The dark man didn’t answer. He moved slowly to the desk, leaned forward a little, spoke softly to the dead man.
«Goodbye, Donny. Just let it all go. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of Belle.»
The door at the end of the office opened and a brisk man with a bag came in, trotted down the blue carpet and put his bag on the desk. The sandy-haired man shut the door against a bulge of faces. He strolled back to the desk.
The brisk man cocked his head on one side, examining the corpse. «Two of them,» he muttered. «Look like about .32’s — hard slugs. Close to the heart but not touching. He must have died pretty soon. Maybe a minute or two.»
The dark man made a disgusted sound and walked to the window, stood with his back to the room, looking out, at the tops of high buildings and a warm blue sky. The sandy-haired man watched the examiner lift a dead eyelid. He said: «Wish the powder guy would get here. I wanta use the phone. This Imlay —»
The dark man turned his head slightly, with a dull smile. «Use it. This isn’t going to be any mystery.»
«Oh I don’t know,» the M.E.’s man said, flexing a wrist, then holding the back of his hand against the skin of the dead man’s face. «Might not be so damn political as you think, Delaguerra. He’s a good-looking stiff.»
The sandy-haired man took hold of the phone gingerly, with a handkerchief, laid the receiver down, dialed, picked the receiver up with the handkerchief and put it to his ear.
After a moment he snapped his chin down, said: «Pete Marcus. Wake the Inspector.» He yawned, waited again, then spoke in a different tone: «Marcus and Delaguerra, Inspector, from Donegan Marr’s office. No print or camera men here yet … Huh? … Holding off till the Commissioner gets here? … Okey … Yeah, he’s here.»
The dark man turned. The man at the phone gestured at him. «Take it, Spanish.»
Sam Delaguerra took the phone, ignoring the careful handkerchief, listened. His face got hard. He said quietly: «Sure I knew him — but I didn’t sleep with him … Nobody’s here but his secretary, a girl. She phoned the alarm in. There’s a name on a pad — Imlay, a twelve-fifteen appointment. No, we haven’t touched anything yet … No … Okey, right away.»
He hung up so slowly that the click of the instrument was barely audible. His hand stayed on it, then fell suddenly and heavily to his side. His voice was thick.
«I’m called off it, Pete. You’re to hold it down until Commissioner Drew gets here. Nobody gets in. White, black or Cherokee Indian.»
«What you called in for?» the sandy-haired man yelped angrily.
«Don’t know. It’s an order,» Delaguerra said tonelessly.
The M.E.’s man stopped writing on a form pad to look curiously at Delaguerra, with a sharp, sidelong look.
Delaguerra crossed the office and went through the communicating door. There was a smaller office outside, partly partitioned off for a waiting room, with a group of leather chairs and a table with magazines. Inside a counter was a typewriter desk, a safe, some filing cabinets. A small dark girl sat at the desk with her head down on a wadded handkerchief. Her hat was crooked on her head. Her shoulders jerked and her thick sobs were like panting.
Delaguerra patted her shoulder. She looked up at him with a tear-bloated face, a twisted mouth. He smiled down at her questioning face, said gently: «Did you call Mrs. Marr yet?»
She nodded, speechless, shaken with rough sobs. He patted her shoulder again, stood a moment beside her, then went on out, with his mouth tight and a hard, dark glitter in his black eyes.
THREE
The big English house stood a long way back from the narrow, winding ribbon of concrete that was called De Neve Lane. The lawn had rather long grass with a curving path of stepping stones half hidden in it. There was a gable over the front door and ivy on the wall. Trees grew all around the house, close to it, made it a little dark and remote.
All the houses in De Neve Lane had that same calculated air of neglect. But the tall green hedge that hid the driveway and the garages was trimmed as carefully as a French poodle, and there was nothing dark or mysterious about the mass of yellow and flame-colored gladioli that flared at the opposite end of the lawn.
Delaguerra got out of a tan-colored Cadillac touring car that had no top. It was an old model, heavy and dirty. A taut canvas formed a deck over the back part of the car. He wore a white linen cap and dark glasses and had changed his blue serge for a gray cloth outing suit with a jerkin-style zipper jacket.
He didn’t look very much like a cop. He hadn’t looked very much like a cop in Donegan Marr’s office. He walked slowly up the path of stepping stones, touched a brass knocker on the front door of the house, then didn’t knock with it. He pushed a bell at the side, almost hidden by the ivy.
There was a long wait. It was very warm, very silent. Bees droned over the warm bright grass. There was the distant whirring of a lawnmower.
The door opened slowly and a black face looked out at him, a long, sad black face with tear streaks on its lavender face powder. The black face almost smiled, said haltingly: «Hello there, Mistah Sam. It’s sure good to see you.»
Delaguerra took his cap off, swung the dark glasses at his side. He said: «Hello, Minnie. I’m sorry. I’ve got to see Mrs. Marr.»
«Sure. Come right in, Mistah Sam.»
The maid stood aside and he went into a shadowy hall with a tile floor. «No reporters yet?»
The girl shook her head slowly. Her warm brown eyes were stunned, doped with shock.
«Ain’t been nobody yet … She ain’t been in long. She ain’t said a word. She just stand there in that there sun room that ain’t got no sun.»
Delaguerra nodded, said: «Don’t talk to anybody, Minnie. They’re trying to keep this quiet for a while, out of the papers.»
«Ah sure won’t, Mistah Sam. Not nohow.»
Delaguerra smiled at her, walked noiselessly on crêpe soles along the tiled hall to the back of the house, turned into another hall just like it at right angles. He knocked at a door. There was no answer. He turned the knob and went into a long narrow room that was dim in spite of many windows. Trees grew close to the windows, pressing their leaves against the glass. Some of the windows were masked by long cretonne drapes.
The tall girl in the middle of the room didn’t look at him. She stood motionless, rigid. She stared at the windows. Her hands were tightly clenched at her sides.
She had red-brown hair that seemed to gather all the light there was and make a soft halo around her coldly beautiful face. She wore a sportily cut blue velvet ensemble with patch pockets. A white handkerchief with a blue border stuck out of the breast pocket, arranged carefully in points, like a foppish man’s handkerchief.
Delaguerra waited, letting his eyes get used to the dimness. After a while the girl spoke through the silence, in a low, husky voice.
«Well … they got him, Sam. They got him at last. Was he so much hated?»
Delaguerra said softly: «He was in a tough racket, Belle. I guess he played it as clean as he could, but he couldn’t help but make enemies.»
She turned her head slowly and looked at him. Lights shifted in her hair. Gold glinted in it. Her eyes were vividly, startlingly blue. Her voice faltered a little, saying: «Who killed him, Sam? Have they any ideas?»
Delaguerra nodded slowly, sat down in a wicker chair, swung his cap and glasses between his knees.
«Yeah. We think we know who did it. A man named Imlay, an assistant in the D.A.’s office.»