Tiger by the Tail
Page 23
“I’m charging Miss Dorman with the murders of Fay Carson, Yarde and Sweeting,” Adams said. “We’ll sort it out at head-quarters.”
“We’ll sort it out right here!” O’Brien said curtly. “Miss. Dorman denies the charge. You have no evidence that she did it, or have you?”
“I’ve got enough evidence to make Carson’s killing stick,” Adams said.
“What is the evidence?”
“It’s a matter of motive. The key to Carson’s murder was something I nearly missed. At first I liked Dorman for the job. He was unbalanced and he had threatened to kill her, but I found out he couldn’t have done it. He was seen outside the Blue Rose club when Carson and Holland left the club. He didn’t know where she lived. He couldn’t have gone ahead and got into her apartment, so I had to rule him out. I got a tip that Maurice Yarde had quarrelled with Carson. I thought maybe he had done it. I went to his hotel. He was missing, but his room had been ransacked. From the way the search had been conducted, it looked like the searcher was after a document of some land. I had a hunch. That’s why I’m a good cop. I get these hunches. Was the searcher a woman, and could the paper be a marriage certificate? I didn’t think it was likely. It was a blind guess, but I called Los Angeles and checked up on Yarde. I found he married Miss Dorman thirteen months ago.” Adams pushed himself away from the doorpost and came into the room. He began to pace slowly up and down, his hands in his pockets, while O’Brien watched him, a hard glitter in his eyes. “I had heard Miss Dorman was going to marry you. So far as she was concerned it was a pretty good match. I wondered if Fay Carson had found out from Yarde that he was married to Miss Dorman. Carson had a score to settle with Miss Dorman. She was in a position to blackmail her if she knew Miss Dorman was married to Yarde. Just ideas, you see, but ideas that established a motive. So I started checking on Miss Dorman. I found out she was at the Blue Rose club last night, and left half an hour before Carson and Holland did. That would give her time to get to Carson’s apartment. She had once shared an apartment with Carson, and knew of Carson’s habit of leaving a key under the mat. Whoever was hiding in the bedroom had to have a key as the door was undamaged. I began to like Miss Dorman for the job. The night clerk downstairs tells me she came home last night at two o’clock. The killer left Carson’s apartment at twenty minutes to two. It is a twenty-minute drive from Carson’s apartment to here. Work it out for yourself. I learned, too, from the night clerk that Maurice Yarde called on her last night after nine o’clock, and the night clerk didn’t see him leave. Yarde probably tried to get money out of Miss Dorman. He probably told her Carson knew, too. She killed him, put him in the refrigerator until the opportunity came for her to get rid of his body. She went to his hotel, searched for the marriage certificate, found and destroyed it. She then went to the Blue Rose, spotted Carson with Holland. She went to Carson’s apartment, sure that Carson would bring Holland back, and he’d make a fine fall guy. She killed her, fused the lights and got back here.”
O’Brien got to his feet, took a cigarette from his case, and wandered over to the sideboard for the cigarette lighter.
“You haven’t told me anything that a good attorney can’t blow to hell,” he said, as he lit a cigarette. “Now, I’ll tell you something: Johnny told me he killed her.”
Adams shook his head.
“He told you because he wasn’t going to marry you,” he said quietly. “You might have hesitated to marry Miss Dorman if you knew she had a murder on her hands. Dorman was financially interested in your marriage, wasn’t he?”
“You can’t make this charge stick,” O’Brien said, his face tightening. “You’re going to drop it!”
“In a week I’ll have a case no attorney can upset, and I’m not dropping it.”
O’Brien set the lighter down. His hand jumped to the gun, whipped it up, and, turning, he covered Adams.
“Don’t make a move unless you want a slug in you!” he rasped. He looked at Ken, who still stood against the door. “Get over there with him!”
Ken obeyed.
Adams appeared completely unruffled.
“This won’t get you anywhere, O’Brien,” he said. “She can’t beat the rap: not with those two stiffs in her kitchen. Maybe she might have wriggled out of the Carson killing, but those two in there fixes it.”
“That’s what you think,” O’Brien said. “But you haven’t my talent for organization. You may be a smart cop, but you’ve still got a hell of a lot to learn.”
Gilda had got unsteadily to her feet.
“Get Whitey here,” O’Brien said to her, without taking his eyes off Adams. “Speedwell 56778. Tell him to bring four of the mob with him, and to step on it.”
She crossed to the telephone.
“I wouldn’t do it,” Adams said softly. “It won’t get you anywhere.”
“Won’t it? Let me explain what’s going to happen,” O’Brien said, his eyes gleaming. “You and Holland are going to get knocked off. The night clerk is also going to get knocked off. The boys will walk those two stiffs out of here and plant them somewhere safe. You will be found in the lobby downstairs, shot by Holland’s gun. He’ll be found on the stairs, shot by your gun. The clerk got shot accidentally, getting in the way. That’ll take care of it, won’t it?”
“It could do,” Adams said.
“It will. Carson’s killing will be blamed on Holland. That’s what I call organizing, Adams,” O’Brien said, showing his teeth in a fixed grin.
Gilda was shaking so badly she couldn’t hold the receiver.
“I can’t do it, Sean,” she moaned.
“Leave it!” he said sharply. “I’ll handle it. Go into your bedroom. Don’t worry, kid. You’re in the clear.”
Gilda turned, stumbled across the room, opened her bedroom door, went inside and shut the door.
O’Brien looked at Adams.
“So long, smart cop,” he said.
He didn’t see Leo come out of the kitchen. The dog trotted up to him and stood up, its paws against O’Brien’s knee.
Startled, O’Brien, looked down, then kicked the dog away.
Adams’ hand flew inside his coat, yanked out his gun.
O’Brien fired a shade late.
Adams’ gun barked and a red splash of blood appeared under O’Brien’s right eye. He dropped his gun, staggered back as Adams fired again.
O’Brien slammed against the wall, heeled over and spread out on his face.
“The punk had me sweating,” Adams said softly. He blew out his cheeks, wriggled his shoulders inside his coat, and grinned at Ken. “Did he make you sweat, too?”
Ken didn’t say anything. He went unsteadily to a chair, sat down, holding his head in his hands.
Adams looked at him, shrugged, and went quietly to the bedroom door, turned the handle and pushed open the door.
Gilda was standing in the middle of the room, her hands to her ears, her face drawn. When she saw him, she gave a sharp scream.
“It didn’t work,” Adams said. “You’re right out on your own now, sister. Come on. We’ll go down to headquarters and talk this thing out.”
Gilda backed away.
“The dog foxed him,” Adams went on, moving slowly towards her. “He hadn’t got the dog organized. I got him before he got me. Come on, sister, don’t play it the hard way.”
“Keep away from me!”
Her voice was a croak. Her face was ugly with terror.
“The jury will love your legs,” Adams said comfortingly. “You’ll only get twenty years. You’ll be out of all the misery that’s coming when they drop the H-bomb. You don’t know it yet, but you’re a lucky girl.”
Gilda turned and ran. She took five swift steps before she reached the big, curtained window. She didn’t stop. She went through the curtains, through the glass and out of the window.
Adams heard her thin wailing scream as she went down into the darkness, and the thud of her body as it struck the sidewalk, sixteen stories below.
“Get an ambulance and a squad to 45 Maddox Court, fast,” he said into the mouthpiece, “and when I say fast, I mean fast!”
He dropped the receiver back on to its cradle, went over to Ken and jerked him to his feet.
“Get the hell out of here! Don’t you want to go home?”
Ken stared blankly at him.
“Go on, beat it!” Adams said. “You’re in the clear. Keep your mouth shut and you won’t hear anything more about it. Go on, get the hell out of it!”
Too shocked to speak, Ken went unsteadily to the door.
“Hey!” Adams said, pointing to the Pekinese who had taken refuge under the sideboard. “How about this dog? Wouldn’t you like to give it a home?”
Ken looked at the dog in horror.
“No!” he said, his voice shaking. “It’s all right with me if I never see another Pekinese again in my life.”
He went down the stairs at a stumbling run.
IV
A few minutes to half-past eight the next morning, Ken stopped his car at the corner of Marshall Avenue where he could see down the road. He waited a few minutes, then he saw Parker open his gate and come towards him.
The usual spritely snap had gone out of Parker’s walk. He came towards Ken as if it were an effort to drag one foot after the other. He looked pale, haggard and depressed.
Ken got out of the car.
“I thought I’d give you a lift to the bank,” he said awkwardly.
Parker started and stared at him.
“Of all the damn nerve!” he said angrily. “You can’t go to the bank! The police are looking for you. Now look here, Holland, you’ve got to give yourself up. I can’t have you with me all day, not knowing when the police are coming to arrest you. I won’t have it!”
“Keep your shirt on,” Ken said. “I’ve been to the police and explained. They caught the killer last night, and I’m in the clear.”
Parker gaped.
“They got the killer? Then you didn’t do it?”
“Of course not, you dope!”
“Oh! Well, I don’t want anything more to do with you. You’re a damned dangerous influence. You’ve ruined my home.”
Ken asked the question that had been torturing him for the past few hours: “Did you tell your wife I went to see Fay?”
“Tell her?” Parker’s voice shot up. “Of course not! You don’t think I’d tell her I gave you an introduction to a tart, do you? It’s bad enough now, but she would never have forgiven me.”
Ken drew in a deep breath of relief. He suddenly grinned, and clumped Parker on his back.
“Then this lets me out!” he said. “You’ll keep quiet about this to Ann, won’t you?”
Parker scowled at him.
“I don’t see why both of us should be in the soup. It’d serve you damn well right if I did tell her, but I won’t.”
“Honest?” Ken said, looking at him.
“Yes,” Parker growled. “No need for the two of us to be in the dog-house.”
“That’s swell. Brother! I’ve been sweating it out since I had her letter. I heard this morning. She’s coming back in five days’ time. Her mother’s going into a home. She should have gone weeks ago, and now Ann’s persuaded her. She’s coming back next Monday.”
Parker grunted.
“It’s all right for you, but I’m in a hell of a fix.”
“How’s Maisie this morning?”
Parker shook his head.
“She’s looking like a saint with indigestion. She’s horribly quiet and
polite and distant. I’ll be in the dog-house for months before she gets over it.”
“Buy her an expensive present: a fur coat for the winter,” Ken suggested.
“That’s right: spend my money for me. How can I afford a fur coat?”
“You were a mug to have told her, anyway. You needn’t have. If you had used your head you could have cooked up some yarn.”
Parker nodded gloomily.
“I know. I’ve been thinking about that. I was a mug, but that sergeant rattled me.”
“We can’t stand here all day. Get in if you want to.”
“Well, all right,” Parker said, and got into the car. “But don’t think it’ll ever be the same between us, because it won’t.”
“Oh, shut up!” Ken said shortly. “You started the mess and you got what was coming to you.”
Parker gave him a surprised glance. He noticed Ken appeared to have acquired more character overnight. He looked tougher, more confident, and not the kind of man you’d pus** around.
“Who killed her?” Parker asked. “What happened?”
“I know as much as you do,” Ken lied. “I went to the police station, told the Lieutenant that I had been with Fay last night and waited to be arrested. He told me to go home as they had the killer. I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I went.”
“I thought you had a good story for me,” Parker said, disappointed. “That’s damn dull.”
“I guess it is,” Ken said, his face expressionless.
As they drove into the parking lot behind the bank, Parker said, “Are you going to tell Arm what happened?”
Ken shook his head.
“You may be a mug,” he said as he got out of the car, “but I’m not.”
IV
Five days later, Ken stood on the platform waiting for the train that was bringing Ann home.
He was feeling particularly virtuous. For the past four evenings he had worked ceaselessly in the bungalow and in the garden. All the various jobs that Ann had been asking him to do for the past months, and which he had put off, had been done. The garden had never looked better. The kitchen had been decorated. The windows had been cleaned. The broken hinge on the gate had been repaired; even the car had been polished.
The newspapers had been full of the shootings. The City’s Administration had come under fire, and several prominent members had resigned, among them Captain Joe Motley, who felt that his work was becoming too arduous for his easy-going methods. Lindsay Burt’s name kept cropping up in the papers as the next likely political leader, and the Herald was prophesying that Lieutenant Adams would shortly be elected Captain of Police.
For the first time since Ken had found Fay’s dead body, he felt safe. With a feeling of intense excitement, he watched the train come slowly along the track.
He caught sight of Ann’s blonde head as she leaned out of the window. They waved frantically to each other. A few moments later he had her in his arms.
“Oh Ken!”
“Darling, I’ve missed you!”
There was a babble of talk, both too happy to listen to what the other was saying.
“Have you been all right?” Ann asked, when eventually they calmed down. She looked up at him and was puzzled by his thinness, the sterner look about his mouth that gave him character and which she found attractive.
“Of course I’ve been fine,” Ken said, grinning at her.
“But, darling, you look different. There’s something about you…”
“Nonsense!” Ken said. “Come on. Let’s get your luggage organized.”
Later as they drove out of the railway depot in the shabby green Lincoln, Ann said, “Have you been lonely, Ken? Did you go out — do any shows ?”
“My dear girl, I haven’t had time for shows,” Ken said virtuously. “I’ve been busy in the bungalow. I’ve decorated the kitchen, looked after the garden and generally worked my fingers to the bone.”
Ann looked at him, her eyes suddenly thoughtful.
“It sounds very much as if you had been up to mischief. It’s nothing serious, is it?”
“The trouble with you is you have a suspicious mind,” Ken said, avoiding her eyes. “Besides, is it likely I would tell you if I had been into mischief? I admit I did think of goin
g off with some woman, but I just didn’t have the time.”
Ann leaned forward and kissed him.
“You’ve had your chance, Ken. I’m not leaving you again.”
“That’s no way to behave when I’m driving. Wait until we get home.” He put his hands on hers and squeezed it. “I don’t want you ever to go away again. Now tell me what’s been happening to you.”
He listened while she talked, and he felt at peace with the world. She need never know, he told himself. It would never happen again. He had had a narrow escape, and he had learned his lesson.
“Well, here we are,” he said, as he pulled up outside the bungalow. “Take
a look at the garden. How’s that for hard work? And don’t miss the gate. It works now.”
“Darling. I think I’d better go away again after all,” Ann said, standing at the gate and looking at the weedless garden, the close-cut lawn and the clean-cut edges. “It looks wonderful, and the windows have been cleaned.”
“Just part of the service,” Ken said, as he struggled with her luggage getting it out of the car.
Ann gave a sudden exclamation.
“Oh, Ken, you darling! Is this your big surprise? How lovely!”
Ken followed the direction of her pointing finger.
On the doorstep, its bulging eyes looking fixedly at Ken, was a fawn Pekinese.
The End
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