Police Commissioner Paul Howard sat behind his big mahogany desk, a cigar between his strong white teeth, his hard weather-beaten face worried.
Howard was fifty-one. He was an ambitious man, climbing laboriously up the political ladder, hoping soon to be made a judge and later a senator. He was well in with the political machine, willing to do as he was told, providing the rewards were adequate. He was in a good position to grant favours, and had acquired considerable wealth from the financial tips he had received for turning a blind eye to the corruption and racketeering running rife through the present Administration.
In an armchair by the window, Captain of Police Joe Motley sat with his legs outstretched, a cigar between his fingers, and his flabby, purplebloomed face expressionless.
Motley was Howard’s brother-in-law, the only reason why he remained Captain of Police.
When Howard first took over office, Motley realized his own job was in jeopardy. Motley had no interest in the police force. He was a racing man, but his position was a useful one and he had no intention of losing it. He was a judge of character, and it didn’t take him long to discover Howard’s weakness for young, attractive girls.
Gloria, Motley’s kid sister, was young and more than attractive. Motley had had little difficulty in persuading her to show off her charms before Howard.
Within a month Howard had married her, realizing when it was too late that the Captain of Police he planned to get rid of was now his brother-inlaw.
From that time on Motley was sacrosanct. Howard quickly found that if
he put any kind of pressure on Motley, he was promptly shut out of his wife’s room. So long as he let Motley alone, Gloria performed her wifely duties. Crazy about this vivacious, beautiful girl, he had now accepted the position and had taken the line of least resistance.
Adams sitting opposite the Commissioner, was aware of these facts. He knew Motley was useless, as a police captain, and he knew, if Motley went, he himself would be the automatic choice to replace him. For months now he had been patiently waiting his opportunity to get rid of both Motley and Donovan. He had discovered, however, that it would need a major political explosion to blast Motley out of office, and even now, while he listened to Howard talking, his mind was trying to find a way to use Fay Carson’s death as the spark to touch off the explosion.
“I want this cracked and cracked fast!” Howard was saying, in a soft furious voice. He looked across at Motley. “Get every man working on it! We’ve got to nab this killer! A house full of prostitutes! You told me there wasn’t a call-house in town.”
Motley smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth.
“There are always call-houses,” he said. “We shut them up and they open again.”
“Why didn’t you shut this one up?” Howard demanded.
Motley stared at him.
“You know why, don’t you? It’s one of O’Brien’s houses.”
Howard flushed, then went white. He looked quickly at Adams, who was staring down at his brightly polished shoes, his face blank. Howard was reassured: either Adams hadn’t heard Motley’s remark or O’Brien’s name meant nothing to him.
But O’Brien’s name meant plenty to Adams. He new O’Brien was the money behind the party. He knew he was the boss of the party machine. He felt a tingle run up his spine. This could be it. So O’Brien owned 25 Lessington Avenue. Here was the scandal he had been hunting for months. If he could trap Motley into giving O’Brien away, the explosion he had been waiting to touch off would take place.
Only a few of the higher-placed officers of the Administration knew O’Brien was behind the party. Adams wasn’t supposed to know, but there wasn’t much about the party he hadn’t found out.
Howard felt a restricting band of rage tighten across his chest. This fat, loose-mouthed slob must be crazy to shoot his mouth off about O’Brien in front of Adams. He looked again at Adams. No, he didn’t know about O’Brien. The remark had passed over his head. Adams was a good police officer, but that was all. He was only interested in his work: politics meant nothing to him.
Howard had no idea O’Brien owned 25 Lessington Avenue, and he was dismayed to hear it. If the press found out, the repercussions might very easily unseat the Administration.
It was essential that this killing should be cleared up as quickly as possible and the killer caught.
“How far have you got to now?” he asked Motley.
Motley waved an indifferent hand towards Adams.
“He’s taking care of it. You know, Paul, you’re making a hell of a fuss about the killing of this woman. Who cares, anyway?”
“You’ll care when you see the press tomorrow morning,” Howard said grimly. “Got any leads yet?” he went on to Adams.
“We have a description of a guy who could have done it,” Adams said. “Donovan’s working on it, now.”
“Donovan? You should be working on it,” Howard said violently. “Donovan… !” He stopped short, scowled down at the desk and then shrugged.
Motley watched him and concealed a grin.
Donovan was Motley’s special pet. Howard and Motley had clashed over him before, and Adams knew it. He knew also that Gloria had been used to save Donovan from returning to a beat, and Howard wasn’t likely to start trouble for Donovan again, unless he was forced to.
“Donovan’s a good guy,” Motley said, patting his heavy paunch. Although he was only thirty-eight, lack of exercise, heavy drinking and gross feeding had thickened his figure, making him look a lot older than he was. “We don’t often get a murder case, and this could be Donovan’s chance. I want him to re-establish himself. The press has been picking on him for months. It’s time he had a chance to show what he can do.”
“This isn’t a one-man police force,” Howard said, controlling his temper with difficulty. “I want every man working on it. We’ve got to nab this killer, Joe.”
“Sure, sure,” Motley said indifferently. He got slowly to his feet. “Well, I’ve got to run along. I’m going to the club tonight and I’ve got to get a haircut. Gloria said she’d be at the dance. You coming?”
“We have a murder on our hands, Joe.”
Motley stared at him.
“So what? That doesn’t mean you and I can’t go to the dance does it? What the hell have we got Adams for? He’ll take care of it.”
“You go. I have things to do,” Howard said curtly.
“Gloria won’t like it. She’s relying on you.”
Howard started to say something, then stopped. To cover his embarrassment, he stubbed out his cigar which was only half burned.
“It’s up to you, of course,” Motley went on.
“Well, I’ll see how things work out. Maybe I’ll look in later.”
“Suit yourself,” Motley said. “But there’s no point in letting all the young punks fight over her. You know what it’s like when she goes to a dance on her own. I have my own dish to look after.”
Adams, watching and listening, saw Howard’s face tighten, and he knew Motley had hit him where it hurt.
The fool! Adams thought contemptuously. What a sucker he is for a woman! He’s scared stiff some young husky will make a pass when he’s not looking. If I were a slave like he is to that little bitch I’d shoot myself!
When Motley had gone, Howard turned his attention to Adams. He realized Adams had heard a lot more than he cared for him to know, and he glared at Adams angrily.
But the Lieutenant looked as if he was either asleep or miles away somewhere with his thoughts and his complete lack of interest somewhat reassured Howard.
“What are you doing about this killing, Adams?”
Adams gave an elaborate start, blinked at the Commissioner and his face became alert.
“I’m following the usual procudure sir. You have my report on the desk. There are no clues. We have a description of a man whom we believe went to her apartment about the time she died. Donovan is working on that angle. The killing of a prostitute is always a tricky nut to crack. There seems to have been no motive. Nothing was taken.”
“What are the chances of cracking this case in a hurry?” Howard asked, leaning forward across his desk and staring at Adams.
Adams shook his head.
“I wouldn’t count on it, sir. The guy may be a nut. If he doesn’t do it again, the chance aren’t good. She may have tried to blackmail him and he killed her to shut her mouth. We have checked through her apartment: there was nothing in it to tell us she did collect material for blackmail, but she may have a deposit box somewhere.”
“Do you think it was a nut?” Howard asked. Adams shook his head.
“I guess not. A nut invariably strangles and then rips them. She was stabbed. Doc thinks she may have known the guy because she was stabbed from the front. She must have seen him, and yet she didn’t cry out. At least, no one heard anything.”
Howard selected another cigar, bit off the end and spat angrily into his trash basket.
“We’ve got to get this killer fast. Donovan’s okay on the routine stuff, but fast work isn’t his strong point. I’m relying on you to crack this case, Adams. Hold your own investigation. Never mind what Motley and Donovan are doing. Get after this killer and nab him. There could be a shake-up here before long, and if you crack this one, you might do yourself a lot of good.”
The two men looked at each other.
Adams’ thin, pinched face was expressionless, but inside he was experiencing a surge of triumph.
“The Captain will know what I’m up to sir,” he said. “He could block me off.”
“I’ll tell him you are working for me,” Howard said. “You have orders from me to investigate and produce a report on the vice set-up in this town. I’ll need the report, anyway. Get someone to do the’ leg-work; you concentrate on this killing. I’ll let you have duplicates of all reports sent in by Donovan. Now get moving: I want some action.”
“You’ll get it, sir,” Adams said, and went out of the room.
For some moments Howard sat staring at his blotter, then he got up, went to the door and half opened it.
“I’m going over to City Hall,” he told his secretary. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
He shut the door, put on his hat, crossed the room to the door leading to his private stairs, and hurried down to the street.