‘Not much I can do until we get organised,’ he said. ‘They’l pick up the Packard fast enough if it’s in town. Maybe I’d better take a look at Gil is.’
‘I’ve been thinking about him,’ Dal as said. ‘The set-up is a little delicate. It mightn’t be such a bad idea if you didn’t see him tonight. When you do see him, he’s going to talk. He’s going to tell you it was the Rajah’s money that financed Hater’s escape. Might be awkward to have to arrest the Rajah. He’s a big shot in his own country.’
Olin grunted.
‘I couldn’t care less if he was Gandhi himself.’
‘No, maybe you couldn’t but the State Department might.’ Dal as stubbed out his cigaret e. ‘It would save complications if the Rajah was tipped off that trouble was heading his way. He might pack his trunks and return home. If he did, you’d be let out of a tricky situation.’
‘Are you working for this guy?’ Olin demanded aggressively.
Dallas shook his head.
‘I’m figuring it from your angle, George. I wouldn’t like you to get in bad with the State Department.’
Olin hesitated.
‘I’ve got to see Gil is,’ he said obstinately.
‘Did I tel you I broke his jaw? As soon as he was booked he was shipped off to hospital. He isn’t fit enough to talk tonight.’
Olin stared at Dallas, then suddenly grinned.
‘I’m going downstairs for a moment,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’d like to talk to your friend the Rajah.’
‘Yeah, I might at that,’ Dal as said, and reached for the phone.
Olin went down to the information room.
‘Lieutenant,’ the desk sergeant said, ‘a message’s just come in. A blue Packard’s been found in 25th Street. There’s a body of a man in it.’
Olin’s eyes lit up.
‘Who found it?’
‘O’Brien, sir. It’s on his beat. He’s just phoned through.’
‘I’ll go myself. Tel Morris to come on after me with the squad. I’l want ten uniformed men as well.
Have ’em out there fast.’
Olin went quickly down the steps to where his car was parked. He drove away fast, his siren blasting.
Three minutes later another police car, followed by an Emergency Squad truck, went tearing down the street after Olin.
Olin found the shabby 25th Street blocked either end by a big crowd of curious sightseers. There were three prowl-cars drawn up by the sidewalk. The patrol men were keeping the crowd well away from the big blue Packard that stood under a lamp standard, its driving door open.
Olin pushed his way through the crowd and walked down the street to the Packard.
O’Brien, a big, beefy man with greying hair and keen blue eyes, saluted.
‘What have you got there, Tim?’ Olin asked, pausing beside the Packard.
‘I’m making a guess, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien said, ‘but it’s my bet it’s Hater.’
‘Hater?’
Olin moved forward and peered into the car.
‘At the back, under the blanket,’ O’Brien said. ‘I left him how I found him.’
Olin opened the rear door as more police sirens wailed through the night. He lifted the blanket, and O’Brien threw the beam of his powerful flashlight over Olin’s shoulders.
They both stared at the emaciated, half-naked, mud-streaked body, and at the bluish-white face. The adhesive bandage across the mouth had cut deeply, and the flesh each side of it had swollen, giving the dead face a grotesque, horrifying appearance.
‘What makes you think it’s Hater?’ Olin asked.
‘I once worked at Bel more Farm, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien explained. ‘That’s their uniform,’ and he touched the mud-soaked trousers.
‘Ever seen Hater?’
‘I’ve seen pictures of him. Looks like him: same eyebrows.’
‘Yeah,’ Olin said, and stepped back. The stench in the car made him feel ill.
Morris came running up.
‘It’s Hater,’ Olin said.
‘What do you know?’ Morris gaped into the car. ‘He’s got his hands tied.’
‘You’l be tel ing me he’s dead next,’ Olin snapped. ‘Isn’t that damned ambulance coming?’
‘Yes, sir. Should be here any second now.’
Olin looked up and down the shabby street.
‘Isn’t this the street we cornered Baird in last time?’
Morris nodded.
‘Yeah, I guess it is.’
‘Maybe he’s still around.’ Olin looked up expectantly at the roofs of the buildings. ‘Get four men up there. The rest of them had better go from house to house and find out if anyone’s seen Baird.’
While Morris went off to get his men posted, the two interns, who had got off the newly arrived ambulance, carried Hater from the car to the sidewalk. They laid him on a stretcher, and one of them carefully removed the adhesive bandage from his mouth.
‘What did he die of?’ Olin asked, pul ing fiercely on his cigar.
‘Heart failure, from the look of him,’ the intern said. ‘I’d say he’s been dead for two or three days.’
‘What’s the stink in the car, for Gawd’s sake?’
‘Gangrene,’ the intern told him. ‘It’s not from this guy.’
Olin stroked his jaw.
‘Pret y bad?’
‘I’d say it was bad. Whoever owns that stench is about ready for a wreath.’
A patrolman came up and saluted Olin.
‘Lieutenant, there’s a guy wanting to speak to you,’ he said. ‘Name of Dal as. Shal I let him through?’
Olin hesitated, then shrugged.
‘Yeah, let him through.’
Dallas joined Olin.
‘What have you got?’ he asked, looking at the body on the stretcher.
‘Hater,’ Olin said. ‘Not much doubt about it. O’Brien here has seen a picture of him.’
Dallas blew out his cheeks.
‘That’s sweet, isn’t it? The only guy in the world who knows where the Chittabad collection is, and he has to croak. Think he told Baird where it was cached before he handed in his pail?’
Olin shrugged.
‘Looks like Baird’s badly hurt. Someone who’s been in that car’s got gangrene. He couldn’t have got far.’
Dallas looked thoughtfully down the street at the gaping crowd. Then he frowned, peered forward, stared, and turning, caught hold of Olin’s arm.
‘I think I can guess where Baird is,’ he said. ‘See that girl in the front row? The one with a scarf over her head.’
Olin looked in the direction.
‘What of her?’
‘She’s Baird’s girl. She lives across the way. No. 30, on the top floor. It’s my bet Baird’s up there right now.’
‘How the hel do you know all this?’ Olin snarled. ‘If you’ve been holding out on me…!’
‘Burns found out about her,’ Dal as explained. ‘I didn’t know until tonight.’
‘There are a lot of things you didn’t know until tonight,’ Olin said angrily. ‘You’re sure that’s Baird’s girl?’
‘Yeah.’
Olin turned to O’Brien.
‘That girl with the scarf on her head. Bring her over here.’
‘Miss Jackson?’ O’Brien looked startled. ‘Excuse me, Lieutenant, you’re sure you want her?’
Olin glared at him.
‘That’s what I said! What is she — untouchable or something?’
‘Sorry, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien said uncomfortably. ‘I know most people on my beat, and she’s a good girl. She works hard and keeps to herself. She’s never been in any trouble, and that’s saying something in this street.’
‘Wel , she’s in trouble now,’ Olin snapped. ‘Bring her here.’
O’Brien saluted and walked stiffly down the street. He went up to Anita, said something, took her elbow and brought her back to Olin.