“I am a poor man, Mr. Holland. In fact, to be frank with you, I am in urgent need of funds right now. I thought you might let me have two hundred dollars as a first payment and a small sum each month.”
“How small?” Ken said, an edge to his voice.
“Well, perhaps thirty dollars, perhaps thirty-five.”
Ken realized that if he agreed to pay Sweeting, there would be no end to it. He would be bled white. He had to take a stand. He had to think of Ann. He would probably need every dime he could lay hands on for his defence.
“I should only be buying time,” he said quietly. “The police could find me without your help. You had better tell them what you know. You’re getting nothing out of me.”
Sweeting had had many years’ experience of petty blackmailing. He was a little surprised that Ken should attempt to bluff, considering the dangerous position he was in, but he was quite prepared to accept Ken’s attitude for the moment. So many of his past victims had tried to bluff, but they had always toed the line in the end.
“Let’s be sensible about this, Mr. Holland. My evidence would send you to the chair. After all, I am the only witness who saw you leave the house at the time the police say she died. If I kept quiet…”
“You’re mistaken,” Ken said, getting to his feet. “Someone else saw me: the woman who lives on the ground floor. Your evidence is not so exclusive as you think.”
Sweeting stared up at him, taken aback.
“Now wait a moment, Mr. Holland. We mustn’t be too hasty about this. This woman doesn’t know who you are: I do. It would be stupid of you to sacrifice your life for a few dollars. Besides, you must think of your wife. Think how hurt she will be to learn what you have done.”
“We’ll leave my wife out of this!” Ken said savagely. “I’m not paying you a dime. Get out!”
Sweeting lost his genial smile. His face became hard and spiteful.
“You mustn’t talk like that to me, Mr. Holland. You are in no position to be discourteous. I shan’t hesitate to go to the police if we can’t come to terms. I tell you what I will do. I’ll settle for two hundred dollars. I won’t press you for any monthly payments. I can’t be fairer than that, can I ? Two hundred dollars in cash.”
Ken’s rising temper exploded. He stepped forward and knocked the glass of whisky out of Sweeting’s hand. His grim, furious expression alarmed Sweeting, who had a horror of violence.
“Mr. Holland!” he gasped, cringing back into the chair. “That was quite unnecessary…”
Leo, as if sensing that his master had failed in his purpose, slunk off the couch and trotted, tail between his legs, to the door.
Ken grabbed hold of Sweeting’s coat front and hauled him to his feet.
“You miserable little rat!” he said furiously. “You’re not getting a dime out of me! I’ve had enough of this! I won’t be shoved around any more by you or the police!”
“Mr. Holland!” Sweeting gasped, his eyes popping out of his head. “Don’t let us have any violence. If you feel that way…”
Ken released him, stepped back and hit Sweeting in his right eye with all his weight behind the punch. He felt an enormous satisfaction as his knuckles thudded against Sweeting’s face.
Sweeting gave a squeal of pain, tripped over the rug and fell on his back with a crash that shook the bungalow.
“Get out!” Ken shouted at him. “If I ever see you again, I’ll beat the hell out of you!”
Sweeting crawled to his feet, still holding his eye. He made a frantic bolt across the room to the front door, pulled it open and clattered down the steps.
Leo was already streaking down the street, and his master went after him.
Breathing heavily, Ken stared through the window until he lost sight of Sweeting. He had no doubt that Sweeting would tell the police. In a few hours he would be arrested. The thought scared him, but he knew it was something he had now to face up to.
It didn’t cross his mind to make a bolt for it. He had been cowardly enough already. He had made a complete fool of himself, and it was now time to face the music. The only possible solution was to give himself up, tell the truth and hope the police believed him. He hadn’t much hope that they would, but anything was better than these past hours.
He had no time to lose. He must get to police headquarters before Sweeting gave him away.
He looked around the lounge and wondered if he would ever see it again. He looked at Ann’s photograph and his heart contracted. What a shock it was going to be for her! What a crazy, irresponsible fool he had been!
He wondered if he should write to her, but there was no time. He had better get down to headquarters at once.
He went quickly into the hall, put on his hat, locked the front door after him and, seeing a taxi crawling past, he waved, ran down the path and jerked open the cab door.
“Police headquarters, and snap it up!” he said to the startled driver.
II
Detective Dave Duncan glanced at his wrist-watch and sighed. The time was just after nine o’clock. He had hoped to get home for supper, but the hope had long faded. He wondered gloomily what his wife was thinking. Whenever he was late she always accused him of fooling around with some woman. He could never convince her that police officers had to keep irregular hours. Maybe she would be more amenable when he told her he was working with Donovan on a murder case, but he doubted it.
He looked at the rough draft that lay on the desk before him. Sergeant Donovan had told him to prepare a report on the Carson murder for the Commissioner, and Duncan had just finished it. The report would take forty minutes or so to type. Then Donovan had to read it and he would be certain to make a lot of alterations. It would have to be re-typed. Duncan didn’t see any hope of getting home before half-past twelve. There would be another tow waiting for him just when he wanted all the sleep he could get.
He lit a cigarette and settling down in the uncomfortable desk chair he began to read what he had written.
Half-way through the report he made a discovery that snapped him upright and sent a tingle of excitement up his spine. He hadn’t time to consider this discovery before the door kicked open and Sergeant Donovan came in.
“Hey! I’ve got something!” Donovan said, slamming the door and coming to sit on the desk. “We’ve got our guy’s grey suit. There are blood-stains on it! What do you know?”
Restraining his own excitement with difficulty, Duncan pushed the report aside; lit a cigarette before asking, “Where did you find it?”
Donovan grinned.
“I got a break. I was chewing the fat with the desk sergeant; by the merest fluke he mentioned that Gaza’s stores had reported finding a grey suit with stains on it amongst their suits on display. O’Malley went down and took a statement from one of the assistants. While he was there another assistant from the shoe department found a pair of used shoes amongst the shoes on display. One of them was stained. O’Malley made a routine check and found they were blood-stains: on the suit and on the shoes. The assistant remembers a guy who had a parcel with him when he came to buy a grey suit and he hadn’t the parcel with him when he left. His description fits the guy we want for the Carson killing, and the bloodstains belong to Carson’s group.” He tossed a sheaf of papers on to the desk. “That’s O’Malley’s report with the statements. We’ve got to hook it up co our report. You’d better snap it up. The Commissioner expects to hear from me before he leaves tonight.”
Duncan shoved the report aside.
“I’ve got something for you, sergeant. I’ll take a five buck bet I know who the killer is.”
Donovan’s beefy face changed colour. He stared at Duncan, his hard little eyes narrowing.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“That guy Holland killed her!”
“Are you crazy?” Donovan exploded angrily. “Now look, if you can’t talk sense, get down to that report. I want to get home some time tonight.”
Duncan shrugged.
> “Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it. If I handle this myself, I’ll get the credit.”
Donovan’s face turned purple.
“If you talk like that to me…!” he began furiously.
“I tell you he’s the guy we want, and I can prove it!”
Donovan controlled himself. He got off the desk and went over to his own desk and sat behind it.
“Go ahead and prove it,” he grated.
“Remember how scared Holland was when we called on him?”
Donovan snorted.
“That doesn’t mean a damn. You know as well as I do when a cop calls unexpectedly whoever answers the door lays an egg. If you can’t do better than that you’d better keep your trap shut!”
“This guy did more than lay an egg. I was watching him while you talked to him,” Duncan said quietly. “He was really scared: like a man with a guilty conscience. That doesn’t prove my case, but it did set me dunking. Doesn’t he fit the description of the guy we want? He’s tall, dark, goodlooking and around thirty. That’s tile exact description of the guy we’re after, isn’t it? But this is the clincher. Do you remember his roses? Nothing but roses in the garden, and good ones? Remember them?”
Donovan drew in a slow, exasperated breath.
“What the hell have his roses got to do with it?”
Duncan picked up the report he had written.
“Listen to this. This is the car attendant’s statement just as he made it. This is what he says: ‘The guy said something about the first rain we’ve had in ten days. I said he was right. I asked him if he grew roses. That’s about all I do grow, he tells me. Roses and weeds.’” Duncan looked across at Donovan, his eyes triumphant. “Sort of hangs together, doesn’t it?”
Donovan sat still while his slow-working brain tried to cope with this unexpected situation.
“You don’t call that proof, do you?” he said finally, glaring at Duncan.
Duncan refused to be intimidated. He knew if Donovan had made the discovery himself he would be crowing his head off.
“The guy is scared stiff; the description matches and he grows roses,” he said quietly. “It’s enough for me to dig further. I want to know what make of car he runs. If it’s a green Lincoln I know I won’t have to look further for the guy we want.”
“If he runs a green Lincoln then he is our guy,” Donovan said, shrugging, “but I’ll bet he doesn’t run one.”
Duncan shoved back his chair and stood up.
“Shall we go and find out?”
“May as well,” Donovan said grudgingly.
Twenty minutes later, Duncan pulled up some hundred yards from Ken’s bungalow.
“Do we walk?” he asked. “No point in warning him we’re on to him.”
“Yeah.”
Donovan got out of the car, and together the two detectives walked quickly down the street to the gate of Ken’s bungalow. Donovan crossed the uncut lawn to the small garage.
By now it was dark. No lights showed in the bungalow.
They arrived at the garage. The double doors were locked. While he was trying to open the padlock, Duncan went around to peer through the side window, shining his flashlight on the car inside.
“Hey, sarg! It’s a green Lincoln!” he called excitedly.
Donovan joined him and looked through the window.
“We’ve got him!” he exclaimed, and he felt a tingle of elation run up his spine. “This will make that punk Adams bleed at the nose. We’ve cracked this one in eighteen hours I”
“I’d like to look at that car,” Duncan said.
“What’s stopping you?” Donovan went around to the padlocked doors again. “There’s a tyre lever in our car; go and get it.”
He leaned against the garage doors while he waited for Duncan to return. This would shake Adams, he thought. It would shake the Commissioner, too.
What a break ! He wouldn’t write a report. He would see the
Commissioner personally and tell him. There was no need to mention Duncan’s contribution. After all, Duncan had years ahead of him to get promotion. No need to tell the Commissioner who cracked the case. If he said nothing the Commissioner would assume he had thought up the angles.
Duncan returned with the tyre lever. They broke the padlock and opened the door. Donovan snapped down a light switch and lit up the garage.
While Duncan examined the back seat of the Lincoln, Donovan looked over the driving seat.
“Here we are,” Duncan said suddenly. “This clinches it.”
He handed Donovan a much-thumbed notebook. It was the car attendant’s missing registration book.
“On the floor behind the driving seat. Must have slipped out of his hip pocket.”
Donovan grinned.
“And it’s got his car number in it, too! Yeah, this clinches ill”
“Let’s go talk to him, sergeant.”
Together the two detectives walked up the path. Donovan stuck his thumb against the bell-push and kept it there. They waited several minutes while the bell rang continuously, then Donovan stepped back with an exclamation of disgust.
“Looks like he’s out,” he said.
Duncan was already walking around the bungalow, peering through the windows. He came back after completing the circuit.
“No sign of him.”
Donovan looked at his watch. It was now getting on for ten o’clock.
“We’d better stick around.”
“Think he’s lost his nerve and skipped?”
“He might have done. I’ll send out a general call for him. Let’s see if we can bust in.”
It didn’t take Duncan long to find a window that wasn’t latched. He climbed through the window, went to the front door and let Donovan in.
“I’ll take a look around while you’re calling headquarters.”
When Donovan had talked to the desk sergeant and had given his orders, he went into the hall to see what Duncan was doing.
Duncan came out of the bedroom, grinning. He carried a grey suit and a pair of shoes.
“Here you are, sarg. Just out of their wrapping, straight from Gaza’s stores. This guy certainly knows how to work his way into the chair, doesn’t he?”
Donovan grunted. He was getting a little fed-up with Duncan’s persistent successes.
They went into the lounge and Duncan went over to the trash basket. He turned it upside down while Donovan watched him, scowling.
“It falls into my lap, doesn’t it?” Duncan said suddenly. “Look at this.”
He put two small pieces of card on the desk.
“We’re home now,” he said. “I knew I was right. Here’s Carson’s telephone number on the back of that guy Parker’s card. I bet Parker recommended Holland to go and call on Carson. Sweet as honey, isn’t it?”
III
Lieutenant Adams eased back his chair, yawned and decided to call it a day. There was nothing he could do now until he got a copy of Donovan’s report and had found out how far he had progressed. He had also to wait
for Darcy to get a line on Johnny Dorman. He couldn’t expect much to happen until the following morning.
He was about to leave the office when the telephone bell rang. Frowning, he returned to his desk and picked up the receiver.
“Desk sergeant here, sir,” a voice barked in his ear. “There’s a guy just come in who wants to talk to the officer in charge of the Carson killing. Sergeant Donovan’s out. Do you want to see him?”
“Yes: send him up,” Adams said, hung his hat on the rack and sat down behind his desk.
After a three- or four-minute wait, a knock came on the door and a cop came in, followed by a tall, dark man whose pale face and haggard looks caught Adams’ interest.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m Kenway Holland,” Ken said breathlessly. He waited until the cop had gone, then went on, “I’m the man you’re looking for. I was with Fay Carson last night.”
Adams stiffen
ed, stared, then pushing back his chair he stood up. For a moment he was so surprised that he couldn’t think how to handle this unexpected situation, but he quickly recovered.
He looked steadily at Ken. Yes, the description matched. This guy looked too scared and ill to be a faker.
“Did you tell the desk sergeant who you are?” he asked sharply.
“Why, no,” Ken said, surprised. “He didn’t ask me.”
Adams was now in control of himself. What a break ! he thought. If that fool Donovan had been in I wouldn’t have known about this until it was too late. What the hell am I going to do with this guy? If Donovan gets hold of him before I get hold of Dorman, they’ll pull me off the case, and this guy won’t know what’s hit him until he’s sitting in the chair.
It didn’t take him more than a second or two to make up his mind.
“Why didn’t you come here before?” he asked sharply.
“I — I hoped to get away with it,” Ken said, “but I’ve found it’s not possible. I want you to know I didn’t kill her. I want to tell you exactly what happened.”
“Okay,” Adams said, “but this isn’t the place where we can talk. The telephone rings, people come in and out.” He reached for his hat and put it on. “You come with me.” He had a sudden alarming thought. “Did you bring your car with you?”
Bewildered, Ken stared at him.
“I came in a taxi.”
Adams nodded. Another break ! If he had parked his green Lincoln outside headquarters some smart Alec would have been sure to have had something to say about it.
“Come with me,” Adams said, and set off down the passage.
Ken followed him to the street where Adams’ car was parked.
“Get in,” Adams said.
“But I don’t understand,” Ken said blankly.
“Why should you? Get in!”
Ken got into the car and Adams drove off, heading for his own apartment. He didn’t say anything until he pulled up outside a house in Cranbourne Avenue.
“I live here,” he said as he got out of the car. “You can talk your head off in my apartment without interruption.”
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