Free 12 Chinks and A Woman by James Hadley Chase

perspiration started out on the Chinaman's face and a low moaning sound came through his teeth.
     Fenner said to Bugsey, “What the hell's this?”
     Bugsey waved at him, but said nothing. He just stared at the group at the table as if fascinated beyond speech.
     The thin claw-like hand gradually came into view and Reiger, his mouth set in a hard grin, forced the hand on to the table. From where he stood, Fenner could see red-stained rags tied round each finger.
     Carlos pushed a cheap pad of notepaper, a small bottle of ink and a brush towards the Chinaman. “Write,” he said.
     The Chinaman said nothing. He did nothing.
     Carlos looked at Reiger. Reiger, with his free hand, pulled the rags off the Chinaman's fingers. Fenner sucked in his breath sharply. All the fingers were sodden lumps of red oozing pulp.
     Fenner said, “For God's sake!”
     Carlos started and looked in his direction. “Come here,” he said; “I want you to see this.”
     “I can see where I am,” Fenner said evenly.
     Carlos shrugged. He picked up the object that he had taken from the drawer and carelessly fitted it on to one of the Chinaman's fingers. The Chinaman made no effort to take his hand away. He sat huddled up, moaning like a dog in pain, his hand held by Reiger.
     Carlos said spitefully, “I'm gettin' goddamn sick of you. Will you write that letter, or won't you?”
     The Chinaman said nothing. Carlos savagely twisted the butterfly screw, crushing the sodden flesh. Reiger then took the Chinaman's wrist and, lifting it up, smacked his hand several times down very hard on the table-top.
     Fenner turned his back slowly on the group and took Bugsey's arm. “If you don't tell me what this means, I'm going to stop it,” he said hoarsely.
     Bugsey's face was like green cheese. He said, “The old guy's got three sons in his home town. Carlos wants him to send for them, to hook them up in his racket. Those three guys are worth four grand a head to Carlos.
     A sudden exclamation came from the other end of the room. Fenner turned his head. The Chinaman was writing. Carlos got to his feet, his dull eyes watching every stroke of the pen. When the letter was finished, the Chinaman fell back in the chair. He said in a thin, cracked voice, “Take it off . . . take it off . . . take it off.”
     The thumb-screw still dangled from his finger. Carlos said very softly, “Of course I will. You shouldn't have been so obstinate—you lousy fool.” He put his hand on the thumb-screw and jerked it. Fenner felt his stomach heave and he shifted his eyes. The Chinaman gave one little squeal and fell forward on his knees.
     Distastefully, Carlos tossed the thumb-screw on the table. It slid a little on the white wood, leaving a red smear. Then, without looking at anyone, Carlos put his hand inside his coat and pulled a .25. He took a quick step towards the Chinaman, put the muzzle of the gun at the back of his head and squeezed the trigger. The crash of the gun sounded incredibly loud in the silent room.
     Carlos put his gun away and walked over to the table. He picked up the letter, folded it carefully and put it in his wallet. “Tell Nightingale to get rid of him,” he said to Reiger, then walked directly over to Fenner. He stood and looked at Fenner narrowly. “Now do you like my racket?” he said.
     Fenner itched to get his hands on him. He said very gently, “Maybe you've got a reason, but right now I think it's a little too tough.”
     Carlos laughed. “Come upstairs. I'll tell you about it.”
     The coffee shop had an air of reality, not like the room downstairs that gave Fenner the jitters. He sat down at a small table in a corner and took three quick deep breaths of hot air. Carlos sat down opposite him. Bugsey and Reiger went out and disappeared down the