O’Brien’s face remained expressionless but his eyes narrowed for a moment, and that was enough of a clue to tell Howard the information had shocked him.
“Press know yet?”
Howard shook his head.
“We’ll have to give it to them in an hour or so. I thought I’d better have a word with you first. This could develop into something though.”
“How did you know the house belongs to me ?”
So he wasn’t denying it. Howard’s heart sunk. He had hoped Motley had been sounding off.
“Motley told me.”
“That slob talks too much,” O’Brien said. He rubbed his jaw and stared down at the carpet.
“Can the ownership of the house be traced to you?” Howard asked quietly.
“It might be. My attorney bought it, but if someone dug deep enough it could be traced to me. Let me think a moment.”
Howard took a long pull at his glass. He felt in need of a stimulant. All along he had had an uneasy idea that O’Brien was shady. He had appeared from nowhere; no one had ever heard of him, and yet he had millions. Now he was calmly admitting to owning a call-house.
“Did you know what these women are?” Howard asked.
O’Brien frowned at him.
“Of course. They have to live somewhere, and besides they pay damn well.” He got to his feet crossed over to the telephone and dialled a number. After a moment’s delay, he said into the mouthpiece. “Tux there?” He waited, then went on, “Tux? Got a job for you, and snap this one up. Go to 25 Lessington Avenue right away and clear all the wrens out you find there. Get them all out. There are four of them. When you’ve cleared them out, get four people into their apartments. I don’t care who they are so long as they look respectable: old spinsters would do fine. Some of the mob must have some respectable relations. I want the job done in two hours. Understand?” He dropped the receiver back on its cradle and came to sit down again. “Well, that takes care of that. When your news hawks arrive, they’ll find the house so respectable they’ll take their hats off and wipe their shoes.”
Howard stared at him uneasily. This was too glib; too much of the rackateer.
“That’s a relief off my mind. It didn’t occur to me to do a thing like that,” he said slowly.
O’Brien lifted his shoulders.
“I guess you have other things to think about. I specialize in keeping out of trouble.” He reached for a cigar, tossed one into Howard’s lap and lit one for himself. “Now tell me about this girl. Who killed her?”
“We don’t know. The killer left no clues, but she must have known him. She was stabbed from in front with an ice-pick, and no one heard her cry out.”
“Last night, you say? There was a hell of a thunderstorm raging wasn’t there? Would they have heard her if she had cried out?”
Howard had forgotten the storm and bit his lip angrily.
“That’s right. They might not have heard her.”
“Who’s handling the investigation?”
“Donovan, but I’ve told Adams to work on the side. Donovan has a description of a guy who could have done it.”
O’Brien got up and moved over to the liquor cabinet. Howard wasn’t sure, but he had a vague idea that O’Brien had become suddenly tense.
“What’s the description?”
“It’s not much: youngish, about thirty-three, tall, dark and good-looking. Wearing a light-grey suit and matching hat.”
“Hmm, won’t help you much, will it?” O’Brien said, bringing two more drinks to the table.
“It’s better than nothing,” Howard said, taking the drink. “A case like this is always tough to crack. There’s usually no motive.”
O’Brien sat down again.
“This could give Burt an excuse to start trouble. Have you talked to Fabian yet?”
“Not yet. There’s nothing he can do, anyway. It’s up to me. If I find the killer fast we should be all right. What worried me was hearing the house was a call-house.”
O’Brien smiled.
“Well, I’ve taken care of that for you, so you can relax.”
“Yes,” Howard said uneasily. “Are there any more call-houses belonging to you in town?”
“There may be,” O’Brien returned carelessly. “I own a lot of property. There may be.”
“I have an idea Burt knows about you. It will be bad for us if he finds out about these call-houses of yours.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” O’Brien said, smiling. “I know the position as well as you do.” He got to his feet. “Well, Commissioner, I don’t want to hurry you away, but I have a whale of a lot of things to do this morning. Keep me in touch. I’d like to have a copy of all reports to do with the killing. I want them fast, too. Have someone bring them to me as soon as they are typed, will you?”
Howard hesitated.
“I don’t think our reports should leave headquarters: that would be contrary to regulations. Suppose I keep you informed personally?”
O’Brien’s eyes hardened although he continued to smile.
“I want the reports, Commissioner,” he said quietly.
Howard made a little gesture with his hands.
“All right. I’ll see you get them.”
“Thank you. You had better have a word with Fabian. Warn him Burt is almost certain to try to start something. It can’t be much if you find the killer fast. Play the girl down to the press. She can be a nightclub hostess.”
“Yes.”
Howard walked with O’Brien to the front door.
“Is Donovan such a good man to put on this case?” O’Brien asked as he opened the door.
“Adams is working on it too.”
“Ah yes… Adams. He’s a smart cop. So long, Commissioner, thanks for calling, and let me have those reports.”
O’Brien stood in the doorway and watched Howard drive away, then he slowly closed the door and remained motionless, his face thoughtful.
Gilda, concealed behind the half-open door of O’Brien’s study, felt a little chill of apprehension run through her at the hard, ugly set of O’Brien’s mouth.
II
Detective Dave Duncan pasted a cigarette on his lower lip, scratched a match alight and lowered the cigarette end into his cupped hands.
He looked across the table at Sergeant Donovan who was finishing a ham sandwich, his heavy jaws moving slowly as he chewed, his face dark with thought.
Duncan had been a detective third for a long time. He had almost given up hope of promotion, but now he had been assigned to work with Donovan, he began to hope again. Not that Donovan rated high with him: but a murder case did give a guy a chance if he used his head.
“The old punk swears he kept a registration book.” Duncan said. “He swears he entered all the cars parked in the lot last night, but the book’s missing.”
Donovan belched gently, pulled his coffee cup towards him and groped for a cigarette.
“It couldn’t have got up and walked,” he said. “It must be somewhere.”
“This guy in the grey suit could have taken it,” Duncan said. “He went into the hut and got talking with the old fella. He could have taken it, knowing his car number was in the book.”
Donovan nodded.
“Yeah. If he did take it, it’s destroyed by now. This guy in the grey suit looks like our man.” He pulled his notebook out of his hip pocket and thumbed through the pages. “Let’s see what we’ve got. At ten to nine last night, the guy leaves a green Lincoln, number not known, in the car park; tells the attendant if his friend is in he may stay the night. At half-past ten, he and the murdered woman pick up a taxi outside the house for the Blue Rose. The driver identifies him and Carson. Darcy and the doorman at the Blue Rose also identify him from our description. Darcy hasn’t seen him before. He doesn’t think he is an ordinary masher. Carson didn’t take her clients to the Blue Rose. Our guy must be something special. Okay, Around twelve-thirty he and the girl take a taxi back to her apartment. The
driver is sure it’s our guy. According to Doc, the girl dies around one-thirty. Our guy is seen by this Christie dame leaving the house: he appears to be in a hurry. He then turns up at the parking lot. The attendant is sheltering from the rain in his hut. Our guy joins him and talks about the storm. Then he starts to go, but the attendant wants to mark off his car in his book, but he can’t find it. He asks him for his number, and he gives him the number of a Packard that’s been on the lot for a couple of days, and is still there now. Now why did he give the wrong car number unless he was in trouble?” Donovan closed his note book and ran his thumb nail across his ginger moustache. “That’s not a bad day’s work, Duncan. If we can find this guy, we’ve almost got enough on him to put him away.”
“We have to find him first,” Duncan said, finishing his coffee and standing up. “I have an idea, sarg; Darcy is holding out on us. I think he knows who this guy is.”
Donovan shrugged.
“I don’t know. He looked a little shifty, but maybe he has something to hide up himself,” he said, getting off his stool. “You can’t make a guy like Darcy talk unless he wants to. What I want to find out is if our guy was a regular customer of Carson’s or just a chance caller. The fact she took him to the Blue Rose makes it look like he is a regular. What we’ve got to find out now is who her men friends are. She must have known a hell of a lot of guys, but there must have been several she knew better than others.”
Duncan dropped his cigarette end on the floor and trod on it.
“How do we do that? Darcy said he didn’t know who her friends were. Who else is there to ask?”
“I’m going to try that punk at the bank: the smooth, fat one who gave me that spiel about calling his wife. There was only one call from that pay booth around ten o’clock, and that was to Carson’s apartment. This fat punk said a girl and an elderly man used the pay booth, and that he also used it. Well, he was lying; so we’ll go along and talk to him.”
“The bank’s closed,” Duncan said.
“Maybe the night watchman will know his address,” Donovan said. “Come on; let’s find out.”
But the night watchman didn’t know Parker’s address. He didn’t even know Parker.
“They are all gone by the time I take over,” he explained. “Sorry, sergeant, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Give me the manager’s address,” Donovan said shortly. “This is urgent.”
“I haven’t got it,” the night watchman returned. “If I want one of the officials I have to get into touch with Mr. Holland: he’s the head teller.”
“Well, okay,” Donovan said impatiently. “Let’s have his address, and snap it up, will you ? I’m in a hurry.”
The night watchman wrote the address down on a scrap of paper, and the two detectives returned to their car.
“I’ll get a newspaper,” Donovan said, “hang on a second.”
He bought two papers from the boy at the corner, and came back to the car.
“It’s in the stop press,” he said, and read the announcement. He felt no satisfaction to see his name in print. He knew if he didn’t crack this one fast the press would turn on him.
During the afternoon he had returned to Fay Carson’s apartment to meet the press. Anticipating the worst kind of trouble from the reporters, he had been relieved to find Captain Motley already there.
He was bewildered and astonished to find no sign of the cal-girls. The whole house had miraculously become respectable and, ferret as they could, the reporters found nothing to work on. They went from apartment to apartment. The elderly women who opened the door to them knew nothing and had heard nothing.
The reporters were highly suspicious because they had been called in so late, but Motley’s smooth talk got over the awkward situation. Listening to
him soft soap the press made Donovan thankful it wasn’t he who had to handle them.
“Going to be a hell of a spread across the front page tomorrow morning,” he said, getting into the car beside Duncan.
“Yeah,” Duncan said, and sent the car shooting away from the kerb.
It didn’t take them long to find the street.
“That’s the place, over on your right,” Donovan said.
They pulled up outside the neat, well-cared-for bungalow and got out.
“This guy can grow roses, can’t he?” said Duncan, who was a keen gardener. “Look at that Mrs. Laxton.”
“Who’s she?” Donovan growled, staring around.
“Never mind, sarg,” Duncan said, concealing a grin. “Pity he doesn’t keep his lawn better. Reminds me I’ve got to cut mine.”
“Keep your mind on your job!” Donovan snarled.
He rammed his thumb into the bell-push, kept it there for a couple of seconds, then stood away.
There was a long pause, then just as he was going to ring again, the front door opened.
He recognized the tall, good-looking guy who opened the door. He had been standing next to Parker at the bank.
Scared out of his wits, Donovan thought with sadistic satisfaction. Damn funny thing. I have only to ring a bell to frighten the life out of everyone in the house.
He shoved his heavy jaw forward aggressively.
“You Holland?” he growled.
Ken nodded dumbly.
Duncan was studying him, puzzled.
He looks as if he has robbed the bank and has the proceeds in the house, he thought. What the hell’s the matter with him?
“I want to talk to Parker. Where’s he live?” Donovan demanded.
Ken opened and shut his mouth, but no sound came. He stared fixedly at Donovan.
“Where does he live?” Donovan repeated, raising his voice.
Ken made an effort, gulped, then said, “Why, he’s just in the next road. 145 Marshall Avenue.”
Duncan took out his notebook and jotted down the address.
“Did he tell you he was going to call his wife from the pay booth this morning?” Donovan demanded.
“He — he didn’t say.”
“But you saw him go to the pay booth?”
“Why — yes, I did,”
“What time was that?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Donovan glared at him, then he turned disgustedly to Duncan.
“Come on; we’re wasting time.”
He strode down the path, jerked open the gate and crossed to the car.
Duncan followed him. At the gate, he turned to look back. Ken was still standing motionless in the doorway, staring after them. Then, seeing Duncan looking at him, he stepped back and hurriedly shut the front door.
CHAPTER III
I
When Commissioner Howard’s car disappeared down the drive, Sean O’Brien walked slowly into the lounge and sat down. He waited, listening, and after a moment or so he heard footsteps. Gilda came into the room.
“Oh, he’s gone, then,” she said, but the assumed surprise in her voice didn’t deceive O’Brien.
“Yes, he’s gone,” he said, and taking her hand, he pulled her down on to the arm of his chair. He put his arm around her waist and began to stroke her flank while he looked up at her.
Her great green cat’s eyes were dark with anxiety.
“What did he want, Sean?” she asked. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“This is the first time he has ever been here,” O’Brien said, frowning. “He’s an odd guy” He leaned his head against Gilda’s arm. “He brought some bad news.”
He felt her stiffen.
“Do you remember Fay Carson?” he went on, and looked up at her.
Her finely shaped nostrils contracted and her eyes hardened.
“Of course I do. What has she…?”
“Your brother and she were lovers, weren’t they?”
He saw her flinch.
“But, Sean, that’s ancient history now. Why bring it up?”
He abruptly got to his feet and moved away from her, his hands behind his back; a set, hard expressi
on on his face.
“Maybe it’s not so ancient. Now look, Gilda, before I say anything more about Johnny, I want you to understand our position. I don’t have to tell you I’m crazy about you, and I’ll do anything for you. Always remember that. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. Oh, mere have been plenty of the other type, but with you, it’s different. You mean more to me than anything else in life. We are going to get married soon. As you know, I am in control of the administration of this City. It’s important to me that I should remain in control. Politics is a dirty game, kid. Everyone is on the look-out to cut someone’s throat. The quickest way to upset a political machine is to dig up a scandal that is big enough to hit the headlines. Then the voters take notice. Do you understand?”
She sat on the arm of the chair, her hands clenched tightly between her thighs; still, white-faced and frightened.
“Yes, Sean, but what has this to do with Johnny?”
He faced her.
“I told you Howard brought some bad news. Fay Carson was murdered last night.”
Gilda shut her eyes. An uncontrolled shiver ran through her.
For a long moment neither of them said anything, and only the busy ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece disturbed the silence. Then O’Brien said, “Did you know Johnny came back last night? One of my men saw him at the Paradise Club. Did you see him?”
She hesitated, not looking at him, then she nodded.
“I knew he was in town,” she said, staring down at her clenched fists.
“Do you think he killed her?” O’Brien asked quietly.
She looked up, her eyes widening.
“Of course not! How could you say such a thing?” Her vehemence was completely unconvincing. They looked at each other, then Gilda looked away.
“We must be frank with each other, kid,” O’Brien said. “You know as well as I do why I asked you that. Before he went to the home, he threatened to kill her. He hasn’t been out more than a few hours before she’s murdered. You must face facts.”
Gilda sat motionless. He could see she was holding on to herself in an effort to keep control, and he went over to her and put his arm around her.
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