“Sergeant Pound, Police. Who are you?”
“I’m Dick Roney. And I don’t know what ails this woman, but I certainly haven’t killed anybody.”
The sergeant said in a tired voice, “But somebody has been shot?”
“Yes, a man by the name of Malcolm. I just found him on the floor.”
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t move him. We’ll be there right away.”
I put down the phone. The girl had moved to the other side of the room, and she was standing with her back to the dresser, watching me without fear.
I said, “I ought to slap you silly. What kind of a tale is that you just spouted into the phone?” I took a forward step.
She said, “Keep away, Mr Roney. If it wasn’t you, it looked like you.”
My mind spun back over the evening. Not anything I could think of helped me to add things up. “There are some things I’d like to know,” I said, “before the police get here. For example, what were you doing at Malcolm’s club earlier this evening? I seen you talking to him, and then I find him on my floor.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been out of the house.”
“We’ll skip the question of why a girl like you wanted to keep house for me. We’ll let that go for a moment. But tell me this: If you saw me murder a man, what made you stick around to use the phone? Why didn’t you run outside?”
“Why should I? I’m not afraid of you.”
I snorted. “You ought to be. If you’re framing me for one murder, you ought to know the price is the same for two.” I held my eyes on hers, and watched some trace of fear move like a small shadow over her face.
Someone said from the doorway, “A bargain, too.”
I spun to face the voice. I saw the gun, and the man behind it, the little man I’d met in my office. The man McGuire had sent. I glimpsed the quick show of pointed teeth, saw the flash of the gun, heard its sharp explosion.
It was a second before I realized that the bullet had been for the girl.
She went down with a throaty sigh, crumpling with soft grace. Filmy cloth fanned out around her as she lay motionless on the floor.
I waited for the slug to crash into my body, found myself wanting to close my eyes. I kept them open. The little man wiped the gun with his handkerchief, then tossed it on the floor.
I was calculating the distance, ready to try a quick dive for the weapon, when the man called Sampson drew another gun.
“Leave it there,” he said. The second gun looked enormous in his small hand.
“You use a different gun for each killing?” I asked. “It must run to a lot of expense.”
The little man ignored the crack. He was grinning, looking as happy as a man could look with so tiny and wizened a face. “You look good,” he said suddenly. “You look wonderful – all tacked up in a three-sided frame.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “You think the police will buy this story?”
“They’ll buy it,” he said. “Only I won’t be here to tell it. They’ll get it straight from you.”
“You know what I’ll tell them, don’t you?” I moved slightly toward him, stopped when he jerked the gun.
“Keep back,” he said. “I don’t really want to shoot you before you have time to enjoy the frame. I’d rather have you fry for murder. That way you have plenty of time to remember who you slapped.”
“I should have slapped you harder,” I said. “How could the police think I killed these people? What motive would I have?”
“You knocked off the dame,” said Sampson, “because she saw you murder Malcolm. She said so on the phone.”
“And Malcolm?”
The little man shrugged easily. “You were business competitors,” he said. “You know how these things go.”
I glanced at the clock. The police ought to be arriving now. If I could keep Sampson here, keep him talking . . . I said. “All right. You’re sore at me because I kicked you out of my office. But Malcolm – what did you have against him?”
“He was another wise lad who didn’t want to do business. But, in a way, he got off easy, on account of – he had sense enough not to slap anybody around, like you did.”
I thought of Malcolm, dead in the library, Malcolm who had gotten off easy. I swung my eyes to the crumpled girl. “What about her?” I asked.
“What about her?” Sampson lifted his shoulders. “She was just a greedy gertie. She wasn’t nobody’s doll.” Sirens wailed in the distance. Sampson cocked an attentive ear. “Be seein’ you,” he said, “If you think it’ll do you any good, you can mention me and McGuire.” He backed out the door and was gone.
I jumped toward the gun on the floor, stopped myself when it was inches from my hand. If McGuire and this little hood had set out to frame me, it wouldn’t be a clumsy job. For one thing, Sampson had wiped the butt of the gun. If it was the same gun he’d brought to my office, then my fingerprints could still be on the barrel, McGuire and Sampson would be able to account for all of their movements this night. They would have the best alibis money could buy. And as my mind slipped desperately from point to point, I knew McGuire would have covered them, too.
The sound of sirens ceased. That meant the police were nearing the house. I looked once more at the girl on the floor, the girl who was nobody’s doll. With a little corner of my mind, I wondered what kind of a life she had wanted, what her ambitions had been. I moved quickly to the window, climbed through, and dropped into the garden at the rear of the house.
From somewhere across the lawn, someone said, “All right, Roney. Stick around.”
I hesitated, conscious that the upper half of my body was silhouetted neatly against the lighted window at my back. I stood frozen for just an instant. Then I dove over the hedge.
I went through it, feeling the tearing grip of the branches, and behind me I heard the light, quick thud of feet running on damp sod.
“Roney! You damn fool – hold it! Don’t make me plug you, boy!” Pug Lester’s exasperated plea turned into a string of curses as he crashed into the hedge.
Racing along the dark lane that flanked the rear of the garden, I was thankful for that hedge. I was also grateful to Lester, for I was aware that he could easily have shot me as I stood at the window, again as I ran across the lawn. I owed Lester a hearty thank you which I meant to deliver some time. Some time, but not just now.
3. The Slaughter Syndicate
The night went by in a series of terrifyingly close encounters – with prowl cars and policemen, individuals who came out of shadowy corners, asking me for matches. I walked until dawn. There wasn’t any place I dared go, and walking helped me think.
I didn’t like my thoughts. Walking lonely and afraid, I had time to remember what Lola had said about my smugness. I was a boy with a stranglehold on the world. Nothing could ever go wrong. She hadn’t wanted to marry a guy whose life ran on well-oiled wheels. I wondered, with some bitterness, if she’d like me better now that I faced two murder raps.
Then honesty forced me to admit it. I wouldn’t be walking alone right now if I hadn’t felt so secure. Any fool, after the first interview with the little gunman, would have gone to the police.
These were the things I was thinking as I slunk along the dismal streets.
In the morning, I bought a shave in a neighborhood barber shop. It made me feel better, but as I walked out into the sunlight, I still had not decided what to do.
I called police headquarters from a public phone and asked for Pug Lester.
The lieutenant said, “Lester speaking,” mechanically, as if he had many things on his mind.