He looked out on to an alley that led to a side street. He listened, hearing shouting away to his right, and then more gunfire.
He had no idea what was happening up on the roofs, but he realized the attention of the police was focused up there and not where he was, and this was too good a chance to miss.
He moved into the alley, ran to the end of it and paused to peer into the side street.
The street appeared deserted, and keeping in the shadows he began to walk quickly to the main street he could see ahead of him. He hadn’t walked more than thirty paces or so when a police car came around the corner and headed towards him.
He had no time to duck for cover. The car was coming fast, and with his heart hammering, Ken kept moving. The car swept past him. He caught a glimpse of four cops in the car; none of them looked in his direction, and when the car pulled up at the end of the street, the cops jumped out and ran into one of the side alleys.
Ken kept on until he reached the main street. He paused to peer cautiously around the corner before showing himself. Some way up thestreet a line of cops formed a barrier, holding back a dense crowd that were staring expectantly towards the waterfront.
Ken stepped quickly back.
A narrow alley between two houses offered a way of escape, and he went down the alley which ran parallel to the main street. By climbing over several walls and crossing several backyards, he came eventually out into the main street again, but this time well behind the crowd and the police cordon.
His one thought now was to find a telephone booth and get into touch with Adams. Further up the street he spotted a lighted drug store, and he made his way towards it.
The drug store was deserted. The white-coated clerk stood on the kerb, staring down the street at the police cordon. He was too absorbed in what was going on to notice Ken, and Ken entered the store and shut himself in the telephone booth by the door.
He called police headquarters.
“Lieutenant Adams,” he said when he got his connection.
“The Lieutenant’s not here,” a voice told him. “Who is it?”
“This is an urgent personal call,” Ken said. “Can you give me his home number please?”
“You’ll find it in the book,” the voice growled, and the line went dead.
Ken flicked through the pages of the telephone book and found Adams’ private number. After some delay me operator told him there was no answer.
Ken hung up and stood hesitating, wondering what he had best do. The chances were Adams was down by the waterfront, supervising operations there.
Ken knew he had to get off the streets. He had promised Johnny to see his sister, and Johnny had said he would be safe there. He decided to go to Maddox Court right away. From there he might be able to get into touch with Adams.
He called police headquarters again.
The desk sergeant sounded impatient.
“I don’t know when he’ll be in. Do you want to leave a message?”
Ken thought for a moment.
“Yes. Tell him the man who stayed at his apartment is now at 45 Maddox Court. He’ll know all about it.”
“Okay,” the sergeant said indifferently, and he hung up.
As Ken came out of the drug store, the white-coated clerk said, “What’s all the shooting about?”
“I don’t know,” Ken said, without pausing.
“No one ever knows anything in this street,” the clerk said bitterly.
But Ken was already out of earshot. He walked fast. It took him under ten minutes to reach Maddox Court.
Several times he had to dodge down a side street and wait until a cop passed. He was in a bad state of nerves as he walked up the drive to the imposing entrance to the building.
He remembered Johnny’s warning about the night clerk, and he peered through the revolving door into the big hall. He couldn’t see a sign of any clerk, but behind the reception desk, a half-open door led into an inner office. He guessed the clerk was in there.
He quietly pushed past the revolving door and stepped into the hall. Then swiftly and silently he ran across the hall to the cover of the stairs and went up them.
It took him some minutes to locate Gilda’s apartment and even longer to climb the stairs to the top floor. As he paused outside her front door he glanced at his wristwatch. The time was twenty minutes to one.
He wondered if she were still up. He wondered, too, if she would call the
night clerk instead of answering the door. He had to risk that.
He pressed the bell and waited. After a short delay, he heard sounds on the other side of the door, then a girl’s voice called sharply: “Who is it?”
“I have a message from your brother,” Ken said. He took the envelope Johnny had given him from his pocket and, bending, he slid it under the door.
There was a pause, then the door jerked open. He found himself staring at the tall, willowy blonde he had seen at the Blue Rose nightclub. She had on a magenta coloured silk shirt and a pair of black slacks. Her face was pale and her great green eyes glittered.
“What is it?” she said. “What has happened to Johnny?”
“He is in trouble,” Ken said. “He asked me to come and see you.”
He wasn’t sure if she had recognized him or not. Her face was expressionless as she stood aside.
“You’d better come in.”
He followed her into the luxuriously furnished sitting-room.
“Sit down,” she said curtly. “Now what is all this?”
“The police are looking for your brother. He shot a policeman,” Ken said, sitting down.
“Shot a policeman?” Gilda repeated, her face tightening. “He — he hasn’t killed him?”
“I don’t know. Your brother was hurt. He was shot in the arm.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Gilda said impatiently. “Can’t you tell me what happened?”
“I’m trying to. Perhaps I’d better begin at the beginning…”
While he was speaking, she was staring at him, her eyes puzzled.
“You say my brother shot a policeman and he is hurt?” she said. “When did this happen?”
“About a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh, I see.” She looked at the creased envelope that Johnny had given Ken. “How did you get hold of this?”
“Your brother gave it to me. He said you would know I came from him.”
“He just says I should help you. He doesn’t say anything about being hurt.”
“He couldn’t write well. His arm hurt him.”
She studied him, her eyes angry and suspicious.
“Would you be surprised to know that my brother is at this moment flying to Paris?”
“He isn’t! It was a trick. O’Brien planned to murder him. He persuaded your brother to write a note to you so you should believe he had gone to Paris.”
“This gets more and more complicated as we go along, doesn’t it?” she said, moving over to the sideboard. “Are you telling me that Sean O’Brien was planning to murder Johnny?”
“I know it sounds fantastic,” Ken said, worried by her obvious suspicion, “but if I told you the whole story…”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, jerking open a drawer in the sideboard. She dipped into it, turned to face him, an automatic in her hand. “Don’t move! You’re lying! I know who you are! You’re the man the police are looking for! You killed Fay Carson!”
II
The telephone began to ring as O’Brien entered the lounge.
“Get it,” he said impatiently to Sullivan, and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet.
Sullivan picked up the receiver, listened, grimaced and looked over at O’Brien, who was mixing himself a highball.