Build My Gallows High by Geoffrey Homes Page A

started in the drive. His cab pulled up in front of the canopy. The doorman opened the door and stood aside. Red found another bill, shoved it in the outstretched hand and slammed the door.
    ‘You certainly was quick,’ said the driver.
    ‘I certainly was,’ said Red. ’Now see how quick you can get to Grand Central.’ He threw a glance back at the door. The doorman was plodding up the steps and no one was coming down. He ran his hand lovingly over the brief case and sucked air into his lungs.
    * * *
    From where he stood in the arcade Red could see the information desk and most of the lower level waiting room. It was eleven o’clock and he had been waiting fifteen minutes. He tried to simulate interest in the shop window beside him but every few moments he glanced into the waiting room. His right hand was thrust into his coat pocket and his fingers were curled around the butt of his gun. When he saw the cab driver come into the waiting room carrying a suitcase Red didn’t move toward him right away. He waited until the driver reached the information desk, to make sure no one was following the man, then he walked briskly forward.
    ‘All set,’ the driver said, ‘I hope she’s all there.’
    ‘You pack?’
    ‘No. The bellhop. They wouldn’t let me.’
    ‘Pay the bill?’
    ‘Sure.’ He fished some money out of his pocket. ‘Here’s your change.’
    ‘Keep it,’ Red said and gave him another ten. ’Go out and find yourself a bridge. There are some fine covered ones in Vermont.’
    The driver grinned. ’And forget I ever seen you.’
    ‘An understanding heart,’ said Red.
    ‘Did you stick up that joint?’
    ‘No. Should I have?’
    ‘I sorta hoped you would,’ the driver said. ‘So long.’
    Red watched him go away. He picked up the bag, climbed to the upper level, went through the arcade into the Biltmore lobby to the desk.
    A pleasant, gray-haired man shoved a card at him. He scrawled on the card the name of a man long dead and turned to find an elderly bellhop tucking the brief case under his arm.
    Red held out a hand, ‘I’ll take that.’
    ‘I can manage,’ the bellhop said but at Red’s insistence, he grudgingly gave up the fat leather case, though he looked at it hungrily as the elevator shot them upstairs. Red, hoping the man’s eyesight was bad, casually turned the case so that Eels’ name was against his leg.
    A cool wind pushed into the room when the bellhop opened the windows. ‘Anything else, sir?’ he asked.
    Red gave him five dollars and told him to rustle up some wrapping paper and string. The man’s gnarled fingers caressed the bill. He smiled respectfully and went out.
    Excitement made Red’s hands clumsy as he worked on the lock with a fingernail file. Presently the lock gave and he pulled out the thick pile of stapled onion-skin paper, stared down at the neat typescript and the row on row of figures, flipped the thin pages and saw names and dates. When the bellhop rapped softly on the door Red knew why Lloyd Eels was dead.
    The bellhop put a folded sheet of brown manila paper and some heavy string in Red’s outstretched hand. ‘Thank you,’ Red said and closed and locked the door.
    He went back to the bed and stood looking down at the sheaf of documents that had cost a man his life. He wondered at his blindness.
    Now he remembered where he had seen Lou Baylord before. Now he remembered snow drifting past a window and a man with a bullet hole in his belly and a thin, soft-voiced man with a copy of North of Boston in his hand. Lou, Whit Sterling had called him.
    There was no anger in Red any more. He had double-crossed Sterling and Lloyd Eels must have double-crossed him too. Apparently you couldn’t do it and get away with it. He felt a vast surprise at Sterling’s capacity for revenge.
    On the bed lay Sterling’s one-way ticket to Alcatraz. Sterling wanted it and Red didn’t blame him. Eels had done a job of digging—too good a job. He had dug himself right into