Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer Read Online Free

open it.”
    “What are you talking about?” I said. I started for the door. “It’s probably the janitor or somebody...”
    I unlatched the door.
    There were two men standing there, blocking the door.
    A short one and a tall one. They were both heavyset, dark, nondescript-looking men. They both wore dark suits. And terrible neckties. Their faces were completely expressionless.
    “Yes?” I said. “What is it?”
    Neither of them spoke.
    The tall one put his hand on my chest and pushed very hard. I was off balance and fell backward.
    The two men came into the apartment and closed the door behind them.
    “What the hell is this?” I said.
    Jean Dahl had control of herself again. You would not have known that a moment before her eyes had been wide with panic.
    “So there’s going to be rough stuff,” she said. Her voice was very cool.
    “Where is it?” the short one said. “There doesn’t have to be any rough stuff, you know.”
    I picked up a whisky bottle from the bar and threw it at the tall one as hard as I could. It hit him on the shoulder, and bounced off onto the carpet. Oddly enough it did not break. He ignored it completely. I didn’t see the short one swing at me. All I knew was that I was on the floor and my mouth felt crushed.
    I picked myself up.
    The tall one was very casually putting the bottle back on the bar.
    “Sit quietly on the couch,” Shorty said.
    Jean Dahl and I sat quietly on the couch.
    The big one picked up her purse and dumped the contents on the coffee table.
    There was the usual junk. Lipstick, compact, cigarettes, keys, letters, Kleenex. There was one unusual item. A small automatic pistol.
    Very casually the little one poked around in the pile of junk. Without comment he put the gun in his pocket. He didn’t find anything that interested him in the pile. He nodded toward the tall one.
    The tall one went into the bathroom. I could hear him opening the medicine chest and dumping things out.
    “What’s going on here?” I said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    The little one ignored my question and kept watching us.
    “These friends of yours?” I said to Jean.
    She didn’t answer.
    After a while, the tall one came out of the bathroom. He had taken off his coat and had rolled up his shirt sleeves. His arm was wet. He shook his head.
    “Nothing doing,” he said. “I even checked inside the can.”
    Then he went into the kitchenette. All three of us—Jean Dahl, the short man and I—watched him. He dumped out cans, ripped up the oilcloth from shelves, emptied the cabinets. He opened the refrigerator and emptied every container and jar. He took his time. He did a very thorough job.
    “What are you looking for?” I said.
    Neither of them paid the slightest attention to me.
    I jumped up and dove for the telephone. The short one knocked the phone out of my hand and hit me again. And, very casually, he picked up the phone and replaced it on the table.
    When the big one had finished in the kitchen he went into the bedroom. He dumped out all the bureau drawers. Went through all my clothes. He ripped up the mattress with a long, ugly razor blade in a holder. He rolled back the rug and searched under it.
    He shredded the curtains, and took down the pictures. He broke open the picture frames and examined the backs. He cut up my three suitcases into ribbons.
    He was in no hurry at all.
    I could feel the pulse pounding in my head. I watched the whole thing as if it were a dream or a movie or something that I was in no way involved in. I felt like a spectator. And my mouth hurt.
    At one point the telephone rang. Nobody said anything. The tall one did not even stop his methodical searching. I made no move to answer it. It rang seven times. Finally it stopped.
    When the tall one had finished with the bedroom, they both went to work on the living room. They took down every book on the shelves, dumping each one on the floor when they had finished with it. They went through every