Tiger By The Tail Part 9

Donovan stood in the doorway, tense and silent, watching him.

"Doc coming?" Adams asked, without turning.

"On his way now, Lieutenant," Donovan said.

Adams leaned forward and put his hand on Fay's arm.

"Been dead about six hours at a guess."

"That icepick, Lieutenant ..."

Adams looked at the icepick lying on the floor and then turned to stare at Donovan.

"What about it?"

The big man flushed.

"I guess it's the murder weapon," he said, wis.h.i.+ng he hadn't spoken.

Adams raised his thin, white eyebrows.

"That's smart of you. I was thinking it was something she took to bed with her to pare her nails. So you think it's the murder weapon?" His eyes lit up. "What else could it be, you fool? Keep your G.o.dd.a.m.n mouth shut!"

He turned away and began to move about the room while Donovan watched him, his eyes dark with hate.

"What have you found out about her?" Adams snapped.

"She's only been on the game for a year," Donovan told him. "She used to dance at the Blue Rose. She had no record, and she didn't work the streets."

Adams turned.

"Come in and shut the door."

Donovan did as he was told. He knew from past experience, and by Adams' quiet stillness, that something unpleasant was coming, and inwardly he braced himself.

"The press haven't got on to this yet, have they?" Adams asked mildly. He sat on the edge of the bed, moving Fay's foot to give himself more room. The body so close to him might not have been there for all the feeling he showed.

"No, Lieutenant." Donovan had a horror of the press. In the past he had had a lot of adverse criticism in the two local papers. They were always calling for better police action, and had singled him out for their more caustic remarks.

"They'll have to be told, but not until this afternoon. Give it to them in time for a stop press," Adams went on. "You'll have all day today and most of the night to get something for the morning's papers. This is the first killing we have had recently. They'll go to town it. The Herald's been picking on the Administration now for months. This will give them a club to beat us with unless we crack it fast." He reached out a thin, dry hand and patted Fay's knee. "She didn't amount to a d.a.m.n while she was alive, but dead, Donovan, she becomes a very important person. You don't know what's going on behind the scenes at this moment, and you don't need to know, but this killing could be dynamite: a lot of people in the Administration could lose their jobs. It only wanted this to happen to set off the spark. Lindsay Burt has the backing of the press; the voters love him. He's been after the big boys for years, and in case you don't know, the Commissioner is a big boy, and Burt hates his guts. Burt's got a lot of ammunition. This killing could be his gun. Here in Lessington Avenue, less than a hundred yards from City Hall, is an apartment house full of tarts. Won't that make juicy reading after the Commissioner has stated again and again that this town is as clean as a whistle?" He stubbed out his cigarette into the ash bowl on the bedside table and fixed his eyes on Donovan's face. "I'm telling you all this so you don't kid yourself this case doesn't mean much. It does. It'll be headline news for as long as the case is unsolved, and you, Donovan, are going to solve. You can have all the help you want. You can have my advice for what it's worth, but the work, the credit or the discredit, is yours. Do you understand?"

"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 h.e.l.l 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 cla.s.s 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 sn.i.g.g.e.red.

"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 icepick 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 frontdoor 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 ma.s.s 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 rea.s.sured.

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 pinpoint 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 a.s.sistance to you. I didn't even know the young woman. I've seen her once or twice, of course. We pa.s.s on the stairs. Murdered, you say? How dreadful!"

Donovan glared at him.

"You saw n.o.body 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 the 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 icepick. 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.