“No. I knew you were here and I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sure you knew, because” — Haenigson’s voice became milder — “you took this place apart before we got here.”
“Me?” Cellini was injured innocence.
“No one else. And so help me, Smith, if it really was you, you’ll be eating San Quentin plum pudding next Christmas.”
“Why pick on me? Why couldn’t Manny Simms have searched this place before you got here?”
“What about Manny Simms?”
Cellini could see that the Homicide man was interested and followed up his advantage. “I’m here for an armistice, Haenigson. You stop treating me like a dishrag and I’ll open up.”
“It’s a deal,” said the detective-sergeant after a moment’s hesitation. “If you’re really on the level. Let’s hear.”
“Fine. I went to the alley behind the Hamilton to meet Jimmy Legg there. He wanted me to find out why he wasn’t held in court this morning.”
“He didn’t put Simms up to that job of springing him?”
“That’s what it looks like. After you and I had our sweet parting I checked and found that Legg was going to the Hamilton to meet a dame. But I suppose you found that out.”
Ira Haenigson nodded. “That Winnie Crawford tramp. I don’t know what to make of her. She looks faster than Legg’s speed.”
“I’m wondering myself. Anyway, she hired me on the killing and I came around here about an hour ago with a friend of mine. Just then I saw you pull up so I didn’t come in.”
“You sure of that, Smith?”
“Honest Injun. I went away for a drink and when I got out of the car along comes this Manny Simms and tries to chop me down with a Thompson sub.”
Cellini wasn’t sure whether the Homicide man’s frown indicated perplexity or disappointment over Manny Simm’s failure. He asked: “How come Simms is loose for such sport? Why wasn’t he held?”
“Good lawyer, small bail,” shrugged Haenigson. “He didn’t commit any homicide — just threats — and there wasn’t even any bullets in the rod he pulled on the judge so he got out on low bail. But what do you want me to do about it, Smith?”
“I want you to help me find Manny Simms. I don’t like the idea of that baby gunning for me.”
“Sure, Smith. I wouldn’t mind finding out for myself why he’s wasting bullets on you. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. My hunch is that it’s tied up with the dough that Jimmy Legg souped out of the Lansing Investment safe.”
“He didn’t steal any dough from them.”
Cellini stared at Haenigson. “I don’t get it. What then did he steal from that safe?”
“That’s what I’d like to find out, Smith. That’s why I’m up here taking this place apart right now.”
“Didn’t Lansing Investment make any claims about stolen stuff?”
“Nothing at all. They just asked us to forget the whole thing. Mr. Lansing seemed to think his firm would get a bad reputation if the public found out it was successfully burgled.”
“But if Lansing didn’t charge Jimmy Legg with anything then why was he arrested and brought into court this morning?”
“They couldn’t very well avoid it because Legg also slugged the janitor and a secretary and they identified him.”
“Say,” asked Cellini, “do you think this Lansing Investment is a crooked outfit?”
“Could be,” said Ira Haenigson. “Could be.”
Cellini Smith got out of the elevator and entered the offices of the Lansing Investment Company. The place was large with lots of pale-faced stenographers and sleek-haired clerks who gave their investment spiels with all the fervor of a Fuller brush man.
Cellini asked to see Mr. Lansing himself. He told what it was about, gave his pedigree, showed identification, and when he refused to settle for a vice-president he was finally shown past the balustrade and into an ornate inner office.
Mr. Lansing was bluff, confident, and obviously never tortured by self-doubt. Stocky from good feeding rather than hard work, he was in his forties and had a golf-tan complexion.
“Deplorable this murder of James Legg, very deplorable,” declared the president of Lansing Investment without preamble. “Death except from God or the legal executioner has always shocked me.”
“It’s very cruel,” said Cellini.
“Yes, quite. Of course you realize, Mr. Smith, that the murder of James Legg and his lamentable burglary of our offices is sheer coincidence and can have no conceivable connection.”
“If I realized that,” replied Cellini, “I wouldn’t be here.”
“My good man, do you imply that we may have a connection — even a remote one — with murder?”
“Perhaps not so remote.”
Mr. Lansing blinked. His voice was sharp. “Sir, my wife always kills a good joke but my connection with homicide ends there. It’s been a pleasure.” He stood up.
Cellini didn’t budge. “Is your wife a luscious blonde?” he asked innocently.
“I don’t understand you, Mr. Smith, and I don’t wish to. I’m afraid I can waste no more time.”
Cellini snapped his fingers. “How stupid of me! Of course your wife isn’t a blonde. I was confusing her with Winnie Crawford.”
Lansing stopped in his tracks. He sat down again with a sickly smile, hauling forth brandy bottle and glasses from the desk. Cellini helped himself, then reached into the cigar humidor. He wondered if the investment manipulator had a solid alibi for the murder time.
Lansing finally broke the silence. “Mr. Smith, you don’t seem the prudish sort so you probably understand the necessity for an occasional peccadillo to relieve marital boredom.”
“Sure. Especially peccadillos built like Winnie.”
“Quite, sir, quite. And I’m sorry that you and I got off on the wrong foot.”
“You mean the wrong Legg.”
Lansing tried a laugh and missed. “It’s just my natural desire to prevent any unsavory talk of murders and robberies in connection with Lansing Investment. Our business depends so much on public confidence.”
“Then why don’t you help me so that I might clear it up?” Cellini suggested.
“By all means,” said Lansing with forced eagerness. “Only there’s very little I can tell you.”
Cellini Smith said: “Start with the reason why you people didn’t press any charge against Jimmy Legg when he knocked over the safe in this place.”
“That was only because we’d much rather absorb a small loss than have such bad publicity,” replied Lansing.
“What did the small loss amount to?”
“Oh, nothing of importance really.”
“Was it money? Did you have currency in the safe?”
“I don’t think so,” said Lansing evasively. “Just some non-negotiable bonds, I believe.”
“Aren’t you sure?”
“I happened to be out of town the day of the robbery, Mr. Smith, and I haven’t had a chance to check. However, I’ll do so and mail you a list of the items.”
“That’s a lie,” said Cellini deliberately. “You know damned well what was stolen.”
Lansing squeezed another smile out of his face. “Please allow a difference of opinion, Mr. Smith.”
Cellini sampled the brandy again and got up to leave. Apprehensively, Lansing asked: “Mr. Smith, can I rely on your discretion about that Winnie Crawford — um — involvement?”
“Yes. How come you two broke it up though?”
“You know how it is about these affairs of the heart, Mr. Smith. One or the other cools.”
“How did you happen to meet her?”