<h2 id="c15"><span class="sc">Chapter XV</span> <br/><span class="small">THE LAUNDRY HAMPER</span></h2>
<p>Bill stepped out of the elevator and
turned left as the clerk had directed. He
passed along the corridor until he came to a
door marked “49.” He stopped and knocked.
For a moment he waited, marshalling his
thoughts, then the door swung inwards and
he was confronted by a low-browed gorilla
of a man who held an automatic in his hand.</p>
<p>“Is this Mr. Johnson’s room?” Bill inquired.</p>
<p>“Who wants to know?” the man rasped.</p>
<p>“The name is Bolton,” snapped Bill. “I’ve
flown down here from Clayton, Maine, especially
to see him if that means anything to
you.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_206">206</div>
<p>“Let’s hear your business if you’ve got
any.” The man continued to point the revolver
at Bill’s chest.</p>
<p>“My business,” he said evenly, “is with
Mr. Johnson. If you work for the man who
sent me here I advise you to tell that to Mr.
Johnson—and tell it pronto.”</p>
<p>“Cut the spiel and let him in, Jake!” called
a soft voice whose owner was hidden by the
half open door.</p>
<p>Jake muttered a surly curse, but he stepped
aside and Bill walked into the room. The
door slammed behind him and he heard the
key turn in the lock.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_207">207</div>
<p>He was surprised to find himself in a large
and handsomely furnished sitting room.
Thick hangings of gold brocade were drawn
over the windows, shutting out the night and
with it the air. The room was close and filled
with tobacco smoke. Two massive couches
upholstered in brocade were set back to back
in the center of the room. One end of the
sitting room was filled by a huge mahogany
sideboard, loaded with bottles and glasses.
At the other end stood a round card table
covered with dark green felt. A number of
heavily upholstered arm chairs lined the
walls, and the polished floor was almost completely
covered with handsome Oriental rugs.
The walls were hung with a number of really
good hunting prints.</p>
<p>Bill glimpsed a door behind the card table,
but almost immediately his eyes focussed on
a young man who sat on the arm of one of
the couches. He was tall and very slender,
immaculately dressed in white flannels and a
light blue, double-breasted sports coat with
dull gold buttons. Bill was astonished to see
that the highly manicured nails of his white,
tapering fingers were tinted carmine. His
soft voice when he spoke lisped like a girl’s.</p>
<p>“I’m Slim Johnson,” he said languidly.
“What did you want to see me about, buddy?”</p>
<p>Bill imitated Sanders’ quick, nervous nod.</p>
<p>“Zenas!” he said, and waited....</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_208">208</div>
<p>“Okay,” lisped young Johnson. “Bill
Bolton, isn’t it?—The guy that dished von
Hiemskirk’s hash?”</p>
<p>“It is,” Bill said shortly. “I had orders
to be here at nine tonight.”</p>
<p>Slim Johnson glanced at a diamond-studded
wristwatch. “You’re three minutes
late,” he purred, “but I guess that’s near
enough. Take one of those chairs and make
yourself comfortable. I’ll talk to you in
a few minutes.” He turned to a man who
entered at that moment, a stockily built
bruiser, as rough in his appearance as Jake.</p>
<p>Bill sat down in a chair near the wall. Except
for the three men and himself, there was
no one else in the room, though it was apparently
furnished to accommodate a large
number.</p>
<p>“Spill the beans, Hank,” Johnson smiled
pleasantly on his henchman. “Make it
snappy, though. I don’t want to keep Mr.
Bolton waiting too long.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_209">209</div>
<p>“Humph! Ye had me drug up here,”
snarled Hank. “I ain’t done nuthin’—I
couldn’t help them guys highjackin’ the
truck. If I’d ha’ made a move they’d have
put me on the spot right there.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” Johnson smiled, “come now—surely
that’s a bit of an exaggeration?”</p>
<p>The man glared belligerently about him.
“If any guy says dat dem guys didn’t have
the drop on me, he’s a liar!”</p>
<p>“I fancy that is the unadulterated truth,
my boy, but the trouble is, you leave out a
few things.”</p>
<p>“I ain’t left out nothin’—”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, you have!” The purring voice
directed itself toward Bill. “You see, Mr.
Bolton, the sad story runs this way. Last
night, Hank, who drives one of my trucks,
got highjacked with a full load by the Muller
gang up near Ridgefield. What he omits to
tell us is that Tubby Muller passed over half
a grand to him for his part of the job.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_210">210</div>
<p>Here, at a smothered exclamation from
Hank, his inquisitor put up a slim hand in
gentle protest. “Now don’t try to look like
the picture of injured innocence, Hank.
What Hank doesn’t know, Mr. Bolton, is that
I have watched him for something like this
ever since he and Tubby got together up at
Glendale one night last week. And although
they were not advertising the fact, I heard of
it. Last night—and this will also be a surprise
to Hank—I was behind the stone wall
at the side of the road when he turned over
the truck, and <i>I saw Tubby hand him the
money</i>.”</p>
<p>Slim Johnson’s arm shot out like a serpent
uncoiling. There came a sharp click and
Hank rolled off the couch on to the floor.</p>
<p>Bill stared at the man’s body in horrified
amazement. Then he heard the smooth voice
of Johnson speak again to him. “Airguns,”
he said pleasantly, “certainly have their uses.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_211">211</div>
<p>Johnson slipped the revolver up his sleeve
again and crooked a finger at Jake. “Take
that stiff out of here,” he ordered in his lisping
tones, “he’s spoiling my rug and I paid
five grand for it.”</p>
<p>While Jake dragged the dead man through
the doorway beyond the card table, Slim
Johnson drew out a gold case, selected a cigarette
which he lighted, and filled his lungs
with smoke.</p>
<p>“No doubt you’re shocked by the summary
justice you saw meted out,” he remarked with
a return of his languid air. “Treachery has
its own reward in this business. I’m sorry if
it disturbed you, Mr. Bolton.”</p>
<p>Bill did not reply. He was thinking that
of all the cold-blooded murders he had ever
heard of, this was certainly the worst. He
saw now that the young man’s languid effeminacy
was but a cloak to camouflage a nature
hard as nails and utterly ruthless. Nobody
had to tell him that he himself was in very
dangerous waters and that unless he could
handle this lady-like monster with kid gloves,
he, too, would be removed from the Oriental
rug as a piece of loathsome débris.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_212">212</div>
<p>Bill made an effort to be matter-of-fact.
“Suppose we come to business,” he suggested.</p>
<p>“Exactly what I was about to propose, Mr.
Bolton, or shall I say ‘Bill’—you don’t mind
if I call you Bill, do you? So much more
clubby, you know—”</p>
<p>“Not at all.” Bill felt that anything
would be preferable to this silly chatter. He,
therefore, took the plunge. “You want to
know where Mr. Evans may be found?”</p>
<p>“That is so. Where is he?”</p>
<p>“Somewhere in Stamford, I presume. Just
where, I can’t say.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come now. How about your phone
talk at seven-twenty?”</p>
<p>“What do you know about that?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_213">213</div>
<p>Slim Johnson took a sheet of paper from
the inside pocket of his coat. “Just about
everything, Bill, old thing,” he smiled.
“Everything except the number you called.
Here’s a report of the conversation. Amusing
reading it makes, I must say. I might
mention that we have tapped your home line,
but the silly fool who listened in didn’t wake
up until you’d been put through to your friend
Evans. Come, let’s have the number!”</p>
<p>“Nothing doing, Johnson,” Bill said
steadily, although he fully expected to see
the gangster’s arm shoot forward the next
instant, as it had done when Hank was killed.
“You already know what I said to Evans.
Well, that goes with you too, so far as I’m
concerned.”</p>
<p>Slim Johnson gave him a quizzical glance.
Then he lit another cigarette, which he
smoked in a long gilded holder. For several
minutes he stared at a print above Bill’s head
and sent smoke rings toward the ceiling.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_214">214</div>
<p>“From what I know of your character,”
he said at last, and his voice sounded to Bill
for all the world like the purr of a great cat
playing with its prey, “you mean just what
you say—at present. By morning, you may
change your mind. Otherwise, I’m afraid
we’ll have to use other methods. Go in to the
bedroom now. I’m sorry that you will have
to bear with all that’s left of dear Hank for
a while; but we’ll remove the body later.
Good night to you—and sweet dreams!”</p>
<p>Bill saw that Jake stood by the door with
the automatic menacing him once more.
Without a word he got to his feet and walked
into the bedroom. Behind him the door
closed and he heard a bolt shot home.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_215">215</div>
<p>In the soft glow from rose-shaded lamps,
Bill saw that this room was also of good size.
The place reminded him of those impossible
boudoir-bedrooms one sees portrayed on the
screen. The bed was a huge, canopied affair
of gilt and rose, and stood on a dais at one end
of the room. Twenty or thirty small pillows
covered with rose-colored silk were piled at
the head on a rose damask coverlet. The
walls and ceiling of the room were of white
painted wood with panels of rose silk framed
in gilt. On the hardwood floor, a rose rug,
silk-piled, was spread. A chaise lounge,
wicker arm chairs and mirrored tables laden
with jars and bottles all bore out the same
color scheme.</p>
<p>Bill thought that all that was needed to
complete the screen picture was a movie
actress lying back against the pillows, being
served with breakfast on a tray by a “French”
maid—“Gosh! what a dump!” He looked
about him, but saw no sign of Hank.</p>
<p>He investigated the two closed doors at one
end of the room, found that one led into the
wardrobe closet, where thirty or forty of
Slim’s suits hung on padded hangers, together
with numberless other articles of wearing
apparel on the shelves. The other door
opened into a rose tiled bathroom. Onyx
shelves held piles of towels, sponges, soap,
bath salts in glass jars, and in one corner stood
a large wicker hamper, painted rose color.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_216">216</div>
<p>Bill noticed that the single stained glass
window high in the bathroom wall was
barred. That gave him a new slant on the
plan. He went into the bedroom and pulled
the curtains back from the two windows there.
Both were crisscrossed with heavy bars of
steel.</p>
<p>Slim Johnson’s bedroom was well protected
from all intruders, and he, Bill Bolton,
was as effectually a prisoner as though he had
been cast into an underground dungeon.</p>
<p>He stood near the door to the sitting room,
and through the panels he could hear the
mumble of voices. Instinctively he moved
nearer and placed his ear against the keyhole.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_217">217</div>
<p>Slim Johnson was speaking: “Give him an
hour. He’ll be in bed and asleep by that time.
Then go in there and remove the—er—laundry.
Better take Alec with you. It will
be heavy. Come along with me, now. I’ve
got to see Dago Mike about that shipment he
landed tonight. It won’t take long and then
we can come back to this job. If the big boss
makes us let that lad go after we torture him
in the morning—what he doesn’t know about
the <i>laundry</i> won’t hurt anybody, eh?”</p>
<p>Bill heard Johnson giggle, and then the
door slammed to the corridor. He straightened
himself thoughtfully, stared at the bed
and saw that a pair of silk pajamas, rose-hued,
had been laid out on the coverlet.
Slowly he walked into the bathroom again.</p>
<p>The next instant he had the lid of the
hamper open, and disclosed to view a bundle
of soiled shirts, crumpled pajamas, collars and
handkerchiefs. Bill scattered these articles
to right and left.</p>
<p>Then uncontrollably, he shrank back.
Huddled in the basket, doubled awry, was the
body of a man. Only the head and shoulders
were visible. But the head was the head of
Hank.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_219">219</div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />