The Glass Key

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Jesus! I wouldn’t have to stand the rap till after election and then it’s all Shad’s.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe hell!”

  The waiter came in and they ordered their drinks.

  “Maybe Shad would let you take the fall anyhow,” Ned Beaumont said idly when they were alone again. “Things like that have happened.”

  “A swell chance,” Jeff scoffed, “with all I’ve got on him.”

  Ned Beaumont exhaled cigar-smoke. “What’ve you got on him?”

  The apish man laughed, boisterously, scornfully, and pounded the table with an open hand. “Christ!” he roared, “he thinks I’m drunk enough to tell him.”

  From the doorway came a quiet voice, a musical slightly Irish baritone: “Go on, Jeff, tell him.” Shad O’Rory stood in the doorway. His grey-blue eyes looked somewhat sadly at Jeff.

  Jeff squinted his eyes merrily at the man in the doorway and said: “How are you, Shad? Come in and set down to a drink. Meet Mr. Beaumont. He’s a heel.”

  O’Rory said softly: “I told you to stay under cover.”

  “But, Jesus, Shad, I was getting so’s I was afraid I’d bite myself! And this joint’s under cover, ain’t it? It’s a speakeasy.”

  O’Rory looked a moment longer at Jeff, then at Ned Beaumont. “Good evening, Beaumont.”

  “ ’Lo, Shad.”

  O’Rory smiled gently and, indicating Jeff with a tiny nod, asked: “Get much out of him?”

  “Not much I didn’t already know,” Ned Beaumont replied. “He makes a lot of noise, but all of it doesn’t make sense.”

  Jeff said: “I think you’re a pair of heels.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks. O’Rory stopped him. “Never mind. They’ve had enough.” The waiter carried their drinks away. Shad O’Rory came into the room and shut the door. He stood with his back against it. He said: “You talk too much, Jeff. I’ve told you that before.”

  Ned Beaumont deliberately winked at Jeff.

  Jeff said angrily to him: “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  Ned Beaumont laughed.

  “I’m talking to you, Jeff,” O’Rory said.

  “Christ, don’t I know it?”

  O’Rory said: “We’re coming to the place where I’m going to stop talking to you.”

  Jeff stood up. “Don’t be a heel, Shad,” he said. “What the hell?” He came around the table. “Me and you’ve been pals a long time. You always were my pal and I’ll always be yours.” He put his arms out to embrace O’Rory, lurching towards him. “Sure, I’m smoked, but—”

  O’Rory put a white hand on the apish man’s chest and thrust him back. “Sit down.” He did not raise his voice.

  Jeff’s left fist whipped out at O’Rory’s face.

  O’Rory’s head moved to the right, barely enough to let the fist whip past his cheek. O’Rory’s long finely sculptured face was gravely composed. His right hand dropped down behind his hip.

  Ned Beaumont flung from his chair at O’Rory’s right arm, caught it with both hands, going down on his knees.

  Jeff, thrown against the wall by the impetus behind his left fist, now turned and took Shad O’Rory’s throat in both hands. The apish face was yellow, distorted, hideous. There was no longer any drunkenness in it.

  “Got the roscoe?” Jeff panted.

  “Yes.” Ned Beaumont stood up, stepped back holding a black pistol leveled at O’Rory.

  O’Rory’s eyes were glassy, protuberant, his face mottled, turgid. He did not struggle against the man holding his throat.

  Jeff turned his head over his shoulder to grin at Ned Beaumont. The grin was wide, genuine, idiotically bestial. Jeff’s little red eyes glinted merrily. He said in a hoarse good-natured voice: “Now you see what we got to do. We got to give him the works.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “I don’t want anything to do with it.” His voice was steady. His nostrils quivered.

  “No?” Jeff leered at him. “I expect you think Shad’s a guy that’ll forget what we done.” He ran his tongue over his lips. “He’ll forget. I’ll fix that.”

  Grinning from ear to ear at Ned Beaumont, not looking at the man whose throat he held in his hands, Jeff began to take in and let out long slow breaths. His coat became lumpy over his shoulders and back and along his arms. Sweat appeared on his ugly dark face.

  Ned Beaumont was pale. He too was breathing heavily and moisture filmed his temples. He looked over Jeff’s lumpy shoulder at O’Rory’s face.

  O’Rory’s face was liver-colored. His eyes stood far out, blind. His tongue came out blue between bluish lips. His slender body writhed. One of his hands began to beat the wall behind him, mechanically, without force.

  Grinning at Ned Beaumont, not looking at the man whose throat he held, Jeff spread his legs a little wider and arched his back. O’Rory’s hand stopped beating the wall. There was a muffled crack, then, almost immediately, a sharper one. O’Rory did not writhe now. He sagged in Jeff’s hands.

  Jeff laughed in his throat. “That’s keno,” he said. He kicked a chair out of the way and dropped O’Rory’s body on the sofa. O’Rory’s body fell there face down, one hand and his feet hanging down to the floor. Jeff rubbed his hands on his hips and faced Ned Beaumont. “I’m just a big good-natured slob,” he said. “Anybody can kick me around all they want to and I never do nothing about it.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “You were afraid of him.”

  Jeff laughed. “I hope to tell you I was. So was anybody that was in their right mind. I suppose you wasn’t?” He laughed again, looked around the room, said: “Let’s screw before anybody pops in.” He held out his hand. “Give me the roscoe. I’ll ditch it.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “No.” He moved his hand sidewise until the pistol was pointed at Jeff’s belly. “We can say this was self-defense. I’m with you. We can beat it at the inquest.”

  “Jesus, that’s a bright idea!” Jeff exclaimed. “Me with a murder-rap hanging over me for that West guy!” His small red eyes kept shifting their focus from Ned Beaumont’s face to the pistol in his hand.

  Ned Beaumont smiled with thin pale lips. “That’s what I was thinking about,” he said softly.

  “Don’t be a God-damned sap,” Jeff blustered, taking a step forward. “You—”

  Ned Beaumont backed away, around one of the tables. “I don’t mind plugging you, Jeff,” he said. “Remember I owe you something.”

  Jeff stood still and scratched the back of his head. “What kind of a heel are you?” he asked perplexedly.

  “Just a pal.” Ned Beaumont moved the pistol forward suddenly. “Sit down.”

  Jeff, after a moment’s glowering hesitation, sat down.

  Ned Beaumont put out his left hand and pressed the bell-button.

  Jeff stood up.

  Ned Beaumont said: “Sit down.”

  Jeff sat down.

  Ned Beaumont said: “Keep your hands on the table.”

  Jeff shook his head lugubriously. “What a half-smart bastard you turned out to be,” he said. “You don’t think they’re going to let you drag me out of here, do you?”

  Ned Beaumont went around the table again and sat on a chair facing Jeff and facing the door.

  Jeff said: “The best thing for you to do is give me that gun and hope I’ll forget you made the break. Jesus, Ned, this is one of my hang-outs! You ain’t got a chance in the world of pulling a fast one here.”

  Ned Beaumont said: “Keep your hand away from the catchup-bottle.”

  The waiter opened the door, goggled at them.

  “Tell Tim to come up,” Ned Beaumont said, and then, to the apish man when he would have spoken: “Shut up.”

  The waiter shut the door and hurried away.

  Jeff said: “Don’t be a sap, Neddy. This can’t get you anything but a rub-out. What good’s it going to do you to try to turn me up? None.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “I know you’re kind of sore
about the time we were rough with you, but—hell!—that wasn’t my fault. I was just doing what Shad told me, and ain’t I evened that up now by knocking him off for you?”

  Ned Beaumont said: “If you don’t keep your hand away from that catchup-bottle I’m going to shoot a hole in it.”

  Jeff said: “You’re a heel.”

  The young-middle-aged man with plump lips and round eyes opened the door, came in quickly, and shut it behind him.

  Ned Beaumont said: “Jeff’s killed O’Rory. Phone the police. You’ll have time to clear the place before they get here. Better get a doctor, too, in case he’s not dead.”

  Jeff laughed scornfully. “If he ain’t dead I’m the Pope.” He stopped laughing and addressed the plump-mouthed man with careless familiarity: “What do you think of this guy thinking you’re going to let him get away with that? Tell him what a fat chance he has of getting away with it, Tim.”

  Tim looked at the dead man on the sofa, at Jeff, and at Ned Beaumont. His round eyes were sober. He spoke to Ned Beaumont, slowly: “This is a tough break for the house. Can’t we drag him out in the street and let him be found there?”

  Ned Beaumont shook his head. “Get your place cleaned up before the coppers get here and you’ll be all right. I’ll do what I can for you.”

  While Tim hesitated Jeff said: “Listen, Tim, you know me. You know—”

  Tim said without especial warmth: “For Christ’s sake pipe down.”

  Ned Beaumont smiled. “Nobody knows you, Jeff, now Shad’s dead.”

  “No?” The apish man sat back more comfortably in his chair and his face cleared. “Well, turn me up. Now I know what kind of sons of bitches you are I’d rather take the fall than ask a God-damned thing of either of you.”

  Tim, ignoring Jeff, asked: “Have to play it that way?”

  Ned Beaumont nodded.

  “I guess I can stand it,” Tim said and put his hand on the door-knob.

  “Mind seeing if Jeff’s got a gun on him?” Ned Beaumont asked.

  Tim shook his head. “It happened here, but I’ve got nothing to do with it and I’m going to have nothing to do with it,” he said and went out.

  Jeff, slouching back comfortably in his chair, his hands idle on the table before him, talked to Ned Beaumont until the police came. He talked cheerfully, calling Ned Beaumont numerous profane and obscene and merely insulting names, accusing him of a long and varied list of vices.

  Ned Beaumont listened with polite interest.

  A raw-boned white-haired man in a lieutenant’s uniform was the first policeman to come in. Half a dozen police detectives were behind him.

  Ned Beaumont said: “ ’Lo, Brett. I think he’s got a gun on him.”

  “What’s it all about?” Brett asked, looking at the body on the sofa while two detectives, squeezing past him, took hold of Jeff Gardner.

  Ned Beaumont told Brett what had happened. His story was truthful except in giving the impression that O’Rory had been killed in the heat of their struggle and not after he had been disarmed.

  While Ned Beaumont was talking a doctor came in, turned Shad O’Rory’s body over on the sofa, examined him briefly, and stood up. The Lieutenant looked at the doctor. The doctor said, “Gone,” and went out of the small crowded room.

  Jeff was jovially cursing the two detectives who held him. Every time he cursed, one of the detectives struck him in the face with his fist. Jeff laughed and kept on cursing them. His false teeth had been knocked out. His mouth bled.

  Ned Beaumont gave the dead man’s pistol to Brett and stood up. “Want me to come along to headquarters now? Or will tomorrow do?”

  “Better come along now,” Brett replied.

  IV

  It was long past midnight when Ned Beaumont left police headquarters. He said good-night to the two reporters who had come out with him and got into a taxicab. The address he gave the driver was Paul Madvig’s.

  Lights were on in the ground-floor of Madvig’s house and as Ned Beaumont climbed the front steps the door was opened by Mrs. Madvig. She was dressed in black and had a shawl over her shoulders.

  He said: “ ’Lo, Mom. What are you doing up so late?”

  She said, “I thought it was Paul,” though she looked at him without disappointment.

  “Isn’t he home? I wanted to see him.” He looked sharply at her. “What’s the matter?”

  The old woman stepped back, pulling the door back with her. “Come in, Ned.”

  He went in.

  She shut the door and said: “Opal tried to commit suicide.”

  He lowered his eyes and mumbled: “What? What do you mean?”

  “She had cut one of her wrists before the nurse could stop here. She didn’t lose much blood, though, and she’s all right if she doesn’t try it again.” There was as little of weakness in her voice as in her mien.

  Ned Beaumont’s voice was not steady. “Where’s Paul?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t been able to find him. He ought to be home before this. I don’t know where he is.” She put a bony hand on Ned Beaumont’s upper arm and now her voice shook a little. “Are you—are you and Paul—?” She stopped, squeezing his arm.

  He shook his head. “That’s done for good.”

  “Oh, Ned, boy, isn’t there anything you can do to patch it up? You and he—” Again she broke off.

  He raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were wet. He said gently: “No, Mom, that’s done for good. Did he tell you about it?”

  “He only told me, when I said I’d phoned you about that man from the District Attorney’s office being here, that I wasn’t ever to do anything like that again, that you—that you were not friends now.”

  Ned Beaumont cleared his throat. “Listen, Mom, tell him I came to see him. Tell him I’m going home and will wait there for him, will be waiting all night.” He cleared his throat again and added lamely: “Tell him that.”

  Mrs. Madvig put her bony hands on his shoulders. “You’re a good boy, Ned. I don’t want you and Paul to quarrel. You’re the best friend he ever had, no matter what’s come between you. What is it? Is it that Janet—”

  “Ask Paul,” he said in a low bitter voice. He moved his head impatiently. “I’m going to run along, Mom, unless there’s something I can do for you or Opal. Is there?”

  “Not unless you’d go up to see her. She’s not sleeping yet and maybe it would do some good to talk to her. She used to listen to you.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said, “she wouldn’t want to see me”—he swallowed—“either.”

  10

  THE SHATTERED KEY

  I

  Ned Beaumont went home. He drank coffee, smoked, read a newspaper, a magazine, and half a book. Now and then he stopped reading to walk, fidgeting, around his rooms. His door-bell did not ring. His telephone-bell did not ring.

  At eight o’clock in the morning he bathed, shaved, and put on fresh clothes. Then he had breakfast sent in and ate it.

  At nine o’clock he went to the telephone, called Janet Henry’s number, asked for her, and said: “Good morning.… Yes, fine, thanks … Well, we’re ready for the fireworks.… Yes.… If your father’s there suppose we let him in on the whole thing first.… Fine, but not a word till I get there.… As soon as I can make it. I’m leaving now.… Right. See you in minutes.”

  He got up from the telephone staring into space, clapped his hands together noisily, and rubbed their palms together. His mouth was a sullen line under his mustache, his eyes hot brown points. He went to the closet and briskly put on his overcoat and hat. He left his room whistling Little Lost Lady between his teeth and took long steps through the streets.

  “Miss Henry’s expecting me,” he said to the maid who opened the Henrys’ door.

  She said, “Yes, sir,” and guided him to a sunny bright-papered room where the Senator and his daughter were at breakfast.

  Janet Henry jumped up immediately and came to him with both hands out, crying excitedly:
“Good morning!”

  The Senator rose in more leisurely manner, looking with polite surprise at his daughter, then holding his hand out to Ned Beaumont, saying: “Good morning, Mr. Beaumont. I’m very glad to see you. Won’t you—?”

  “Thanks, no, I’ve had breakfast.”

  Janet Henry was trembling. Excitement had drained her skin of color, had darkened her eyes, giving her the appearance of one drugged. “We have something to tell you, Father,” she said in a strained uneven voice, “something that—” She turned abruptly to Ned Beaumont. “Tell him! Tell him!”

  Ned Beaumont glanced obliquely at her, drawing his brows together, then looked directly at her father. The Senator had remained standing by his place at the table. Ned Beaumont said: “What we’ve got is pretty strong evidence—including a confession—that Paul Madvig killed your son.”

  The Senator’s eyes became narrower and he put a hand flat on the table in front of him. “What is this pretty strong evidence?” he asked.

  “Well, sir, the chief thing is the confession, of course. He says your son ran out after him that night and tried to hit him with a rough brown walking-stick and that in taking the stick away from your son he accidentally struck him with it. He says he took the stick away and burned it, but your daughter”—he made a little bow at Janet Henry—“says it’s still here.”

  “It is,” she said. “It’s the one Major Sawbridge brought you.”

  The Senator’s face was pale as marble and as firm. “Proceed,” he said.

  Ned Beaumont made a small gesture with one hand. “Well, sir, that would blow up his story about its being an accident or self-defense—your son’s not having the stick.” He moved his shoulders a little. “I told Farr this yesterday. He’s apparently afraid to take many chances—you know what he is—but I don’t see how he can keep from picking Paul up today.”