Fiala nodded and described how he’d gone to see Luis Espina, the fibre-gatherer who’d discovered the body of the dead girl. With a series of tactful questions he’d finally gotten the old man to admit that he’d actually witnessed the murder.
“If this is true,” Quevedo put in, “why didn’t Espina come forward and say so?”
“He couldn’t,” Fiala replied, “because at the time of the murder he didn’t recognize Santiago. All he knew was that the killer drove off in a blue and white Cadillac. That was significant. I continued to question him and he produced a vivid description of the driver, but not his identity. That came later when I pressed him.
“He then admitted that he’d watched the spectacle last night. The lights drew him from his house, and he saw Santiago gun down Manuel Domingo. That’s when he recognized him as the murderer of Rosa Belmonte.”
Quevedo nodded and said, “The word of a confused old man. His story won’t hold water. Besides Domingo admitted his guilt at the scene of the crime by attempting to escape.”
“Admitted his guilt?” Fiala smiled and shook his head. “That was the one fact I knew from the beginning, that he wasn’t guilty. You see, Manuel Domingo couldn’t have killed Rosa Belmonte, he wasn’t in the city that day. I know. I trailed him to San Rafael with the expectation of catching him in one of his activities, dealing in marijuana.
“He remained at a bar in San Rafael till evening, and his contact never appeared. Perhaps he knew I’d trailed him. At any rate, the deal didn’t come off. At nine he headed back to the city. By that time Rosa Belmonte was dead.”
At this point Quevedo was convinced of the truth of Fiala’s charge, but one thing was unclear. “Why did Santiago pick Domingo for a victim?” he wanted to know.
Fiala smiled again and clarified the point. “One,” he said, holding up a finger. “Domingo’s reputation was bad; the charge appeared to suit his character. Two: Santiago and Domingo were partners. Domingo controlled the red light district, with the help of Santiago. They quarreled over money. Santiago claimed that Domingo was holding out on him. He probably was, so Santiago found it doubly convenient to eliminate him.”
Quevedo nodded. It was all clear now, too clear. He frowned and his face paled. If revealed, Santiago’s terrible act would threaten his own position. Frightened, his eyes met Fiala’s.
The detective had read his thoughts, understood his predicament and said, “Of course, Santiago should be brought to justice, but to arrest him would prove most embarrassing to you.”
Badly shaken, Quevedo nodded, but he was still alert. Fiala’s statement implied more than it said.
“What do you suggest?” Quevedo asked.
Fiala moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Speak to Santiago,” he answered. “Give him the facts.”
“And if he denies them?”
“If he does, tell him he’ll be placed under arrest. After what has taken place—” Here Fiala shrugged. “You can not guarantee his safety from the mob. I think he’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Call him and see.”
Quevedo glanced at the phone and hesitated, giving Fiala the opportunity to rise from his chair. “I’m going for coffee. I’ll be back,” he said and left Quevedo to deliver his terrible message.
Ten-minutes later he returned to the Mayor’s office. Quevedo was still troubled. He said nothing. Fiala sat and reached for his cigarettes. At that moment the phone rang. Quevedo picked up the instrument, listened briefly and placed it back on its cradle.
“Santiago just shot himself,” he announced.
Having foreseen this, Fiala merely shrugged and said, “But, of course. He had no alternative.”
At this point, Quevedo saw Fiala in a new light. The fellow was devilishly clever and had saved him from his enemies. “I am in your debt,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied Fiala.
“Ah, but I am,” Quevedo insisted. “Besides, I have no Police Chief now. Would you consider the office?”
Fiala grinned and, to the consternation of Quevedo, shook his head. “But why not?” said Quevedo. “I don’t understand. Think of what it means to be Chief of Police.”
“In this city,” Fiala replied, “it means to have much power, and power corrupts.”
“It would corrupt you?” Quevedo asked.
“I am of flesh and blood. Perhaps it might, but I doubt it.”
“Then why refuse?”
“Because the job doesn’t interest me. It’s as simple as that,” Fiala answered and rose from his chair to light a cigarette. With that, he walked to the door.
Still puzzled, Quevedo watched him, then said, “But you must want something. What do I owe you?”
His hand on the doorknob, Fiala turned. “Nothing,” he answered. “Just be more careful when you pick the new Chief of Police.”
The Nameless Clue
by Helen McCloy
Not only was Benda a vicious racketeer posing as a reputable business man... he had the police under his thumb. And that called for a special kind of murder probe.
Alec Norton was startled. He could only incredulously echo his chief’s words. “You mean you want me to sleep in a room where murder has just been committed?”
“Why not?” Dave Tanner, feature editor of the Syndicated Press, stood in his office his back to a window overlooking the harbor. His head was dark against the pale winter sky. A smile tugged one corner of his hard mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of ghosts.”
Norton, grinned wryly as he stared at Tanner. “Fun’s fun, chief, but I’m no Mike Shayne. I’m a feature writer and—”
“You won’t be a feature writer for long unless you learn to take assignments without squawking!” snapped Tanner. “Listen, Alec, this may be a big story — bigger than you think. There’s been too many unsolved murders in Pearson City lately.”
“Okay, I’m a wage slave,” Alec Norton said, grumbling. “Let’s have the dope.”
“Diana Clark was murdered in a suite at the Hotel Westmore in Pearson City. There were signs of a violent struggle — chairs overturned, blood on the rug, blood in the bathtub where the murderer appears to have washed his hands. But there were no clues — absolutely no clues of any kind.” Dave Tanner paused.
Norton said slowly and distinctly, “Nerts!”
“That’s what I think. Where there’s been a struggle there are bound to be clues. But the police have dropped the case. I want you to go to Pearson City and find out why. Take the same plane Diana Clark took and get there at the same time. Go to the same hotel and occupy the same suite. Eleven hundred and five.”
“Will the hotel let someone have it so soon after the crime?”
“Why not? The police have finished with it. When a murder is committed in a hotel, the scene of the crime is always rented sooner or later. The number of the suite hasn’t been published in any newspaper. To the hotel people, you’ll just be an innocent transient who happens to ask for that particular suite. Once inside, keep your eyes open!”
“For what?” Norton was frankly skeptical. “The police will have gone over every square inch of the place with a fine-tooth comb. The hotel people will have scoured and vacuumed it. Ten to one, it’s been redecorated!”
“I’m betting on the chance they may have overlooked something,” said Tanner. “Interview the bellboy and chambermaid who waited on Clark. Study the topography of the suite. Try to imagine you’re going to be murdered yourself the night you arrive between eleven p.m. and one a.m.”
Alec Norton smirked. “Cheerful way to spend an evening! Hey,” he said, “suppose the murderer should return to the scene of the crime!”