The two police women were standing away from the open window, whitefaced and like statues.
Madge Fielding was wringing her hands, her face ashen.
There was no sign of Frances.
“Madge! What’s happened?” Conrad asked, in a strangled voice.
“She’s gone! She was leaning out of the window, looking at the plane when suddenly she screamed. I rushed to her, but I was too late. She seemed to be pulled out of the window. She was struggling, then the rug slipped from under her and she went out…”
Forest pushed past Conrad and went over to the window. He looked out.
Two hundred feet below him, looking like a small, broken doll, Frances lay stretched out on the moonlit sands.
He looked down at her for a long moment, then he stepped back as Conrad walked unsteadily to a chair and sat down.
“Well, that’s it,” Forest said in a low savage voice. “Goddamn it! There goes my case against Maurer — like her — out of the window.”
The aircraft swooped once more over the hotel, then its neon lighting went out, and like a departing spirit it flew swiftly out to sea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At ten o’clock the following morning, Jack Maurer, accompanied by his attorney, Abe Gollowitz, and four hard-faced, alert bodyguards, arrived in a blue and silver Cadillac outside the City Hall.
A half an hour previously every newspaper in town had been tipped off that Maurer was on his way to surrender to the District Attorney. There was a big crowd of newspaper men, camera men, television cameras and three movie cameras to greet him.
Maurer got out of the car, a broad smile on his swarthy face, and waved towards the television camera. Maurer was a television fan, and he liked the thought that his face was being watched at this very moment by three-quarters of a million people.
The reporters converged on him, but his four bodyguards formed a protective wall around him and waved them aside.
“Have a little patience, boys,” Maurer said from behind his screen. “I’ll have something to say to you when I come out. Just stick around until I’ve had a talk with the D.A.”
“What makes you think you’re coming out?” one of the reporters bawled, his face red with anger.”
Maurer gave him a wide friendly smile, and still surrounded by his bodyguards, he mounted the steps to the entrance of the City Hall and disappeared through its portals.
“The fat sonofabitch,” the reporter said. “He won’t talk himself out of this rap. They’ve got him where it’ll hurt most.”
“Yeah?” the Pacific Herald reporter sneered. “Do you imagine a bastard like Maurer would surrender unless he knew he could beat the rap? I bet you ten dollars to a dime he comes out of there in ten minutes as free as the air.”
“You’ve got yourself a bet, son,” the other reporter said pityingly. “I happen to know what Forest has got on him.”
“Do you happen to know the only witness he had to clinch the case fell out of a window last night?” the Pacific Herald reporter asked. “You’ve got to hand it to that oily snake. He’s never let anyone give evidence against him, and he never will.”
“That was an accident,” the other reporter said hotly. “I’ve talked to Conrad. That guy knows what he’s talking about. She fell out of the window accidentally.”
“Like Weiner got drowned in his bath accidentally? Yeah? If you believe that crap, you’re the only one besides Conrad who does.”
They were still arguing ten minutes later when there was a sudden hush from the crowd, and looking up, they saw the four hard-faced men coming through the doors with Maurer in the middle of them.
Maurer was beaming. He paused at the top of the steps and looked down at the battery of cameras and the hostile faces of the reporters.
Abe Gollowitz, a little pale and very tired-looking, stood to his right. His fat face was expressionless, but his eyes were the eyes of a man without hope or without a future.
“Well, boys,” Maurer said breathlessly, “seems it was all a mistake.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Mr. Maurer,” the television interviewer shouted excitedly. “Will you step down here and speak into the mike? Will you give us a statement?”
“Sure,” Maurer said. “I promised you a statement and I never go back on my promises.”
He walked down to the battery of microphones.
“It’s not untimely,” he said, speaking directly into the microphones, “at this moment to thank all my well-wishers for their encouragement and their support during this absurd, but none the less awkward, situation that arose entirely through a misunderstanding between the police force and the District Attorney’s office.
“As you all know a warrant was issued for my arrest. I was accused of murdering Miss June Arnot, who happened to be a very dear friend of mine.” Maurer was finding it a little difficult to retain his wide, sincere smile under the scrutiny of the cynical eyes of the Pacific Herald’s reporter who had wormed his way to the forefront and was staring at Maurer with unconcealed contempt. Maurer made a mental note to see that this young reporter should get a beating at the quickest and most convenient moment.
“A very dear friend,” he repeated, shifting his eyes away from the Pacific Herald’s reporter. “The District Attorney is an honest man; a man I admire; a man who is above the everyday corruption of the present administration. He sincerely believed he had a case against me, and I say here and now that he did his duty by issuing the warrant for my arrest.” Maurer lowered his voice, widened his smile and kept his eyes away from the staring eyes that surrounded him. He concentrated on the television cameras. After all, these cameras were taking his speech and his face into the homes of thousands of suckers who played his gambling tables, used his whores, paid the Union dues to him, drank his rot-gut champagne, and elected his men into public office. The least they deserved was his best smile. “On the face of the evidence he was presented with, he had no alternative but to issue the warrant. But on closer examination it was found the evidence he had against me was no evidence at all.” He waved his white fat hands. “Don’t think for a moment the District Attorney has been irresponsible. He hasn’t. The evidence was there. If I had been in this fine city instead of at sea, the warrant would never have been issued, for I could have explained away the evidence as I have just explained it away.” He smiled into the television camera. “I have said June Arnot was a very dear friend of mine,” he went on. “She was. I would never have done her any harm; I never did do her any harm. Her death was a great shock to me. As soon as I knew of the warrant for my arrest I came back to refute the charge. Gentlemen, the District Attorney has withdrawn the warrant. He has even been good enough to apologize for any inconvenience he has caused me…”
The Herald reporter broke in violently, “Isn’t it a fact the District Attorney’s case against you has collapsed because his only two witnesses have met convenient and apparently accidental deaths?”
Maurer looked at him sorrowfully. This sonofabitch would find himself in a barrelful of cement at the bottom of the sea before he was much older, he thought, as he shook his head at him.
“Mr. Forest didn’t take me into his confidence about any of his witnesses. I know nothing about them except what I read in some newspapers this morning. I am told that a gold pencil which belonged to me was found near the swimming-pool of my dear friend June Arnot. The pencil had my finger-prints and a smear of blood on it. The blood appeared to belong to Miss Arnot’s group, and the police jumped to the conclusion that because there was no blood in the place where the pencil was found I must have murdered her. That was the flimsy evidence on which the police based their case. It so happened the previous day when I was with Miss Arnot I cut my finger and blood got on the pencil. I dropped the pencil down a drain. It so happens I am not a poor man and I have other gold pencils, so I left it down the drain.” He paused, then added with a smile that could have been a snarl, “Can I help it if my blood group and Miss Arnot’s blood grou
p happen to be the same?”
He gave a signal and immediately the four bodyguards moved forward, shoving the reporters aside, and Maurer walked quickly down the steps and ducked into his car.
Gollowitz scrambled in after him, while the bodyguards kept the reporters from mobbing the car.
The car drove away fast.
As soon as they were clear of the gaping crowds, Maurer threw back his head and gave a short, barking laugh.
“Very funny, Abe. I wouldn’t have missed seeing that punk Forest’s face when you handled him, for all the money in town. Hell! We put it across him, didn’t we?” He slapped Gollowitz’s fat thigh. “Now I can get down to business. Listen, Abe, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to draw me up a list of all money and securities I own: every dollar; ready cash I’m talking about. I want also a list of stocks and bonds I hold, and the present market prices.”
Gollowitz gave him a quick, suspicious look.
“What’s the idea, Jack?”
“Never mind. I may be pulling out. I’ve got all the dough I want. I’m fed up with the Syndicate. If they want to run California, let them get on with it.”
“I thought you were going to take care of Ferrari,” Gollowitz said sharply.
Maurer smiled, but his eyes were like ice.
“That’s right; that was the idea. Seigel bungled it. I had an idea he might. He bungled every damn thing he touched. He was no good except with a woman; no good for anything else.”
Gollowitz looked at Maurer, his face paling.
“What happened to him?”
“Ferrari was too quick for him, that’s what happened. It was a big gamble that didn’t come off. I’ve talked to Big Joe. I explained it was nothing to do with me. He seemed amused that anyone should even try to rub Ferrari out; very amused.”
The big Cadillac swung through the open gates of Maurer’s estate and drove rapidly up the drive. In the bright morning sunshine, Gollowitz noticed a number of men moving about the grounds.
“Who are these guys?” he asked. “What are they doing here?”
“Just a precaution,” Maurer returned. “I don’t believe in taking risks. If Ferrari tries any of his tricks on me it’ll be just too bad for him.”
Gollowitz didn’t say anything, but he felt a chill run down his fat spine. Did Maurer really believe these gunmen could protect him from Ferrari if Ferrari once made up his mind to kill him, he wondered. Was he such a blind, arrogant fool?
The car pulled up outside the imposing entrance.
“Okay, Abe, get those lists for me, and be here for lunch. The yacht’s standing by. I may be leaving tonight,” Maurer said, as he heaved himself out of the car.
“Jack,” Gollowitz said huskily, “what’s going to happen to me if you go away?”
Maurer stared at him as if he wasn’t sure if he had heard aright.
“You?” he said, and frowned. “Well, I guess you’ll manage. Maybe Big Joe will find something for you. Maybe he’ll give you my job. You’re big enough to look after yourself, aren’t you?” He grinned wolfishly. “Maybe I might have an idea or two for you when you come back for lunch.”
He walked into the house, leaving Gollowitz sitting in a fat hopeless heap in the car. “
Three hard-faced gunmen lounged in the hall. They stiffened to attention when they saw Maurer.
“Stick around, you guys,” Maurer said, “and keep your eyes open.”
“Sure, boss,” one of the men said. “There won’t be no trouble.”
“There’d better not be,” Maurer grunted, and walked into the big sunny lounge.
Dolores stood by the open casement window. She looked slim and lovely in a simple black dress. There were shadows under her eyes, and she was pale.
“Hello, Jack.”
“There you are, Dolly,” Maurer said. “Get me a drink, will you?”
He joined her at the window and looked down the long terraced garden. Guards stood about on the terraces, some of them cradled rifles under their arms.
“Seigel tried to knock off Ferrari,” Maurer said, as Dolores poured a stiff highball. He sank into an armchair, his back to the window. “Ferrari stuck a knife into him. I’m taking a few precautions until Ferrari leaves town.”
Dolores didn’t say anything. She brought the drink over to Maurer and set it on a small table near him.
“Well, Dolly, this is the last drink I’ll have with you, I’m leaving town for good.”
“Are you?” she said, in a flat disinterested voice.
“Yes. I’m going to Florida,” Maurer said. “I’m kissing the Syndicate good-bye. There are a lot of opportunities for a man with my abilities, money and organization in Florida. I shall have to decide what to do with you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Dolores said, not looking at him. She moved over to the window.
“Oh, I’m not going to worry about you, Dolly,” Maurer said, and laughed. “I don’t think Abe will make you a good husband. Abe’s rather gone to pieces. I think he might meet with a little accident some time to-day. Would you be sorry?”
“No.”
“I thought you were hoping he’d take you over, Dolly.”
“I wonder what gave you that idea?” Dolores said.
She looked down the long flight of steps that linked one terrace with another. Coming up the steps was a small figure in a black suit and black hat. It was Ferrari. He walked slowly and softly. His hands in his pockets, his face raised, his eyes fixed on the casement windows, he appeared completely unaware of the guards who stood motionless, watching him coming.
He passed one guard, then another. Neither of the men moved. They just stared at him. He came slowly, a tiny menacing figure, moving like a ghost.
“Then I’m wrong?” Maurer said. “Was it Seigel you had your eyes on?”
“No.” She came away from the window and walked slowly across the room to the door. “You won’t want me to come with you, Jack?”
He looked at her, smiling.
“You won’t be going anywhere, Dolly — nowhere at all.”
She looked at him thoughtfully, and he was a little surprised to see there was no fear in her exciting eyes.
“I see,” she said, opened the door and went into the hall.
There were no guards in the hall.
As she walked slowly up the stairs to her room, she wondered when Big Joe had taken over the organization. He must have moved fast. She wondered, too, what her life would be like with Ferrari.
She went into her bedroom and sat down. Because she had lived with Maurer for four long years, sharing his bed with him, taking his gifts as well as his insults, she felt sick and cold.
She closed her eyes and waited for the sound that would tell her that she was
Ferrari’s chattel and Maurer’s widow.
The sudden crash of gunfire from downstairs struck her like a physical blow. She leaned forward, her hands covering her face, and for the first time for many years she wept.
She wasn’t weeping for Maurer. She was weeping for herself.
The End
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