144th Street was a side turning off the exclusive Lawrence Boulevard, the main shopping centre of Pacific City. 23c was a top-floor apartment above a florist shop and two empty offices.
Conrad left his car outside the florist shop, entered the sidedoor entrance and mounted a steep flight of stairs. At the head of the stairs was a signboard; the only card in the otherwise empty slots read: Miss Florence Presser. 4th floor. Apartment C.
There was no elevator, and Conrad started his long climb. As he reached the third-floor landing, his foot on the bottom step of the flight that led to the top floor, he heard a sudden wild scream that came from above.
A voice he recognized as Flo’s cried out: “No! Don’t touch me! Keep away!”
Another blood-curdling scream rang out which was suddenly cut short.
Conrad shot forward and tore up the rest of the stairs, cursing himself for not bringing a gun with him.
As he reached the landing, he saw a front door that stood half open. He was halfway across the landing when the door jerked fully open and a big, thickset man came out. His swarthy, brutal face, under a pulled-down black slouch hat, tightened when he saw Conrad, and his right hand slid inside his coat.
Conrad took off in a flying tackle. His right shoulder slammed against the big man’s thighs, and they went down together in a heap on the floor.
The big man had got his gun out and he took a side swipe with the barrel at Conrad’s face, but Conrad saw it coming, got his shoulder up in time and took a numbing blow on the fleshy part of his bicep that made him wince.
He grabbed hold of the big man’s wrist with his left hand and drove his right fist into the big man’s face. His knuckles smashed against teeth that gave under the impact, and the big man cursed.
Conrad swung the big man’s hand against the wall and hammered it against the plaster, trying to break the grip on the gun. He got a bang on the side of his head that sent bright lights swimming before his eyes, and then the big man heaved himself away and kicked Conrad in the chest as Conrad grabbed at him.
The big man scrambled to his feet, raising the gun. Conrad squirmed forward, grabbed the big man’s ankles and heaved. The big man went over backwards, the gun going off with a roar that rattled the windows. A shower of plaster from the punctured ceiling came down on top of them.
Conrad was half up as the big man heaved himself off the floor. The gun crashed again. The gunflash burned Conrad’s cheek; the slug zipped past his ear. Conrad sent over a long, looping right with all his weight behind it. It caught the big man on the side of his jaw with a devastating impact.
The big man grunted, his eyes rolled back, the gun dropped from his hand. He tried to regain his balance as he swayed on the top stair. Conrad jumped in and drove his left fist into the big man’s belly.
The big man came forward with a rasping gasp, then straightened up and went straight back down the long flight of stairs to land on the back of his head and neck with a crash that shook the building.
Conrad stood for a second looking down at the big man as he lay, his arms and legs thrown wide, on the lower landing. He didn’t bother to go down. No one of that weight could fall as the big man had fallen without breaking his neck.
As Conrad turned to Flo’s apartment he heard the wail of approaching police sirens.
He walked into a long, narrow room, gaudily furnished as a sitting room.
Across the divan bed, wearing only a pair of black nylon stockings held up by a pair of pink, rose-decorated garters, lay Flo.
An icepick had been driven with tremendous force into the side of her neck. He didn’t have to touch her to know she was dead. The job had been done expertly; a professional job. The point of the icepick had punctured her spinal cord.
He swore softly under his breath, rubbed his sore shoulder, then groped for a cigarette.
He was still looking down at Flo when two prowl boys, guns in hand, burst into the room.
chapter three
I
Captain Harlan McCann of the Police Department was a bull of a man whose close-cropped, bullet-shaped head sat squarely on a pair of shoulders as wide as a barn door. His brick-red, fleshy face looked as if it had been hewn out of granite. His restless, small eyes were deep-set, and when he was in a rage, which was often, they glared redly, and struck a chill into the toughest mobster or policeman who happened to cross his path.
This night he was out of uniform. He wore a dark brown lounge suit and a slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes. He drove his Lincoln along Lawrence Boulevard, his big hairy hands gripping the wheel as if he had someone hateful to him by the throat.
He swung the car into Pacific Boulevard and drove along the sea front, passing the brilliantly lit hotels, the Casino, the night spots, the neon-plastered Ambassadors’ Club until he reached the far end of the front where the Paradise Club, hidden from casual passersby by its fifteen-foot walls, overlooked the moonlit ocean.
He swung the car down a narrow lane that ran alongside the east wall and drove for a quarter of a mile, his headlights stabbing the thick darkness that now lay around him. From time to time he glanced in his driving mirror, but he could see no lights of any following car behind him. Ahead of him iron gates suddenly appeared in the glare of his headlights, and he slowed down, reached forward and flicked the lights on and off four times; twice fast, twice slow.
The gates opened and he drove through, pulling up by the guardhouse.
A thickset man wearing a peak cap peered through the window at him, raised his hand in a casual salute and waved him to drive on.
McCann engaged gear and followed the circular road to the club. He pulled up at a side door and got out. Another man in a peak cap slid into the driving scat and drove the car to a nearby garage.
McCann walked up the stone steps to a massive door, rapped four times, twice fast, twice slow, on the bronze knocker, and the door opened.
“Good evening, sir,” a voice said out of the darkness.
McCann grunted and moved forward. He heard the door shut behind him, then lights sprang on. He continued down a long passage without looking back, paused outside another massive door and knocked again, using the same signal.
Louis Seigel, Maurer’s personal bodyguard and manager of the Paradise Club, opened the door.
Seigel was tall and’ dark, and notorious for his good looks. Ten years ago he had been known to the police and to his fellow mobster as ‘Louis the Looker’, but since hooking up with Maurer he had acquired more dignity, and the tag had been dropped. He was around twenty-nine to thirty years of age, square jawed, blue-eyed and suntanned. An old razor scar that ran from his left eye to his nose gave him a swashbuckling appearance, and his carefully cultivated smile that showed big, gleaming teeth, was a devastating weapon against women, and women were Seigel’s principal interest in life.
“Come in, Captain,” he said, showing McCann his teeth. “The boss will be out in a minute. What’ll you drink?”
McCann looked at Seigel out of the corners of his hard little eyes.
“A Scotch, I guess.” He found it difficult to be civil to this smooth, good-looking hood. He glanced around the luxurious room, lavishly furnished in excellent taste, and moved ponderously over to the mantelpiece and set his great shoulders against it.
Seigel walked to the bar, fixed a Scotch and soda and brought it over.
“The boss was a little surprised at your message. He had to cancel a theatre date. No trouble, I hope, Captain?” he said, handing the glass to McCann.
McCann gave a short barking laugh.
“Trouble? That’s not the half of it! If you guys don’t handle this right, the whole goddamn lid’s coming off – that’s how bad it is!”
Seigel raised his eyebrows. He disliked McCann as much as McCann disliked him.
“Then I guess we’ll have to handle it right,” he said, and moved back to the bar. As he was pouring himself a whisky, he added with a sneering little smile, “We usually do handle
things right, Captain.”
“There’s always a first time not to handle it right,” McCann growled, annoyed he hadn’t scared Seigel.
A door by the bar opened and Jack Maurer came in, followed by Abe Gollowitz, his attorney.
Maurer was a short, squat man around fifty. He had put on some weight during the past three or four years. His swarthy fleshy face showed a heavy beard shadow. His thick, oily black hair was turning grey at the temples, but the greyness didn’t soften his face, which reminded McCann of a photograph he had once seen of the death mask of Beethoven. At first glance Maurer would strike anyone as no different from the thousand rich, powerful business men who vacationed in Pacific City, but a closer examination would show there was a difference. He had the flat snake’s eyes of the gangster; eyes that glittered and were as cold and as hard as frozen pebbles.
Gollowitz, one of the most brilliant attorneys on the Coast, was built on the same lines as Maurer, only he was fatter, older and going bald. He had thrown up his lucrative practice to handle Maurer’s business and legal affairs, and had succeeded so brilliantly that he was now Maurer’s second-in-command.
“Glad to see you, Captain,” Maurer said, crossing to shake hands. “You’ve got all you want – a cigar, perhaps?”
“Sure,” McCann said, who believed in never refusing anything.
Seigel offered a cigar box and McCann took a fat, torpedo-shaped cigar, sniffed at it and nodded his head. He bit off the end, accepted the light which Seigel held out to him, puffed smoke to the ceiling and nodded his head again.
“A damn fine cigar, Mr. Maurer.”
“Yes. I have them made for me.” Maurer looked over at Seigel. “Have a thousand sent to the Captain’s home, Louis.”
“Why, no; I can’t accept a present like that,” McCann said, his thin mouth widening into a pleased smile. “Good of you, all the same.”
“Nonsense,” Maurer said, and walked over to an armchair. He sat down. “I insist. If you don’t want them, give them away.”
Gollowitz was watching this byplay with increasing impatience. He took the Scotch and soda Seigel offered him, then sat down near Maurer.
“Well, what’s the trouble?” he asked abruptly.
McCann looked at him. He didn’t like Gollowitz. He wasn’t exactly scared of him, but he knew he was dangerous, not in the same way as Maurer was dangerous, but he was too full of legal tricks and too close to the politicians.
McCann leaned forward and stabbed with his cigar in Gollowitz’s direction.
“I’ll give you the facts, then you can judge the trouble for yourself,” he said in his hard barking voice. “Three nights ago, June Arnot, together with six of her staff, was murdered. June Arnot had her head hacked off and she was ripped. A gun was found in the garden with Ralph Jordan’s initials on it. Bard in and Conrad went around to Jordan’s apartment and found him in the bath with his throat cut and a razor in his hand. The murder weapon was found in his dressing room.”
“You don’t have to tell us all this,” Gollowitz said impatiently. “We’ve seen the reports in the press. What’s it to do with us? Jordan killed her and then killed himself. It’s plain enough, isn’t it?”
McCann showed his teeth in a snarling smile.
“Yeah, it looked plain enough. Bardin was satisfied; so was I; so was the press, but Conrad wasn’t.” His little red eyes looked at Maurer, who sat smoking his cigar, his swarthy face expressionless, his flat gangster eyes staring at the carpet with patient indifference.
“Does it matter to us what he thinks?” Gollowitz demanded, moving irritably. “Does it matter to us?”
“I guess so,” McCann said. “Conrad’s a troublemaker, and he’s smart, make no mistake about that. He’s got one set idea on his mind: to make trouble for you, Mr. Maurer.”
Maurer glanced up; his thick, almost negroid lips twisted into an amused smile.
“Sure he’s a smart guy,” he said, “but there’s enough room in this town for both of us.”
“There may not be,” McCann said ominously. “He thinks Jordan was murdered.”
Maurer’s smile widened.
“And of course he thinks I’m behind the murder. A cat can’t get run over without him thinking I’m responsible. So what? It happens every day.”
McCann pulled on his cigar. His eyes went from Maurer to Gollowitz, who was watching him with an alert expression in his black eyes.
“This is different. He’s got hold of a rumour that you and Miss Arnot were special friends,” he said, shifting his eyes back to Maurer. “This is the way he figures it: you found out Miss Arnot and Jordan were lovers. You went up there with Paretti. You killed her while Paretti took care of the staff. Then Paretti went around to Jordan’s apartment, cut his throat, left a razor in his hand, planted the murder weapon, took Jordan’s car out of the garage and crashed it against the garage door as evidence Jordan was full of dope. Then Paretti reported back to you and you knocked him off to shut his mouth.”
Maurer burst out laughing. His white plump hand came down on his knee with a loud smacking sound.
“What do you think of that, Abe?” he said. “The guy’s a trier, isn’t he? Did you ever hear such a story?”
McCann sat back; a look of relief and surprise chased across his brick-red face.
Gollowitz rubbed his jaw and raised his bushy eyebrows. He didn’t look anything like so amused as Maurer: he didn’t look amused at all.
“What’s his case?” he asked sharply.
“Don’t be so damned stupid, Abe,” Maurer said easily. “He hasn’t got a case, and he knows it.”
Gollowitz ignored the interruption.
“What’s his case?” he repeated, staring at McCann.
Seigel was listening to all this. He stood by the bar, behind Maurer and Gollowitz; there was a sick expression in his eyes that began to worry McCann.
“He’s got evidence that Mr. Maurer and Miss Arnot were special friends, and that Jordan was scared of Mr. Maurer,”
McCann said slowly. “He has a sworn statement to that effect.”
“Whose statement?” Gollowitz asked sharply.
“Jordan’s dresser.”
McCann and Gollowitz looked at Maurer, who continued to smile.
“So what?” Maurer said carelessly. “Who else has said so?”
“Just one statement,” McCann said.
Maurer shrugged and spread his hands, smiling at Gollowitz.
“That’s nothing,” Gollowitz said. “What else?”
“Flo Presser called on Conrad this morning. She reported that Paretti was missing. She said he had to do a job for Mr. Maurer at seven o’clock on the night of the murder, and Miss Arnot was murdered around seven o’clock.”
Gollowitz slightly relaxed.
“A streetwalker’s testimony is about as effective as a handful of feathers,” he said. “What else?”
“Flo was stabbed to death a couple of hours after she had seen Conrad,” McCann said, his eyes going to Seigel. He saw Seigel grimace uneasily.
“Who killed her?”
“Ted Pascal, one of the Brooklyn boys.”
Maurer shrugged.
“I don’t know him. What’s the excitement about? Can I help it if some whore gets knocked off?”
McCann’s little eyes began to turn red. It had been a severe shock to him when he had listened to Conrad’s report at the D.A.’s meeting, and Maurer’s careless, indifferent attitude and his unconcern flicked his anger into life.
“Where’s Paretti, Mr. Maurer?” he barked.
“Toni’s in New York,” Maurer said smoothly. “I sent him to collect a gambling debt. That was the job he had to do. He caught the seven o’clock plane.”
“Then you’d better get him back quick,” McCann said grimly. “Conrad wants to see him. A sketch plan of Jordan’s apartment was found in Paretti’s apartment.”
Gollowitz stiffened and shot a hard, searching look at Maurer, who waved his hand airily.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “Who found it?”
“Van Roche.”
“Any witness?”
“No.”
“Obviously a plant,” Maurer said, and laughed. “Abe can take care of that, can’t you, Abe?”
Gollowitz nodded, but his eyes showed a growing uneasiness.
“If Toni shows up today or tomorrow,” McCann said, “half Conrad’s case will be knocked cold. You’d better get to Toni fast, Mr. Maurer.”
There was a long pause as Maurer studied the pattern on the carpet, then he said, without looking up, “Supposing I couldn’t get hold of Toni? Suppose he had decided to skip with the money I had sent him to collect? It is a big sum: twenty thousand dollars. I don’t say he has skipped, but suppose he has?”
McCann’s face suddenly turned purple. His big, hairy hands closed into knotted fists.
“He damn well better not have skipped!” he said through clenched teeth.
“Take it easy, Captain,” Maurer said, looking up and smiling. “I don’t think for a moment he has skipped, but even if he had, this cockeyed evidence of Conrad’s wouldn’t stand up in court. What have you got to worry about? I’m not worrying.”
“What else is there?” Gollowitz snapped, sensing that McCann hadn’t told them the worst of it.
“The guard who checks in all visitors to Miss Arnot’s place enters their names in a book,” McCann said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “At seven o’clock on the night of the killing a girl named Frances Coleman called to see Miss Arnot. We’re looking for her now, and she will be arrested as a material witness. Conrad thinks she may have seen the killer.”
Maurer looked at the glowing end of his cigar. A muscle in his cheek suddenly began to twitch, otherwise his face was expressionless.
There was a tight tension in the room.
Seigel lit a cigarette, his eyes on the back of Maurer’s head. He licked his lips as if they had gone suddenly dry.
Gollowitz stared down at his hands, frowning.
McCann’s hard little eyes took in each man, watching his reactions, a grinding, rising fury inside him made him feel short of breath.
1953 - This Way for a Shroud Page 6
