McKenzie took her cigarette from her and tossed it to the floor. He stamped it out, neither of them caring about the ashes left behind on the carpet. Their mouths came together, hungry and searching. Violet let herself be swept away, though in the back of her mind, she still saw Miles and his bloody, bloody face.
Chapter IV
Sidney Morehouse’s home was in a seedy part of town, the sort of area that nice girls simply didn’t go into. Violet had been here many times and she always left feeling like she needed to rush home and take a lingering bath.
The house was a single-story affair with a brick exterior. The shingles on the roof looked in poor repair, with several of them peeling away from the structure. A single car was parked in the driveway, a green-colored 1935 Plymouth Deluxe rumble seat coup.
McKenzie was dressed in his full uniform, which was unusual for him. Generally he wore a suit and tie, with his badge pinned to the front of his coat. But today he was in police blues and Violet had to admit it looked good on him. For her part, she wore a knee length hip hugging skirt and a blouse that buttoned up the front, leaving an ample amount of cleavage on display. A small black jacket kept her arms warm and a purse was held tightly in her right hand. The purse was empty save for one thing: her Smith & Wesson Hand Ejector II.
McKenzie knocked on the door but after several moments there was no answer. He repeated the action, looking at Violet when there was no sound of movement within. “Maybe he’s bolted town,” he suggested.
Violet moved around to peer into the front window. She could see the living room, where the furnishings consisted of a long red cloth couch, a mismatched brown chair, a low table and a large radio perched on another table. On the low table lay an ashtray. A smoking cigarette had been stamped out in it recently. A thin trail of the noxious fumes was still rising from the ashes. “He’s either still in there or just left.”
McKenzie nodded. He took a step back and raised his foot. He brought it crashing down against the door. The entrance remained blocked but the wooden barrier had cracked.
“Don’t you need a warrant before you go breaking and entering?”
“Not if there’s an immediate danger. I thought I heard a scream from in there. Didn’t you?” McKenzie took a step back and then drove his left shoulder against the door. Already weakened, it gave way and McKenzie tumbled into the foyer. He kept his feet, drawing his pistol.
Violet followed him in and noted that a light had been left on in the bathroom. She peeked in and saw that the toilet lid was sitting up and several glistening drops of urine lay around the mouth of the bowl.
The sound of something being knocked over echoed through the house, followed by hurried footsteps. Violet sprinted as fast as she could in her tight skirt and heels, reaching the source of the sound just behind McKenzie. A small-framed dark man of medium height was in the bedroom, desperately trying to force open a window so he might escape.
McKenzie pointed his revolver at the man and barked, “Stay right there unless you want a bullet to the head!”
The man’s shoulders slumped and he turned to face the police chief, a sickly smile on his lips. Violet got a good look at the man now and she didn’t particularly like what she saw. The fellow had black hair that glistened wetly against his skull. He wore a pinstriped suit that was obviously expensive but which was a bit too tight for current fashion. His lips were full and a thin moustache that looked a bit like smudged ink covered the upper portion of his mouth. His eyes were sunken and slightly bulbous, with a yellowish hue to them. He wore gloves and a black derby hat dangled between the fingers of his left hand.
“Who are you? Where’s Morehouse?” McKenzie demanded. That this fellow wasn’t the athletically built Morehouse described by Abby went without saying.
The man fidgeted a bit before answering. “My name is Lazlo Bane. I am a friend of Mr. Morehouse.”
“Why didn’t you answer the door?”
Bane swallowed nervously before finally spreading his arms in helpless desperation. “I am a liar. I do not know Mr. Morehouse. I came here to speak to him, only to find the front door unlocked. When I entered, I meant to wait for him in the living room. When you knocked the first time, I peeked outside and saw you were in uniform. I panicked and tried to escape.”
Violet strode over to him and without preamble began to rifle through his coat pockets. Her hand came back with a pack of cigarettes matching the type that was in the ashtray out front. “Had a little smoke while you were waiting?”
“Yes,” Bane said in confusion.
McKenzie gestured for Bane to lead the way to the living room. The three of them each took a seat, with McKenzie and Violet on the couch and Bane in the chair. “Start talking,” McKenzie said. “Why are you here? What’s your business with Morehouse? And why’d you run when you saw I was a cop?”
Bane reached for the cigarettes that Violet still held. “May I?” Violet allowed him to take one of the smokes and even held a lighter for him. He took three long puffs before speaking again. His voice seemed calmer now but his eyes kept drifting to the floor. “I will answer the last question first, if I may. I have not always been on the right side of the law. In fact, I spent three years in a federal prison for my role in a bank robbery. I drove the getaway car, you see. I’m a free and honest man now but seeing you there brought back old memories. I was afraid you would question why I was in another man’s house.”
Violet leaned forward, making sure that her cleavage was clearly displayed. She wasn’t averse to using her beauty to sway a man but from the clearly uninterested glance that Bane gave her, she knew that she wasn’t his type. Straightening, she asked, “How do you know Morehouse?”
“I don’t. I’ve never met the man. I was sent here by my employer to speak to Mr. Morehouse about an object that’s supposedly in his possession. My employer would like to buy it and he’s quite willing to pay an ample amount for it.”
“Who’s your employer?” Violet asked.
“I… I am not in a position to say. My employer values his privacy.” Bane was twisting the brim of his hat as he spoke, the lit cigarette in his free hand.
McKenzie was still holding his pistol with the barrel pointed directly at Bane. “What is it that Morehouse has? What’s worth — what did you call it? An ample amount?”
Bane hesitated, his eyes straying upwards. His gaze lingered on Violet for a moment and finally he leaned forward, setting his cigarette into the ashtray on the table between them. “Are you Walter Cambridge’s wife?”
Violet couldn’t hide her astonishment. “Yes. You knew my husband?”
“Not personally, no. But from what I have heard, he was a very good man. He knew about this object that I seek. In fact, my employer hired Mr. Cambridge and Mr. Knopf to find it for him. Your husband was killed while attempting to retrieve it.”
Violet’s heart fluttered. She’d never known many details about Walter’s death. According to Miles, Walter had been working on a simple missing person’s case when he’d been shot several times by a hoodlum. The wounds had been so severe that the funeral had been a closed casket one, the killer never being caught.
Bane looked away again, now using both hands to mangle the brim of his bowler hat. “I am not at liberty to divulge everything about the object in question but it is about 18 inches in height and carved from obsidian. It is an ancient object that predates all known civilizations on this continent. It first appeared over six years ago, unearthed during an archaeological dig in Nevada. The leader of the dig went mad after discovering it. He resides in a psychiatric care facility now. But one of his students stole the statuette and brought it to the East Coast, hoping to sell it. There seems to be a… a curse associated with it… owners have come to various bad ends over the years. It was in Atlanta in ’35, when my employer hired your husband’s firm to find it. After Mr. Cambridge’s death, it vanished again… until very recently, when we learned that Mr. Morehouse had it.”