CHAPTER I
I
At five minutes past nine a.m., seven hours after Ken Holland had furtively left 25 Lessington Avenue, a police car pulled up outside the tall, brown-stone building and parked behind two other police cars that had been there for the past fifteen minutes.
A patrolman stiffened to attention as Lieutenant Harry Adams of the Homicide Department got out of the car and came slowly up the steps.
“Top floor, Lieutenant,” he said saluting. “Sergeant Donovan’s up there.”
“Where else would he be — in the basement ?” Adams said softly, and without looking at the patrolman he walked into the hall.
He paused to read the names on the mail boxes, then he gave a snorting grunt.
“A cat house,” he said under his breath. “The first murder in two years, and it’s got to be in a cat house.”
Adams was short, thin and dapper. The wings of his thick chalk-white hair looked dazzling against the black of his hat. His face was long and pinched, with deep hollows in his cheeks. His nose was sharp-pointed and long. When he was in a rage, which was often, his slate-grey eyes lit up as if an electric bulb inside his head had been switched on. His face never gave away what he was thinking. He was known to be a hard, ruthless, bitter man who was as heartily hated by his men as he was by the criminals who were unfortunate enough to cross his path.
But he was a first-rate police officer. His brain was four times as sharp as Donovan’s and Donovan knew it. The big man lived in perpetual fear of Adams, knowing that if he gave Adams the slightest excuse, Adams had enough influence to have Donovan thrown back on a beat.
Walking slowly, Adams commenced the long climb to the top floor.
The house was silent. He met no one. It was as if the occupant of each apartment as he passed knew he was in the house and was crouching behind the shut door, breathless and frightened.
Jackson, a red-faced cop, was standing on the top-floor landing as Adams came slowly up. He saluted and waited. He knew Adams well enough not to speak to him unless he was spoken to.
Adams walked into the big, airy sitting-room where Fletcher, the fingerprint expert, was already at work.
Donovan was prowling around the room, his set, heavy face dark with concentration.
Adams walked across the room and into the bedroom as if he knew instinctively that was where the body was. He went over to the bed and stared down at Fay’s body. For several minutes he looked at her; then, still keeping his eyes on her, he took out a cigarette, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke down his thin nostrils.
Donovan stood in the doorway, tense and silent, watching him.
“Doc coming?” Adams asked, without turning.
“On his way now, Lieutenant,” Donovan said.
Adams leaned forward and put his hand on Fay’s arm.
“Been dead about six hours at a guess.”
“That ice-pick, Lieutenant…”
Adams looked at the ice-pick lying on the floor and then turned to stare at Donovan.
“What about it?”
The big man flushed.
“I guess it’s the murder weapon,” he said, wishing he hadn’t spoken.
Adams raised his thin, white eyebrows.
“That’s smart of you. I was thinking it was something she took to bed with her to pare her nails. So you think it’s the murder weapon?” His eyes lit up. “What else could it be, you fool? Keep your goddamn mouth shut!”
He turned away and began to move about the room while Donovan watched him, his eyes dark with hate.
“What have you found out about her?” Adams snapped.
“She’s only been on the game for a year,” Donovan told him. “She used to dance at the Blue Rose. She had no record, and she didn’t work the streets.”
Adams turned.
“Come in and shut the door.”
Donovan did as he was told. He knew from past experience, and by Adams’ quiet stillness, that something unpleasant was coming, and inwardly he braced himself.
“The press haven’t got on to this yet, have they?” Adams asked mildly. He sat on the edge of the bed, moving Fay’s foot to give himself more room. The body so close to him might not have been there for all the feeling he showed.
“No, Lieutenant.” Donovan had a horror of the press. In the past he had had a lot of adverse criticism in the two local papers. They were always calling for better police action, and had singled him out for their more caustic remarks.
“They’ll have to be told, but not until this afternoon. Give it to them in time for a stop press,” Adams went on. “You’ll have all day to-day and most of the night to get something for the morning’s papers. This is the first killing we have had recently. They’ll go to town it. The Herald’s been picking on the Administration now for months. This will give them a club to beat us with unless we crack it fast.” He reached out a thin, dry hand and patted Fay’s knee. “She didn’t amount to a damn while she was alive, but dead, Donovan, she becomes a very important person. You don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes at this moment, and you don’t need to know, but this killing could be dynamite: a lot of people in the Administration could lose their jobs. It only wanted this to happen to set off the spark. Lindsay Burt has the backing of the press; the voters love him. He’s been after the big boys for years, and in case you don’t know, the Commissioner is a big boy, and Burt hates his guts. Burt’s got a lot of ammunition. This killing could be his gun. Here in Lessington Avenue, less than a hundred yards from City Hall, is an apartment house full of tarts. Won’t that make juicy reading after the Commissioner has stated again and again that this town is as clean as a whistle?” He stubbed out his cigarette into the ash bowl on the bedside table and fixed his eyes on Donovan’s face. “I’m telling you all this so you don’t kid yourself this case doesn’t mean much. It does. It’ll be headline news for as long as the case is unsolved, and you, Donovan, are going to solve. You can have all the help you want. You can have my advice for what it’s worth, but the work, the credit or the discredit, is yours. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
So here it comes, Donovan thought; the little punk has been after me ever since he took over his job. He knows this is a hell of a case to crack — any guy in town could have knocked her off — and he’s going to use it to get rid of me. That’s my luck. A dame gets knocked off, and I find myself in the middle of a political jam.
“It won’t be easy,” Adams went on. “The guy who killed her might be a nut.” He paused while he crossed one thin leg over the other, lacing his fingers across his knee. “Do you ever say your prayers, Donovan?”
The big man flushed, stared at Adams, then seeing he was serious, he muttered, “I guess so.”
“Then take my tip and pray as you’ve never prayed before that this guy isn’t a nut. If he is he may have enjoyed the experience of sticking this doll, and he may do it again. He may get into another cat house and give the press another club to hit us with. This isn’t the only cat house in town. So get after him, Donovan, just in case he is a nut and is planning to do it again.”
A tap sounded on the door and Donovan opened it.
Jackson said, “Doc’s here, sergeant.”
Adams joined Donovan at the door.
“Come on in, doc,” he said, and waved to the bed. “She’s all yours, and you’re welcome.”
Doc Summerfeld moved across to the bed. He was a big, fat, red-faced man, bald and placid looking.
“Hmm, a nice clean job, anyway.”
Adams wasn’t interested in Summerfeld’s remarks. He went into the sitting-room where the police photographer was setting up his camera.
“Take your orders from Sergeant Donovan,” Adams said to him and Fletcher. “He’s handling the investigation.”
Donovan saw the two exchange startled glances.
They know, he thought bitterly. The first killing in two years, but I get it. They’re not fools. If this had been an easy one I wouldn’t have got it. Well, okay. Maybe for the first time in my life I’ll get a break. I’d like to see the little punk’s face if I did crack it.
“What’s your first move, sergeant?” Adams asked.
“I want to know who she was with last night,” Donovan said slowly, carefully picking his words. “She didn’t work the streets, so the guys either knew her or were recommended to her; that puts them in a different class to the ordinary masher. From what the cleaner woman tells me, this girl went for the middle-aged, upper income lecher. Maybe she tried blackmail and got knocked off to keep her mouth shut.”
He saw both Fletcher and Holtby the photographer, were gaping at him.
Gape, you punks, he thought. You didn’t imagine I had any ideas, did you?
“While doc’s working on her, I’ll go talk to the occupants of the other apartments. They may have seen the guy,” he went on.
“You have a lot of faith, sergeant,” Adams said. “That’s all a tart lives for — to give information to the cops.”
Holtby sniggered.
“One of their own people’s been killed,” Donovan said quietly. “May give them an incentive to talk.”
Adams lifted his eyebrows. He stared at Donovan, his eyes suddenly thoughtful.
“Quite a psychologist, sergeant,” he said.
Donovan turned to Fletcher who hurriedly wiped a grin off his face.
“There’s an ice-pick in the bedroom. Check it for prints. Snap it up! I want a little more action and a lot less standing around from you.”
Fletcher stiffened.
“Yes, sergeant.”
Donovan walked out of the apartment.
Adams stared after him, then he went back into the bedroom to talk to Summerfeld.