Never Say No to a Killer by Clifton Adams

speak the same language, don't we, the American language? I've told you three times, it's a universal plot: boy meets girl, the oldest plot in the world. My methods were unorthodox, I admit it, and perhaps they were all wrong, I admit that too, but believe me, that's all there is to it. To put it bluntly, I saw you, I wanted you, I went after you. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Things you want… Do you always go after them like this?”
    “That depends on the situation and the value of the object desired.”
    “I see.” Her hand was perfectly steady as she lifted the martini to her Ups. “Do your methods work?” she asked, her gaze lowered.
    “Yes,” I said, “my methods usually work. Not always, of course; nothing is perfect. But ninety per cent of the time, yes, they work.”
    “See something you want, take it,” she said.
    “You amaze me,” I said. “Yes, that sums up my philosophy pretty well. It is simple, direct, completely honest.”
    She lifted her gaze to stare at me. “Honest?”
    She was interested now; at least, she was curious, and this pleased me. I said, “Of course. The strong take from the weak. They always have and always shall. That is the first law of Nature, and what could be more honest than Nature?
    “That sounds pretty pat for a philosophy.”
    “Of course it's pat, because it is simple, and honesty is a straight line between the question and the answer.”
    “It sounds like a negative philosophy, at the very least.”
    “Negative? That depends on one's definition of good and evil. But first philosophy itself must be defined. 'Philosophy,' said a certain Frenchman, 'is the pursuit of pleasure.' What could be more sensible? Now, how do you achieve this philosophic pleasure? Pleasure is brought about through the fulfillment of personal ambition, the acquisition of wealth or power, or the titillation of our senses and appetites.”
    She sat there for a moment, still staring very soberly at my face. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to bore you.”
    “… I'm not exactly bored,” she said, after a moment. “I have a question.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Who is the Frenchman you admire so much and love to quote?”
    I laughed. “I was afraid you would ask that-please don't allow his reputation to obscure his logic. His name was the Marquis de Sade.”
    “Where did he die, this hero of yours, this Marquis de Sade?”
    “… In a madhouse, I believe.”
    She smiled thinly. “That's some philosophy you've adopted, Mr. O'Connor!”
    I could have carried my argument forward and perhaps made a point or two, but I was no longer interested in abstract criminal theory. It had served its purpose for the present, it had got Pat Kelso curious as to just what the hell kind of guy I was, anyway.
    Then she jarred me. “I met a man once,” she said, “who had ideas much the same as yours. His name was Venci. John Venci, I believe.”
    “Venci?”
    How much did she know? How much was she guessing?
    I said, “I don't believe I know the name. Who is he?”
    “He is dead,” she said flatly. “He was a gangster and very powerful, but now he is dead.”
    “… I see.” Then I said, “I find this interesting-you and a gangster, I mean. You don't seem to go together. How did you meet?”
    “Through a… friend.”
    “Alex Burton?”
    That was the sensitive nerve. Something happened to her, especially to her eyes, when his name was mentioned. I said, “All right, it isn't important, we'll forget it.” I noticed that her glass was empty again, and I remembered that I had made a promise and would have to keep it. Pat Kelso was no person to be held by chains alone; there had to be something stronger than that: curiosity, hate, fear. But some attraction had to be there, and it had to be a good deal stronger than mere intimidation. There came a time, after the first show of force, when a trainer had to take a dog off a leash and see if he would heel of his own accord.
    The waiter was there again,