I
CAPTAIN HARLAN MCCANN of the Police Department was a bull of a man whose close-cropped, bullet-shaped head sat squarely on a pair of shoulders as wide as a barn door. His brick-red, fleshy face looked as if it had been hewn out of granite. His restless, small eyes were deep-set, and when he was in a rage, which was often, they glared redly, and struck a chill into the toughest mobster or policeman who happened to cross his path.
This night he was out of uniform. He wore a dark brown lounge suit and a slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes. He drove his Lincoln along Lawrence Boulevard, his big hairy hands gripping the wheel as if he had someone hateful to him by the throat.
He swung the car into Pacific Boulevard and drove along the sea front, passing the brilliantly lit hotels, the Casino, the night spots, the neon-plastered Ambassadors’ Club until he reached the far end of the front where the Paradise Club, hidden from casual passers-by by its fifteen-foot walls, overlooked the moonlit ocean.
He swung the car down a narrow lane that ran alongside the east wall and drove for a quarter of a mile, his headlights stabbing the thick darkness that now lay around him. From time to time he glanced in his driving mirror, but he could see no lights of any following car behind him. Ahead of him iron gates suddenly appeared in the glare of his headlights, and he slowed down, reached forward and flicked the lights on and off four times; twice fast, twice slow.
The gates opened and he drove through, pulling up by the guard-house.
A thick-set man wearing a peak cap peered through the window at him, raised his hand in a casual salute and waved him to drive on.
McCann engaged gear and followed the circular road to the club. He pulled up at a side door and got out. Another man in a peak cap slid into the driving scat and drove the car to a nearby garage.
McCann walked up the stone steps to a massive door, rapped four times, twice fast, twice slow, on the bronze knocker, and the door opened.
“Good evening, sir,” a voice said out of the darkness.
McCann grunted and moved forward. He heard the door shut behind him, then lights sprang on. He continued down a long passage without looking back, paused outside another massive door and knocked again, using the same signal.
Louis Seigel, Maurer’s personal bodyguard and manager of the Paradise Club, opened the door.
Seigel was tall and’ dark, and notorious for his good looks. Ten years ago he had been known to the police and to his fellow mobster as ‘Louis the Looker’, but since hooking up with Maurer he had acquired more dignity, and the tag had been dropped. He was around twenty-nine to thirty years of age, squarejawed, blue-eyed and sun-tanned. An old razor scar that ran from his left eye to his nose gave him a swashbuckling appearance, and his carefully cultivated smile that showed big, gleaming teeth, was a devastating weapon against women, and women were Seigel’s principal interest in life.
“Come in, Captain,” he said, showing McCann his teeth. “The boss will be out in a minute. What’ll you drink?”
McCann looked at Seigel out of the corners of his hard little eyes.
“A Scotch, I guess.” He found it difficult to be civil to this smooth, goodlooking hood. He glanced around the luxurious room, lavishly furnished in excellent taste, and moved ponderously over to the mantelpiece and set his great shoulders against it.
Seigel walked to the bar, fixed a Scotch and soda and brought it over.
“The boss was a little surprised at your message. He had to cancel a theatre date. No trouble, I hope, Captain?” he said, handing the glass to McCann.
McCann gave a short barking laugh.
“Trouble? That’s not the half of it! If you guys don’t handle this right, the whole goddamn lid’s coming off — that’s how bad it is!”
Seigel raised his eyebrows. He disliked McCann as much as McCann disliked him.
“Then I guess we’ll have to handle it right,” he said, and moved back to the bar. As he was pouring himself a whisky, he added with a sneering little smile, “We usually do handle things right, Captain.”
“There’s always a first time not to handle it right,” McCann growled, annoyed he hadn’t scared Seigel.
A door by the bar opened and Jack Maurer came in, followed by Abe Gollowitz, his attorney.
Maurer was a short, squat man around fifty. He had put on some weight during the past three or four years. His swarthy fleshy face showed a heavy beard shadow. His thick, oily black hair was turning grey at the temples, but the greyness didn’t soften his face, which reminded McCann of a photograph he had once seen of the death mask of Beethoven. At first glance Maurer would strike anyone as no different from the thousand rich, powerful business men who vacationed in Pacific City, but a closer examination would show there was a difference. He had the flat snake’s eyes of the gangster; eyes that glittered and were as cold and as hard as frozen pebbles.
Gollowitz, one of the most brilliant attorneys on the Coast, was built on the same lines as Maurer, only he was fatter, older and going bald. He had thrown up his lucrative practice to handle Maurer’s business and legal affairs, and had succeeded so brilliantly that he was now Maurer’s second-in-command.
“Glad to see you, Captain,” Maurer said, crossing to shake hands. “You’ve got all you want — a cigar, perhaps?”
“Sure,” McCann said, who believed in never refusing anything.
Seigel offered a cigar box and McCann took a fat, torpedo-shaped cigar, sniffed at it and nodded his head. He bit off the end, accepted the light which Seigel held out to him, puffed smoke to the ceiling and nodded his head again.
“A damn fine cigar, Mr. Maurer.”
“Yes. I have them made for me.” Maurer looked over at Seigel. “Have a thousand sent to the Captain’s home, Louis.”
“Why, no; I can’t accept a present like that,” McCann said, his thin mouth widening into a pleased smile. “Good of you, all the same.”
“Nonsense,” Maurer said, and walked over to an armchair. He sat down. “I insist. If you don’t want them, give them away.”
Gollowitz was watching this by-play with increasing impatience. He took the Scotch and soda Seigel offered him, then sat down near Maurer.
“Well, what’s the trouble?” he asked abruptly.
McCann looked at him. He didn’t like Gollowitz. He wasn’t exactly scared of him, but he knew he was dangerous, not in the same way as Maurer was dangerous, but he was too full of legal tricks and too close to the politicians.
McCann leaned forward and stabbed with his cigar in Gollo-witz’s direction.
“I’ll give you the facts, then you can judge the trouble for yourself,” he said in his hard barking voice. “Three nights ago, June Arnot, together with six of her staff, was murdered. June Arnot had her head hacked off and she was ripped. A gun was found in the garden with Ralph Jordan’s initials on it. Bard in and Conrad went around to Jordan’s apartment and found him in the bath with his throat cut and a razor in his hand. The murder weapon was found in his dressing-room.”
“You don’t have to tell us all this,” Gollowitz said impatiently. “We’ve seen the reports in the press. What’s it to do with us? Jordan killed her and then killed himself. It’s plain enough, isn’t it?”
McCann showed his teeth in a snarling smile.
“Yeah, it looked plain enough. Bardin was satisfied; so was I; so was the press, but Conrad wasn’t.” His little red eyes looked at Maurer, who sat smoking his cigar, his swarthy face expressionless, his flat gangster eyes staring at the carpet with patient indifference.
“Does it matter to us what he thinks?” Gollowitz demanded, moving irritably. “Does it matter to us?”
“I guess so,” McCann said. “Conrad’s a trouble-maker, and he’s smart, make no mistake about that. He’s got one set idea on his mind: to make trouble for you, Mr. Maurer.”
Maurer glanced up; his thick, almost negroid lips twisted into an amused smile.
“Sure he’s a smart guy,” he said, “but there’s enough room in this town for both of us.”
“There may not be,” McCann said ominously. “He thinks Jordan was murdered.”
Maurer’s smile widened.
“And of course he thinks I’m behind the murder. A cat can’t get run over without him thinking I’m responsible. So what? It happens every day.”
McCann pulled on his cigar. His eyes went from Maurer to Gollowitz, who was watching him with an alert expression in his black eyes.
“This is different. He’s got hold of a rumour that you and Miss Arnot were special friends,” he said, shifting his eyes back to Maurer. “This is the way he figures it: you found out Miss Arnot and Jordan were lovers. You went up there with Paretti. You killed her while Paretti took care of the staff. Then Paretti went around to Jordan’s apartment, cut his throat, left a razor in his hand, planted the murder weapon, took Jordan’s car out of the garage and crashed it against the garage door as evidence Jordan was full of dope. Then Paretti reported back to you and you knocked him off to shut his mouth.”
Maurer burst out laughing. His white plump hand came down on his knee with a loud smacking sound.
“What do you think of that, Abe?” he said. “The guy’s a trier, isn’t he? Did you ever hear such a story?”
McCann sat back; a look of relief and surprise chased across his brick-red face.
Gollowitz rubbed his jaw and raised his bushy eyebrows. He didn’t look anything like so amused as Maurer: he didn’t look amused at all.
“What’s his case?” he asked sharply.
“Don’t be so damned stupid, Abe,” Maurer said easily. “He hasn’t got a case, and he knows it.”
Gollowitz ignored the interruption.
“What’s his case?” he repeated, staring at McCann.
Seigel was listening to all this. He stood by the bar, behind Maurer and Gollowitz; there was a sick expression in his eyes that began to worry McCann.
“He’s got evidence that Mr. Maurer and Miss Arnot were special friends, and that Jordan was scared of Mr. Maurer,”
McCann said slowly. “He has a sworn statement to that effect.”
“Whose statement?” Gollowitz asked sharply.
“Jordan’s dresser.”
McCann and Gollowitz looked at Maurer, who continued to smile.
“So what?” Maurer said carelessly. “Who else has said so?”
“Just one statement,” McCann said.
Maurer shrugged and spread his hands, smiling at Gollowitz.
“That’s nothing,” Gollowitz said. “What else?”
“Flo Presser called on Conrad this morning. She reported that Paretti was missing. She said he had to do a job for Mr. Maurer at seven o’clock on the night of the murder, and Miss Arnot was murdered around seven o’clock.”
Gollowitz slightly relaxed.
“A streetwalker’s testimony is about as effective as a handful of feathers,” he said. “What else?”
“Flo was stabbed to death a couple of hours after she had seen Conrad,” McCann said, his eyes going to Seigel. He saw Seigel grimace uneasily.
“Who killed her?”
“Ted Pascal, one of the Brooklyn boys.”
Maurer shrugged.
“I don’t know him. What’s the excitement about? Can I help it if some whore gets knocked off?”
McCann’s little eyes began to turn red. It had been a severe shock to him when he had listened to Conrad’s report at the D.A.’s meeting, and Maurer’s careless, indifferent attitude and his unconcern flicked his anger into life.
“Where’s Paretti, Mr. Maurer?” he barked.
“Toni’s in New York,” Maurer said smoothly. “I sent him to collect a gambling debt. That was the job he had to do. He caught the seven o’clock plane.”
“Then you’d better get him back quick,” McCann said grimly. “Conrad wants to see him. A sketch-plan of Jordan’s apartment was found in Paretti’s apartment.”
Gollowitz stiffened and shot a hard, searching look at Maurer, who waved his hand airily.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “Who found it?”
“Van Roche.”
“Any witness?”
“No.”
“Obviously a plant,” Maurer said, and laughed. “Abe can take care of that, can’t you, Abe?”
Gollowitz nodded, but his eyes showed a growing uneasiness.
“If Toni shows up today or tomorrow,” McCann said, “half Conrad’s case will be knocked cold. You’d better get to Toni fast, Mr. Maurer.”
There was a long pause as Maurer studied the pattern on the carpet, then he said, without looking up, “Supposing I couldn’t get hold of Toni? Suppose he had decided to skip with the money I had sent him to collect? It is a big sum: twenty thousand dollars. I don’t say he has skipped, but suppose he has?”
McCann’s face suddenly turned purple. His big, hairy hands closed into knotted fists.
“He damn well better not have skipped!” he said through clenched teeth.
“Take it easy, Captain,” Maurer said, looking up and smiling. “I don’t think for a moment he has skipped, but even if he had, this cockeyed evidence of Conrad’s wouldn’t stand up in court. What have you got to worry about? I’m not worrying.”
“What else is there?” Gollowitz snapped, sensing that McCann hadn’t told them the worst of it.
“The guard who checks in all visitors to Miss Arnot’s place enters their names in a book,” McCann said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “At seven o’clock on the night of the killing a girl named Frances Coleman called to see Miss Arnot. We’re looking for her now, and she will be arrested as a material witness. Conrad thinks she may have seen the killer.”
Maurer looked at the glowing end of his cigar. A muscle in his cheek suddenly began to twitch, otherwise his face was expressionless.
There was a tight tension in the room.
Seigel lit a cigarette, his eyes on the back of Maurer’s head. He licked his lips as if they had gone suddenly dry.
Gollowitz stared down at his hands, frowning.
McCann’s hard little eyes took in each man, watching his reactions, a grinding, rising fury inside him made him feel short of breath.
“Well, say something!” he snarled. “Is this something Gollowitz can take care of?”
Maurer looked up. The flat snake’s eyes glowed as if they were on fire, and under his direct look, McCann’s eyes gave ground.
“I want to talk to the Captain,” Maurer said softly.
Gollowitz immediately got up and, followed by Seigel, left the room.
When the door closed behind them, Maurer crossed one short fat leg over the other. He took his cigar out of his mouth, leaned forward and touched off the ash into a cut-glass bowl. He didn’t look at McCann.
McCann sat still, his big fists on his knees, his face purple. Sweat gave an oily
appearance to his complexion.
“Frances Coleman, did you say?” Maurer said suddenly, keeping his voice down.
“That’s right,” McCann said.
“Who is she?”
“Let’s get this straight, Mr. Maurer, are you…?”
“Who is she?” Maurer repeated without raising his voice, but
McCann recognized the danger signals.
“She’s an out-of-work movie extra. She checked out of her room on Glendale Avenue on the night of the murder. The Central Casting Agency haven’t her new address.”
“Did she know Miss Arnot?”
“She worked with her on her last picture: a bit part.”
“You’re looking for her now?”
“Yeah. We should turn her up in a few hours.”
Maurer nodded.
“Got a photograph of her?”
McCann took out a print from his inside pocket.
“I got this from the C.C.A.”
Maurer took the photograph, looked at it, then put the photograph face down on the arm of his chair. He looked up suddenly and smiled.
“You’ve finished your drink, Captain. Help yourself.”
“No, thanks,” McCann said.
He wasn’t fooled by the smile. The atmosphere in the room affected him like
the pressure of an approaching electric storm.
Maurer got up and walked across the room to a door near the casement windows. He opened the door and went into the room that McCann knew Seigel used as an office.
McCann sat still, his cigar gripped tightly between his teeth. He was aware that his heart was beating unevenly and his mouth was dry.
Maurer returned from the office carrying a long white envelope. As he crossed the room, McCann got to his feet and faced him.
“I have been meaning to give you this for some time,” Maurer said, smiling. “A little investment I made in your name came out pretty well.”
McCann took the envelope.
“Fifteen thousand bucks,” Maurer said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
McCann drew in a slow deep breath. He slid the envelope into his hip pocket.
“Perhaps I can return the favour,” he said woodenly.
“Well, yes,” Maurer said, and moved over to the empty fireplace. “I should like to be the first to know where Miss Coleman is to be found. Could that be arranged?”
McCann became aware that sweat was running down his face.
“She may not have seen anything,” he said thickly. “The chances are she didn’t. Miss Arnot wouldn’t have let her come up to the house. She probably left her name and then went away.”
“Could it be arranged?” Maurer repeated.
“I guess so. I’ve told my men to report direct to me as soon as they have found her, and to take no action until I give instructions. I’ve promised to contact the D.A.’s office. They want to see her: they’ll take charge of her.”
’I think I should see her first. When you have found her address, please telephone here. Louis will be waiting.”
“The D.A. will be waiting too,” McCann said quietly. “I have to be careful about this, Mr. Maurer. There mustn’t be much of a time lag. I can’t give you more than half an hour.”
Maurer smiled. He reached out and patted McCann’s shoulder.
“A half-hour will do splendidly.”
“Can’t you give me this straight?” McCann said hoarsely. “Has Conrad got a case? You — you didn’t…?”
Maurer put his hand on McCann’s arm and led him to the door.
“He won’t have a case, Captain,” he said softly. “I promise you that.”
He opened the door and waved McCann to the passage.
“Good night, Captain, and thank you for your co-operation. We shall wait to hear from you.”
It wasn’t until McCann was driving down the narrow dark lane away from the club that he gave vent to his pent-up feelings. He swore vilely and obscenely for as long as it took him to reach the bright lights of the sea front