CONRAD spent a feverish twenty minutes searching for the threeseater sports car in the various car parks that surrounded the amusement park. He was still at it, but realizing the hopelessness of the task, when he heard a police siren, and saw Bardin with a car full of prowl boys swing into the avenue leading to the main entrance of the amusement park.
Conrad ran out to meet the car, waving his hands.
The car pulled up and Bardin, looking hot and irritable, scowled out of the window.
“How are you getting on?” he demanded. “Found the car yet?”
“Shut that damned siren off!” Conrad snapped. “Do you want to scare those two hoods into action?”
Bardin got out of the car as the sergeant driver flicked off the siren.
“Well, come on. Did you find the car?”
“There’re about ten thousand blasted cars in here. Get your men spread out and searching. Any more coming?”
“A couple of wagons just behind. The Captain will raise hell when he hears I’ve pulled out the reserve.”
“If this girl gets killed, the D.A. will raise all the hell McCann will ever want! Get your men into action!”
“Hey! Wait a minute,” Bardin said, putting his hand on Conrad’s arm. “Look who’s coming,” and he jerked his thumb towards a tall young fellow with a crew hair-cut, who was wearing a red-patterned shirt outside his trousers. In his arms he held a collection of dolls, vases and boxes of candy. By his side walked a blonde girl in a white sports frock. “Think those are the two we’re looking for?”
“There must be ten thousand punks who’re wearing their shirts like that right in this park,” Conrad growled, “but I’ll ask him.” He strode up to Buster Walker. “You just come from Lennox Avenue?” he demanded, and felt a little shrill crawl up his spine at Buster’s look of blank astonishment.
“Why, sure,” Buster said. “How did you know?”
Conrad looked at Bunty.
“You Miss Boyd?”
“Yes,” Bunty said blankly.
Conrad signalled to Bardin, who joined them.
“These are the two. You’d better handle it, Sam.”
Bardin flashed his buzzer.
“I’m Lieutenant Bardin, City Police. Where’s Miss Coleman?”
“Frankie?” Buster gaped at him. “What do you want her for? What’s the idea?”
“Answer the question and snap it up!” Bardin barked. “Where is she?”
“We left her in the amusement park.”
“Alone?”
“No, she’s with Burt.”
“Burt — who?”
“Why, Burt Stevens, of course. What’s all this about?”
Bardin glanced at Conrad, who asked, “Has this Stevens guy got a birth-mark?”
“That’s right. A port-wine stain down the right side of his face.”
“Are you sure his name is Stevens?”
“He said it was. Is there something wrong, then?”
“But you don’t know for certain?”
“No, we don’t,” Bunty broke in. “I didn’t like the look of him when he came to the house. You see, we were all going to the beach: Frankie, Buster, Terry Lancing and myself. Terry phoned to say he couldn’t make it, and was sending his friend Burt to take his place. This boy turned up. He said he was Burt Stevens, but of course as I’ve never seen him before I don’t know for certain if he really is Burt Stevens.”
“Where exactly did you leave Miss Coleman?”
“They were going into the maze,” Buster said.
“What maze?”
“The mirror maze. It’s at the end of that avenue, next to the big tent. I wish you’d tell me what this is all about.”
“No time right now,” Conrad said curtly. “Stay right here. We may need you again.” He turned to Bardin. “Come on!” He didn’t wait to see Bardin’s reaction, but broke into a run, and began forcing his way through the crowds towards the big tent.
Bardin paused only long enough to give instructions to his sergeant.
“Get that maze surrounded. Don’t let anyone out. You know who to look for. Watch out for Moe. He’ll try to shoot his way out.”
He turned and ran after Conrad, leaving Buster and Bunty staring blankly after him.
The rays of the sun, striking obliquely into the maze, caught the nickel plate of the automatic and made the gun glitter in Moe’s hand.
For a brief moment Frances stared at the pointing gun. Moe s appearance struck terror in her heart. His black suit, his hunched shoulders and his stillness sent a cold dull up her spine. She knew instinctively that he was a killer, and she realized he was about to shoot at her.
There was no retreat. She looked desperately along the row of mirrors and saw an opening about ten feet ahead of her. She braced herself and jumped forward. As she moved Moe shot at her.
The crash of gunfire, hemmed in by the confined space, sounded like a bomb exploding. Frances screamed wildly as a mirror right by her smashed into pieces. Fragments of glass flew like shrapnel. A splinter of glass sliced her frock missing her flesh by a hair’s breadth.
She bolted down the turning, and ran as she had never run before. Ahead of her stretched an endless path of mirrors. Behind her she heard the soft padpad-pad of running feet, coming at a much faster speed than she was going. She flew over the ground, reached another turning and sped round it, cannoning into a mirror as she took the turning.
She tried desperately to regain her balance, then slid down on one knee. As she struggled up, the automatic cracked again and a bullet zipped past her face, smashed a mirror, ricocheted against another mirror and smashed that too.
The narrow path became full of flying fragments of glass. Covering her face with her arms, Frances blundered on down the path, running slower now, her breath coming in hard sobbing gasps.
Moe pulled up short as he reached the pile of broken glass. He knew time was running out. He had been told to kill this girl, and he knew if he failed his own life would be snuffed out. His small hard eyes looked along the path at the racing figure in the blue dress. He watched for a brief moment her slim flying legs and her black silky hair floating out behind her. He brought up the automatic and levelled the sight in the exact centre of her slim young shoulders. His finger curled around the trigger. He couldn’t miss now. She was running as straight as a foot rule, and the sun made her pale blue frock a dazzling target.
Then he felt a violent blow against his shoulder, and gunfire crashed in his ears. His gun hand jerked up as his gun went off. He staggered back and looked up.
Standing on one of the walls was the figure of a man, gun in hand. Moe recognized him immediately: the Special Investigator to the District Attorney’s office. He flung himself flat as Conrad shot at him again.
Blood was running down Moe’s sleeve and down his fingers. He felt a dull burning pain in his right shoulder. He looked along the path, but the girl had now vanished, and he drew back his lips in a snarl of fury.
Conrad was about fifteen yards from where Moe crouched. Two paths divided him from the path in which Moe was. He couldn’t see him now, but he knew he was still there. The wall was only six inches thick and it wasn’t easy to stand on it, let alone jump the six feet to the next wall.
Already a dozen police were climbing up on to the top of the walls and were spreading out slowly to surround the maze.
“He’s here,” Conrad shouted, and pointed to the path where Moe was crouching.
Moe straightened up and fired at Conrad, who felt the slug zip past his face. As he automatically ducked, he lost his balance and fell into one of the mirrored paths.
The police had called for planks and were crossing the paths by laying the planks across the tops of the walls, and then pulling the planks after them.
But by the time they reached the path where Moe had been, he had vanished, leaving only a smear of blood on one of the mirrors to show where he had been.
A police sergeant, squatting on the wall, looked down at Conrad.
“You all right, sir?”
“I’m okay,” Conrad said tersely. “I’ll stay here. See if you can spot him, then direct me on to him. If you see the girl, let me know at once. And watch out!”
The sergeant nodded and started off, bent double, along the narrow wall.
Moe in the next path watched him come, a savage gleam in his eyes. He lifted the automatic and shot the sergeant through the head.
The sergeant threw up his arms and fell heavily into the next path to the one Moe was in.
Gripping his wounded arm, Moe ran down the path, turned a corner and then paused to listen. He saw something blue reflected in one of the mirrors, and his lips came off his teeth in a grinning snarl.
The girl was standing at the next intersection, and as he watched her, he saw her edge into the path where he was, looking away from him.
Moe transferred his gun to his left hand. He lifted the gun and sighted it, aiming at the centre of her young full breasts. The gun sight wobbled as he fought against the increasing feeling of faintness, and he cursed under his breath.
Suddenly a voice sounded over a loudspeaker: a voice that rolled over the maze, amplified like the sound of thunder.
“Miss Coleman! Miss Coleman! Attention please! The police are looking for you. Will you shout so we can find you? Be on your guard. Keep looking to your right and your left. The gunman is still at large!”
Frances caught her breath in a gasp of relief and alarm. She hastily looked to her right, then her left, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the black suited figure not more than thirty yards from her, the automatic pointing at her. She shut her eyes and screamed wildly. Gunfire crashed against her ear drums. She felt a scorching pain bite into her arm and she felt herself falling.
Moe watched her fall, his eyes alight with vicious triumph. He was aware of the sound of running feet, but he fired again at the still figure as it lay on the ground. The slug smashed the mirror an inch or two above Frances’s prostrate body, bringing a shower of glass down on top of her.
The running feet sounded very close now, and Moe swung around.
Conrad pulled up as he reached the corner of the path. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Moe, crouching, with his gun pushed forward, and beyond Moe, the body of a girl in a blue frock. He ducked back as Moe fired at him, the slug throwing a spray of glass splinters dangerously near his face.
Dropping flat, Conrad edged around the corner. Moe spotted him as Conrad lifted his gun and they both fired simultaneously.
Moe’s slug cut through the crown of Conrad’s hat. Conrad’s shot was more accurate. He saw Moe drop his gun, clutch his side and pitch forward on his face.
Two policemen arrived above Conrad and jumped down beside him.
“Watch him,” Conrad cautioned as he stepped into the path where Moe lay.
But Moe didn’t move when they reached him. One of the police turned him over on his back.
Moe’s white face was twisted into a snarl of pain and fear. His sightless eyes stared up at the blue sky. Blood soaked the front of his coat. Even as Conrad looked down at him, Moe’s jaw dropped and the last of his breath came through his open mouth in a tired, hissing sigh.
Naked, her body still rose-pink from the vigorous towelling she had given it, Dolores sat on a stool in one of the luxurious shower rooms in the Paradise Club and carefully dried between her toes with a piece of cotton wool.
She had just come in from a swim, and following her usual practice, she had taken a shower to wash the salt water from her skin.
Her expression was thoughtful and her almond-shaped eyes had lost their usual alive gleam and were cloudy with angry anxiety.
An hour ago Jack Maurer had abruptly told her he was going on a fishing trip; destination unknown, and he would be away probably for three weeks to a month. Even now as she glanced out of the window that overlooked the ocean she could still see the yacht as a minute speck in the horizon.
She had guessed Maurer had gone on Abe’s advice, and because of June Arnot.
She had known about June ever since the affair had started. She had watched the affair progress, and had felt her own power over Maurer weaken as the months passed. She knew her throne was tottering. It gave her no satisfaction that June was dead. If it wasn’t June, then it would be someone else. She knew that Gloria Lyle, a second-rate movie actress with a bust like a pouter pigeon’s and the morals of an alley cat, had gone aboard the yacht, ten minutes before Maurer had left the club for the harbour.
June’s murder had shocked Dolores. To her it was the writing on the wall. When Maurer came back, she was sure that her reign would end. The odds were that he wouldn’t bother to divorce her; he would get rid of her as brutally as he had got rid of June.
Dolores had no illusions about Maurer. She knew he thought no more of taking a life than he thought of drinking a Scotch and soda.
She had been his wife now for four years, and the wonder was she had lasted so long. It was only because she had never given him a chance to complain, never looked at any other man, that she had lasted. She knew he was growing impatient for his freedom. He wouldn’t dare divorce her. She knew too much about his business affairs to risk her being free from his watchful influence. She was sure that before long, probably when he returned, he would tell one of his hoods what to do, and she would the. She would have a car smash or a shooting accident; she might get carried out to sea when she was bathing. There were many convenient ways in which she could the: convenient for Maurer, of course.
She reached out for a cigarette, lit it and released two thin trails of smoke down her finely shaped nostrils.
She wasn’t alarmed, but she realized she would have to do something if she were going to survive. Already her quick wits and her shrewd razor-sharp mind had created a passible solution. Now Maurer was out of the ways she must make immediate use of her opportunities.
She stood up and walked over to the wall mirror and surveyed herself. She smoothed her hands down her long, sleek flanks as she studied her body with thoughtful narrowed eyes. She thought of Gloria Lyle with her short legs and ridiculous bust. What did Maurer see in her, she wondered. What could he see in her? He was no better than an alley cat himself in search of any new sensation with an animal urge for something fresh, no matter how ugly it was.
Shrugging her shoulders, she began to dress, her mind still occupied. Her position was dangerous. She had thought of taking her jewellery and the clothes he had once showered on her and trying to hide herself somewhere, but she knew there was nowhere safe from his long-reaching arm.
She snapped a garter into place, smoothed her dress over her solid hips and walked out of the shower room and along the passage to the cocktail bar.
Abe Gollowitz sat on a high stool, sipping a martini. His fat buttocks spread over the stool, making the stool look like a grotesque mushroom.
She stood in the doorway, looking at him. In him was her only hope, and she felt a little shiver of disgust run through her. Pot-bellied, oily old men were her only refuge, she thought: the only men who had the power and the money that were essential to her way of life. If only Abe were like that flash, hard-muscled Seigel. She had often wondered what Seigel would be like as a lover. Several times she had been tempted to experiment, but she knew the danger. Once she had made Seigel her lover, her life would be hanging on a thread.
She studied Gollowitz as he sipped his martini, unaware of her presence. She could do anything with him, and she had long known he lived for the day when he would take over Maurer’s position. But would he be strong enough to protect her when the time came?
“Hello, Abe,” she said, coming up to him and smiling her brilliant, sensual smile. “So Jack’s gone.”
He hurriedly slid off the stool, his fat, dark face lighting up.
“Yes, he’s gone,” he said, his eyes undressing her. “How beautiful you look, Dolly. How do you manage it?”
She shrugged and climbed up on a stool next to his.
“Oh, I don’t know. Jack doesn’t notice it any longer, Abe.”
He scowled.
“Jack doesn’t appreciate the best things in life.”
“You know he’s got that Lyle woman on board?” Dolores said, taking the icecold martini the barman gave her.
Gollowitz stiffened.
“I had heard. It’s no business of mine.”
“Abe, is Jack in trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that. He suddenly decided…”
“Please, Abe, tell me. You’re the only one I have now who I can trust. He is in trouble, isn’t he?”
Gollowitz glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot.
“He could be. We thought it wiser for him to be out of reach — for the time being.”
“It’s because of June?”
Gollowitz hesitated, then, nodded.
“How will the organization react, Abe? Could this be the end of Jack?”
“This is dangerous talk, Dolly, but since you ask me, I can only tell you I don’t know. He’s not paying much attention to the organization these past months. He has said something about making a clean break.”
This was news to Dolores, but she was careful not to let Gollowitz see her startled surprise.
“I know. He’s said something about that to me. Isn’t it unwise, Abe?”
“I think so.”
This time it was her turn to hesitate, but she knew if she didn’t seize every opportunity it might be too late when Maurer returned.
Lowering her voice, she said, “If anything happened to Jack, you would take over, wouldn’t you?”
Gollowitz eyed her uneasily. He was on perilous ground, but he was also aware that Dolores’s present position was still more perilous.
“It would depend on the organization. They may have someone else in mind.”
She shook her head.
“That’s not likely.” She looked up suddenly, her green eyes an open invitation. “If you did take over, Abe, would you have anything for me?”
She watched him trying to keep calm. She already knew the answer before he said, “If I took over, Dolly, you would have nothing to worry about.”
She gave a pleased little smile.
“I have plenty to worry about now, Abe.”
Gollowitz nodded. He restrained himself from reaching for her hand. He was aware that several people in the bar were watching them.
“Yes, and so have I.”
The bell of the telephone standing on the bar rang sharply. The barman picked up the receiver, listened, said, “Yes, sir,” and replaced the receiver. He turned to Gollowitz. “Mr. Seigel’s asking for you, sir. He’s in your office. It’s urgent.”
Gollowitz scowled. Couldn’t Seigel hold down his job for ten minutes without bothering him? he thought as he got off his stool. He’d have to go. No sense in risking trouble at the beginning of his reign.
“That guy can’t blow his own nose without me helping him,” he said, smiling at Dolores. “Perhaps we might have lunch together in twenty minutes?”
She shook her head.
“Better not, Abe. Too many spies around,” She gave him a warning look. “I’m going home now.” She slid off the stool. “One of these days we’ll have lunch together. I’m looking forward to the time, Abe, when there will be no restrictions between us.” Her look was full of meaning as she smiled a good-bye.
He watched her walk across the bar to the door, his eyes feast-ting on her, watching the slow rolling movement of her hips under the thin material of her frock as she walked, her broad, square shoulders and her long, tapering legs. He felt sick with desire for her.
Seigel was pacing up and down when Gollowitz entered his office. His face was pale and his breath stank of whisky as he approached Gollowitz.
“They’ve got the girl!” he said breathlessly.
Gollowitz stiffened.
“What do you mean? Who’s got the girl?”
“Goddamn it! The police have got her! Those two blasted punks made a mess of it!”
Gollowitz felt a chill run up his fat spine. Failure! The moment his hand was on the helm, the ship floundered. What would the organization think of him? This might kill his chances of ever succeeding Maurer! Cold, vicious rage seized him.
“But Jack told you to wipe her out!” he cried shrilly. “Do you mean to tell me she isn’t wiped out?”
Seigel backed away. He had never seen Gollowitz look like this; he looked now as dangerous and as crazy as Maurer could look when things went wrong.
“They trapped her in a maze in the amusement park. The police must have been tipped. They arrived before they could find the little bitch. Moe was killed.”
“Are you telling me the police have got her after what Maurer told you?” Gollowitz screamed, his fat fists clenched and his face contorted with rage and fear. “Didn’t you hear what McCann said? Goddamn it! What’s the matter with you?”
“I warned Mr. Maurer,” Seigel snarled. “We had no time to case the joint. It blew up. She was surrounded by people. The boys couldn’t get near her. I warned him!”
“Shut up!” Gollowitz cried. “I don’t want to listen to your weak, spineless excuses. Maurer said she was to be hit, and you’ve failed to carry out an order!”
“Gleb and Weiner failed to carry out the order,” Seigel said, his face chalk white.
“And you’re responsible! What are you doing about it? What the hell are you doing here, making excuses? Get after her! Wipe her out! I don’t care how you do it, but do it!”
“The D.A.’s got her,” Seigel said. “We can’t get at her. That’s the one place we can’t get into.”
Gollowitz struggled to control his rage and fear. He realized he wasn’t behaving as the boss. Maurer wouldn’t act this way; yelling, swearing and raving. He would have a plan ready to rectify the mistake. He pulled himself together with an effort and walked unsteadily to an arm-chair and sat down.
“If she saw Jack at that Arnot woman’s house, we’re finished.” he said, as if talking to himself. “Everything will go. The organization will be wiped out. But did she see anything? Can we afford to gamble on what she saw or didn’t see?”
“Of course we can’t,” Seigel said. “We’ve got to stop her talking. Maybe McCann can handle it for us.”
Gollowitz grimaced.
“McCann? He only thinks of himself. No. We’ve got to handle this ourselves. Where is she exactly, do you know?”
“They took her to the D.A.’s office. She’s somewhere in the building.”
Gollowitz thought for a long moment. Then he looked up sharply.
“You said Gleb was killed. What happened to Weiner?”
Seigel shrugged.
“I don’t know. He disappeared.”
Gollowitz felt the blood drain out of his face.
“You don’t know?” he repeated, starting out of his chair.
Seigel stared at him.
“He’ll turn up. I’ll kick hell out of the punk when I do catch up with him!”
“You goddamn fool!” Gollowitz shouted, his face twitching. “That girl will give a description of him. A blind man could find the punk with that stain on his face. The police will pick him up quick enough, and if he talks we are really sunk. Don’t you see that? All the girl needs to hang the lot of us is corroboration, and to save his skin Weiner will corroborate till he is black in the face. He got his orders from you, didn’t he? Well, they’ll slap an attempted murder charge on you if Weiner talks! And he will talk, make no mistake about that!” He waved his fat fists in the Mr. “Get after him! Find and silence him! Leave the girl to me! I’ll handle her, but get after Weiner. Put every man you’ve got after him. Go yourself!”
Seigel stood rooted, gaping at the screaming, gesticulating figure, then he realized Gollowitz was talking sense.
“I’ll get him!” he said, and snatched open a drawer in his desk. He took out a .45 automatic and shoved it in his hip pocket. “I’ll get him — I’ll get him myself,” and he went out of the room at a run.
Conrad had never seen the D.A. look so excited as he listened to Conrad’s story of the killing of Moe and the finding of Frances Coleman.
“Where’s the girl now?” Forest asked when Conrad had completed his tale.
“On the tenth floor, sir. Miss Fielding and a nurse are with her. Jackson and Norris are guarding the door. There are three police officers taking care of the elevator and the stairs. She’s safe enough for the time being.”
“Was she hurt?”
“More scared than hurt. She had a nasty cut on her arm from flying glass, but otherwise, apart from shock she’s all right.”
Forest rubbed his hands.
“When can you talk to her?”
“I’m waiting for the okay from Doc. Holmes. He said as soon as she has had a rest I can see her.”
“Fine. Now how about Weiner?”
“I don’t know how he slipped through the cordon. There was so much excitement cornering Gleb he was unfortunately overlooked. No one seems to have noticed him. Every man on the force is hunting for him now.”
“We’ve got to find him before Maurer’s mob does,” Forest said grimly. “If he talks, Paul, we’ve got that bunch just where we want them, and they know it. His life’s not worth a dime right now.”
Conrad nodded.
“We can’t do more than we’re doing now. It’s a question of time. He can’t get far with that birth-mark. The local radio station is broadcasting a description of him. They are interrupting programmes to ask for all information concerning him to be telephoned to us immediately.”
A buzzer sounded on Forest’s desk. He picked up the interoffice phone, listened, raised his eyebrows, grunted and hung up.
“Seems we have started something,” he said with evident satisfaction. “Maurer’s skipped. His yacht left two hours ago. He’s supposed to be on a fishing trip, destination unknown.”
“Putting himself out of our reach for the time being,” Conrad said. “Well, if we get the evidence we want, we’ll pick him up fast enough. Looks as if we’re on the right track at last, doesn’t it, sir?”
“If only this girl saw him!”
“We’ll know before long.” Conrad was controlling his own impatience with an effort. “Do you want to talk to her yourself?”
“Forest shook his head.
“You handle it, Paul. You have a lighter touch than I have. I don’t know why it is, but I seem to scare the pants off people when I talk to them.”
“Only if they happen to have a guilty conscience.” Conrad got to his feet. “I’ll have a written report for you by this afternoon. I may as well go upstairs and see what’s happening.”
“Let me know as soon as they pick up Weiner.”
“I will, sir.”
Conrad took the elevator to the tenth floor. Jackson and Norris sat on straightbacked chairs either side of a door at the far end of the passage. Both of them nursed Thompson guns. Conrad was leaving nothing to chance. He realized Frances could be a vitally important witness, and Maurer’s mob would stop at nothing to silence her.
“Any news yet?” he asked Jackson.
“Doc’s just gone, sir. All quiet here.”
Conrad rapped on the door which was opened by Madge.
“I was just going to call you. Doc, says you can talk to her now.”
“How is she?”
“A bit jumpy. I don’t wonder at it. She’s had a bad time.”
“Yes.”
“She’s in the far room,” Madge said. “Do you want me?”
“Not right now. If she’s ready to make a statement, I’ll call you.”
As he was speaking the nurse came out of the inner room and nodded to him.
“Don’t let her talk too much. She needs a good sleep.”
“I won’t keep her long,” Conrad said, and aware his heart was beginning to beat unevenly, he walked into the inner room.
Frances lay on a couch with a rug thrown over her. She was very pale, and her big dark eyes looked at Conrad with uneasy anxiety.
He was aware of a sudden tightening of his throat as he looked down at her. Her face in the photograph had fascinated him, and he realized with a sense of shock that he could be in love with her. It was fantastic, of course, as he hadn’t even spoken to her as yet, but the feeling was there, and for a moment he remained still, unable to collect his thoughts or to say anything.
She lay motionless, watching him, and he pulled himself together with an effort.
“I expect Miss Fielding told you I wanted to talk to you,” he said, and his voice was husky. “I’m Paul Conrad, special investigator to the District Attorney’s office. How are you feeling, Miss Coleman?”
“I — I’m all right, thank you,” she said in a small voice. “I want to go home.”
“We’ll fix all that in a little while,” he said soothingly. “There are a few questions I want to ask you first.” He pulled up a chair and sat down near her. “I’m not going to keep you long because the nurse said you should have some sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I just want to go home.”
“Have you any relations, Miss Coleman? Someone you would like me to get into touch with to let them know where you are?”
He saw a scared expression jump into her eyes, and she looked quickly away from him.
“I haven’t any relations.”
“No one at all?”
“No.”
He suddenly realized that this interview might not be as straightforward as he had imagined.
“Miss Coleman, I believe you called on Miss Arnot on the 9th, around seven o’clock.”
Her dark eyes flickered uneasily over his face, then moved away.
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you see Miss Arnot?”
“Yes.”
Conrad was aware now that the palms of his hands were moist and his heart was beginning to bang against his ribs.
“May I ask why you wanted to see her?”
“I — I would rather not say.” A faint flush rose to her face and she looked anxiously around the room as if she were trying to find a way of escape.
“Well I won’t press that question. You did see Miss Arnot?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you with her?”
“Oh, about five minutes. Not longer.”
“Do you know why I am asking these questions?” Conrad said gently, his eyes on her face.
“I — I suppose it’s because of Miss Arnot’s death.”
“That’s right: because of her murder.”
He saw her flinch, and bite her under-lip.
“What did you do when you left Miss Arnot?”
“Why, I came away.”
“Did you walk down the drive?”
“Yes.”
Conrad took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. The next question would decide Maurer’s fate.
“While you were in the grounds of the estate, did you see anyone, apart from the guard or Miss Arnot?”
“I—I don’t think so.”
She was looking down at the pattern of the rug that covered her, and Conrad stared at her, a feeling of sick disappointment coming over him.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.”
Why didn’t she look at him? he wondered. Could she be lying?
“Miss Coleman, this is vitally important. I want you to think carefully before you answer my next question. You know Miss Arnot has been murdered. She was killed on the 9th, a few minutes after seven o’clock: at the time you were there. We had hoped you might have seen the killer. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t see anyone except the guard and Miss Arnot?”
There was a long pause. He noticed she was trembling under the rug and her hands had turned into small white knuckled fists.
“Yes,” she said at last.
“You mean you didn’t see anyone?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
He looked down at his hands, his mind busy. If she had looked him in the face when she said she hadn’t seen anyone he would have instantly believed her, but the fact she couldn’t meet his eyes made him doubt whether she were telling the truth.
He studied her. She was still staring down at the rug, her hands still clenched into small tight fists.
“Did you arrive at Miss Arnot’s place by car?” he asked quietly.
She looked up, startled, and her eyes told him she was searching for a trap in the question.
“I — I walked.”
“It’s a long walk. It must be three miles from the boulevard.”
She flushed.
“I — I like walking.”
“Did you see anyone as you were coming from Dead End on the sea road? Anyone in a car, Miss Coleman?”
“No.”
“And yet that was the way the killer had to come,” he pointed out patiently. “There is no other approach to Dead End except by that road. It’s odd, isn’t it, that you were within a quarter of an hour of Miss Arnot’s murder and yet you didn’t see anyone?”
She didn’t say anything, but her face went whiter and she looked anxiously towards the door as if hoping someone would come in and stop his questioning.
In spite of the growing conviction that she wasn’t telling the truth, Conrad felt sorry for her and he had to force himself to continue to badger her.
“When you talked with Miss Arnot, did she give you any idea that she was expecting someone?” he asked.
He could see the girl was growing tense, and her trembling increased.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said in a tight small voice. “Please stop asking me questions. I — I’m not feeling well. I want to go home.”
“That’s all right, Miss Coleman,” he said and smiled. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance. You have some sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“But I don’t want to!” she cried fiercely. “I want to be left alone. I don’t want to go to sleep! I want to go home!”
“I’m afraid you will have to stay here until tomorrow,” Conrad said as gently as he could. “One of the gunmen who tried to shoot you is still at large. We can’t let you go until he is caught.”
“But he wouldn’t hurt me,” she blurted out, sitting bolt upright. “He said he wouldn’t and I believe him. This is just an excuse to keep me here! I’m not going to stay! You can’t keep me here! You’ve no right to keep me here!” Her voice was rising hysterically, and Conrad got to his feet, a little alarmed at the wild trapped look in her eyes.
The door opened and the nurse came in quickly.
“Perhaps you had better leave her to me,” she said, crossing the room.
Frances threw the rug off and struggled to her feet.
“I won’t stay here! You can’t make me stay!” she cried wildly, and took a few tottering steps to the door.
Conrad saw all trace of colour suddenly leave her face and her eyes rolled back. He jumped forward and caught her as she crumpled to the floor in a faint.
Sam’s street saloon was an old-fashioned honky-tonk on the waterfront, frequented by dockers, sailors and prostitutes. Its long, low-ceilinged room had high-backed booths along one side where Sam’s clients could talk and drink without being seen or disturbed. The other side of the room was given up to a long S-shaped bar that glittered with mirrors and lighted advertising signs.
Pete Weiner sat in the last booth at the far end of the room where he could
watch the swing doors of the saloon. A bottle of Scotch and a glass stood before him and an ash-tray piled high with butts indicated the time he had been in the booth.
Pete felt cold, frightened and sick. Already he was regretting what he had done. In Frances’s company he had been brave enough, but now he was on his own, a slow chill of terror was creeping over him.
He knew the word would have gone out by now, and the streets would be death traps. But what was he to do? He was short of money, and he thought longingly of the five hundred dollars he had in his room. He dared not go back there to collect the money. His room would be the first place they would go to, and one of them would be waiting for him at this very moment.
He pulled out a few crumpled bills from his trousers pocket and checked them. He had fifteen dollars and a few cents. He hadn’t even a car. The railroad depot would be watched. If only he knew of some place where he could hole up for a few days! Without money he was helpless.
He shifted his mind away from his immediate troubles and thought of Frances. He had gone after her when she had run away from him, but he had quickly lost himself in the maze, and lost her, too. He had run on and on blindly until suddenly he had found himself at the exit. He had had no intention of getting out. He had wanted to kill Moe, but instead he had found himself out among a vast crowd that instantly hemmed him in as they gaped at the arriving police who swarmed up the walls of the maze and spread out, guns in hand.
Pete had heard the shooting, and had stood in the crowd, waiting, sure Moe had killed Frances. It wasn’t until he had seen an ambulance arrive and watched Moe’s dead body loaded on board and had seen Frances carried to a waiting police car that he had thought of his own safety.
He got away from the amusement park as quickly as he could, and knowing how quickly the mob swung into action, he had taken refuge in Sam’s saloon.
The odds were he had only a few hours longer to live. The moment he showed himself on the streets he would be done for. He knew the technique well enough. A fast-moving car would pass him, and he would go down under a hail of bullets.
He lit a cigarette, drank a little of the whisky and wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand. He couldn’t stay in the saloon all day. If only he could find somewhere to hide until darkness came! It was just possible, under the cloak of darkness, he might get out of town, but in broad daylight with this accursed birth-mark to give him away, he wouldn’t last ten minutes before they were on to him.
A shadow fell across the table, and he felt his heart leap in his chest. His right hand remained as if paralysed on the table, although his mind was frantically willing it to flash to his gun. He looked up.
A young girl, corn-coloured hair piled high on top of her head, wearing a red sweater and a white skirt, smiled down at him.
“Hello, bright eyes,” she said, leaning forward, her hands on the table and her breasts heavy against the thin casing of her sweater. “Want a little company?”
He stared at her, trying to recover from the shock. What was the matter with him? He hadn’t even seen her approach. Suppose it had been Dutch or one of the mob? He would have been dead by now without even having a chance to hit back.
“I have a place just around the corner,” the girl went on. “We could have fun.” She smiled, showing small white teeth, but her eyes were hard and calculating as she looked down at him.
Pete realized the advantages of going with her. Once in her place he could hold a gun on her and wait until darkness came. But dare he leave the saloon? What did she mean: just round the corner? It might be a few yards or it might be a few hundred yards. These girls said anything to get you to go with them.
“Where’s your place?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Just across the street, darling,” she said. “Just at the corner. Will you come?”
“Well, all right,” he said, and stood up. He went over to the bar and paid for his drinks.
The barman gave him a long hard stare. There was something in the way the barman eyed him that frightened Pete. He walked quickly down the long room with the girl who held his arm.
“You seem nervous, honey,” the girl said, smiling at him. “Don’t tell me I’m your first?”
He didn’t bother to answer as he stepped into the hot sunshine, feeling suddenly naked and horribly vulnerable on the bright, noisy waterfront.
“Where do we go?” he asked anxiously, his eyes searching the crowded scene, hunting for a familiar face.
“Just down here,” the girl said. She walked at his side with small mincing steps, balancing herself unsteadily on her three-inch heels. “You’ll like it. I’ve got a radio. If you make it worth my while I’ll dance for you. Most of my friends like to watch me dance.”
She was leading him away from the waterfront towards a narrow dark street of tall sordid-looking houses.
He hurried her along, looking back from time to time over his shoulder, ready to break into a run at the slightest suspicious movement.
“Here we are,” the girl said, pausing outside a house at the corner of the street. “I said it wasn’t far, didn’t I?”
She climbed the steps, opened her handbag and took out her latch key.
He followed her into a dimly lit, shabby hall, and as he shut the front door he drew in a tight gasping breath of relief. He had made it! He was at least safe now until dark. He had no qualms about handling the girl. She wouldn’t start anything when he showed her his gun.
She began to climb the stairs, and he followed closely. When they reached the second-floor landing, she stopped outside a door facing the head of the stairs.
“This is it,” she said, and turned the handle of the door. “Oh, damn! My fool maid has locked me out again. She’s always doing it. Just wait here, darling, while I run down and get the spare key. I keep it in my mailbox.”
She patted his arm, giving him a bright, fixed smile, then she started down the stairs.
Pete took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it and flicked out the match. Then he moved over to the banister rail and looked down into the hall, two flights below.
The girl had just reached the hall. She paused and looked up. Their eyes met, and Pete felt a cold wave of fear sweep through him when he saw the scared look on the girl’s face. Instinctively he realized he had walked into a trap.
What a mad fool he had been to have accepted her on her face value!
The mob wouldn’t want to walk into Sam’s bar and kill him in front of witnesses. They would fix it to get him somewhere alone, and through her they had got him alone!
His hand flew to the inside of his coat as he heard a key turn in the lock behind him. He spun round in time to see the door to the girl’s apartment was opening slowly.
He didn’t hesitate. Swinging up the gun, he fired, aiming to the right and just a little above the door handle. The slug smashed through the door, spraying wood splinters, and Pete heard a gasping groan, then the sound of a heavy fall behind the door.
He spun around and threw himself down the stairs, taking three stairs at a time. He ran blindly along the short passage to the head of the stairs leading to the hall. He took these in two jumps, arriving in the hall with a crash that shook the house.
The girl, her eyes wide with fright, crouched against the wall, her hands crossed over her breasts, her painted mouth wide open in a soundless scream.
He jumped to the front door, stopped as he saw through the glass panels, two men coming up the steps.
He recognized them: Goetz and Buzz Conforti, two of Maurer’s expert killers. He sprang back, his heart contracting, then turned and retreated down the passage that ran to the right of the hall.
He reached the girl as she dived for the stairs, grabbed hold of her, turned her so her back was to him, and keeping her against him, his left arm round her waist so she was shielding his body, he continued to back down the passage.
“Scream or try to get away and I’ll kill you,” he panted. “Is there a way out at the back?”
“Let me go!” she gasped, digging her nails into his wrist.
He gave her a chopping blow on her shoulder with the gun barrel, making her squeal.
“Is there a way out at the back?”
“Yes.”
The front door burst open and Goetz jumped into the hall.
Pete took a hurried shot at him. The girl screamed wildly as she felt the heat of the gun-flash. Goetz dropped down on one knee, his dark, vicious face creased in a snarl.
“Don’t shoot!” the girl screamed, waving her hands imploringly as Goetz swung up a .45.
Pete continued to back away, dragging the girl with him. He saw Goetz trying to get the sight of his gun on to him, but Pete kept his head down, hoisting the girl higher so she completely concealed him.
She kicked out wildly, her shoes flying off and her white skirt riding above her thighs.
Pete’s back thudded against a door. He fired again at Goetz, a near miss this time, for Goetz’s hat flew off.
Goetz’s finger squeezed the trigger and the heavy gun went off. He fired three times. The bullets slammed into the girl’s writhing body. Pete could feel the shock of them.
The girl stiffened so violently she nearly jerked herself out of his grip, then she went limp; the sudden dead weight almost pulling him off balance.
He groped behind him, found a door handle, turned it and pulled the door open.
Conforti had crawled into the hall by now. As he lifted his gun, Pete fired at him. Not waiting to see the result of his shot, he threw the body of the girl from him, jumped back through the open doorway, slammed the door and ran madly down a small yard, heaved himself over a wooden fence and landed, sobbing for breath, in a twisting, narrow alley.
He sprinted down the alley, hearing the sound of foot-falls behind him. He ran for some hundred yards, following the twisting alley, keeping close to the wooden fence.
Ahead of him he could see the main street with its traffic and crowds. He somehow managed to increase his speed and reached the street just as Goetz turned the last bend in the alley.
Goetz half raised his gun as he caught sight of Pete, but lowered it as Pete vanished round the corner.
Pete dashed through the crowds that thronged the street, pushing people out of his way. He had concealed his gun in his coat pocket, but people stared after him, sensing something was wrong, startled by his sweating, frightened face.
He was out in the open now. Any second a car would overtake him, and he would be cut down. He paused at the edge of the kerb, his chest heaving, while he looked to right and left. He saw a taxi, and he waved frantically. The taxi swung, to the kerb and pulled up beside him.
“The park,” Pete gasped, and wrenched open the cab door.
Hands grabbed his arms from behind and he gave a cry of terror as he looked around. Two big patrolmen had hold of him.
“Take it easy,” one of them said. “We want you, Weiner. Get his rod, Jack.”
The other cop expertly found Pete’s gun and shoved it into his hip pocket.
“We’ll take the cab,” the first cop said. “Headquarters, bud, and snap it up.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete caught sight of a big black car bearing down on the taxi.
“Look out!” he yelled, and wrenched himself free from the cop who was holding him. He flung himself face down on the floor of the cab as the black car swept past.
Above the noise of the traffic came the violent hammering of a machine-gun.
The cab rocked crazily under the impact of the hail of bullets. One of the cops was caught across his face by a burst from the machine-gun. His head and face
dissolved into a mess of blood and smashed bone.
The other cop threw himself down on top of Pete. The taxi driver was caught by the tail end of the burst. The shock of the bullets smashing into him lifted him out of the cab and flung him on the sidewalk.
The crowd on the street broke and ran in all directions, yelling and screaming. Several of them were caught by the burst and lay in huddled heaps on the sidewalk and the street.
The black car swept on and disappeared around the corner. The big cop covering Pete got unsteadily to his feet.
“The bastards!” he said through clenched teeth. “The goddamn bastards!”
He dragged Pete out of the cab.
“Come on, you!” he snarled, and ran Pete across the sidewalk into the sheltering porch of a store. He wedged Pete into a corner between two plateglass windows and stood in front of him, gun in hand.
“Get me inside!” Pete shouted excitedly. “You goddamn fool! Do you imagine glass’ll stop bullets?”
“Shut your trap!” the cop snarled. “There ain’t going to be no bullets.”
Even as he spoke the black car made its second run. The crowds on the street, seeing it coming, flattened on the sidewalks or dashed madly into the shops and stores for shelter.
Cars, swerving to avoid the black car that came straight down the middle of the street, mounted the kerbs. One car crashed through a plate-glass window.
“Look out!” Pete screamed, and shoving the cop with all his strength gained enough room to lie fiat.
The cop, as brave and as stupid as a charging rhino, started firing at the car as it swept past. The answering burst of fire from the concealed machine-gun was devastating. The cop seemed to fly to pieces as the whip lash of bullets tore open his chest and flung him back on to Pete.
The car braked and pulled up. Goetz and Conforti spilled out of the car, their
faces glistening with sweat, their mouths wide open with soundless yelling.
They had been told to get Pete at all costs, and they were carrying out orders.
Somewhere in the porch of the shop, under the dead cop and the heap of smashed glass, was Pete, and they knew it.
Conforti held the Thompson. Goetz had a gun in each hand.
Conforti started spraying the porch with bullets as he ran towards it.
Pete saw the line of bullets hammering into the sidewalk, spraying chips of concrete, and advancing like a carpet of death towards him.
He pulled the dead cop over him, held on to his belt, feeling the dead cop’s blood dripping on his face, and he shut his eyes.
He felt the dead body kick and jerk as bullets smashed across the dead legs. Then a new sound started his heart beating again: the sound of police sirens and the sharp crisp crack of police automatics.
Goetz, swearing, spun around as three police cars screamed down the street towards him. He raised his gun, but the first car, accelerating, hit him like an express train and flung him high into the Mr. He dropped like a half-filled sack of corn on to the sidewalk.
Conforti didn’t look back. He ran into the porch.
Pete caught a glimpse of Conforti’s legs as he bent over the dead cop. He tried to squeeze himself into the ground, clinging with all his strength to the dead cop’s belt.
Conforti spotted him and his teeth showed in a triumphant grinning snarl. He dragged the cop away with Pete still clinging to the cop’s belt.
“Get away!” Pete screamed, trying to hide himself behind the cop’s body. “Don’t do it!”
Conforti lifted the Thompson. The barrel swung up. Pete stared at the sight as it covered his face. His eyes started out of his head. He saw Conforti’s finger whiten as Conforti took in the slack on the trigger.
Then guns cracked behind Conforti.
Pete saw the sudden look of agony come over the thin ratlike face. He saw the eyes go lifeless. The Thompson jerked up as the dying hand stiffened and began firing as the dying finger automatically tightened on the trigger.
Then Conforti dropped the gun, took one step and pitched forward on his face.
A moment later Pete was surrounded by grim-faced policemen.