Alleys of Darkness | Page 4

five men in that room. I wheeled on Whithers. "What's the idee?" I demanded.
"Now, now, Sailor," said Whithers, arranging Bissett on the bench where we'd laid him. "These are just friends of mine. They know about Bissett and my sister."
I heered what sounded like a snicker, and I turned to glare at the assembled "friends". My gaze centered on a fat, flashy-dressed bird smoking a big black cigar; diamonds shone all over his fingers, and in his stick-pin. The others was just muggs.
"A fine lot of friends you pick out!" I said irritably to Whithers. "Diamond Joe Galt is been mixed up in every shady deal that's been pulled in the past three years. And if you'd raked the Seven Seas you couldn't found four dirtier thugs than Limey Teak, Bill Reynolds, Dutch Steinmann, and Red Partland."
"Hey, you--" Red Partland riz, clenching his fists, but Galt grabbed his arm.
"Stop it, Red," he advised. "Easy does it. Sailor," he addressed me with a broad smile which I liked less'n I'd liked a scowl, "they's no use in abuse. We're here to help our pal Whithers get justice. That's all. You've done your part. You can go now, with our thanks."
"Not so fast," I growled, and just then Whithers hollered: "Bissett's come to!"
We all turned around and seen that Bissett's eyes was open, and blazing.
"Well, you dirty rats," he greeted us all and sundry, "you've got me at last, have you?" He fixed his gaze on me, and said: "Dorgan, I thought you were a man. If I'd had any idea you were mixed up in this racket, you'd have never got a chance to slug me as you did."
"Aw, shut up," I snarled. "A fine nerve you've got, talkin' about men, after what you've did!"
Galt pushed past me and stood looking down at Bissett, and I seen his fat hands clenched, and the veins swell in his temples.
"Bissett," he said, "we've got you cold and you know it. Kick in-- where's that paper?"
"You cursed fools!" Bissett raved, struggling at his cords till the veins stood out on his temples too. "I tell you, the paper's worthless."
"Then why do you object to givin' it to us?" demanded Whithers.
"Because I haven't got it!" raged Bissett. "I destroyed it, just as I've told you before."
"He's lyin'," snarled Red Partland. "He wouldn't never destroy such a thing as that. It means millions. Here, I'll make him talk--"
He shouldered forward and grabbed Bissett by the throat. I grabbed Red in turn, and tore him away.
"Belay!" I gritted. "He's a rat, but just the same I ain't goin' to stand by and watch no helpless man be tortured."
"Why, you--" Red bellered, and swung for my jaw.
I ducked and sunk my left to the wrist in his belly and he dropped like his legs had been cut out from under him. The others started forward, rumbling, and I wheeled towards 'em, seething with fight. But Galt got between us and shoved his gorillas back.
"Here," he snapped. "No fightin' amongst ourselves! Get up, Red. Now, Sailor," he begun to pat my sleeves in his soothing way, which I always despises beyond words, "there ain't no need for hard feelin's. I know just how you feel. But we got to have that paper. You know that, Sailor--"
Suddenly a faint sound made itself evident. "What's that?" gasped Limey, going pale.
"It's Spike," I said. "I left him in the car, and he's got tired of settin' out there, and is scratchin' at the front door. I'm goin' to go get him, but I'll be right back, and if anybody lays a hand on Bissett whilst I'm gone, I'll bust him into pieces. We'll get that paper, but they ain't goin' to be no torturin'."
I strode out, scornful of the black looks cast my way. As I shut the door behind me, a clamor of conversation bust out, so many talking at wunst I couldn't understand much, but every now and then Ace Bissett's voice riz above the din in accents of anger and not pain, so I knowed they wasn't doing nothing to him. I crossed the dim outer room, opened the door and let Spike in, and then, forgetting to bolt it--I ain't used to secrecy and such--I started back for the inner room.
BEFORE I REACHED the other door, I heered a quick patter of feet outside. I wheeled--the outer door bust violently open, and into the room rushed Glory O'Dale. She was panting hard, her dress was tore, her black locks damp, and her dark eyes was wet and bright as black jewels after a rain. And she had Ace's six-shooter in her hand.
"You filthy dog!" she cried, throwing down on me.
I looked right into the muzzle of that .45 as she jerked the trigger. The hammer snapped on a