Tiger by the Tail Page 7

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  So here it comes, Donovan thought; the little punk has been after me ever since he took over his job. He knows this is a hell of a case to crack — any guy in town could have knocked her off — and he’s going to use it to get rid of me. That’s my luck. A dame gets knocked off, and I find myself in the middle of a political jam.

  “It won’t be easy,” Adams went on. “The guy who killed her might be a nut.” He paused while he crossed one thin leg over the other, lacing his fingers across his knee. “Do you ever say your prayers, Donovan?”

  The big man flushed, stared at Adams, then seeing he was serious, he muttered, “I guess so.”

  “Then take my tip and pray as you’ve never prayed before that this guy isn’t a nut. If he is he may have enjoyed the experience of sticking this doll, and he may do it again. He may get into another cat house and give the press another club to hit us with. This isn’t the only cat house in town. So get after him, Donovan, just in case he is a nut and is planning to do it again.”

  A tap sounded on the door and Donovan opened it.

  Jackson said, “Doc’s here, sergeant.”

  Adams joined Donovan at the door.

  “Come on in, doc,” he said, and waved to the bed. “She’s all yours, and you’re welcome.”

  Doc Summerfeld moved across to the bed. He was a big, fat, red-faced man, bald and placid looking.

  “Hmm, a nice clean job, anyway.”

  Adams wasn’t interested in Summerfeld’s remarks. He went into the sitting-room where the police photographer was setting up his camera.

  “Take your orders from Sergeant Donovan,” Adams said to him and Fletcher. “He’s handling the investigation.”

  Donovan saw the two exchange startled glances.

  They know, he thought bitterly. The first killing in two years, but I get it. They’re not fools. If this had been an easy one I wouldn’t have got it. Well, okay. Maybe for the first time in my life I’ll get a break. I’d like to see the little punk’s face if I did crack it.

  “What’s your first move, sergeant?” Adams asked.

  “I want to know who she was with last night,” Donovan said slowly, carefully picking his words. “She didn’t work the streets, so the guys either knew her or were recommended to her; that puts them in a different class to the ordinary masher. From what the cleaner woman tells me, this girl went for the middle-aged, upper income lecher. Maybe she tried blackmail and got knocked off to keep her mouth shut.”

  He saw both Fletcher and Holtby the photographer, were gaping at him.

  Gape, you punks, he thought. You didn’t imagine I had any ideas, did you?

  “While doc’s working on her, I’ll go talk to the occupants of the other apartments. They may have seen the guy,” he went on.

  “You have a lot of faith, sergeant,” Adams said. “That’s all a tart lives for — to give information to the cops.”

  Holtby sniggered.

  “One of their own people’s been killed,” Donovan said quietly. “May give them an incentive to talk.”

  Adams lifted his eyebrows. He stared at Donovan, his eyes suddenly thoughtful.

  “Quite a psychologist, sergeant,” he said.

  Donovan turned to Fletcher who hurriedly wiped a grin off his face.

  “There’s an ice-pick in the bedroom. Check it for prints. Snap it up! I want a little more action and a lot less standing around from you.”

  Fletcher stiffened.

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  Donovan walked out of the apartment.

  Adams stared after him, then he went back into the bedroom to talk to Summerfeld.

  II

  Raphael Sweeting heard the urgent ring on his frontdoor bell, and he hastily wiped his sweating face on the sleeve of his dressing-gown.

  He had seen the police cars arrive, and he knew, sooner or later, the front-door bell would ring.

  What had happened? he asked himself. Something in the apartment above. He could hear the heavy footfalls overhead. His mind flinched away from murder, but he was sure she had been murdered. Just when he was settling down; just when he had been certain he had succeeded in dropping out of sight.

  The bell rang persistently, and he looked hastily around the dusty, shabbily furnished room. All evidence of his evening activities had been hastily hidden. It had been a business to clear the room, but the arrival of the police cars had at least warned him a police visit was pending.

  The big cupboard against the wall had been crammed with the mass of papers, envelopes, directories and the telephone books he used in his work, and the key had been turned. They wouldn’t dare open the cupboard unless they had a search warrant. Even if they did open it, they couldn’t pin anything on him, but it would tell them he was still up to his old tricks.

  Leo, the Pekinese, crouched in the armchair, staring across the room at the front door. The dog breathed heavily, and looked with frightened eyes at its master as if it knew an enemy was on the far side of the door.

  Sweeting touched the dog’s head gently, but the dog sensed his fear and wasn’t reassured.

  Sweeting crossed the room, turned the key, braced himself and opened the door.

  He stared up at the big man who towered above him, and it was a relief to see it wasn’t Lieutenant Adams. This man he had never seen before.

  “Did you want something?” he asked, trying to smile, but succeeding only in making a fixed grimace.

  “I’m a police officer,” Donovan said. He was asking himself where he had seen this fat little man before. His slow-thinking mind groped into the past, but failed to pin-point the irritatingly familiar features. “Who are you?”

  “Sweeting is the name.” The little man held the door against him, obstructing Donovan’s view into the room. “Is something wrong?”

  “A woman’s been murdered in the apartment above,” Donovan told him. “Did you see anyone going into her apartment last night?”

  Sweeting shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t. I went to bed early; besides, I keep to myself. I don’t pay attention to what goes on in this house.”

  Donovan had a frustrated feeling that he wasn’t being told the truth.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “I’m a heavy sleeper,” Sweeting said. He realized that this big, hard-faced man wasn’t dangerous. He hadn’t been recognized. Sweeting had seen Adams arrive, and he had feared Adams would visit him. He knew the Lieutenant would have recognized him. “I’m sorry I can’t be of assistance to you. I didn’t even know the young woman. I’ve seen her once or twice, of course. We pass on the stairs. Murdered, you say? How dreadful!”

  Donovan glared at him.

  “You saw nobody and you heard nothing?”

  “That’s right. If there’s nothing else, perhaps you will excuse me? You got me out of bed.” Sweeting began to close the door very slowly, smiling at Donovan.

  Donovan couldn’t think of anything else to ask him. He realized he had lost the initiative, as he so often did, but there was nothing he could do about it. He nodded curtly and stepped back.

  With a bland little smile, Sweeting closed the door and Donovan heard the key turn.

  He pushed his hat to the back of his head, rubbed his jaw and crossed the landing to the head of the stairs.

  Where had he seen that fat punk before? he asked himself. Had he a record or had he seen him on the street some time? He was sure Adams would know. Adams never forgot a face. With an angry shrug he went on down the stairs to the next-floor apartment.

  Half an hour later he arrived in the hall; half an hour wasted. No one knew anything.

  A tiny spark of panic was glowing inside him. To have to return to tile

  top apartment and tell Adams, with Fletcher and Holtby listening, that he had discovered nothing, was not to be thought of. Savagely he rammed his thumb into the bell-push of the yellow-painted front door.

  May Christie opened the front door
. She, too, had seen the police cars arrive, and had known she was going to receive a visit from the police. She had fortified herself with a slug of gin, and Donovan could smell it on her breath.

  “I’m a police officer,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”

  He moved forward riding her back into the sitting-room.

  “You can’t come in here,” she protested. “What will people think?”

  “Shut up and sit down!” Donovan snarled.

  Because she was itching with curiosity to know why the police had come to the house, and not because she was intimidated by Donovan, she obeyed him, reaching for a cigarette and lifting her plucked eyebrows at him.

  “What’s biting you?” she demanded.

  “You know Fay Carson?”

  May’s face brightened.

  “Is she in trouble ?” she asked hopefully.

  “She’s been murdered.”

  He watched the quick change of expression and noted with satisfaction the fear that jumped into her eyes.

  “Murdered? Who did it?”

  “She was struck with an ice-pick. We don’t know who did it yet. Was she working last night?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I was out.”

  Donovan drew in a slow exasperated breath.

  “So you didn’t hear or see anything, like the rest of them?”

  “I can’t help it, can I?” May said. “Murdered! Gee! I never liked her, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” She got up and crossed the room to where the gin bottle stood on the window seat. “Excuse me, but my nerves are shot this morning.” She poured a big drink. “Want one?”

  “No. So you didn’t see her last night ?”

  May shook her head, gulped down the gin, thumped herself on her chest and coughed.

  “That’s better. No, I didn’t see her.” Donovan lit a cigarette.

  “This killer may come back,” he said, leaning forward to stare at May. “He may visit you. If you know anything, you’d better spill it.”

  “But I don’t know anything.”

  “Didn’t you see anyone? This would be between one and two o’clock.”

  May stared up at the ceiling. The fumes of the gin made her feel dizzy.

  “I got back around two,” she said. “I did meet a guy in the hall, but he could have come from any of the apartments.”

  Donovan edged forward in his chair.

  “Never mind where he came from. What was he like?”

  “He seemed in a hurry. He nearly knocked me over. He was tall, dark and good-looking. I thought he might like to have a drink.” She gave Donovan a little leer. “You know how it is…”

  “Never mind that,” Donovan said curtly. “How was he dressed?”

  “He had on a light-grey suit and a grey hat.”

  “Would you know him again?”

  “I think so, but he didn’t look like a killer.”

  “They never do. How old would he be ?”

  “About thirty.”

  Donovan grimaced. He remembered the cleaner woman had told him Fay specialized in old guys.

  “Can’t you tell me anything else about him ?”

  “Well, I asked him to have a drink, and he said he was in a hurry. He pushed me aside and ran into the street.”

  “Did he look upset?”

  “I didn’t notice. He just seemed to be in a hell of a hurry.”

  “Did he have a car outside?”

  May shook her head.

  “No one ever parks outside. If they have a car they leave it at the parking lot down the street.”

  Donovan got to his feet.

  “Okay. Keep your eyes open, and if you see this guy again, call headquarters. Understand?”

  It was just after ten o’clock when Donovan walked into Fay’s sittingroom again.

  Doc Summerfield had gone. Adams sat in an armchair, a cigarette between his thin lips, his eyes closed.

  Fletcher and Holtby were working in the bedroom.

  ’Well, what have you got?” Adams asked, opening his eyes. Donovan was having to make an effort to suppress his excitement.

  “A description of a guy who could have done it,” he said. “He was seen leaving the building around two o’clock and he was in a hurry.”

  “Most guys would be in a hurry to leave this joint,” Adams said.

  “I’ve checked back. None of the girls had a guy with them last night answering this one’s description. That must mean he came to see Carson. Doc say when she died?”

  “Around half-past one.”

  “Then he could have done it.”

  “Doesn’t follow. He might have come up here, found her dead, and got out in a hurry.”

  A soft buzzing noise made both men look up. The sound came from the telephone bell. Donovan went over to the bell and stared at it.

  “Look at this: someone’s deadened the bell.”

  Adams picked up the receiver.

  Donovan turned to watch him. He saw Adams frown, then he said, “This is Lieutenant Adams, City Police, talking. Who are you?”

  Donovan heard a click on the line and Adams hung up, shrugging.

  “One of her mashers, I guess,” Adams said. “He certainly got off the line in a hurry.”

  Donovan snatched up the receiver, called the operator and said urgently, “This is the police. Trace that call and snap it up.”

  Adams stared at him his eyes disapproving.

  “What’s the idea? You don’t imagine the killer’s going to call this number, do you?”

  “I want to know who called,” Donovan said obstinately.

  The operator broke in. “The call came from the Eastern National Bank: from a pay booth.”

  “Thanks, sister,” Donovan said, and hung up.

  He went back to the telephone bell.

  “Did she muffle the bell or did the killer?” he said.

  Raising his voice, Adams called Fletcher.

  “Did you check the telephone bell for prints?” he asked, as Fletcher came to the door.

  “Yeah. It’s clean.”

  “Didn’t you see the bell was muffled ?”

  “Sure, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Adams said in disgust. “No prints at all?”

  Fletcher shook his head.

  “Looks like the killer did it,” Donovan said. “She would have left a print.” Adams waved Fletcher away.

  “Better find out if anyone heard the bell ring during the evening.”

  “I’m going down to the bank,” Donovan said. “I want to find out if anyone spotted that caller.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “This girl didn’t work the streets. She had regulars. Guys who recommended her. I want to talk to as many of them as I can find. One of them might be this guy in the grey suit.”

  Adams shrugged.

  “Okay: you might do worse.”

  Donovan hurried out of the room. As he ran down the stairs, be was thinking at last he was getting a break. That’s all he asked for. Given a little luck, he might crack this case, and men he would spit in Adams’ right eye.

  III

  Police Commissioner Paul Howard sat behind his big mahogany desk, a cigar between his strong white teeth, his hard weather-beaten face worried.

  Howard was fifty-one. He was an ambitious man, climbing laboriously up the political ladder, hoping soon to be made a judge and later a senator. He was well in with the political machine, willing to do as he was told, providing the rewards were adequate. He was in a good position to grant favours, and had acquired considerable wealth from the financial tips he had received for turning a blind eye to the corruption and racketeering running rife through the present Administration.

  In an armchair by the window, Captain of Police Joe Motley sat with his legs outstretched, a cigar between his fingers, and his flabby, purplebloomed face expressionless.

  Motley was Howard’s brother-in-law, the only reason why he remained Captain of Police.
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  When Howard first took over office, Motley realized his own job was in jeopardy. Motley had no interest in the police force. He was a racing man, but his position was a useful one and he had no intention of losing it. He was a judge of character, and it didn’t take him long to discover Howard’s weakness for young, attractive girls.

  Gloria, Motley’s kid sister, was young and more than attractive. Motley had had little difficulty in persuading her to show off her charms before Howard.

  Within a month Howard had married her, realizing when it was too late that the Captain of Police he planned to get rid of was now his brother-inlaw.

  From that time on Motley was sacrosanct. Howard quickly found that if