“Lieutenant Adams,” he said when he got his connection.
“The Lieutenant’s not here,” a voice told him. “Who is it?”
“This is an urgent personal call,” Ken said. “Can you give me his home number please?”
“You’ll find it in the book,” the voice growled, and the line went dead.
Ken flicked through the pages of the telephone book and found Adams’ private number. After some delay me operator told him there was no answer.
Ken hung up and stood hesitating, wondering what he had best do. The chances were Adams was down by the waterfront, supervising operations there.
Ken knew he had to get off the streets. He had promised Johnny to see his sister, and Johnny had said he would be safe there. He decided to go to Maddox Court right away. From there he might be able to get into touch with Adams.
He called police headquarters again.
The desk sergeant sounded impatient.
“I don’t know when he’ll be in. Do you want to leave a message?”
Ken thought for a moment.
“Yes. Tell him the man who stayed at his apartment is now at 45 Maddox Court. He’ll know all about it.”
“Okay,” the sergeant said indifferently, and he hung up.
As Ken came out of the drug store, the white-coated clerk said, “What’s all the shooting about?”
“I don’t know,” Ken said, without pausing.
“No one ever knows anything in this street,” the clerk said bitterly.
But Ken was already out of earshot. He walked fast. It took him under ten minutes to reach Maddox Court.
Several times he had to dodge down a side street and wait until a cop passed. He was in a bad state of nerves as he walked up the drive to the imposing entrance to the building.
He remembered Johnny’s warning about the night clerk, and he peered through the revolving door into the big hall. He couldn’t see a sign of any clerk, but behind the reception desk, a half-open door led into an inner office. He guessed the clerk was in there.
He quietly pushed past the revolving door and stepped into the hall. Then swiftly and silently he ran across the hall to the cover of the stairs and went up them.
It took him some minutes to locate Gilda’s apartment and even longer to climb the stairs to the top floor. As he paused outside her front door he glanced at his wristwatch. The time was twenty minutes to one.
He wondered if she were still up. He wondered, too, if she would call the
night clerk instead of answering the door. He had to risk that.
He pressed the bell and waited. After a short delay, he heard sounds on the other side of the door, then a girl’s voice called sharply: “Who is it?”
“I have a message from your brother,” Ken said. He took the envelope Johnny had given him from his pocket and, bending, he slid it under the door.
There was a pause, then the door jerked open. He found himself staring at the tall, willowy blonde he had seen at the Blue Rose nightclub. She had on a magenta coloured silk shirt and a pair of black slacks. Her face was pale and her great green eyes glittered.
“What is it?” she said. “What has happened to Johnny?”
“He is in trouble,” Ken said. “He asked me to come and see you.”
He wasn’t sure if she had recognized him or not. Her face was expressionless as she stood aside.
“You’d better come in.”
He followed her into the luxuriously furnished sitting-room.
“Sit down,” she said curtly. “Now what is all this?”
“The police are looking for your brother. He shot a policeman,” Ken said, sitting down.
“Shot a policeman?” Gilda repeated, her face tightening. “He — he hasn’t killed him?”
“I don’t know. Your brother was hurt. He was shot in the arm.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Gilda said impatiently. “Can’t you tell me what happened?”
“I’m trying to. Perhaps I’d better begin at the beginning…”
While he was speaking, she was staring at him, her eyes puzzled.
“You say my brother shot a policeman and he is hurt?” she said. “When did this happen?”
“About a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh, I see.” She looked at the creased envelope that Johnny had given Ken. “How did you get hold of this?”
“Your brother gave it to me. He said you would know I came from him.”
“He just says I should help you. He doesn’t say anything about being hurt.”
“He couldn’t write well. His arm hurt him.”
She studied him, her eyes angry and suspicious.
“Would you be surprised to know that my brother is at this moment flying to Paris?”
“He isn’t! It was a trick. O’Brien planned to murder him. He persuaded your brother to write a note to you so you should believe he had gone to Paris.”
“This gets more and more complicated as we go along, doesn’t it?” she said, moving over to the sideboard. “Are you telling me that Sean O’Brien was planning to murder Johnny?”
“I know it sounds fantastic,” Ken said, worried by her obvious suspicion, “but if I told you the whole story…”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, jerking open a drawer in the sideboard. She dipped into it, turned to face him, an automatic in her hand. “Don’t move! You’re lying! I know who you are! You’re the man the police are looking for! You killed Fay Carson!”
II
The telephone began to ring as O’Brien entered the lounge.
“Get it,” he said impatiently to Sullivan, and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet.
Sullivan picked up the receiver, listened, grimaced and looked over at O’Brien, who was mixing himself a highball.
“Police Captain Motley,” Sullivan said. “Want to talk to him, boss?”
O’Brien drank half the highball, lit a cigarette and took the receiver.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“A report’s just come in that’s going to start something,” Motley said, his voice shaking with excitement. “Johnny Dorman’s been shot dead.”
O’Brien stiffened; his face changed colour.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he snarled.
“One of my men was on the waterfront keeping a lookout for this guy Holland. He spotted him with Johnny Dorman…”
“With Johnny? He’s lying!” O’Brien broke in violently. “He couldn’t have been with Johnny…” He stopped abruptly, realizing what he was saying.
“He was with Dorman,” Motley said. “There’s no mistake about it. My man started to question Holland, and Dorman shot him.”
Certain that Tux had carried out his orders and had wiped out Johnny, O’Brien wondered if Motley was drunk, but he realized he had to be careful. He couldn’t tell Motley he knew Johnny was in a barrel of cement at the bottom of the river.
“The two of them bolted,” Motley went on, “but they were seen by Adams who happened to be in the neighbourhood. He took a shot at Johnny and hit him in the arm. They got away and holed up in a house off the waterfront. Adams had the place surrounded. Holland got away over the roofs. He was spotted, and Adams sent men up after him. They ran into Tux and Solly who were up there.”
O’Brien nearly dropped the receiver.
“What?”
“Don’t ask me what they were doing up there,” Motley said-"The fools started a shooting match. They killed five of my men. Tux got into the house where Dorman was hiding and shot him before our men could get at him.”
O’Brien turned cold.
“What happened to Tux?”
“My men blew him to bits,” Motley said.
So Tux had made a mess of it! O’Brien thought. Somehow Johnny must have escaped from Willow Point. What was Gilda going to say when she read the morning papers? He realized he would have to see her immediately and get a convincing lie in first. Damn Tux! He was lucky to be dead.
�
�Holland got away,” Motley went on. “We’re still looking for him. We’ve got the press on our backs.”
“Get Holland! Do you hear?” O’Brien snarled. “That’s an order!”
He slammed down the receiver, went quickly across the room to the hall where Sullivan stood waiting.
“I’m going out,” O’Brien said. “Wait up for me!”
He hurried to the garage, got the Cadillac out again and drove fast to Maddox Court.
It took him a little under ten minutes to get there, and by that time he had his story ready. He had to convince Gilda that he had nothing to do with Johnny’s death. He had told her he had seen him off in a plane for Paris. Very well then: the plane had returned with engine trouble and Johnny had left it. That’s the best he could do. She would be too upset by Johnny’s death to question the story.
The night clerk, who knew O’Brien well, hurried to open the elevator doors as O’Brien crossed the lobby.
“Miss Dorman is in, sir,” he said.
O’Brien grunted, got into the elevator and was whisked to the top floor.
The poor kid would be in bed and asleep, he thought as he crossed the passage to her front door. This was going to be a hell of a shock for her.
He rang the bell.
There was a pause, then Gilda called through the door, “Who is it?”
“Sean. Let me in, kid.”
She opened the door.
He was startled to see she had her back turned to him and she was facing the open door of the sitting-room. He saw she had a gun in her hand.
“What’s happening… ?”
He looked into the sitting-room at the tense, white-faced man sitting in a chair who stared at him with frightened eyes.
“A burglar… or what?” O’Brien asked. “Here, give me the gun.” He took it from Gilda and walked into the sitting-room. “What’s all this about?”
“It’s the man who killed Fay Carson,” Gilda said, breathlessly. “He broke in here.”
O’Brien stiffened.
“Are you Holland?” he demand
“Yes,” Ken said, “but I didn’t kill her.”
“Yeah?” O’Brien said. “Well, tell that to the jury.” He looked at Gilda. “What’s he doing here?”
“He must be crazy. He came here expecting me to hide him. He says Johnny shot a policeman and is wounded. He says you planned to murder Johnny and he rescued him.”
“That’s a laugh,” O’Brien said. “Get police headquarters.” He waved to the telephone. “They’ll be glad to see him.”
“Wait!” Ken said. “You must listen to me.” He was looking at Gilda. “I heard this man…”
“Shut up!” O’Brien said, threatening him with the gun. “Open your mouth again and you’ll get shot!” To Gilda he went on, “Get Motley. He’ll handle this.”
As she moved over to the telephone, the front-door bell rang. She looked quickly at O’Brien, her hand hovering over the telephone.
“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked, as the bell rang again.
“No.”
“Here, take the gun and watch this guy. I’ll see who it is.”
He gave her the gun, walked into the hall and opened the front door.
Lieutenant Adams stood in the passage, his hands in his pockets. His face didn’t betray his surprise at seeing O’Brien, but he was surprised.
“What the hell are you doing here?” O’Brien rasped.
“Holland’s here, isn’t he?” Adams said mildly.
“How do you know?”
“I got a message.”
O’Brien stood aside.
“You’d better come in and take charge of him.”
Adams walked into the sitting-room, looked at the gun in Gilda’s hand, then at Ken. He gave Ken a sly wink.
“This is the man who killed Fay Carson,” O’Brien said. “Charge him and take him away.”
Adams shook his head.
“He didn’t kill her,” he said.
“I’m telling you he did!” O’Brien snapped. “The Commissioner has all the evidence he needs for a conviction. Don’t argue with me! Charge him and take him away.”
“The Commissioner got his information from Sergeant Donovan, who is invariably inaccurate,” Adams said, watching Gilda as she laid the gun down on the sideboard.
“If Howard is satisfied, I am. I told you to arrest this man!”
“But he didn’t do it. I had instructions to carry out an independent investigation. I’ve done so and I’ve cracked the case. This isn’t the man.”
“I suppose you are going to tell me Dorman killed her?” O’Brien said angrily.
“No, he didn’t, either.”
O’Brien made an impatient gesture.
“Don’t be so damned mysterious! Who killed her, then?”
“It’s quite a story. The facts…”
“I don’t want to listen to this,” Gilda said. “Sean, can’t he take this man away ? This has been a shock to me. I want to go to bed.”
“You’ll be interested, Miss Dorman,” Adams said before O’Brien could say anything. “Fay Carson was murdered because you married Maurice Yarde. You can’t fail to be interested.”
Gilda stiffened, her mouth tightened into a thin line.
“What did you say?” O’Brien’s face flushed. “Married to Yarde? What the hell do you mean?”
Gilda turned to him.
“He’s lying! Don’t listen to him, Sean. Get them out of here!”
“You can’t deny it, Miss Dorman,” Adams said. He sat down in a chair near Ken. “I had confirmation from Los Angeles not ten minutes ago. You married Maurice Yarde thirteen months ago. You lived with him for four months, then you left him. It’s on record.”
Gilda appeared to make an effort to control herself. She shrugged and turned away.
“All right,” she said, her voice harsh. “So it’s on record. It’s no business of yours.”
“Yes, it is,” Adams said, crossing one leg over the other. “Your marriage supplies the motive for Fay Carson’s murder.”
Gilda looked at O’Brien, who was standing motionless, his eyes glittering.
“Don’t believe him, Sean. He’s either mad or drunk!”
“You’d better be careful what you are saying,” O’Brien said to Adams.
“I can produce evidence of her marriage by tomorrow morning,” Adams said indifferently. “She’s wasting time denying it.”
O’Brien went to Gilda, took her arm and looked intently at her.
“Are you married to Yarde, kid?”
She hesitated, then gave a despairing little shrug.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Sean. I should have told you. I’m getting a divorce. I was a fool to have married him, and I’ve paid for it. I didn’t live with him for more than a month before I found out what he was. I was too ashamed to tell you.”
O’Brien gave her a crooked little smile.
“Forget it. We all make mistakes.” He patted her arm. “It’s okay, kid.” Then he turned to Adams. “You’ve poked your goddamn nose into too much of this. Take that guy out of here, charge him with the murder of Fay
Carson and make it stick! If I have any more bleating from you, I’ll have you thrown off the force!”
Adams stroked the tip of his thin nose as he met O’Brien’s furious eyes.
“It can’t be done. He didn’t kill her.”
“Then who did?” O’Brien snarled.
Adams nodded at Gilda.
“She did, of course.”
“My God!” O’Brien exploded. “I’ll make you pay for that! I’ll…” He broke off as he caught sight of Gilda’s face.
She was now as white as a fresh fall of snow. Her eyes stared past O’Brien, her hand at her throat. He followed the direction of her staring eyes.
In her bedroom doorway, looking up at her, was a fawn Pekinese dog.
III
Deliberately, the dog crossed the room and stopped outside the door leading to the k
itchen. It scratched at the paintwork, whined, then scratched at the door again.
Gilda screamed, “Get it out of here! Get it out!”
“Gilda!” O’Brien exclaimed, shaken by her terror. “What is it?”
Adams left his chair, crossed the room with two strides, turned the door handle and threw the door open.
The dog darted into the kitchen.
Adams watched it run to where Sweeting lay face down on the floor. There was a puddle of blood at his side; an ice-pick was embedded
between his fat shoulder-blades.
The dog paused beside him, sniffed at his face, then backed away, whimpering, and crept under the kitchen table.
Adams looked swiftly at Ken, then towards the door leading into the hall. His eyes were expressive.
Ken got up, went over to the door and set his back against it. He was watching Gilda, who abruptly sat down, her face ashen.
“You might like to take a look,” Adams said to O’Brien.
O’Brien walked into the kitchen, kicked Sweeting over on his back and stared down at the dead face.
“Who’s this?” he asked, and Adams could see he was badly shaken.
“Raphael Sweeting, a blackmailer,” Adams said. He was watching the Pekinese, which had come out from under the table and was now sniffing excitedly at the refrigerator. It stood up, whined and scratched at the door. “It can’t be that easy,” Adams went on, under his breath. “He can’t be here too.”
“What the hell are you muttering about?” O’Brien snapped.
Adams took hold of the handle of the refrigerator, lifted it and let the door swing open.
O’Brien caught his breath sharply when he saw the crumpled body of Maurice Yarde in the refrigerator.
“For God’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Who’s this?”
“Her husband — Maurice Yarde. I wondered where she had hidden him,” Adams said.
O’Brien pulled himself together with an effort. He walked into the sitting-room.
Gilda stared at him.
“I didn’t do it, Sean! You’ve got to believe me!” she gasped, “I found him there. I swear I did!”
He touched her shoulder lightly.
“Take it easy, kid. I’m on your side,” he said, then, looking at Adams who was leaning against the kitchen door-post, he said, a rasp in his voice, “Let’s get this thing straightened out.”
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