Build My Gallows High by Geoffrey Homes

bloomed on the cliff. They turned off the bridge and a neon sign wrote the name of the club on the sky.
    ‘Hold on to your watch,’ said the driver. ‘Here we are.’
    Red handed him a ten-dollar bill. ‘Stick around.’
    ‘You can always pick up a hack here.’
    ‘Not one driven by a guy who is queer for bridges,’ Red smiled.
    ‘Okay. I’ll wait. Don’t be all night.’
    ‘Not me.’ Red climbed the steps under a canopy, was bowed to by the doorman who came hurrying down, ignored the hat-check girl’s request for his hat and coat, glanced into a big circular room where a tired floor show was in progress, located a stairway and went up. The feel of his gun against his leg gave him small comfort, as he found the door with Baylord’s name on it. His heart was slapping against his ribs and not from climbing stairs. Here goes, he thought, and rapped on the door.
    ‘Come in,’ a man’s voice told him. Nothing familiar about the voice. He opened the door, saw a middle-aged man with thinning hair and jowls standing in front of a desk. Something vaguely familiar about that face. Yet it might be because Lou Baylord looked like a thousand other men. The door clicked to behind him. He crossed the thick carpet, nodded and smiled, all the time watching the other’s face, searching for some look of recognition in the hard, dark eyes.
    ‘Mr. Baylord?’
    ‘That’s me.’
    ‘Wynn said to look you up.’
    The thin eyebrows drew together. ‘Wynn?’
    ‘Yeah. I want a card.’
    ‘Oh,’ Baylord said, still puzzled.
    ‘You remember Wynn,’ Red said, stopping in front of the man.
    Baylord looked up at him.
    ‘I’m sorry—’
    ‘So am I,’ Red said and brought his fist up. Baylord’s head snapped back. Red caught him with his left hand and hit him again on the jaw. Then he eased him down on the carpet, took out his gun, rapped him sharply on the temple, hurried to the door and locked it. The phone on the desk brought him back across the room. He picked it up, grunted into the mouth piece.
    ‘Mr. Baylord,’ a girl’s voice said. ‘Somebody just—’
    ‘It’s all right,’ Red mumbled and hung up the phone.
    He wasn’t frightened now. Socking Baylord had driven all the fear out of him. He glanced down at the man, tried again to place him, gave it up. What he wanted was a brief case and he had better start tearing the joint apart. He went around the desk and started opening drawers.
    The big bottom one wouldn’t give. He yanked at it, then hunted for something to pry the lock open. A thin paper-knife broke in his hand. He tossed it away, frowned down at the desk. An idea occurred to him. He pulled out the drawer above and put it on the floor, reached through the hole and felt the lovely smoothness of leather. A moment later he was holding a brief case and on the front of the case was Lloyd Eels’ name printed in gold.
    Baylord groaned and tried to push himself up on his hands. Red came around the desk and shoved his face into the carpet. Weakly Baylord tried to wriggle away. Red flipped him over, rapped him again on the temple and, when he was still, ran one hand into the man’s breast pocket and brought out a fat wallet. The wallet was stuffed with bills. No use being squeamish at a time like this, Red told himself as he pocketed the wallet. He was going to need money, plenty of it, because it might be a long while before he could show himself in a bank. He shoved the gun in his coat pocket, picked up the brief case and headed for the door.
    Two men in evening clothes were coming up the stairs. They stared at him coldly. Red smiled and went slowly down. He knew they had turned and were watching him but still he didn’t hurry. The hat-check girl leaned on her counter. She too was watching him. He found a bill in a pants pocket, dropped it on the counter as he passed, gave her a smile and went outside. He kept his steps slow, wanting to run yet knowing that if he did all hell would break loose.
    A cab motor