The fence jerked up his knee in a vicious kick to the groin. Brokay managed to block it. His left fist lashed out. Compton’s apelike arms dropped about Brokay’s back. The two men swayed in a struggle. The monkey, once more jumping to the bed, screamed and chattered.
Compton was a man of great strength. With Brokay in his arms, he was more than a match for the lithe activity of the millionaire clubman, but Brokay managed to get his head down so that the top of it was pushing against Compton’s chin. He arched his back, straining the muscles, gradually pushed Compton away. He freed his own arms, sent a short jabbing left and right to the ribs.
Compton groaned, released his hold and swayed, and, as he staggered groggily, Brokay stepped in and snapped over a businesslike right which clicked on the side of Compton’s jaw.
As the fence went limp, Brokay stepped in and held the slumping body in his arms.
He turned to Rhoda Koline. “Please,” he said, “stand by me. Let’s get out of this thing together.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Tear up that pillow slip into strips,” he said. “I’m going to tie this man and gag him.”
She did not hesitate even for a moment, but stepped quickly to the bed, pulled the slip from one of the pillows and ripped it into strips. Brokay tied and gagged the fence, and Rhoda Koline held the door of the closet open while Brokay pushed the man into the dark interior, closed and locked the door.
He turned to Rhoda Koline. “Now,” he said, “let’s get clown to brass tacks.” “How do you mean?” she asked.
“I want your story,” he told her.
“There isn’t any,” she said. “I had some friends there at the house. I wasn’t supposed to be home; I was supposed to be out somewhere. Then we heard a commotion. There was the sound of a siren, the noise of a shot, and automobiles speeding away. We went to see what the trouble was and we found Gladys Ordway.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?” asked Brokay.
“Thelma Grebe and myself,” she said.
“You’re friendly with Thelma Grebe?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Not very long. I got acquainted with her in rather a peculiar manner. Thelma, I think, has clung to me. She wanted to get away from this life. I guess I’m the only friend that she has who isn’t connected in some way with crooks or gangsters.”
“And she suggested that you come here?” Brokay asked.
“Yes. Just as soon as she saw the body, she knew that there was going to be trouble. You see, I wasn’t supposed to be at the house at all.”
“Were there any men in the party?” asked Brokay.
“No,” she said, “just Thelma and myself.”
“What I can’t understand,” Brokay said, “is why you didn’t stay and explain the situation to the police.”
“I couldn’t very well,” she said.
“Why?”
She met his gaze squarely. “Because of Thelma,” she said. “Don’t you understand? Thelma was there with me. Thelma was a known moll. She was the companion of crooks. I was supposed to be out, yet the police would have found that I was in the house; would have found that I had this woman with me. You can see what would have happened.”
Brokay nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, “I can see complications. But it would still seem to me that—”
“Thelma told me,” she said, “that the case was bound to be cleared up within a short time; that if I would go with her, she could promise me sanctuary until everything had been explained.”
“It sounds to me,” Brokay said bluntly, “like damn poor advice.”
She stared steadily at him and smiled slightly. “Well,” she said, “now I’ll hear your story.”
Chapter Five
Time for Murder
Brokay told her his story; told it without embellishment, without any elaborate explanations, giving her merely an outline of what happened. She stood staring at him steadily.
“What’s the matter?” asked Brokay.
“I think,” she said, “that you at least owe me a certain amount of frankness. I have been frank with you; you should be frank with me.”
“But I have been frank with you.”
“The story that you have told me,” she said, “is probably the most improbable yam I have ever heard.”
Brokay realized, then, the utter hopelessness of expecting the police to believe his story. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, “if you don’t believe me. It’s the only story I can offer.”
She stood staring at him for several seconds. Finally she said: “I’m going to believe you, Mr. Brokay. My reason tells me I shouldn’t, but there’s something about you that makes me believe you in spite of myself.”
“Thank you,” he said, still with that stiff formality.
“But,” she went on, “you could never tell that to the police.”
“I know it,” he said.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Brokay turned to the monkey. “That,” he said, “is the only clue. Apparently the monkey didn’t belong to Gladys Ordway.”
“No,” she said, “the monkey didn’t belong to Gladys Ordway, I know that, because I was in the house with her. I saw her just a few hours before she was killed. She didn’t have any such pct as this.”
“Then,” said Brokay, “it stands to reason that the monkey was introduced into the house by the murderer.”
“But why on earth would a murderer bring a monkey to the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“And why would the monkey remain after the murder had been committed?”
“I think,” Brokay said, “I can give you some explanation of that. Monkeys are really sensitive animals, although many times people don’t realize it. When I entered the room, the monkey was sitting on the head of the bed, chattering in blind terror. What’s more, the murder had been committed but a few minutes before I entered the room. That means that the murderer must have been in the room when we entered the house; perhaps heard us on the stairs, or saw the beam of our flashlight as we came toward the room. He had to make his escape.”
“And you mean he was trying to catch the monkey?”
“Yes, the monkey had become terrified when he committed the crime. It had run from him. He had tried to recapture the animal, and then he heard us. He had to escape and leave the monkey there.”
“That,” she said, “sounds reasonable. But I still can’t understand why the murderer should have taken the monkey with him, or who the murderer was, or what the motive for the murder was.”
Brokay’s eyes glinted. “Well,” he said, “I’m going to do some detective work of my own. There’s one thing that’s a cinch, I’m in this thing up to my necktie and I’ve got to get out. The only way I can do it is by finding out what actually did happen.”
He crossed to the telephone which set on the table by the window.
“Take the classified index, Miss Koline,” he said, “and read down through the pet stores. I’m going to call them up one at a time. You give me the numbers.”
“What’s the idea?” she asked.
“The idea is,” he said, “that this monkey must originally have come from a pet store. I don’t think that the murderer had owned the monkey very long; certainly not long enough to have won the confidence of the little animal; not long enough to have learned very much about him. I’m acting on the theory that the monkey was sold recently.”
“I can’t understand just how you can figure that,” she said. “I see that there’s something to be said in favor of it, but—”
“Nevertheless,” he interrupted, “that’s the only theory we’ve got to work on, and we’re going to work on it.”