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.”
“The bank’s closed,” Duncan said.
“Maybe the night watchman will know his address,” Donovan said. “Come on; let’s find out.”
But the night watchman didn’t know Parker’s address. He didn’t even know Parker.
“They are all gone by the time I take over,” he explained. “Sorry, sergeant, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Give me the manager’s address,” Donovan said shortly. “This is urgent.”
“I haven’t got it,” the night watchman returned. “If I want one of the officials I have to get into touch with Mr. Holland: he’s the head teller.”
“Well, okay,” Donovan said impatiently. “Let’s have his address, and snap it up, will you ? I’m in a hurry.”
The night watchman wrote the address down on a scrap of paper, and the two detectives returned to their car.
“I’ll get a newspaper,” Donovan said, “hang on a second.”
He bought two papers from the boy at the corner, and came back to the car.
“It’s in the stop press,” he said, and read the announcement. He felt no satisfaction to see his name in print. He knew if he didn’t crack this one fast the press would turn on him.
During the afternoon he had returned to Fay Carson’s apartment to meet the press. Anticipating the worst kind of trouble from the reporters, he had been relieved to find Captain Motley already there.
He was bewildered and astonished to find no sign of the cal-girls. The whole house had miraculously become respectable and, ferret as they could, the reporters found nothing to work on. They went from apartment to apartment. The elderly women who opened the door to them knew nothing and had heard nothing.
The reporters were highly suspicious because they had been called in so late, but Motley’s smooth talk got over the awkward situation. Listening to
him soft soap the press made Donovan thankful it wasn’t he who had to handle them.
“Going to be a hell of a spread across the front page tomorrow morning,” he said, getting into the car beside Duncan.
“Yeah,” Duncan said, and sent the car shooting away from the kerb.
It didn’t take them long to find the street.
“That’s the place, over on your right,” Donovan said.
They pulled up outside the neat, well-cared-for bungalow and got out.
“This guy can grow roses, can’t he?” said Duncan, who was a keen gardener. “Look at that Mrs. Laxton.”
“Who’s she?” Donovan growled, staring around.
“Never mind, sarg,” Duncan said, concealing a grin. “Pity he doesn’t keep his lawn better. Reminds me I’ve got to cut mine.”
“Keep your mind on your job!” Donovan snarled.
He rammed his thumb into the bell-push, kept it there for a couple of seconds, then stood away.
There was a long pause, then just as he was going to ring again, the front door opened.
He recognized the tall, good-looking guy who opened the door. He had been standing next to Parker at the bank.
Scared out of his wits, Donovan thought with sadistic satisfaction. Damn funny thing. I have only to ring a bell to frighten the life out of everyone in the house.
He shoved his heavy jaw forward aggressively.
“You Holland?” he growled.
Ken nodded dumbly.
Duncan was studying him, puzzled.
He looks as if he has robbed the bank and has the proceeds in the house, he thought. What the hell’s the matter with him?
“I want to talk to Parker. Where’s he live?” Donovan demanded.
Ken opened and shut his mouth, but no sound came. He stared fixedly at Donovan.
“Where does he live?” Donovan repeated, raising his voice.
Ken made an effort, gulped, then said, “Why, he’s just in the next road. 145 Marshall Avenue.”
Duncan took out his notebook and jotted down the address.
“Did he tell you he was going to call his wife from the pay booth this morning?” Donovan demanded.
“He — he didn’t say.”
“But you saw him go to the pay booth?”
“Why — yes, I did,”
“What time was that?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Donovan glared at him, then he turned disgustedly to Duncan.
“Come on; we’re wasting time.”
He strode down the path, jerked open the gate and crossed to the car.
Duncan followed him. At the gate, he turned to look back. Ken was still standing motionless in the doorway, staring after them. Then, seeing Duncan looking at him, he stepped back and hurriedly shut the front door.