Free The Paul Cain Omnibus by Paul Cain Page B

out: “Let’s go upstairs, Dick.”
    Shane got up and they crossed the room together, went out through the double door.
    On the third floor they crossed an identical hallway, Rigas unlocked a tall gray door and they went into another large room. There were two large round tables, each with a green-shaded droplight over it. There were eight men at one of the tables, seven at the other; Rigas and Shane crossed the room to another tall gray door.
    The stud dealer and two players looked up from the nearest table, one of the players said: “H’ are yah, Charley?” Then Rigas opened the tall door and they went into a little room that was furnished as an office.
    Rigas pressed the light switch, closed the door and stood with his back to it for a moment. His hands were in his coat pockets.
    Shane sat down on the edge of the desk. Rigas crossed to the desk slowly and when he was near Shane he jerked his right hand out of his pocket suddenly and swung a thin-bladed knife up at Shane’s throat.
    Shane moved a little to one side, grabbed Rigas’ arm near the elbow with one open hand; the knife ripped up crosswise across the lapel of his coat. At the same time he brought his right knee up hard against Rigas’ stomach. Rigas grunted and one of his knees gave way and he slumped down slowly, sidewise to the floor. The knife clattered on the glass desk-top.
    As Shane slid off the desk, stood over Rigas, the door opened and a very tall, very spare man came a little way into the room.
    Shane glanced at the man and then he looked down at Rigas and his eyes were almost closed, his mouth was a thin hard line. Rigas groaned and held his hands tight against his stomach, his chin tight against his chest.
    Shane looked up at the tall man, said: “You’d better not let this brother of yours play with knives. He’s liable to put somebody’s eye out.” He spoke with his teeth together.
    The tall man stared blankly at Rigas.
    Shane went past the tall man, to the door, went out and across the big room. All of the men at the tables were looking at him; all of them were very quiet. Two men were standing up at the nearest table.
    Shane went out and closed the door behind him, went swiftly down two flights. He found his hat and coat and put them on. Nick came up from the basement as he was knotting his scarf.
    Nick said: “Shall I get you a cab, Mister Shane?”
    Shane shook his head. He slid the big bolt and opened the door and went out into the driving rain. He walked to Madison Avenue, got into a cab and said: “Valmouth—on Forty-ninth.”
    It was five minutes after eight.
    Shane’s rooms at the Valmouth were on the eighteenth floor. He stood at one of the wide windows and looked down through the swirling, beating rain to Fiftieth Street.
    After a little while he went into the bathroom, turned off the water that was roaring into the tub, slipped off his robe.
    Someone knocked at the outer door and he called: “Come in,” looked into the long mirror in the bathroom door that reflected part of the living room. A waiter with a wide oval tray opened the door, came in and put the tray down on a low table.
    Shane said: “There’s some change on the telephone stand.” He kicked off his slippers and stepped into the tub.
    In five minutes he was out, had put on a long dark-green robe, slippers, and was sitting at the low table cutting a thick T-bone steak into dark pink squares.
    As he poured coffee the phone buzzed; he leaned side-wise, picked it up, said: “Hello.” Then he said: “Mister Shane is not in… . She’s on the way up! … What the hell did you let her start up for?”
    He slammed the phone down, went swiftly to the door and turned the bolt. He stood near the door a moment, then shrugged slightly, turned the bolt back and went slowly back and sat down.
    Lorain Rigas was slender, dark. Her black eyes slanted upward a little at the corners, her mouth was full, deeply red, generous. She wore a dark close-fitting raincoat, a small