right, too,” said Allen; “but I’ve been taking
chances right along, and I ain’t been taking them for my
health. I been taking them for the coin, and I want that
coin—I want it pronto!”
“You can most certainly have it,” said Crumb.
“All right!” replied Allen, extending a palm. “Fork
it over.”
“My dear fellow, you don’t think that I have it here,
do you?” demanded Crumb. “You don’t think I keep
such an amount as that in my home, I hope!”
“Where is it?”
“In the bank, of course.”
“Gimme a check.”
“You must be crazy! Suppose either of us was suspected;
that check would link us up fine. It would be as
bad for you as for me. Nothing doing! I’ll get the cash
when the bank opens on Monday. That’s the very best
I can do. If you’d written and let me know you were
coming, I could have had it for you.”
Allen eyed him for a long minute.
“Very well,” he said, at last. “I’ll wait till noon
Monday.”
Crumb breathed an inward sigh of profound relief.
“If you’re at the bank Monday morning, at half past
ten, you’ll get the money,” he said. “How’s the other stuff
going? Sorry I couldn’t handle that, but it’s too bulky.”
“The hootch? It’s goin’ fine,” replied Allen. “Got a
young high-blood at the edge of the valley handlin’ it—fellow
by the name of Evans. He moves thirty-six cases
a week. The kid’s got a good head on him—worked the
whole scheme out himself. Sells the whole batch every
week, for cash, to a guy with a big truck. They cover
it with hay, and this guy hauls it right into the city in
broad daylight, unloads it in a warehouse he’s rented,
slips each case into a carton labeled somebody or other’s
soap, and delivers it a case at a time to a bunch of drug
stores. This second guy used to be a drug salesman,
and he’s personally acquainted with every grafter in the
business.”
As he talked, Allen had been studying the girl’s face.
She had noticed it before; but she was used to having
men stare at her, and thought little of it. Finally he
addressed her.
“Do you know, Miss de Lure,” he said, “there’s something
mighty familiar about your face? I noticed it the
first time I came here, and I been studyin’ over it since.
It seems like I’d known you somewhere else, or some one
you look a lot like; but I can’t quite get it straight in
my head. I can’t make out where it was, or when, or
if it was you or some one else. I’ll get it some day,
though.”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m sure I never saw
you before you came here with Mr. Crumb the first time.”
“Well, I don’t know, either,” replied Allen, scratching
his head; “but it’s mighty funny.” He rose. “I’ll
be goin’,” he said. “See you Monday at the bank—ten
thirty sharp, Crumb!”
“Sure, ten thirty sharp,” repeated Crumb, rising. “Oh,
say, Allen, will you do me a favor? I promised a fellow
I’d bring him a bindle of M to-night, and if you’ll hand
it to him it’ll save me the trip. It’s right on your way
to the car line. You’ll find him in the alley back of
the Hollywood Drug Store, just west of Cuyhenga on the
south side of Hollywood Boulevard.”
“Sure, glad to accommodate,” said Allen; “but how’ll
I know him?”
“He’ll be standin’ there, and you walk up and ask him
the time. If he tells you, and then asks if you can
change a five, you’ll know he’s the guy all right. Then
you hand him these two ones and a fifty-cent piece, and
he hands you a five-dollar bill. That’s all there is to
it. Inside these two ones I’ll wrap a bindle of M. You
can give me the five Monday morning when I see you.”
“Slip me the junk,” said Allen.
The girl had risen, and was putting on her coat and
hat.
“Where are you going—home so early?” asked Crumb.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m tired, and I want to write
a letter.”
“I thought you lived here,” said Allen.
“I’m here nearly all day, but I go home nights,” replied
the girl.
Slick Allen looked puzzled as he left the bungalow.
“Goin’ my way?” he asked of the girl, as they reached
the sidewalk.
“No,” she replied. “I go in the opposite direction.
Good night!”
“Good night!” said Allen, and turned toward Hollywood
Boulevard.
Inside the bungalow Crumb was signaling central for
a connection.
“Give me the police station on Cuyhenga, near Hollywood,”
he said. “I haven’t time to look up the number.
Quick—it’s important!”
There was a moment’s silence and then:
“Hello! What is this? Listen! If you want to get
a hop-head with the goods on him—right in the act of
peddling—send a dick to the back of the Hollywood
Drug Store, and have him wait there until a guy comes
up and asks what time it is. Then have the dick tell
him and say, ‘Can you change a five?’ That’s the cue
for the guy to slip him a bindle of morphine rolled up
in a couple of one-dollar bills. If you don’t send a
dummy, he’ll know what to do next—and you’d better
get him there in a hurry. What? No—oh, just a friend—just
a friend.”
Wilson Crumb hung up the receiver. There was a grin
on his face as he turned away from the instrument.
“It’s too bad, Allen, but I’m afraid you won’t be at
the bank at half past ten on Monday morning!” he said.
