“Tiemann himself,” said Paradine. “Eight days ago. Tiemann was a loose-talking slob, after a few shots. I ran into him in a saloon. He always thought I was a joke; funniest thing in town. He was full, and unbuttoned his mouth. Nothing anybody could use in court. I remember I said, ‘Well, Tiemann, how’s vice, crime and corruption?’ and he said, If it ain’t Saint Cecilia in long pants!’ and we had that kind of thing back and forth a while, and pretty soon he was crying into the beer and saying he knew he’d wind up with a dose of lead and what the hell was the good of anything and why couldn’t he go home and see if his old mother remembered him.
“After a while a little parrot-nosed guy came in and walked him off more or less right side up. Sure; the same parrot-nose I was telling you about before, the one I saw at Hanifin’s tonight. But before that happened, Tiemann had been saying to me: ‘Paradine, that damn kid, Holden, thinks he can buy out my trade. He’s a young man that wants to get ahead. When I turn up on a cold slab, you and your flatfoot pals can just remember what I said about Pete Holden.’ ”
“Pete,” Molly said, “Pete Holden is my husband.”
“Well, Molly, that’s quite a beginning. Go on from there.”
She twisted her hands together; forced out each word:
“Dad took on Pete, two years ago. Sort of partnership; Pete put up a little money and we made some improvements. I... we got married. I was crazy about him. I am. He’s all right. He is not mixed up in the rackets. Tiemann was lying to you, just wanted to get Pete into more trouble, by saying that to you...
“It was about two years ago that Tiemann’s gang started putting pressure on us. Dad had made a sort of fresh start with the Bar and Grill, after Prohibition ended, and Tiemann’s gang — well, I know they’d been in bootlegging, because Tiemann himself tried once to make Dad turn the place into a speakeasy.
“When the bottom dropped out of bootlegging they started the protection racket, taking in places like ours that didn’t have a lot of money and influence to use in fighting back. Dad fought. He never paid Tiemann a cent. Tiemann warned Dad he’d get him. Dad just laughed and told him where he could go. And Tiemann didn’t do anything right away; didn’t smash up our place the way he did some others. He worked slow; passed around nasty stories about us. Dad said they were nothing but a pack of yellow rats; said he could afford to sit tight and wait till the city got around to fumigating...
“Then after a while Tiemann went to work on Dad, through me. Began by passing around stories about me, stories that came home to Dad and made him wild. And then Tiemann began really wanting me. Oh, he took his time and made a big play for me. Gave me a line about wanting to quit the rackets and reform. I wouldn’t have any of that, so he started to use threats. Things that were going to happen to Dad if I wouldn’t be ‘reasonable.’ You can imagine.”
“I can imagine,” said Paradine mildly.
“Pete and I kept our marriage sort of secret, except from Dad. Pete sort of wanted it that way, until he’d earned enough to give me a home. Somehow or other Tiemann learned about it. He began telling me things that would happen to Pete. Pete didn’t and still doesn’t know that Tiemann was after me. I didn’t dare tell him. I kept Tiemann off. But I couldn’t have kept it up much longer; he wouldn’t have stood it. He was the kind to go crazy for anything he didn’t have. I — oh, I’m sick. I’m tired. I can’t think.”
“Take it easy. So you did kill Tiemann?”
“No!” Molly cried. “I went there last Tuesday night, sure. I went there with my mind made up to either give in to him or kill him. I thought I could kill him... He was sure he had me. He wasn’t in any hurry then. He lounged around and tried to get me drunk. Sat there staring at me, saying how nice it was I’d decided to be reasonable — reasonable. That was his big word. Staring at me and scratching his cheek, like the way he had. I found I couldn’t do either. I couldn’t give in and couldn’t kill him. I started to go; he grabbed me and I fought. That’s how he got my hand-bag. He wasn’t strong. I shoved him over, and his head hit the edge of a table and he didn’t move and I thought maybe I’d killed him after all. I didn’t care, then, but I was afraid. I didn’t shoot him...
“I went home. They came for me in the morning. The police. Pete was out. Dad didn’t understand. I tried to tell him it was all some mistake. He wanted to fight ’em. They grabbed his arms...”
Paradine waited a while before he urged her gently: “And when the gang shot up the police car and kidnaped you?”
“I don’t understand all of that. One of the kidnapers struck me on the head after they got me in their car. I didn’t come out of it for a long while. When I did I was tied up in some wretched room, and Salter came in.”
“Salter? One of Tiemann’s friends?”
“A partner. He must be boss now, from the way he spoke. He thought I’d killed Tiemann. He said he’d taken me from the cops because he didn’t want me to beat the rap the way I would, he said, if it got to a jury. But that wasn’t his real reason. He thought I had something, a confession, that Tiemann had made him write. Salter was furious. I pieced it out from things he said. It seems Salter killed a man — it was that Banks’ hold-up and murder, about a year ago. A jeweler was held up and shot. Salter did that; Tiemann made him write a confession and held it over him. Salter thought I had this confession.”
“In other words,” said Paradine with a new queer light in his eyes, “this Salter used to go by the name of Gus Snyder?”
“Yes.”
“They dragged him in for the Steve Banks’ murder, but there wasn’t evidence enough and the grand jury had to chuck it without an indictment. A confession would turn the trick nicely, with what the cops already have.”
“I suppose.” Molly’s head drooped; her words were coming with difficulty; she was ready to drop. “Anyhow, Salter thought I had this confession; thought I’d got it out of Tiemann’s safe, and he wanted to know where it was. I couldn’t tell him, and he said he’d burn it out of me. After that, he said, he’d see I didn’t beat the rap — he’d deal it out to me himself. He meant it. He’s cold; he’s horrible. I was never afraid of Tiemann the way I was afraid of him. A small man, with a hooked nose.”
“I know,” said Paradine. “He reads newspapers. When I saw him this evening I was still fondly thinking of him as Gus Snyder.”
“He left me alone after a while; another man set me free. I don’t know who it was; his face was covered. I did see rings on his fingers. Another small man.”
“Ferenczi,” said Paradine laconically.
“And he’s dead? He said they’d kill him if they knew he’d set me free, but he couldn’t stand it to see Salter give me the works. He wasn’t one of Salter’s men. He came in when the room was dark and untied me and took me out the back way through an alley. And he’s dead...”
“Yeah; he’s dead. Died apparently trying to tell Pete where you were. I wonder how he knew where to find you.”
“I don’t know,” Molly groaned. “Well, I went down alone to the Bar and Grill. Found Dad alone. Pete was away. When Dad saw me, he... he always loved me so much—”
“So the two of you went to that empty house and hid out.”
“He wasn’t hiding!” Molly said. “He... well, he left a note telling Pete to carry on while he was away for a few days. Pete still thinks the police have me, you see, since they kept the snatch out of the papers. Dad said that the less Pete knew, the less he’d be in danger from the mob... We were in that house two days and nights. Dad went away twice; he’d tried to make me tell where that hide-out of Salter’s was, and I wouldn’t because I knew what he’d do, but he said he’d find out anyway. Then, somehow, they found out where we were. They found Dad, when I’d gone out. Oh, why didn’t they kill me. I was what they wanted.”