“Oh.” He remembered her then, a fourteen-year-old kid with long black curls and a pretty Irish face. “How are you?”
She said: “I hate to bother you, but I’ve got to see you at once. It’s frightfully important.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“I’m afraid to wait. Won’t you please meet me tonight?”
He said: “Okey. Where are you?” He was tired, very tired, and he had a hard day coming up, but he couldn’t refuse Bert Donovan’s sister.
She said: “I don’t want you to come here. I’ll meet you any place you say. A public restaurant would be best, I think.”
He hesitated for a moment, then named one on the Boulevard. “Know where that is?”
She said: “I’ll take a cab. I’ll meet you there in half an hour,” and hung up.
Lennox left the booth, lighted a cigarette, and stood for a moment, thinking it over. He hadn’t seen Bert Donovan for six years, hadn’t heard of him for three. He wondered what the girl was doing in Hollywood, hoped that she hadn’t come out here with an idea of getting into pictures. Too many did that, too many with pretty faces and no ability.
“Better call me a cab, Tom,” he said finally, and went out to meet it. The cab took him across to the Boulevard and turned west. It was cold, with a chilling wind blowing directly from the ocean. It would probably rain before morning, he thought, as he stepped from the cab before the restaurant, paid the driver, and went in.
A man at the bar spoke to him and Bill nodded in return, without stopping. He went towards the back of the long room, passed the screen which separated the beer bar from the tables at the rear, and looked around. He had no idea that he would recognize her. She’d probably changed in six years. Six years, that would make her about twenty, no, nearer twenty-one.
The room was not crowded. An orchestra on a raised platform played fitfully, and there were perhaps fifty people at the tables clustered about the small dance-floor. Lennox nodded as one of the proprietors, an ex-picture heavy, came up to him. “How’s things, Fred?”
The man said: “Not good, not bad.” His face was flat, with a broken nose and bushy eyebrows. He grinned and led Lennox towards one of the leather-upholstered wall booths. “Alone?”
Bill said: “I’m meeting a girl here. She’ll probably ask for me.”
The man nodded and moved away as a waiter came forward. Lennox ordered beer, took a long pull at the glass, and looked around. A leading comedian was at a corner table with four women. Lennox knew that he was a little drunk, that he was always a little drunk; but, drunk or sober, he was funny, and Bill grinned in spite of himself as the man raised a hand in salute. Then someone touched his shoulder and he came to his feet to see a dark-haired girl facing him.
She wore a suit of heavy tweed, fur trimmed, with a little hat that perched above one ear. There was something about her that spoke of assurance, capability and of a seriousness that wasn’t lost even when she smiled. “Bill Lennox. I’d have known you anywhere.”
He smiled and pulled the table aside so that she could enter the booth. “I should say the same, Betty, but it wouldn’t be true. Still, you do look like Bert.”
Color stained her cheeks slightly and was gone. Lennox said: “How is Bert?”
Her eyes widened. “Didn’t you know? He was killed in an automobile accident two years ago.”
Lennox swore to himself. “I’m sorry, Kid. He was a swell pal.”
“It means a lot to hear you say that,” she told him. “Bert liked you.”
“And what happened to the stable?” Lennox asked, when he had finished ordering beer for her, and sandwiches.
“I’m running it.” Her lips twisted slightly. “I’ve got eight horses out here. Al Hinds is training for me. Remember him?”
Lennox nodded. “Not very clearly, but he was tall and thin, without much hair.”
She said, “Right,” and was silent while the waiter served the orders, then her face got serious. “Listen, Bill! I’m going to ask you a favor. I’ve no right to ask it, except that I know you thought a lot of my brother, and this is pretty important to me. I talked to Frank Jarney tonight. I want to ask you to leave him alone.”
Lennox stiffened. “You talked to Jarney? What did he have to say?”
She was twisting her glass in her fingers, making wet rings on the bare table top. “Only that you threatened him.”
Lennox’s smile held no mirth. “I’d hardly call it a threat. I told him that he wasn’t riding Spurck’s horses the way they should be ridden, and that if he didn’t change, I’d do something about it.”
She said, tensely: “He’s riding to orders.”
Lennox stared at her. “Not Spurck’s orders?”
She shook her head slowly. “No—”
“Then whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Now, listen.” Lennox was leaning across the table, his voice so low that it barely reached her ears. “Spurck bought that stable against my advice. It’s not his game. He doesn’t know a thing about it, and he got hooked plenty on the purchase, but I’m not going to have a bunch of cheap gamblers run his horses out of the money until they get a price built up and then win with them. I don’t know who’s giving Jarney orders, but I do know that if he tries any more funny business, I’ll have him put on the ground and he’ll stay there the rest of his life. I’ll see that he never gets a leg up on another horse.”
4
HER face had a white, pinched look. “Listen, Bill, I’m asking you this, not because you were a friend of Bert’s, but because I need help. If Frank were to listen to you, he wouldn’t live twenty-four hours. He’s got to ride according to orders, not only on Spurck’s horses, but on others, and I’m telling you this; he’s not the only rider that’s taking orders. There are others, not because they want to, but because they’re afraid not to.”
Lennox stared at her. “You’ve either said too much, Kid, or not enough. Who’s giving these orders?” he asked again.
She shook her head.
His voice gained a harsher note. “Meaning you don’t know, or merely that you won’t tell?”
She said: “Don’t ask me; please don’t. There’s a reason why I won’t—can’t answer you.”
“Are you in love with Jarney?” His tone was blunt.
She shook her head. “Please, won’t you please do what I ask?”
Lennox shook his head slowly. “I tell you what I will do. If Jarney is afraid to refuse to ride Spurck’s horses, I’ll see that he doesn’t have to. I’ll have him fired.”
Her eyes darkened. “Don’t do that.”
Surprise made him silent for the moment. “Now, listen. Tonight over the phone Jarney asked me to do just that. What’s the idea? Just what are you trying to pull?”
She said, desperately: “Nothing. Please believe me, but it’s too late for you to do that. They heard him talking to you tonight. If he were fired, they’d still do something to him. Why can’t you leave things as they are? What does it matter to Spurck whether he wins a few races or not? He’s got plenty of money. He has everything.”
Lennox’s lips were twisted. “I’m a funny guy, I guess. It isn’t the purses he loses that I’m thinking about; it’s the public, the betting public. I can’t use a roulette wheel that’s wired, Kid, and crooked dice burn me. It’s the same with this. Thousands of people go out to the track and bet their dough. They bet on Spurck’s horses, not because they really know anything about the nags, but because they know who Spurck is; they know he’s on the level, and they figure that his stable will be run that way.” He broke off, embarrassed. He wasn’t used to expressing his feelings so frankly.
Betty Donovan was staring at him, her fingers working with the edge of the napkin. “And you’d get a boy killed for that?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Listen, Kid. If you know something, the thing for you to do is to go to the cops, or better, to the track officials. Gamblers can’t win. They will go along s
well for a while, but in the end, the judges will catch up with them. Come on, I know the chief steward, where he’s living. We’ll go over there—” He started to rise, but she stopped him.
“Please, you’ll—you don’t know what you’re doing.” There was fear in her voice, more than fear.
He dropped back heavily into his seat. “Listen, Betty. Your brother was a swell pal of mine. I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t come clean with me, I—”
Her voice changed. “You aren’t a reformer, are you, Bill?”
He shook his head. “I’m not.”
“Then wait. I can’t tell you anything now. All I ask is that you don’t interfere.”
“Well, I’ll talk to Jarney.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know—”
He said: “I won’t play any other way, Kid.”
The girl seemed to come to a sudden decision. “All right. Come on.”
She rose, and Lennox motioned for the check. In the cab, riding downtown, neither spoke. Fine drops of rain sprayed across the cab’s windows, driven by the wind, and the girl shivered. Lennox said, finally, “Looks like a muddy track in the morning.”
She did not answer and, after a moment, he lit a cigarette and stared out at the wet, glistening sidewalk. The cab drew up before the hotel and they got out. Lennox paid the man and followed the girl across the wide lobby to the elevators. They rode up to Jarney’s floor in silence and went along the corridor to the door of the jockey’s room. The girl knocked, three quick taps, then a heavier one, and waited. There was no response, and after a minute’s hesitation, she pulled a key from her bag and, sliding it into the lock, opened the door.
Lennox watched her without comment, his eyes thoughtful. She looked across her shoulder, met his gaze, and red crept up into her cheeks, but she offered no explanation, and, pushing the door open, stepped into the room, with Lennox at her heels. She stopped so suddenly that he almost ran into her, and a little toneless cry, more like a moan, came from her throat. Then Lennox, staring across her shoulder, saw Jarney stretched across the bed, his head hanging over the edge.
Lennox pushed her aside and crossed the room quickly, bending over the bed. Then he straightened and went back to the door, shutting it and shooting the night lock into place. The girl stood where she had first stopped, her widened eyes on the still figure, the back of her left hand pressed tightly against her lips. Slowly her eyes came away from the bed, met Lennox’s, appealing, yet uncertain.
He said, softly: “Hadn’t you better tell me about it, Kid?”
She stared at him. “You think—you think I killed him?”
Lennox watched her. “I’m not thinking, but the time’s come to talk, Honey. You can’t afford to stall any longer. If you didn’t kill him, someone else did, someone who thought he had a reason. You may know that reason.” He waited for her to speak, but her eyes had switched back to the bed. Slowly she went forward until he said, sharply, “Don’t touch anything.”
She stiffened at his words, then turned. “What are you going to do?”
He said: “Call the police. There isn’t anything else to do. Any other way, we’d just be hunting trouble for ourselves.”
Fear came back into her eyes, fear, and a look that he could not understand. “Please, I can’t be found here. I’m not ready for the police, yet.”
He stared at her. Did she mean that she had killed Jarney? It didn’t make sense. If she had killed the jockey, why had she brought him here; what did she mean by saying that she was not ready for the police, yet?
The girl seemed to read his thoughts. “I didn’t kill him.” Her voice was low, yet so intense that it was convincing. “You don’t think that I would lie to you, do you, Bill Lennox?”
Her eyes met his squarely, and the conviction crept over him that she was telling the truth; yet he knew that the cops would not share his belief. The fact that she had known Jarney, had had a key to his room, would bear heavily against her. He said, suddenly, “Give me that key.”
Her voice was uncertain. “What are you going to do?”
His voice was grim, almost sardonic. “Play the fool, probably. Give me the key and get out of here.”
Relief flashed into her eyes. “But won’t you get into trouble?”
“Probably. Come on.” His tone was urgent. “We haven’t got all night. And you’d better use the stairway, going down. We’ve already ridden in the elevator too much tonight.”
Hesitantly she opened her bag and handed him the key. “I—I can’t tell you how much this means to me, Bill. I—I wish I could do something to repay you.”
He said: “You can. You can tell me what you know.”
“I will, sometime.” She was moving towards the door.
He said, “Wait,” harshly, opened the door, and peered out into the hall. It was empty, and he stood back. “All right, Kid. What’s your address?”
She murmured it as she passed him and hurried down the hall. He went inside the room, shut the door, took the key from his pocket and, wiping it with his handkerchief, tossed it on to the desk; then he crossed and stared down at the still figure on the bed. Someone had driven a knife, hard, just below the heart.
He wondered if the girl could have struck the blow, decided that she could have. He looked around and, walking to the phone, called Spellman, at home. The sleepy, irritable voice of the detective captain reached him. Lennox said, “I’ve just found a body. I thought you ought to know.”
Spellman swore. “Don’t you think I’m ever off duty?”
“You’re never on,” Lennox said, and gave the hotel and room number. “You’d better come yourself, and don’t bring too many cops. The management wouldn’t appreciate it.” He hung up, and wandered about; then he lit a cigarette and sat down to wait.
5
SPELLMAN was puffing slightly as he came into the room. Lennox said: “You’re getting soft on that desk job. They ought to put you back into harness where you’d have work to do.”
The detective captain ignored him. He crossed the room and stood staring down at the body, then he turned around. “Who was he?”
“Jockey. His name was Jarney, Frank Jarney.”
Spellman’s voice dripped sarcasm. “I suppose it would be too much to ask what you’re doing here?”
Lennox regarded the smoke which curled slowly upward from the tip of his cigarette. “I came up to see Jarney. He’s riding Spurck’s horses, and I didn’t think he was getting the most out of them. I was going to offer a couple of suggestions.”
“Yeah, and what?” It was obvious that Spellman wasn’t impressed by the story.
“He was dead when I walked in.”
“And just why did you walk in?”
Lennox shrugged. “Well, the door was unlocked. I thought it was funny that Jarney didn’t answer my knock, so I came in to see why, and found him.” He indicated the still figure with a slight motion of his hand. “Then I called you.”
Spellman stared at him. “Which elevator did you come up in?”
Lennox had been dreading the question. “Now listen, Floyd. Just because I happen to walk into this mess is no reason why you should get suspicious. What earthly reason would I have for killing Jarney?”
Spellman moved heavy shoulders. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted, “but it happens that the city pays me a salary to ask questions and there’s nothing said about your being an exception. I can easy enough find out. Hey, Harker.”
“Yeah, Captain!” A big plain-clothesman removed his shoulders from against the wall and stood erect.
“Trot down and bring along the boys from the elevators. I want to see if one of them remembers Lennox.”
The big dick opened the door and an excited little man came bursting through. “What’s going on here, what’s going—?”
Harker said: “Who the hell are you?”
The little man drew himself up coldly. “I’m the assistant manager. You have no right to disturb my guests.”
<
br /> “Your guests shouldn’t get themselves bumped off.” Harker stood aside so that the manager could see the still figure on the bed.
The manager’s mouth dropped, then he closed it slowly. “Why wasn’t this reported to the house officer?”
“Probably asleep,” Spellman said, curtly. “Go on, Harker.”
The manager flushed angrily. “Who’s in charge?”
“I am.” Spellman turned his back on the man and was looking about the room.
“Well, Lieutenant?”
“Captain,” Spellman’s voice cut at him, and Lennox laughed.
The manager said, with not quite so much assurance, “Please be as quiet as you can. This is terrible, terrible. If the papers get—”
No one paid any attention to him. Harker came back leading five boys whom he lined up against the wall. Spellman looked at them. “Any of you kids ever see this guy before?”
The boy at the right end nodded. “I brought him up about forty minutes ago.”
“Sure?”
“Positive. I remember thinking how pretty the girl with him was.”
“Girl? What girl?” Spellman spun around to face Lennox. “Who was with you?”
Cursing under his breath, Bill kept his eyes on the cigarette in his hand. He’d been afraid of this, but, after all, she was Bert Donovan’s sister, and he did not think she was guilty. “The kid’s mistaken, Floyd,” he lied. “I remember there was a girl in the car, that she got off at this floor; but she wasn’t with me.”
Spellman’s red face gained a deeper shade and his little eyes got very narrow. For a moment he stared at Lennox, then swung back to the elevator boy. “You sure the dame was with this guy?”
The boy looked uncertain. “Well, Chief, I ain’t sure. Come to think of it, I didn’t see them speak, but she got in the car right ahead of him, and they got out at the same floor. I just kinda thought—”
“You kinda thought—” Spellman’s voice was sarcastic “Get his name and address, Harker.” He swung back to Bill as the man from the coroner’s office came in. “Sure that dame wasn’t with you?”
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