by Cain, Paul
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 suede hat. She closed the door and stood with her back to it.
Shane said: “Coffee?”
She shook her head. She said: “Charley called me up this afternoon and said he was going to give me the divorce—that he wouldn’t fight it.”
“That’s fine.” Shane put two lumps of sugar in a spoon, held it in the coffee and intently watched the sugar crumble, disappear. “So what?”
She came over and sat down near him. She unbuttoned her coat, crossed her slim silken legs, took a cigarette out of a tiny silver case and lighted it.
She said: “So you’ve got to help me locate Del before he gets to Charley.” Shane sipped his coffee, waited.
“Del started drinking last night,” she went on, “an’ he kept it up this morning. He went out about eleven, and some time around one, Jack Kenny called up an’ told me that Del was over at his joint—roaring drunk, and howling for Charley’s blood. He gets that way every time he gets boiled—crazy jealous about Charley and me.”
She leaned back and blew a thin cone of smoke at the ceiling. “I told Jack to let him drink himself under the table, or lock him up, or something—an’ in a little while Jack called back and said everything was all right—that Del had passed out.”
Shane was smiling a little. He got up and went to the central table and took a long green-black cigar from a humidor, clipped it, lighted it. Then he went back and sat down.
The girl leaned forward. “About three o’clock,” she said, “the Eastman Agency—that’s the outfit I’ve had tailing Charley for evidence—called up and said they’d located the apartment house up on the West Side where Charley’s been living with the McLean woman… .”
Shane said: “How long have they been on the case?”
“Three days—an’ Charley’s ducked them until today—they traced a phone call or something.”
Shane nodded, poured more coffee into the little cup.
Lorain Rigas mashed out her cigarette. “I told Eastman to keep his boys on the apartment until they spotted Charley going in—then I figured on going over tonight and crashing in with a load of witnesses—but in a little while Charley calls me and says everything’s okay, that he’ll give me the divorce any time, any place, and so on.”
Shane said: “You’ve had a busy day.”
“Uh-huh.” She reached over and picked up the cup of coffee, sipped a little. “I didn’t call Eastman back—I figure on going through with it the way I intended to—get the evidence an’ the affidavits an’ what not. Then if Charley changes his mind… .” She put the cup back on the tray, leaned back and lighted another cigarette. “But we’ve got to find Del.”
Shane said: “I thought he was cold at Kenny’s.”
She shook her head, smiled. “I called Kenny to see how Del was, and Del was gone. He came to and started where he left off—stole a gun out of Jack’s trunk, and went out the back way. I don’t think he’d really go through with it, but he goes nuts when he gets enough red-eye under his belt… .”
Shane was leaning far back in the deep chair, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He said: “If you think Del would really make a pass at Charley—” He puffed at the cigar, finished slowly: “You don’t seem quite as excited about it as you should be.”
“What the hell’s the use getting excited?” She stood up. “It’s a cinch they won’t let Del into 71—an’ he wouldn’t wait outside for Charley—not when he’s drunk. He gets big ideas about face to face and man to man when he’s drunk. I know Del.”
“Then what are you worrying about?” Shane looked up at her, smiled gently. “He’s probably at home waiting for you.”
“No—I just called up.” She went over to the window.
Shane looked at her back. He said: “You’re pretty crazy about Del—aren’t you?” She nodded without turning.
Shane put his cigar down, reached for the phone. “Where do you think we ought to start?”
She turned, cocked her head a little to one side and looked at him sleepily. “If I knew where we ought to start, Dick,” she said, “I wouldn’t have had to bother you. You’ve known Del for years—you know the screwy way his mind works as well as I do—and you know the places. Where would he go, do you think, looking for Charley—besides 71?”
Shane picked up the phone, stared at it a little while, put it down. He got up and said, “I’m going to put on some clothes,” and went into the bedroom.
Lorain Rigas sat down near the window. She pushed the small suede hat back off her forehead, leaned back and closed her eyes.
When Shane came in, knotting his tie, she was lying very still. He stood over her a moment, looking out the window. Then he finished his tie and looked down at her and put one hand out tentatively, touched her forehead with his fingers. She opened her eyes and looked up at him expressionlessly for a little while; he turned and went to the chair where he had thrown his coat, put it on.
The phone buzzed a second after Shane had closed and locked the door. He swore under his breath, fished in his pockets. The girl leaned against the wall of the corridor, smiled at his futile efforts to find the key.
The phone buzzed insistently.
He finally found the key, unlocked the door hurriedly, and went to the phone. Lorain Rigas leaned against the frame of the open door.
Shane said: “Hello… . Put him on… .” He stood, holding the phone, looking at the girl; spoke again into the phone: “Hello, Bill… . Yeah… . Yeah… . What the hell for … ?” Then he was silent a while with the receiver at his ear. Finally he said: “Okay, Bill—thanks.” Hung up slowly.
He sat down, gestured with his head for the girl to come in and close the door. She closed the door and stood with her back to it, staring at him questioningly.
He said: “Charley was shot to death in the Montecito Apartments on West Eighty-second, some time around eight-thirty tonight.”
Lorain Rigas put her hand out slowly, blindly a little way. Her eyes were entirely blank. She went slowly, unsteadily to a chair, and sank into it.
Shane said: “They’re holding the McLean gal—an’ they’ve found out that Charley and I had an argument this evening—they want to talk to me. They’re on the way over to pick me up.”
He glanced at his watch. It was nine-forty. He got up and went to the table, took a cigar from the humidor lighted it. Then he went to the window and stared out into the darkness.
“One—base of brain. One—slightly lower—shattered cervical.” The autopsy surgeon straightened, tossed the glittering instrument into a sterilizer and skinned off his rubber gloves. He glanced at Shane, turned and started towards the door.
Sergeant Gill and an intern turned the body over.
Gill said: “Rigas?” looked up at Shane.
Shane nodded.
Gill spread a partially filled out form on the examining table near Rigas’ feet, took a stub of pencil from his pocket and added several lines to the form. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket and said: “Let’s go back upstairs.”
Shane followed him out of the room that smelled of ether and of death; they went down a long corridor to an elevator.
On the third floor they left the elevator and crossed the hall diagonally to the open door of a large office, went in. A tall, paunched man with a bony, purplish face turned from the window, went to a swivel chair behind the broad desk and sat down.
He said: “How come you stopped by tonight, Dick?” He leaned back, squinted across the desk at Shane.
Shane shrugged, sat down sidewise on the edge of the desk. “Wanted to say hello to all my buddies.”
“You’re a damned liar!” The tall man spoke quietly, impersonally. “A couple of my men were on the way over to pick you up when you showed up here. You were tipped, an’ I want to know who it was—it don’t make so much difference about you, but that kind of thing is bad for the department.”
Shane was smiling at Gill. He turned his head to look down at the tall man silently. Finally he said: “What are you going to do, Ed—hold me?”
The tall man said: “Who tipped you to the pinch?”
Shane stood up, faced the tall man squarely. He said: “So it’s a pinch?” He turned and started towards the door, spoke over his shoulder to Gill: “Come on, Sarge.”
“Come here, you bastard!”
Shane turned. His expression was not pleasant. He took two short, slow steps back towards the desk.
The tall man was grinning. He drawled: “You’re hard to get along with—ain’t you!”
Shane didn’t answer. He stood with one foot a little in advance of the other and stared at the tall man from under the brim of his dark soft hat. The flesh around his eyes and mouth was very tightly drawn.
The tall man moved his grin from Shane to Gill. He said: “See if you can find that Eastman op.”
Gill went out of the room hurriedly. The tall man swung a little in the chair turned his head to look out the window. His manner when he spoke was casual, forced:
“The McLean girl killed Rigas.”
Shane did not move or speak.
“What did you and him fight about tonight?” The tall man turned to look at Shane. His hands were folded over his broad stomach and he clicked his thumbnails nervously.
Shane cleared his throat. He said huskily: “Am I under arrest?”
“No. But we’ve got enough to hold you on suspicion. You’ve sunk a lot of dough in Rigas’ joint and so far as we know you ain’t taken much out. Tonight you had an argument… .”
The tall man unclasped his hands and leaned forward, put his arms on the desk. “Why don’t you help us get this thing right instead of being so damned fidgety?” He twisted his darkly florid face to a wry smile.
Shane said: “Rigas and I had an argument about money—I left his place at eight o’clock and I was in my hotel at a quarter after. I was there until I came here.” He went forward again to the desk. “I can get a half-dozen people at the hotel to swear to that.”
The tall man made a wide and elaborate gesture of deprecation. “Hell, Dick, we know you didn’t do it—and it’s almost a natural for McLean. Only we thought you might help us clean up the loose ends.”
Shane shook his head slowly, emphatically.
Sergeant Gill came in with an undersized blond youth in a shiny blue serge suit.
The young man went to the desk, nodded at Shane, said: “H’ are you, Cap?” to the tall man.
The tall man was looking at Shane. He said: “This man”—he jerked his head at the youth—“works for Eastman. He was on an evidence job for Mrs Rigas and went in with the patrolman when Rigas was shot… .”
“Yes, sir” the youth interrupted. “The telephone operator come running out screaming bloody murder an’ the copper come running down from the corner an’ we both went upstairs”—he paused, caught his breath—“an’ there was this guy Rigas, half in the bedroom and half out, an’ dead as a doornail… . The gun was on the floor, and this dame, McLean, was in pajamas, yelling that she didn’t do it.”
The tall man said: “Yes—you told us all that before.”
“I know—only I’m telling him.” The youth smiled at Shane.
Shane sat down again on the edge of the desk. He looked from the youth to the tall man, asked: “What does McLean say?”
“She’s got a whole raft of stories.”
The tall man spat carefully into a big brass cuspidor beside the desk. “The best one is that she was asleep and didn’t wake up till she heard the shots—and then she turned on the lights an’ there he was, on the floor in the doorway. The outer door to the apartment was unlocked—had been unlocked all evening. She says she always left it that way when he was out because he was always losing his key, an’ then he could come in without waking her up.” Shane said: “What was she doing in bed at eight-thirty?”
“Bad headache.” Sergeant Gill took a .38 automatic from the drawer of a steel cabinet, handed it to Shane. “No fingerprints,” he said—“clean as a whistle.”
Shane looked at the gun, put it down on the desk.
The tall man looked at the youth and at Gill, then bobbed his head meaningly towards the door. They both went out. The youth said: “So long, Cap—so long, Mister Shane.” Gill closed the door behind him.
Shane was smiling.
The tall man said: “Rigas’ wife had these Eastman dicks on his tail—she got anything to do with this?”
“Why?” Shane shrugged. “She wanted a divorce.”
“How long they been having trouble?”
“Don’t know.”
The tall man stood up, stuck his hands in his pockets and went to the window. He spoke over his shoulder: “Didn’t you and her used to be pretty good friends?”
Shane didn’t answer. His face was entirely expressionless.
The tall man turned and looked at him and then he said: “Well—I guess that’s all.”
They went out together.
In the corridor Shane made a vague motion with his hand, said: “Be seeing you,” went down two flights of stairs and out the door to the street. He stood in the wide arch of the entrance, out of the rain, looked up and down the street for a cab. There was one in front of a drugstore six or seven doors up from the Police Station; he whistled, finally walked swiftly up to it through the blinding rain.
As he got in, the youth in the shiny blue serge suit came out of the drugstore, scuttled across the sidewalk and climbed in beside him, sat down.
The driver turned around and said: “Where to?”
Shane said: “Wait a minute.”
The youth leaned back, put his hand confidentially on Shane’s shoulder. He said: “Tell him to drive around the block. I got something to tell you.”
The driver looked at Shane, Shane nodded. They swung out from the curb.
The youth said: “I seen Mrs Rigas about a half a block from the place uptown where Rigas was killed, about ten minutes before we found him.”
Shane didn’t say anything. He rubbed the side of his face with one hand, glanced at his watch, nodded.
Shane said: “Pretty sure.”
“Aw hell—it was her.” The youth took a soggy cigarette out of his pocket, lighted it.
“Where did she go?”
“That’s what I can’t figure out. It was raining so damned hard—and the wind was blowing—when I got to our car, that was parked across the street from the Montecito, she’d disappeared.” The youth shook his head slowly. “I told my partner about it. He said I was probably wrong, because if it was her she would have called up the office and found out how to spot us, because she would be wanting us to go in with her. He went on down to the corner to get something to eat, an’ I sat in the car an’ figured that I probably had been wrong, an’ then in a few minutes I heard the shots an’ the telephone operator come running out.”
Shane said: “Did you see Rigas go in?”
The youth shook his head. “No—an’ my partner swears he didn’t go in while he was on watch. He must’ve gone in the back way.”
Shane took a cigar out of a blue leather case, bit off the end, lighted it. “And you say you were figuring you were wrong about thinking you’d seen her?”
The youth laughed. “Yeah—that’s what I figured then. But that ain’t what I figure now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I pride myself, Mister Shane, on being able to look at a dame what is supposed to have just bumped a guy off, an’ knowing whether she did it or not. That’s why I’m in the business.” He turned his head and looked very seriously at Shane.
Shane smiled faintly in the darkness.
The youth said: “It wasn’t McLean.” He said it very positively.
Shane said: “Why didn’t you tell the Captain about this?”
“Christ! We got to protect our clients.”