"You thought I'd gone! Where the hell's Lois?"
Lackey managed slowly to drag his mountain of fat, his powerless bulk, to a perpendicular position. "She is perhaps in the lady's room, Roy. Roy, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean… really, I'm terribly sorry."
"What did you want in my office, anyway?"
"I always straighten it up when you leave; you know that, Roy. I always do." Lackey spoke like a child trying to avoid another blow from the hairbrush.
Lois came in hurriedly from the corridor, showing a horrified face. "Oh, my God, the water! What happened?"
"Take Miss Vance down the back way," said Roy. "Nobody is to see her or talk to her except yourself and Alma till I get in tomorrow morning. Understand? No exceptions. All right, Miss Vance."
The girl left without looking at him. Roy fought to keep his eyes averted, but lost the battle. He turned. She was disappearing, walking as gracefully as before. His heart sank. A whole night would have to pass before he could see her again.
Lackey went out into the back corridor, and returned in a moment with a colored nightman, who was carrying a mop and a pail. Roy looked on in a daze.
Lackey went into the main room, sat down at his desk, and took his head in his hands. Tears started to run down through his fingers. A large purplish bruise was beginning to show on the left side of his soft, puffy face.
Roy came in and stood looking down at him.
"My God, Emmett, I'm sorry. But you… you startled me so. You see…" He broke off.
Lackey looked up at him, smiling sadly, all martyr. "Oh, that's all right, Roy. I should've knocked. But naturally I thought…"
"The girl-she just went to pieces," said Roy.
"Yes, yes. Of course," said Lackey. "I understand perfectly."
"Boley around?" Roy asked abruptly.
"No. I let him go. He was dead. You want Ed?"
"Yes. I'll be in my office. We'll go out the back way, avoid the newspaper hoodlums. And Emmett-I want to sleep till ten. I don't want to be bothered."
Roy, terribly embarrassed in Lackey's presence, turned on his heel and went back into his office.
Lackey lifted the phone and called Ed Reynolds. Then he sat for a long time, not moving, his face blank, staring off across the dim-lit big office. Finally, a slow smile spread over his fat face. "Captain," he said softly, "that's one girl you are not going to get."
19
As Roy turned out his light and opened the window, he heard a clock some place in the little hotel striking three. He stood looking out at the city. There was a gauze-like haze over the big buildings north of him, and a few blue-white stars were twinkling through it. A delicate plume of steamy smoke trailed from a small stack on one of the skyscrapers, turning from red to blue in the intermittent light from a mammoth electric sign on an adjoining building. The city was silent till you listened more closely, then it seemed to breathe like some fabulous, gigantic, soulless animal.
A faint damp breeze began to blow up from the river. Roy stood leaning on the sill, looking out, letting the breeze cool him. He was so tired he could hardly stand and so nervous that at times he felt that he might fly apart-explode in all directions, like a bomb, leaving nothing but some unidentifiable debris to be hastily swept out of sight. His head ached, there was a constriction in his stomach and at times a mist before his eyes. He was so exhausted he was almost afraid to go to bed. To lie alone in a dark room unable to sleep was one of the worst things that could happen to a man.
A car passed below with the radio going-a dance band, playing a fast tune. A woman's laugh drifted up to him.
Cursing under his breath, berating himself, Roy went to the phone and dialled a number. There was a long wait and Roy stood wagging his head from side to side in furious impatience. Finally Lois came on.
"It's Captain Hargis, Lois."
She sounded very much surprised. "Oh, yes? Yes, Captain."
"I just thought of something. Put Miss Vance on."
"But she's sleeping, Captain. We… Alma and I… gave her a couple of sleeping tablets. She was, well… she was pretty much upset. She was crying quite a lot."
"Oh," said Roy. "Well, in that case… okay, Lois. It can wait till tomorrow."
"I'll wake her if you say so, Captain."
"No, no," he said, hastily. "That's okay, Lois." He hung up quickly and went back to the window. "You fool! You idiot! You slob!" He called himself everything that he could think of, but he was talking to a deaf man, and knew it.
He lit a cigarette and stood looking out at the uneasily sleeping city. "You're hooked, you wise guy," he told himself. "You had all the answers. You had it all figured out. And now you're hooked."
After a while he grew calmer. Finally he flipped the cigarette out the window and stood watching it fall in a long arc to the street below, noticed the miniature shower of sparks when it landed, then he turned and got into bed.
"What do we do now, Roy?" he asked the darkness. "You've really got yourself in the dark tunnel now-and no light at either end."
He turned his head on the pillow-and instantly fell asleep.
… his phone rang. Three-quarters asleep, he bull-headedly refused to answer it. "I told that fat slob to let me alone till ten," he muttered; then he pulled the covers over his head. The phone rang and rang, with an insane persistence. Roy let it ring. Finally it stopped.
… now somebody was pounding at his door, and an agitated voice called: "Roy! Roy! You there? You okay?"
Finally he sat up. It was broad day. Yawning violently, almost dislocating his jaws, he leaned over and glanced at the watch on the night table. Five after ten.
"Good God!" he cried, then he jumped out of bed and opened the door.
Boley looked scared. He stood in the doorway, staring at Roy. He had a folded newspaper in his hand.
"Jesus, Roy," he said, stepping in, "I was worried. The guy downstairs rang your phone for five minutes."
"I thought it was the middle of the night," said Roy, yawning. "I thought it was Emmett, waking me up as usual as soon as I get a chance to… What've you got that paper for?"
"A big break on the case," cried Boley. "They found the gun."
"Who found what gun?"
"It's all here in the Sun." Boley held it out to him.
"Damn the paper! Tell me about it."
"It's a big beat for the Sun," said Boley. "A guy from the Water, Power and Light Company was working down in the sewer. Power lines, or something. And he found this gun."
"Where was it?"
"Round the corner from Blackhawk on the Plaza. It's a belly-gun. A thirty-eight. All the numbers filed off. A real hoodlum gun."
A quick smile showed on Roy's face, then he wiped it off. Boley glanced at him curiously. The phone rang. Roy answered it with a curse. It was Wesson, and he was yammering.
"What kind of a double-cross is this, Roy? A news-beat. A real one. And the first one that seed catalogue's had in twenty years. What's the idea?"
"Fat, I just woke up. Boley's reading the paper to me right now. All news to me, billabong. Get your ass down to my office. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He hung up, then hurried into the bathroom, threw some cold water on his face and began to dress without a shower or a shave. Boley followed him around, talking.
"Damnedest thing," said Boley. "A prowl rolled up right beside the drain and when the guy with the gun looked out of the man-hole there they were. The prowl was from Downtown, of course. And they are grabbing all the credit. Shellenbarger's making a big thing of it."
"He may get burned for that."
"Well," said Boley, "maybe. I wouldn't know. But there was a Sun reporter in the prowl. Can you imagine? He was doing some kind of a survey with the coppers. I don't know what. One of those damn dull things they fill the papers up with-especially the Sun. Well, of course these dumb cops in the prowl begin yelling 'murder gun' right away-and they also say it's strictly a hoodlum belly-gun, which it is. We got it now. Emmett's
working it over."
Roy was almost dressed. The phone rang. Roy grabbed at it then handed his tie to Boley. "Tie it, Joe-tie it," and as Boley wrestled with the tie, trying to get it right, Roy talked on the phone to Chad Bayliss, who seemed to be frothing at the mouth.
"Seems like I can't turn my back," he was shouting. "I spend half the morning trying to convince my wife I'm really going out to play a round of golf-and then I'm just about to play one, when what happens? Some inconsiderate bastard hands me a copy of the Sun…"
"Yeah, yeah. Now wait a minute, Chad… I…"
"You wait. Front page headlines. Belly-gun. Hoodlum gun. Great mystery. Why was Frank Hobart shot with hoodlum gun? I'm still going to play golf, damn it; but my score will be as high as my blood pressure."
The Big Man sounded silly. Was he that much disturbed? Of course he was. Naturally. He was practically hysterical.
Roy explained the circumstances patiently, then he added: "Just a bad break, Chad. Bad luck. Nobody could foresee a thing like that. I'm leaving right now. Try to relax. Enjoy your game. We'll see what we can do."
Chad hung up with a crash. Boley was holding Roy's coat for him. He plunged into it.
"I guess this makes the girl look pretty white," said Boley.
"Yeah," said Roy, as they went out. "It would seem so."
He felt an irrational elation. Almost from the first, in spite of himself, he'd suspected the girl. Too many lines of enquiry led to her. And yet-what would she be doing with a hoodlum belly-gun? And then Roy caught himself up short. All right, supposing she was innocent-so what? Nothing was changed. The show had to go on as before. In fact, things had to be stepped up now. The "hoodlum" tag was the very thing the Administration was trying to avoid.
"I never did figure she could've done it," said Boley. "It's not in the cards."
Roy merely grunted.
***
Newsmen were clustered around the City Building, and many of them were prowling through the corridors, getting in everybody's way. The press-room on the first floor was deserted, except for one reporter, sleeping off a hangover.
Roy fought them off. "I just got out of bed," he explained, again and again. "I've got to sleep some time. Bulletins later, boys."
"Yeah, but can't you just hazard an opinion? Don't this put a new complexion on…?"
"Later, guys. Later!"
In the anteroom Gert and Ed Reynolds were going crazy. Roy shouldered his way through with the help of Boley. "Get Red and Creel," Roy called over his shoulder. "You need help out here. Nobody's to come in the main room unless I okay them first." Then he whispered something to Ed Reynolds in passing.
"He's already in there," said Ed, moving his match from side to side with his tongue as he talked. "Sneaked in, I guess."
Roy entered the main room, followed by Boley. Lackey was sitting at one of the desks; Wesson at another.
Wesson looked up. "A pretty go, this," he said. "When the Sun gets a beat, that's news. What goes, Roy?"
"How did you get in here?"
"You invited me."
"I'm just curious."
"Backway. I've got influence. Look at the shiner on poor Emmett. He stepped on a rake and it flew up and hit him. Is that right, Emmett?"
"It… wasn't exactly a rake," said Lackey, slowly.
Roy studied the big fellow. There was a change, something new. Today he did not look evasive or conciliatory. There was more than a touch of smugness about him this morning. He seemed quietly pleased with himself.
"Could I see you alone, Roy?" he inquired.
"Certainly," said Roy. "Come right in."
The big fellow rose, took a brief-case from one of the drawers, and followed Roy into his private office. Wesson protested loudly, claimed he was being crucified. "Beat by the Sun. Oh, my God!" he cried.
"You get the first quote," said Roy, as he closed the door.
They sat down; Roy behind his desk, and Lackey in a straight chair in front of the desk, holding the brief-case on his knees.
"You got quite a shiner, Emmett," said Roy, wincing slightly.
"Please. Let's forget that, Roy. Let's never refer to it again. It was just one of those unfortunate misunderstandings. All my fault, I'm afraid."
"Okay. But it wasn't your fault, all the same. I blew my cork like a damn fool. What have we got here?" He indicated the brief-case.
Lackey unfastened the flap, took out a small revolver, and put it on Roy's desk. It was a belly-gun, no doubt about it, with a snub-nosed barrel and a heavy grip. Hoodlums often used them for fighting at close quarters, and besides, they were compact, short, and easy to carry.
"Yeah," said Roy, studying the gun. "I see. Well, what about it, Emmett?"
"It's a.38, and three shots were fired from it, three bullets left in the chambers. No fingerprints. It's been in water and mud, and the man who found it smeared it all up besides. Nothing there. Also there is no real way to prove this was the murder gun, ballistically speaking, that is. The only bullet recovered was so smashed, so twisted, we can't prove that it came from this gun. Quite impossible."
Roy nodded, then he reached out to touch the buzzer. But Lackey leaned forward and gently restrained him. "Excuse me, Roy. You were… I presume… going to call for Wesson?"
"Yes," said Roy, looking at Lackey, curiously. "What's the matter?"
"Well, I think before you do that, we should have a little talk."
Roy noted the smugness again. "All right, Emmett."
Lackey giggled faintly. "You see, everybody considers the finding of the gun to be the big break in this case, and we can let them think so. But we've got the big break, the real break, right here under our thumbs."
"That so?"
"Yes. Do you know Whitey Vickers?"
"Sure. He's a police fink."
"I've got him locked up downstairs."
"Why?"
"He's our break. He came in to do us a favor. I listened to him, then locked him up-protective custody."
"I see. What was this big favor?"
Lackey giggled again, then restrained himself. "He indentified the gun."
"That so?" Roy stood up and leaned on the desk, staring at Lackey. "How did he do that?"
"He saw the picture of it in the Sun-a big close up, fully detailed. Oh, I don't think there is any doubt he's telling the truth about it. I think you'll agree with me when you hear the rest. You see, Whitey was a stooge of Nick Brozsa's. In fact, Whitey was pulled in for questioning when Nick got hit by that car and killed."
"I remember," snapped Roy, impatiently.
"You will recall also that Nick Brozsa owned the Dreamland and the Palais De Dance. The Dreamland advertised the best-looking girls in the world, and in the big private room it was a dollar a dance, remember? Commissioner Prell finally closed it because it was just a come-on for high-priced prostitution. Remember?"
"I remember. I remember," shouted Roy, agitated, a cold premonition nagging at him. "Go ahead."
"Well, this beautiful girl turned up. Her name was Dorothy. She was recommended to Nick by somebody-Whitey doesn't know who. He gave her a job in the private room, dollar a dance, and the men began to fight over her. This enraged all the other girls. She was in a spot. Then to make it worse, Nick, himself, fell in love with her-or whatever you call it with people such as those… those…"
"Such as what?" Roy demanded.
"Scummy people," cried Lackey, harshly, surprising Roy. "Scummy, unwashed, stupid, terrible people."
"All right. All right. Never mind the sermon."
Lackey got hold of himself and after a moment continued: "Well, anyway, Nick fell in love with this Dorothy. She was a tall, beautiful, voluptuous brunette. But Nick already had a girl living with him. A redhaired girl, and she was a bad one; not only had a vicious temper, according to Whitey, but she was a drug-addict, and when she got 'coked-up,' as Whitey put it, she was liable to kill somebody. You remember her? Her name was Carla Drew. She was arrested and held when
Nick got knocked down and run over by that car. For a while it looked like they had a police case against her. One witness testified he saw her in a car near the spot. But finally the whole thing petered out. There may have been a fix. Station 12 handled it. Anything can happen out there." Lackey sighed now and took his time, keeping his eyes lowered.
Slowly, Roy began to have the feeling that he was being toyed with. He started to study Lackey narrowly. Was there something behind that marshmal-low facade he hadn't suspected, hadn't taken into account? Roy sat down, crossed his legs, glanced briefly at some papers on his desk, then leisurely lit a cigar. He glanced up. Lackey was observing him closely now.
"Well," Lackey resumed, "Nick finally decided to let this big brunette alone-afraid it might cause too much uproar round the place. Then he decided, he'd fire her. Beautiful as she was, she was more bother at the Dreamland than she was worth. But, according to Whitey, he had a change of heart one night, and went home and kicked Carla out of the house. Carla had to be restrained, and put in jail for a few days. It's all on the record. But when Carla got out, she made threats all over the place. So Nick gave this big brunette a gun to protect herself. Whitey saw him give it to her. It was a gun Nick carried for ten years, all the numbers filed off-you know what I mean. Yes, Nick gave this Dorothy the gun."
There was a long silence. Finally Roy looked up. "And? So?"
"Well, it's a curious thing," said Lackey, "but this girl's name was Dorothy Vance. She was sometimes called Do Vinck. And Whitey says she came from San Francisco. And, Roy, Whitey says he's certain that she's the same girl as the one we've got downstairs-Miss Ilona Vance. The same girl!"
There was a protracted silence. Roy smoked thoughtfully, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Finally he spoke. "All right, Emmett. Good work. But… let's look at the business closely before we do anything rash. In the first place, Whitey is a rat of the worst description. A liar, a thief, playing both ends against the middle. In the second place, his police record is so bad, so unusually bad, that you'd be laughed at if you brought him into court as a witness. Attorney for the defense would make him wish he'd never been born, and the D.A.'s man would have to go hide his head. Any judge would be prejudiced against Whitey, and what do you think a jury of ordinarily respectable citizens would think of him? Do you imagine for one minute that a jury would convict a beautiful girl like Miss Vance on the testimony of a stinking rat like Whitey?"
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