The hands of the City Hall clock stood at five minutes past one o’clock as Conrad swung his car to the kerb outside a drug store. He crossed the sidewalk, pushed his way past the crowd besieging the quick-lunch counter and shut himself into a pay booth.
Madge answered his call.
“Is Van there?” Conrad asked.
“He’s just come in. Hold a moment.”
Van’s voice came on the line.
“Did you have any luck?” Conrad asked.
“Yeah.” Van’s voice sounded excited. “I’ve got something that ties Paretti in with Jordan. I found an old envelope in the trash-basket. On the back of it was a sketch-plan of Jordan’s apartment. How do you like that?”
Conrad let out a soft whistle.
“You’re sure it’s Jordan’s apartment?”
“You bet! I thought from your description the lay-out looked familiar. On my way back here I dropped into Jordan’s place and checked. There’s no doubt about it.”
“That’s really something,” Conrad said. “Did you find anything else?”
“A cut-throat razor strop, but no razor. There’s a chance the razor found in Jordan’s hand belongs to Paretti. It’s worth checking. I also found sixteen hundred bucks hidden around the apartment.”
“Nice work. This checks with my idea that Maurer rubbed Paretti out. Paretti wouldn’t skip into hiding and leave all that money, plus his roll with Flo. He just wouldn’t do it.”
“That’s the way I figure it too. Did you turn up anything your end?”
“I sure did. Campbell, Jordan’s dresser, talked. He’s tied Maurer in with June. He says Jordan knew June was Maura’s mistress and Jordan was scared stiff Maurer would find out he was playing around with June. He was always talking to Campbell about Maurer, especially when he was drunk. This puts Maurer out on a limb. I’ve got a sworn statement from Campbell. We can start something now, Van.”
“But Campbell’s statement won’t stand up in court, will it, Paul? You’ll need supporting evidence.”
“I’m going after it now,” Conrad said, his voice hardening. “I’m going to bring Flo Presser down to the office and she’s going to talk. She knows Paretti worked for Maurer, and she’s damn well going to make a statement if I have to slap it out of her. I’m on my way down to her place now. I want you to tell the D.A. we’ve got enough evidence to start an investigation. The police will have to be brought into it; we can’t do it alone. Ask him if he’ll call a meeting for this afternoon or as soon as he can fix it so I can let him examine the evidence for himself. McCann should be there. Find out when the D.A. can hold the meeting, then call McCann and ask him to attend. Don’t give him any details over the telephone. We don’t want any of this to leak out until we’re ready to jump Maurer. Okay?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Right. Be seeing you around half-past two,” Conrad said and hung up.
He paused long enough at the quick-lunch bar to grab a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. He bolted them down, then ran out to his car.
144th Street was a side turning off the exclusive Lawrence Boulevard, the main shopping centre of Pacific City. 23c was a top-floor apartment above a florist shop and two empty offices.
Conrad left his car outside the florist shop, entered the side-door entrance and mounted a steep flight of stairs. At the head of the stairs was a sign-board; the only card in the otherwise empty slots read: Miss Florence Presser. 4th floor. Apartment C.
There was no elevator, and Conrad started his long climb. As he reached the third-floor landing, his foot on the bottom step of the flight that led to the top floor, he heard a sudden wild scream that came from above.
A voice he recognized as Flo’s cried out: “No! Don’t touch me! Keep away!”
Another blood-curdling scream rang out which was suddenly cut short.
Conrad shot forward and tore up the rest of the stairs, cursing himself for not bringing a gun with him.
As he reached the landing, he saw a front door that stood half open. He was half-way across the landing when the door jerked fully open and a big, thick-set man came out. His swarthy, brutal face, under a pulled-down black slouch hat, tightened when he saw Conrad, and his right hand slid inside his coat.
Conrad took off in a flying tackle. His right shoulder slammed against the big man’s thighs, and they went down together in a heap on the floor.
The big man had got his gun out and he took a side swipe with the barrel at Conrad’s face, but Conrad saw it coming, got his shoulder up in time and took a numbing blow on the fleshy part of his bicep that made him wince.
He grabbed hold of the big man’s wrist with his left hand and drove his right fist into the big man’s face. His knuckles smashed against teeth that gave under the impact, and the big man cursed.
Conrad swung the big man’s hand against the wall and hammered it against the plaster, trying to break the grip on the gun. He got a bang on the side of his head that sent bright lights swimming before his eyes, and then the big man heaved himself away and kicked Conrad in the chest as Conrad grabbed at him.
The big man scrambled to his feet, raising the gun. Conrad squirmed forward, grabbed the big man’s ankles and heaved. The big man went over backwards, the gun going off with a roar that rattled the windows. A shower of plaster from the punctured ceiling came down on top of them.
Conrad was half up as the big man heaved himself off the floor. The gun crashed again. The gun-flash burned Conrad’s cheek; the slug zipped past his ear. Conrad sent over a long, looping right with all his weight behind it. It caught the big man on the side of his jaw with a devastating impact.
The big man grunted, his eyes rolled back, the gun dropped from his hand. He tried to regain his balance as he swayed on the top stair. Conrad jumped in and drove his left fist into the big man’s belly.
The big man came forward with a rasping gasp, then straightened up and went straight back down the long flight of stairs to land on the back of his head and neck with a crash that shook the building.
Conrad stood for a second looking down at the big man as he lay, his arms and legs thrown wide, on the lower landing. He didn’t bother to go down. No one of that weight could fall as the big man had fallen without breaking his neck.
As Conrad turned to Flo’s apartment he heard the wail of approaching police sirens.
He walked into a long, narrow room, gaudily furnished as a sitting-room.
Across the divan bed, wearing only a pair of black nylon stockings held up by a pair of pink, rose-decorated garters, lay Flo.
An ice-pick had been driven with tremendous force into the side of her neck. He didn’t have to touch her to know she was dead. The job had been done expertly; a professional job. The point of the ice-pick had punctured her spinal cord.
He swore softly under his breath, rubbed his sore shoulder, then groped for a cigarette.
He was still looking down at Flo when two prowl boys, guns in hand, burst into the room.