Tiger by the Tail Read online

  Johnny suddenly seemed to have found some courage. His white, thin face was as murderous and as vicious as Tux’s now. He hit Tux again, driving him to his knees as Ken rolled away and staggered to his feet.

  Tux tried to shield his face with his arms as he came off the floor, but Johnny battered his arm down and again hit him on the top of his head with the chair.

  The back of the chair snapped and Tux flattened out on his face.

  Johnny jumped forward, grabbed a handful of Tux’s thick hair and, lifting Tux’s head, he slammed it down on the floor.

  Tux gave a strangled grunt and went limp.

  The two stood over him, panting.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Ken gasped. “Come on!”

  Johnny gave Tux a hard, vicious kick in the side of his neck, then bending over him, he rolled him over and pulled out Tux’s automatic from his hip pocket.

  “Come on!” Ken said again.

  Johnny followed him along the passage and up on to the deck.

  II

  The lighted clock on the dashboard showed twenty minutes past eleven as Adams pulled up outside 25 Lessington Avenue.

  During the short drive from the hospital he had remained silent, hunched up behind the driving-wheel, while Watson sat beside him, hoping for some explanation which didn’t come.

  Adams got out of the car and Watson followed him.

  They walked up the steps, opened the front door and, with Adams leading, they climbed the stairs to Raphael Sweeting’s apartment.

  As Adams paused outside the door, he said, “This guy’s going to make a statement. Get it down!”

  “Yes, sir,” Watson said, wondering who the guy might be.

  Adams rang the bell and waited.

  There was a long delay, then the door opened cautiously and Sweeting, a

  damp sponge held to his right eye, looked first at Adams and then at Watson. He seemed to shrivel under Adams’ hard stare, and he stepped back hurriedly.

  Adams walked into the room, and Watson followed him.

  “So this is where you’ve holed up,” Adams said, glancing around the room. “How’s business, Raphael?”

  “Now look, Lieutenant,” Sweeting said urgently, “I’m going straight. How can a guy settle to anything if you cops keep pestering him?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Adams said mildly. He wandered over to a chair and sat down. “Must be difficult for you. How’s the blackmail business flourishing?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sweeting said indignantly. “I’ve given that up months ago.”

  “Have you? What’s the matter with your eye? Someone paid a debt?”

  “I had an accident,” Sweeting said sullenly. “Can’t you leave me alone, Lieutenant? I’m trying to earn an honest living.”

  “Finding it difficult?” Adams said, taking out his cigarette-case and lighting a cigarette. “It might be easier for you if I put you inside for ten years.”

  Sweeting stiffened.

  “You’ve got nothing on me, and you know it.”

  “But I could easily fix something, Raphael. The easiest thing in the world. Don’t forget that. I can put you away for ten years just when I want to, but I’ll leave you alone if you play along with me. I want some information.”

  Sweeting sat down. This had been a hell of a day. His eye ached and he felt old and tired. He looked across the room to where Leo crouched, panting, and he sighed.

  “What do you want to know, Lieutenant?”

  “I want facts. You told Donovan you saw no one go up or come down and heard nothing. You were lying. Are you going to tell me?”

  “I’m always ready to talk to you, Lieutenant,” Sweeting said. “I didn’t know the other guy.”

  Adams looked over at Watson and tossed him his notebook.

  “Take it down,” he said curtly. “Talk away,” he went on to Sweeting. “I know most of it so don’t skip the details. Start where you met Holland on the stairs.”

  Sweeting flinched.

  “Have you arrested him, Lieutenant?” he asked uneasily. “You can’t believe a word that guy says. I’ll bet he said I tried to blackmail him.”

  “He told me he punched you in the eye,” Adams said unfeelingly. “Start talking!”

  Sweeting talked.

  Half an hour later, Adams lit his fourth cigarette, stretched, yawned and nodded his head.

  “That seems to take care of that. You’re sure you didn’t see this other guy who left Carson’s apartment before Holland did?”

  “I didn’t see him,” Sweeting said miserably. He had parted with valuable information for nothing, and it grieved him.

  “Okay. Got it all down?” Adams said to Watson.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sign it, Raphael,” Adams said. “Each page and you countersign it, Watson.”

  When both men had finished signing the statement, Adams took charge of the notebook again.

  “You can go home,” he said to Watson. “Keep your mouth shut about this.”

  When Watson had gone, Adams lit his fifth cigarette, settled himself more comfortably in his chair and stared at Sweeting thoughtfully.

  “We’re going to have a little talk, Raphael. Strictly off the record, and you’re going to be helpful. I want to crack this case. It’s important to me. There’s not much you don’t see and hear. You may have some ideas. If you play with me, I’ll play with you, so keep on the right side of me.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Sweeting said, dabbing his eye. “But I don’t know a thing.”

  “You might,” Adams said, stretching out his short legs. “I had an idea Johnny Dorman knocked this girl off. How do you react to that one?”

  Sweeting looked startled.

  “Johnny? He wouldn’t kill anyone!”

  “Don’t talk through the back of your neck! Of course he would. He’s as vicious as they come. You knew him pretty well, didn’t you ?”

  “I played billiards with him from time to time,” Sweeting said. “Yes, I guess I knew him well, but I haven’t seen or heard from him since he was put in that home. What makes you think he did it?”

  “I don’t think he did it now. I said I liked him for the job, but I’ve changed my mind. He threatened to kill her before he went into the home, and that made me think maybe he’d done it.”

  “He wouldn’t kill her,” Sweeting said. “He was through with her. I know. He told me. She meant nothing to him after he had beaten her up.”

  “Okay. Do you think Holland did it?”

  Sweeting hesitated. He wanted to get Ken Holland into trouble if he could, but he decided Adams might not like him to side-track him because of his own private hate.

  “I guess not. Why have you changed your mind about Johnny, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t reckon he could have done it. Holland saw him out-outside the Blue Rose. He didn’t know Carson’s address. He couldn’t have got there and hid in her bedroom before they returned, could he?”

  Sweeting inclined his head.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I think I am. Okay, if it wasn’t Johnny and it wasn’t Holland who was it?”

  Sweeting blinked.

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I’m asking you, Raphael. You spend all your life sticking your snout into other people’s affairs. Don’t tell me you didn’t stick it into Carson’s affairs as well.”

  Sweeting hesitated.

  “Well, I’d like to help you, Lieutenant, but I don’t know.”

  “Have a guess,” Adams said quietly.

  Sweeting again hesitated.

  “If I were you,” he said slowly, “I’d talk to Maurice Yarde. He might have a few ideas.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He used to be Fay’s dancing partner before they quarrelled.”

  “What did they quarrel about?”

  “She and Gilda Dorman used to share an apartment. Yarde fell for Gilda. He broke up the act and Gilda and he went to Los
Angeles. She came back after six months alone. Yarde came back a couple of days ago. He came to see Fay. I happened to see him. They had a quarrel. I heard her cursing him. When he left I heard him tell her he would cut her throat.”

  Adams removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick white hair.

  “You’re sure Gilda went away with Yarde?”

  Sweeting nodded.

  “Johnny told me. He hated the idea. Yarde’s a bad man, Lieutenant: a bad man with women.”

  Adams scratched the side of his jaw. This set-up was getting complicated. He would have preferred to tie Johnny to the murder, but if he couldn’t do that, Yarde would do nearly as well. In both cases Gilda was hooked up to it, and that meant O’Brien was hooked up in it too.

  “Where do I find Yarde ?” he asked.

  “He usually hangs out at the Washington Hotel. He could be there, Lieutenant.”

  Adams got slowly and stiffly to his feet. This was turning out to be a hell of a night.

  “Okay, Raphael. Keep your mouth shut and your legs crossed. Stick right here and don’t try to leave town. I may need you for a witness. Play along with me and you won’t get into trouble.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Sweeting said, and for the first time since Adams had been in the apartment, he began to breathe freely.

  As Adams moved to the door, Sweeting went on, “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but you wouldn’t happen to have a spare buck on you? I have my rent to meet tomorrow and I find myself a little short.”

  Adams opened the door and went slowly down the stairs as if he hadn’t heard his head bent, his brow furrowed in thought.

  Sweeting leaned over the banister rail but resisted the temptation of spitting on the Lieutenant’s hat. He returned to his room and slammed the door.

  He had to raise some money before tomorrow. For a long time he stood thinking, then his face brightened. Of course! Gilda Dorman! He should have thought of her before. She might part with a few bucks if he called on her. She would probably be interested to know her old lover, Maurice Yarde, was in town. She might be still sentimental about him. She might also be interested to know that Lieutenant Adams thought her brother had killed Fay. The possibilities were endless!

  Sweeting glanced at the clock on the overmantel. It was a quarter past eleven. These nightclub singers kept late hours. He might catch her if he hurried.

  He went over to the pile of directories, flicked through the pages of one of them and found what he wanted.

  “45 Maddox Court,” he muttered. “That’s only five minutes from here.”

  He took his hat from the cupboard, placed it at an angle on his head so as to hide his bruised eye, picked up Leo, turned off the lights and hurriedly left his apartment.

  III

  The Washington Hotel had an unsavoury reputation. It was a-room-bythe-hour-and-no-questions-asked joint, sandwiched between an amusement arcade and a beer shop, facing the river. In its basement, hidden away behind a cleverly constructed sliding panel, was a big room where you could enjoy a pipe of opium if you wanted it and if you could pay for it.

  On the top floor were a number of well-furnished rooms which were occupied by the hotel’s residents: mostly men just out of prison who were feeling their feet, taking a look around and getting used to their new-found freedom.

  The hotel was owned by Sean O’Brien, and Police Captain Motley had taken care that his men didn’t worry the management or the residents. The manager, Seth Cutler, short, thick-set and as hard as granite, was startled when he saw Lieutenant Adams coming across the dimly lit lobby. He leaned his elbows on the desk and waited, his eyes watchful.

  “Evening, Lieutenant,” he said, when Adams came to rest opposite him. “Long time no see.”

  “Yeah,” Adams said. “Let me take a look at your register.”

  Cutler raised his eyebrows, poked his little finger into his right ear, wiggled it about and then withdrew it and examined his nail to see what he had found.

  “Snap it up!” Adams barked, his voice suddenly harsh.

  Cutler said, “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but haven’t you come to the wrong joint? This is the Washington. We’ve got protection.”

  “Give me the book!” Adams said.

  Cutler raised his shoulders, produced a well-worn, leather-bound book, blew dust off it and laid it on the desk.

  The last entry in the book was dated June 19th, 1941.

  “It’s a wonder you keep in business,” Adams said in disgust. He shoved the book back. “I’m looking for Maurice Yarde.”

  Cutler shook his head.

  “Never heard of him, Lieutenant. Sorry. Help you if I could.”

  Adams nodded.

  “That’s too bad. Then I’ll have to go from room to room until I find him.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Lieutenant.”

  Adams stared steadily at Cutler.

  “That’s what I’m going to do unless you tell me where I can find him.”

  “The Captain wouldn’t like it.”

  “You have your lines snarled up,” Adams said. “The Captain told me to talk to Yarde. This isn’t a pinch. I just want information.”

  Cutler hesitated.

  “I don’t like my best clients bothered, Lieutenant. I’d rather get it straight from the Captain.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it,” Adams said, shrugging. “I’ll start in on the ground floor and work up, and I’d like to see you stop me! Don’t blame me if your other clients get annoyed with you.”

  “He’s on the top floor, No. 10,” Cutler snarled, his face turning red.

  “Thanks.”

  Adams wandered over to the ancient elevator, got in, closed the gate and hauled on the rope that raised the evil-smelling cage up the equally evilsmelling shaft.

  He was thankful when the elevator creaked to a standstill on the top floor. All the way up he had been expecting the rope to snap or the bottom of the cage to drop out.

  Facing him was a long passage with doors every few yards. He walked to room 10, listened outside, then hearing no sound in the room, he rapped on the door. Nothing happened, and he rapped again.

  The door opposite abruptly opened.

  A girl in a blue-and-red silk wrap, her auburn hair about her shoulders, leaned against the door-post and showed him a long white leg and a wellrounded thigh through the opening in her wrap.

  “He’s out,” she said. “If you want to wait, there’s a chair in my room.”

  “You’re talking to a police officer,” Adams said mildly.

  The girl wrinkled her nose, then lifted her shoulders.

  “I can’t afford to be fussy. The offer still stands.”

  Adams joined her at the door.

  “When did Yarde go out?”

  “Last night. Is he in trouble?”

  “Not that I know of. What time last night?”

  “About eight. Are you coming in or are you just wasting my time?”

  “I told you I was a police officer,” Adams said patiently. “You are giving me evidence for an arrest.”

  The girl giggled.

  “Funny man! Didn’t anyone tell you this joint’s got protection?” She made a face at him and closed the door.

  Adams scratched his chin thoughtfully, then moved back to room 10, turned the handle of the door and pushed speculatively. To his surprise the door swung open. He put his hand on the inside wall and groped for the light switch, found it and turned it down.

  The disorder that met his eyes made him step quickly into the room and close the door.

  The room looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. Drawers were pulled out and their contents strewn over the floor. The bedding had been ripped: the mattress stuffing and the pillow feathers were all over the room. The two easy chairs had been ripped to pieces. Pictures had been taken down, and now lay on the floor, their backs torn off. The wardrobe door stood open: suits, shoes, shirts and underwear lay in a disordered heap before the wardrobe.

&nb
sp; Someone had obviously been searching the room for something pretty important, Adams thought, and the search had been as thorough as it had been destructive.

  He walked over to the telephone, lifted the receiver and, when he heard

  Cutler’s voice, he said, “I want you. Come up.”

  While he waited, he examined the room, but found nothing to interest him.

  Cutler came in hurriedly. From the way he was breathing, Adams guessed he had run up the stairs.

  When Cutler saw the disorder, he came to an abrupt standstill.

  “For crying out loud!” he exclaimed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Yarde was out?” Adams asked acidly.

  “I didn’t know he was,” Cutler said. “What the hell’s been going on here?”

  “How do I know? I found it like this. Have you another way out beside the main lobby?”

  “Yeah. At the end of the passage and down the fire escape.”

  “So whoever did this could have come up that way?”

  “I guess so.”

  Adams grunted.

  “There’s a girl in the opposite room. She might have seen something. Bring her here.”

  Cutler hesitated, but the cold, hard light in Adams’ eyes warned him this wasn’t the time to be unco-operative.

  He crossed the passage, opened the opposite door.

  “Hey, Milly, come here a moment.”

  The girl appeared, looked across the passage at the disordered room and her eyes lit up.

  “Gee I Did someone lose something?”

  “Did Yarde go out by the escape last night?” Adams asked.

  “Do I answer this copper’s questions?” she asked Cutler.

  He nodded.

  “Okay, if you say so,” she said, “but I thought this joint had protection.”

  “Did Yarde go out by the escape last night?” Adams snapped.

  “Yes. Everyone uses the escape.”

  “This mess couldn’t have been made without a lot of noise. Didn’t you hear anything?”

  “I had the radio on, but I did hear furniture being pushed around. I didn’t think anything of it.”