Two for the Money by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

removed the shade, leaving the bulb and its spare metal framework exposed. He took a hanger and twisted it apart and bent it into a new shape, a spiral that would fit down over the bulb and its framework. He took one of the .38s and slipped the trigger guard over the curved end of the hanger. The gun hung there like a bulky Christmas ornament. He put the shade back on. He slipped his hand downin, found the gun, and brought it out, slowly. He did it again, quickly. The gun didn’t show through the shade, nor did the butt poke above it. This would do just fine—as long as he remembered not to turn the damn thing on.
    Then he dropped the other guns, one each, into his side sportcoat pockets, went over to the door, and grabbed up his bag and suit box. The elevator took him up to the next floor, where he used the key marked 714, and before he got half a look at his spare room he was sitting on the bed, revolvers next to him, doing his lamp-shade trick again. He pushed the lamp back so that it almost touched the wall, got up from the bed, and dug into his bag, getting out two clean handkerchiefs. These he wadded, knotting them to keep their bunched shape, and stowed them in the top drawer of the nightstand.
    He had no special precautionary plan in mind for the leftover Colt—getting those three guns this morning hadn’t been for Charlie alone, since he needed them on hand anyway—so he rather absently shoved the Colt behind the pillow of the room’s single bed, enough of the Nervous Nellie routine for awhile.
    He glanced around the room.
    Room, hell, it was a closet with gland trouble, but that was okay by him. In a small room he could have control; he could see windows and door all at once. That suite of his downstairs was something else again—a vestibule and a living room and a bedroom and two cans and lots and lots of windows and no possible way to see all of it at once. In this room he could.
    Nolan checked the window that took up most of the far wall of the crackerbox. It was locked, which was good. He noticed a fire escape beyond the window, going down into the alley, which was good and bad.
    Then he showered again, making it cold to keep him alert, shaved, and got into his new suit. He slipped on one of the ties he had bought, a solid blue color, and strung on the shoulder-holster. The suit didn’t show the jut of the gun toobadly, and it fitted well for a rack cut, though it did pinch at the shoulders.
    As he straightened his tie in the bathroom mirror, Nolan wondered if the man Charlie sent would appreciate his dressing to the teeth for him. Somehow he doubted it.
    He left the room and took the elevator down to the lobby. At the check desk, the clerk smiled and said, “Well, hello again, Mr. Logan, is there something more I can do for you, sir?”
    “There a phone in there?” Nolan motioned toward the entrance to the Concort Lounge across the lobby.
    “Yes, there is, the bartender has a phone behind the bar so orders can be called in.”
    “Yeah. Well I’ll be in there for a while. You suppose if anybody comes around and wants my room number that you could ring me over there and tell me about it?”
    “I could just send whoever it is over and . . .”
    “No. This has to do with that surprise we were talking about earlier. Give the guy my number, send him up to the room, then call me.”
    The clerk was puzzled but trusting, and said he’d be glad to do it. Anything for a friend of Mr. Werner’s.
    Nolan went into the lounge, pushing the saloon-style swinging doors aside, and walked over to the bar. He told the bartender about the call he was expecting, then went over and took a booth parallel to the swinging doors, where he could get a slatted but partially visible view of the check-in desk on the other side of the lobby.
    He ordered a Scotch and water, charged it to Werner and looked down at his watch.
    Ten after three.
    He sat back and waited, nursing the Scotch with a patience he guessed was coming from