O’Brien lifted his shoulders.
“I guess you have other things to think about. I specialize in keeping out of trouble.” He reached for a cigar, tossed one into Howard’s lap and lit one for himself. “Now tell me about this girl. Who killed her?”
“We don’t know. The killer left no clues, but she must have known him. She was stabbed from in front with an ice-pick, and no one heard her cry out.”
“Last night, you say? There was a hell of a thunderstorm raging wasn’t there? Would they have heard her if she had cried out?”
Howard had forgotten the storm and bit his lip angrily.
“That’s right. They might not have heard her.”
“Who’s handling the investigation?”
“Donovan, but I’ve told Adams to work on the side. Donovan has a description of a guy who could have done it.”
O’Brien got up and moved over to the liquor cabinet. Howard wasn’t sure, but he had a vague idea that O’Brien had become suddenly tense.
“What’s the description?”
“It’s not much: youngish, about thirty-three, tall, dark and good-looking. Wearing a light-grey suit and matching hat.”
“Hmm, won’t help you much, will it?” O’Brien said, bringing two more drinks to the table.
“It’s better than nothing,” Howard said, taking the drink. “A case like this is always tough to crack. There’s usually no motive.”
O’Brien sat down again.
“This could give Burt an excuse to start trouble. Have you talked to Fabian yet?”
“Not yet. There’s nothing he can do, anyway. It’s up to me. If I find the killer fast we should be all right. What worried me was hearing the house was a call-house.”
O’Brien smiled.
“Well, I’ve taken care of that for you, so you can relax.”
“Yes,” Howard said uneasily. “Are there any more call-houses belonging to you in town?”
“There may be,” O’Brien returned carelessly. “I own a lot of property. There may be.”
“I have an idea Burt knows about you. It will be bad for us if he finds out about these call-houses of yours.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” O’Brien said, smiling. “I know the position as well as you do.” He got to his feet. “Well, Commissioner, I don’t want to hurry you away, but I have a whale of a lot of things to do this morning. Keep me in touch. I’d like to have a copy of all reports to do with the killing. I want them fast, too. Have someone bring them to me as soon as they are typed, will you?”
Howard hesitated.
“I don’t think our reports should leave headquarters: that would be contrary to regulations. Suppose I keep you informed personally?”
O’Brien’s eyes hardened although he continued to smile.
“I want the reports, Commissioner,” he said quietly.
Howard made a little gesture with his hands.
“All right. I’ll see you get them.”
“Thank you. You had better have a word with Fabian. Warn him Burt is almost certain to try to start something. It can’t be much if you find the killer fast. Play the girl down to the press. She can be a nightclub hostess.”
“Yes.”
Howard walked with O’Brien to the front door.
“Is Donovan such a good man to put on this case?” O’Brien asked as he opened the door.
“Adams is working on it too.”
“Ah yes… Adams. He’s a smart cop. So long, Commissioner, thanks for calling, and let me have those reports.”
O’Brien stood in the doorway and watched Howard drive away, then he slowly closed the door and remained motionless, his face thoughtful.
Gilda, concealed behind the half-open door of O’Brien’s study, felt a little chill of apprehension run through her at the hard, ugly set of O’Brien’s mouth.
II
Detective Dave Duncan pasted a cigarette on his lower lip, scratched a match alight and lowered the cigarette end into his cupped hands.
He looked across the table at Sergeant Donovan who was finishing a ham sandwich, his heavy jaws moving slowly as he chewed, his face dark with thought.
Duncan had been a detective third for a long time. He had almost given up hope of promotion, but now he had been assigned to work with Donovan, he began to hope again. Not that Donovan rated high with him: but a murder case did give a guy a chance if he used his head.
“The old punk swears he kept a registration book.” Duncan said. “He swears he entered all the cars parked in the lot last night, but the book’s missing.”
Donovan belched gently, pulled his coffee cup towards him and groped for a cigarette.
“It couldn’t have got up and walked,” he said. “It must be somewhere.”
“This guy in the grey suit could have taken it,” Duncan said. “He went into the hut and got talking with the old fella. He could have taken it, knowing his car number was in the book.”
Donovan nodded.
“Yeah. If he did take it, it’s destroyed by now. This guy in the grey suit looks like our man.” He pulled his notebook out of his hip pocket and thumbed through the pages. “Let’s see what we’ve got. At ten to nine last night, the guy leaves a green Lincoln, number not known, in the car park; tells the attendant if his friend is in he may stay the night. At half-past ten, he and the murdered woman pick up a taxi outside the house for the Blue Rose. The driver identifies him and Carson. Darcy and the doorman at the Blue Rose also identify him from our description. Darcy hasn’t seen him before. He doesn’t think he is an ordinary masher. Carson didn’t take her clients to the Blue Rose. Our guy must be something special. Okay, Around twelve-thirty he and the girl take a taxi back to her apartment. The driver is sure it’s our guy. According to Doc, the girl dies around one-thirty. Our guy is seen by this Christie dame leaving the house: he appears to be in a hurry. He then turns up at the parking lot. The attendant is sheltering from the rain in his hut. Our guy joins him and talks about the storm. Then he starts to go, but the attendant wants to mark off his car in his book, but he can’t find it. He asks him for his number, and he gives him the number of a Packard that’s been on the lot for a couple of days, and is still there now. Now why did he give the wrong car number unless he was in trouble?” Donovan closed his note book and ran his thumb nail across his ginger moustache. “That’s not a bad day’s work, Duncan. If we can find this guy, we’ve almost got enough on him to put him away.”
“We have to find him first,” Duncan said, finishing his coffee and standing up. “I have an idea, sarg; Darcy is holding out on us. I think he knows who this guy is.”
Donovan shrugged.
“I don’t know. He looked a little shifty, but maybe he has something to hide up himself,” he said, getting off his stool. “You can’t make a guy like Darcy talk unless he wants to. What I want to find out is if our guy was a regular customer of Carson’s or just a chance caller. The fact she took him to the Blue Rose makes it look like he is a regular. What we’ve got to find out now is who her men friends are. She must have known a hell of a lot of guys, but there must have been several she knew better than others.”
Duncan dropped his cigarette end on the floor and trod on it.
“How do we do that? Darcy said he didn’t know who her friends were. Who else is there to ask?”
“I’m going to try that punk at the bank: the smooth, fat one who gave me that spiel about calling his wife. There was only one call from that pay booth around ten o’clock, and that was to Carson’s apartment. This fat punk said a girl and an elderly man used the pay booth, and that he also used it. Well, he was lying; so we’ll go along and talk to him.”