Beigler peered under the table. He saw an empty hypodermic syringe lying on the carpet. Straightening, he put his hands either side of the woman’s head and gently lifted her head to peer at her dead face. The blue colour of her skin and her pupil less wide eyes made him grunt. He lowered the head back on to the table.
‘Could still be murder, Mr. Browning,’ he said quietly. ‘She could have been given a shot.’
‘No one’s been near her since she came here,’ Browning said impatiently. ‘Now, get her out of here!’
‘All cases of suicide have to be treated as homicide until we prove it suicide. I’m sorry, Mr. Browning, but this can’t be an exception.’
Browning’s eyes gleamed angrily.
‘I don’t like uncooperative cops, Beigler. I have a long memory.’ He turned to Louis. ‘Get me Captain Terrell.’
As Louis hurried back to the bar, Beigler said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Browning, but that’s the way it is unless the Chief says otherwise. Is there another phone here I can use?’
‘You don’t use any goddamn phone until you’ve talked to Terrell!’ Browning snapped and walked back to the bar.
Beigler and Hess exchanged glances. Hess grinned. He knew if a chopper was to fall it wouldn’t be on his neck. He moved around Beigler and into the banquette. By the dead woman was a white and gold brocaded evening bag. He picked it up, opened it and glanced inside. He fished out an envelope, looked at it, then offered it to Beigler.
‘You’d better look at this, Joe. It’s for us.’
Beigler took the envelope. He could hear Browning talking in a low voice on the telephone. He glanced at the sprawling writing on the envelope which read: Police Department. He carefully slit open the envelope, using his penknife and drew out a folded sheet of paper. He spread it flat, and with Hess breathing down the back of his neck, read the note written in the same sprawling hand:
You’d better go to 247, Seaview Boulevard. He had it coming. I did it. To save trouble, I’m taking the quick way out.
P.S. The key is under the mat.
‘Hey, Beigler,’ Browning called. ‘Terrell wants you.’
Holding the note, Beigler moved to the bar and took the telephone receiver from Browning who walked away a few paces.
‘That you, Chief?’ Beigler asked.
‘Yes,’ Terrell said. ‘What’s going on, Joe?’
‘Mr. Browning reported a dead woman in the restaurant. I’ve just arrived. Looks like suicide: overdose of heroin. There’s an empty hypo and the woman’s face is blue. I found a suicide note in her bag. I’ll read it to you.’ Beigler flicked open the note and read it, keeping his voice low so Browning couldn’t hear what he was saying. ‘Sounds as if she’s knocked a guy off. Mr. Browning wants us to shift the body. I don’t see we can do that, do you, Chief? We should get the Squad down here.’
There was a pause, then Terrell said, ‘Who’s with you, Joe?’
‘Hess.’
‘Leave him with the body. You go to Seaview Boulevard and check. I’ll call Lepski to join you there. I’ll be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. Tell Hess to call the squad.’
‘Browning isn’t going to like this,’ Beigler said, glancing at Browning who was pacing up and down.
‘I’ll talk to him. You get off, Joe.’
‘I’m on my way’, Beigler said. He laid down the receiver and crossed to Browning who stopped pacing and swung around. ‘The Chief wants to talk to you, Mr. Browning.’
As Browning hurried to the telephone, Beigler went over to Hess.
‘Get the squad down here, Fred. This is the full treatment. The Chief’s on his way.’ He grinned. ‘I’m going over to Seaview Boulevard. So long, and watch your step with Browning.’
‘Maybe he won’t watch his step with me,’ Hess said uneasily.
As Beigler ran down the stairs, he heard Browning say in a loud, choking voice, ‘You can’t do this to me, Frank. You...’
His voice faded as Beigler hurried out into the hot night air. As he crossed to his car, a tall lanky figure came out of the darkness. It was Bert Hamilton of the Paradise Sun.
‘How’s the toothache, Joe?’ he asked, planting himself in front of Beigler. ‘I didn’t think you had any teeth left to ache.’
Beigler stepped around him.
‘Take my advice, Bert, and keep out of there,’ he said. ‘You’re likely to get your nuts chewed off.’
‘What makes you think I’ve got nuts?’ Hamilton asked.
As he walked up the steps to the restaurant’s entrance, Beigler sent his car racing down the driveway and headed for Seaview Boulevard.
Ticky Edris had a large globular shaped head, stumpy legs and arms and stood about three and a half feet high. He was what is known to the medical profession as an achondroplastic dwarf.
Edris had worked as a waiter and still-room assistant at La Coquille restaurant for the past eight years. Browning’s swank customers were contemptuously amused by the little man’s apparent good nature, his sad eyes and his quick, bustling walk. They found an offbeat pleasure in being waited on by the dwarf, and over the years, Edris had become a kind of court jester, greeting the customers with a familiarity that even Browning would have hesitated to use.
Wearing a chef’s apron, cut down to size, Edris was finishing polishing the last of the glasses when Louis, the maître d’hôtel, came in.
‘They want to talk to you, Ticky,’ he said. ‘Just answer their questions. The less everyone says about this the better for Mr. Browning.’
Edris hung up the glass cloth and took off his apron.
His odd shaped face was a little drawn and there were shadows under his eyes. He had been working non-stop since six o’clock and he felt pretty pooped.
‘Okay, Mr. Louis,’ he said, slipping into his white drill jacket. ‘You leave it to me.’
He trotted out of the room and into the bar. At the far end of the bar a photographer was taking pictures of the dead woman. Chief of Police Terrell, a big man with sandy hair, flecked with white, and a jutting, square jaw, was talking to Browning. Apart from a slight stubble of beard, Terrell showed no sign that he had just rolled out of bed and into his clothes at Beigler’s telephone call.
Dr. Lowis, the Medical officer, a short, fat man was waiting impatiently for the photographer to finish. Two fingerprint men who sat at the bar, looking longingly at the rows of bottles, also waited.
Fred Hess and Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby, a notebook in hand, sat in one of the banquettes. Looking up and seeing Edris, Hess beckoned.
Edris trotted over.
‘You the waiter who served the dead woman?’ Hess demanded.
‘Yes.’
Hess studied the dwarf. His expression said plainly he didn’t think much of what he saw. Edris stared back at him, his face expressionless, his stubby hands clasped before him.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ticky Edward Edris.’
‘Address?’
‘24, East Street, Seacombe.’
Seacombe was an extension of Paradise City where most workers of a low-income group lived.
While Hess was questioning Edris, Jacoby, a young bright looking Jew, recorded the answers.
‘What time did she arrive here?’ Hess asked, lighting a cigarette.
‘A little after eleven: eight minutes past to be exact.’
Hess looked sharply at the dwarf.
‘How can you be as sure as that?’
‘I own a watch. I use it.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had she reserved the banquette she’s in now?’