by Otto Penzler
The smear was crimson grease paint.
McFee inspected Damon’s shoes, the old woman’s shoes. Neither pair was daubed with grease paint.
Very softly McFee said, “Pretty!”
A couple of coppers came. An assistant coroner, named Ridley, came.
Presently, Ridley said, “The old girl’s been dead quite a while—ten or twelve hours. She cracked her head when she fell. It must have knocked her cold.”
“Maybe some’dy cracked her first,” McFee said.
“You mean, somebody else turned on the gas?”
10
A couple of hours later, McFee talked with Captain Littner, Chief of the Homicide Squad, in Littner’s office, in police headquarters on Greer Street. Littner was a lean hairless man with an oval head and bleak eyes as clear as cold water. He had a political, a cautious mind.
“O’Day had a son,” Littner said. “Some thirty years ago. But nobody knew—I mean, nobody was sure—what became of him. There was a lot of talk. Gaylord—” Littner rubbed his chin, looked at McFee.
“Sure,” said McFee. “Gaylord. And now we got Melrose. You talked with Leclair yet?”
“Yes.”
“Did she mention alibis?”
“Nine of them.”
“Where’d you see her?”
“Melrose brought her in. He said he left the Scudder yacht late this morning.” Littner was amused. “He guessed we better close the Gaiety awhile. And anyhow, Leclair was opening a dance act at the Spanish Shawl tonight. He guessed he owed Leclair a statement to the police—oh, beans!” said Captain Littner gently. “What a town!”
“You ought to be Chief, Littner,” McFee said.
“Yes,” Littner answered carefully. “We traced that .32—the one killed Damon. It belonged to Joe Metz.”
McFee exclaimed, “Now, you don’t tell me!”
“Joe said he hadn’t much use of a .32 and he sold it to Damon in the Press Club, couple of weeks ago. Ranee wanted it for someone, Joe said. Joe’s got all the witnesses he needs—Carl Reder, Fred Pope, Wade Fiske. They say they saw Damon buy the gun, take it from Metz. Damon paid him fifteen dollars—” Littner smiled coldly. “Maybe he did.”
McFee said abstractedly, “Maybe he did, at that.” And then, “What do you think of this notion Damon’s murderer bumped off O’Day because the old girl saw him leave the Gaiety?”
“We have that smear of grease paint.”
“Grease paint isn’t easy to clean up,” McFee said, thoughtfully. “If it’s on cloth—any sort of fabric, I guess—it isn’t. Now if I’d killed some’dy and stepped in a mess of grease paint, I’d throw my shoes away.”
“Where’d you throw ‘em, McFee?”
“Well, I might throw ‘em in some’dy’s trash barrel. How’s that?”
“Not bad.” Littner made a note on a memorandum pad. “I’ll put a detail on trash collection.” He pulled his long jaw down. “McFee,” he asked, “what about that red-headed girl?”
“Nice little number.” McFee stood his hat on the back of his head. “A go-getter, and no better than she ought to be, maybe. Littner, if Leclair had dropped instead of Damon, I’d say Mayo could have done it. But she wanted Damon; she had a notion she could make him governor. Mayo wouldn’t have shot Damon.” Littner nodded, and McFee proceeded. “I got another idea. The vice detail’s going to knock over the Shawl tonight—twelve p.m. Melrose’ll be there— Metz, Leclair. The Mayor’s billed to tell a bedtime story. How about it, Mr. Littner?”
Captain Littner said, “Beans!” He opened a cupboard in his desk. “What’ll you have, McFee?”
“Rye,” said McFee. “The trouble with you, Littner, is you don’t wisecrack ‘em enough. Lookit the Chief now—” He took the glass Littner handed him, pushed his forehead up, pulled it down. “Littner,” he asked again, “how’d you like to be Chief?”
“The pay’s good.”
“You’d need plenty drag.”
“Yes.” Littner stared at McFee with a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Yes, I’d need plenty of drag.”
“Luke Addams is going to be District Attorney,” McFee said. “We got to elect Luke first.”
“Luke’d be a big help,” Littner admitted.
McFee leaned close again. “Here’s a question: If that Shelldon file should happen to be found in the Spanish Shawl tonight, what’d the Shelldon-Damon tie-up do to the Melrose organization?”
“Everything,” Littner answered drily. “But it won’t be.”
McFee handed Littner the “Mr. Inside” notes. He told him where he’d got them and watched Littner over the end of his cigarette.
Littner said carefully, “Maybe I’ll drop in at the Shawl around twelve.” And then, “Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” said McFee.
It was five o’clock. McFee’s car was in a garage on Fourth. He walked up to Carter, crossed Second. The cop was still on duty in the Gaiety alley. One of the lobby doors of the theater was open. A man with wide ears and a thick neck came out.
McFee said, “Hello, Harrigan.”
“A swell dish you canaries handed me last night,” the house manager said sourly.
“Lookit the publicity,” McFee told him.
“What the hell! You pull a murder on me and the coppers close the house. I could have sold out at two bucks a seat if they’d give me a break.”
“Why’n’t you talk to Melrose?”
Harrigan muttered uneasily and put a cigar in his mouth. “Guess it ain’t my picnic.” McFee followed him towards the door and Harrigan said, “The show’s closed, mister.”
“There’s a couple of points I want to check up.”
“Go read a book.”
McFee said, “There ought to be money in this for the house. If I give you a slant on what happened you ought to be able to hang an act on it when the coppers give you the go-sign. It’d sell big.”
Harrigan looked at the end of his cigar. “A guy’s gotta be careful,” he mumbled; and then, “All right.”
The backstage was dark. In Leclair’s room, McFee turned on a wall bracket lamp. Light flowed out into the backstage. The couch stood against the wall. McFee stared at the crosses Hurley had chalked on the floor.
“Leclair was standing farthest from wall and couch,” McFee muttered. “Damon was close against the couch—”
Harrigan cut in obliquely, “Leclair was out to the Shawl when Damon—if it was Damon— rubbed out.”
“Oh, sure,” McFee said solemnly. “Joe Metz and the boys said so. It was just a couple of ghosts I saw. Well, Mr. and Mrs. X, then. Mr. X flopped into Mrs. X’s arms. They went down. Got a ball of string, Harrigan?”
The latter found string.
“Stand here,” McFee said, and Harrigan set his No. 10’s on the Mr. X cross. “Hold this against your chest.”
McFee gave Harrigan the loose end of the string. Unrolling the ball as he went, he walked some twenty feet into the backstage, stopped and held the ball of string chest high. He stood on the south edge of the lane of light. The darkness of the backstage partly concealed him.
“The bullet must have traveled pretty well along the line of the string,” McFee said. He added drily, “If there was any bullet—”
Slackening the line, McFee inspected a shallow horizontal groove, about an inch long, in the door jamb. The string had been level with the groove and about six inches to the right of it. McFee stared hard at the groove, twirled a match in his ear.
Backing up again, McFee said, “Put your dogs on the other cross.”
Harrigan did so and the string grazed the groove. McFee said, “Swell!” and threw the ball at Harrigan. “Buy yourself a drink on me.”
“Hey, wait a minute, fellah,” Harrigan yelled. “You got me on by toes. What’s the rest of it?”
McFee said, “Read it in the papers,” and went out.
At Cato’s, McFee ordered a Porterhouse steak smothered in onions. After his third coffee, he drove to his apartment. I
t was now eight o’clock. He looked up Irene Mayo’s number and dialed Spring 2341. There was no response. McFee waited a little, then hung up.
He walked around the room, glaring at the Evening Tribune. The Trib said two killings in twenty-four hours was plenty and something ought to be done. McFee made a ball of the sheet. He carried the breakfast tray in to the kitchen. He put away the card table and poured himself a drink. He tried Irene Mayo’s number again. No good.
McFee took a shower and got into his dinner clothes. He had wrecked four black ties when his telephone rang.
“Hello,” McFee said. No one answered. “Hello, there—McFee talking.”
He heard voices, vaguely familiar, but detached and distant and apparently not addressed to him. He embedded his ear in the receiver and waited, a fixed, hot look in his eyes.
The indistinct muttering continued until a voice suddenly cried, “You can’t keep me here! I know where we are. We are in a house on Butte Street—I saw the name—Butte Street. Butte Street!”
It was Irene Mayo’s voice that had ended on that desperate shrill note. Her voice had been thin and distant, but clear. McFee heard that muttering again.
And then, hysterically, “Don’t touch me! I haven’t got it—McFee—” A man laughed. A woman laughed.
McFee waited. His forehead was wet. He wiped it with a handkerchief. Gently replaced the receiver, and stood up. At his desk, McFee looked at a city map. He put a gun in his jacket pocket, and went down into the street.
As he got into his car, McFee said softly, “A house on Butte Street.”
11
McFee drove towards the foothills that threw a possessive arm around the town, on the north. Here the streets went up and down like stair carpets and lost themselves in tangles of oaks and eucalypti. This neighborhood had been built up years before, then forgotten while the town grew westward. Most of the residences were scattered, set in small acreage, and exclusively hedged about. Street lights were few.
Butte, a tag-end street, one block long, ended in a canyon. McFee drove up, then down the street. There were only three houses on it. Two were dark. The third, at the end of the street, was a secretive-looking, one-story, rambling, redwood place. A cypress hedge enclosed the grounds. A side window glowed.
McFee left his car at the corner, across the road from the street lamp, and walked back.
He went up a cinder driveway, saw a garage, half filled by a dark-colored sedan. The lighted side window shone dimly in the black expanse of house and mantling trees. Curtains screened the windows. McFee could not see into the room, but he heard voices.
He heard Joe Metz’ voice. He heard Joe Metz say, “Sister, we just begun to work on you—”
McFee found the back door locked. The house was built on the slope of the canyon. He saw a basement window on his left, below the level on which he stood. The light was on the other side of the house; the wind made a melancholy rustling in the trees. He came to a decision. Holding his soft felt hat against one of the small square panes of the cellar window, he struck the felt sharply with the nose of his gun. The brittle glass broke with a tinkling sound.
His arm inside the window, McFee found the hook. The window swung upward on hinges. McFee threw the beam of his flash inside the cellar room, let himself down into it. He saw a stair, went quietly up it, came to a door. It opened when he turned the handle and pushed against it. He left his shoes on the top step.
McFee found himself in a dark, square hall, redwood timbered. He heard voices, saw an open door with light somewhere beyond it. Through the door he entered a living room with a huge stone fireplace. The light and the voices came from a partly opened door, opposite the one through which he had just come.
As McFee approached this door, Monty Welch whispered, “Lemme at her, Joe—”
This room was the library. McFee saw Mabel Leclair in a black velvet gown, curled up on a divan, eating chocolates. Metz and Welch were bent over an arm chair in which Irene Mayo strained away from them in an attitude of terror. Joe Metz held her by the arm. Her eyes were enormous, frantic. She whimpered faintly. Her lips were taped. Welch burned a cigarette.
McFee said, “Quit that, Joe.”
Monty Welch must have heard McFee first. He spun on his heel, white violence bursting through his professional calm. As McFee said “Joe,” Welch fired from the pocket of his dinner jacket. He fired again, lurching toward McFee. The latter aimed, let go. Welch’s shoulder bunched up, he screamed and went down. He threshed about, buried his face in the carpet.
Metz stood erect, his hands at his sides. McFee went towards him. Metz did not move or speak. His bulbous forehead gleamed. His lip muscles twitched. McFee took a long stride, a short one, and struck Metz a terrible blow in the mouth. It made a crunching sound and Metz hit the carpet. McFee pulled the adhesive tape from Irene Mayo’s lips.
“McFee—” the red-headed girl sobbed. She rocked in the chair, began to rub her wrists.
“Sure,” McFee said. “Take it easy.”
Welch dragged himself across the floor. McFee toed his gun under the divan. Metz lay groaning. His mouth and the plaster strap on his cheek were a crimson mess. He held a handkerchief against it. Suddenly, he jerked out an automatic. McFee’s unshod toe caught his wrist before he could fire. The gun shattered the glass front of a bookcase. McFee raised Metz by his lapels and flung him onto the divan, alongside Mabel Leclair. The Leclair woman screamed and covered her face.
McFee searched all three of them for other weapons, found none.
“What give you the notion Miss Mayo had the Shelldon file, Joe?”
Metz blotted his wet lips, whispered, “She knows where it is—you, too—one of you—”
McFee cut in softly, “The gun killed Damon was yours, Joe.”
“I sold it to Damon.” Metz’ bruised lips distorted his speech. “The boys saw me hand it him. I told Littner—”
“How about Damon handing it to Leclair?”
The blonde woman opened her mouth, but as McFee looked at her she closed it again with a gasping sound. McFee proceeded. “You went to Miss Mayo’s apartment, I s’pose. That’s kidnapping. We’ll give Littner a bell.”
The telephone stood on the table. McFee backed towards it. Metz stared after him, his eyes haggard above the red-spotted handkerchief against his lips. The blonde woman wept. Holding his shoulder, Monty Welch struggled to a sitting position, his lips gray.
The telephone was a dial instrument. Several magazines had been inserted under the receiver, so that while the receiver was on the hook, the hook was up. McFee laughed a little and looked at the red-headed girl. She nodded, her eyes hot with hate. As McFee seized the telephone, she got control of herself and caught his arm.
“What’s on your mind, sister?”
“McFee, it’s our turn now.” She spoke feverishly. “These people aren’t important. Mel-rose—Sam Melrose is. He’s at the Shawl. The Leclair woman is opening a dance act there tonight. Well, she isn’t—”
“What’s that?”
Irene Mayo said deliberately, “Metz is going to phone Melrose that Leclair is too ill to appear. Shock—anything! And he’s going to tell Melrose her red-headed friend, Zella Vasquez, is on her way out to take Leclair’s place. Melrose— no one at the Spanish Shawl has seen me. If Metz telephones Melrose I’m coming he’ll accept me as Leclair’s friend. Why shouldn’t he?” Irene Mayo hammered on the table. “McFee, you’ve got to make Metz telephone him—”
“Swell!” McFee said.
“I won’t!” Metz shouted thickly. “By God, if you lay a hand on me—”
McFee jerked him up and shook him into a shivering silence. He walked him backwards, slammed him down beside the table.
He said, “Metz, since half-past one this morning, you’ve been rocking the cradle. It’s my turn now. Do as I tell you, or I’ll spatter you over that wall. Grab that phone and tell Melrose Leclair is sick. Tell him Zella Vasquez, her redheaded side kick, is on her way out. And make it st
ick!”
Metz’ Adam’s apple ran up and down his throat. He rubbed his wet palms together, pulled the telephone towards him. He dialed Thorn 99238. He had to do it twice and then, huskily, “Mr. Melrose—tell him Metz calling.”
McFee stuck his gun into the back of Metz’ neck. He didn’t say anything. Melrose helloed, and Metz began a pretty good job of doing as he had been told. When he weakened, McFee leaned on his gun and Metz picked up again. Melrose put some question about Zella Vasquez.
Metz answered carefully, “I dunno, Sam. Leclair says she’s good—that oughta be plenty—” The blonde woman made blasphemous noises but subsided when McFee looked at her. Metz proceeded, “She’s on her way, Sam …” Metz hung up. “What Melrose won’t do to you for this, mister—”
McFee gave Irene Mayo his gun, said, “Watch him,” and cut out a length of the telephone cord. He bound Metz’ hands and corded them to the straight back of the chair in which he sat. Metz did not resist. His ankles McFee fastened to the legs of the chair with Metz’ belt and a couple of handkerchiefs. Metz dripped sweat but said nothing. At the back of the house McFee found some clothesline. He sat Monty Welch on another straight backed chair and roped him to it. Welch had fainted. McFee slammed a third chair down in front of Mabel Leclair.
She screamed, “You ain’t going to tie me up-”
McFee cut in, “I’ll forget you’re a lady, if you don’t sit in that chair.”
“Forget it anyhow,” Irene Mayo said hotly.
As McFee was tying up the Leclair woman, she flared out, “Sam Melrose thinks you redheaded Shebas are particular arsenic.”
“He’s going to change his mind.”
“You couldn’t hold Ranee Damon.”
Vivid spots of color on her cheek bones, Irene Mayo slapped the blonde woman hard across the mouth, rocking her head backwards. Mabel Leclair went pale under her make-up, became inarticulate. The red-headed girl was throwing up the gun when McFee said, “That’s plenty, sister.”
McFee found a roll of adhesive tape on the table. He taped the lips of his prisoners. Metz he dragged into the hall, on the heels of his chair, and tumbled into a clothes closet. The door locked, he threw the key into the cellar and put on his shoes, he locked Monty Welch in the pantry; left Mabel Leclair in the library.
