A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

Skip Rogers drew out a crumpled five-dollar bill. “Bring me four dollars change,” he ordered contemptuously, “and consider yourself damn lucky!”

The waiter didn’t waste any more time. He simply turned his head and whistled warningly over his shoulder. Instantly the man in the tuxedo appeared in the doorway. He was coatless now and rolling up his shirt-sleeves preparatory to going to work. Behind him was another gorilla, appearing on the scene now for the first time. They both made for the table, nice and slow, nice and easy, as though there was no hurry about this at all. Skip’s chair went over backwards with a bang and he was on his feet, facing the three of them. The waiter swung at him, a blow that would have felled an ox. Skip ducked it nimbly and came back like a flash with a less powerful but better aimed jab that landed on the Frankenstein’s nose. Blood spurted and he gave an animal roar of fury.

“Here I go!” thought Skip philosophically as the other two spread out fan-shape on either side of him.

Suddenly Rose Gordon’s voice rang out sharply from the doorway, harsh and strident maybe but sweeter than the song of Lorelei at such a time.

“Turn around! Get away from him, all of you! This is one guy you don’t touch! Hand over the key to the front door, Shorty, and hurry up about it!” She had her hat and coat on and she was holding a small revolver in her hand, waving it at the three of them. Her eyes were menacing slits. No one looking at her could have doubted that she would have used it without hesitation. The three of them slowly backed away from Skip Rogers, hands at shoulder-level. The one called Shorty drew out a door-key and tossed it down on the floor. “Grab that,” she ordered Skip. “I’ll hold ’em until you get the door open!”

“Ladies first,” he countered. “I’ll do the holding. You unlock and wait for me down on the street.”

She passed the gun to him and slipped out, the key in her hand. “We’ll get you, baby! You’ll be sorry for this!” the erstwhile manager breathed virulently after her as she went. The sound of a most undignified but effective “raspberry” or Bronx cheer came drifting back from the hallway.

When Skip joined her on the sidewalk in front of the house five minutes later, he had somebody else with him, the unfortunate middle-aged gentleman who had been sitting with the blonde earlier in the evening. His collar was torn, he had a black eye, and he was almost dazed by his sudden release. Skip shoved him into a taxicab, then hailed another for his rescuer and himself.

“I’m going home with you tonight,” he told her matter-of-factly. “They may try to come after you and — well, I owe you that much anyway.”

If his words were strangely un-loverlike, she didn’t seem to notice. She snuggled down contentedly against his shoulder and sighed. She was visioning herself in a bathtubful of eau de Cologne in a penthouse twenty stories above the street, with him pacing impatiently back and forth outside her boudoir.

When she woke up in the morning, he was gone and it seemed hard to believe that he had ever been in the dingy furnished room with her. She looked around it, and she knew she was getting out right then. Not only because there were better things in store for her but also because it was dangerous to stay there alone; her former employers were liable to look her up at any moment. She packed the few things she had and told her landlady with an air of noblesse oblige that she could keep the balance of the week’s rent.

“I’m moving to Park Avenue,” she said. “I don’t know the exact location yet, but it’ll be somewhere along there, don’t worry!” Skip hadn’t left any note for her but that didn’t matter; she knew where to find him. It didn’t even occur to her that there was anything strange about it. He’d gone home to change his clothes, that was all; you couldn’t expect a rich man’s son like him to stay in the same rumpled clothes after being out all night.

She reached the main Robbins & Rogers restaurant, a few blocks from where she had formerly lived, just a little after the breakfast-rush was over. She marched in, suitcase in hand. She was being very tactful about this; it wouldn’t have been ladylike to march right up to where he lived — at least not that early in the morning. Besides, for all she knew he mightn’t be exactly anxious to have his people know anything about her; she’d been around enough to know how those things worked. Also she wanted to give him time enough to make the arrangements for the penthouse; he would have to sign the lease for it and so forth. The rest of the shopping — for the car, mink coat, furniture, et cetera — they could do together later on. So she had lots of time. Meanwhile she would tie on the feed-bag at his old man’s expense, here in this place. He didn’t know it yet, but she was practically his daughter-in-law already.