Conant said gruffly: “Shenvair, the one you know about, got himself bumped off. Not by us. That’s still to straighten out.”
The tall man nodded coldly. He sat down at his desk and picked up a white quill pen, tickled one ear with it.
“And what is your idea of the way to handle this matter, Conant?” he asked thinly.
Conant shrugged. “I’m a rough boy, but I’d handle this one legal. Talk to the D. A., toss them in a coop on suspicion of extortion. Cook up a story for the papers, then give it time to cool. Then dump these birds across the State line and tell them not to come back — or else.”
Senator Courtway moved the quill around to his other ear. “They could attack me again, from a distance,” he said icily. “I’m in favor of a showdown, put them where they belong.”
“You can’t try them, Courtway. It would kill you politically.”
“I’m tired of public life, Conant. I’ll be glad to retire.” The tall thin man curved his mouth into a faint smile.
“The hell you are,” Conant growled. He jerked his head around, snapped: “Come here, sister.”
Jean Adrian stood up, came slowly across the room, stood in front of the desk.
“Make her?” Conant snarled.
Courtway stared at the girl’s set face for a long time, without a trace of expression. He put his quill down on the desk, opened a drawer and took out a photograph. He looked from the photo to the girl, back to the photo, said tonelessly:
“This was taken a number of years ago, but there’s a very strong resemblance. I don’t think I’d hesitate to say it’s the same face.”
He put the photo down on the desk and with the same unhurried motion took an automatic out of the drawer and put it down on the desk beside the photo.
Conant stared at the gun. His mouth twisted. He said thickly: “You won’t need that, Senator. Listen, your showdown idea is all wrong. I’ll get detailed confessions from these people and we’ll hold them. If they ever act up again, it’ll be time enough then to crack down with the big one.”
Malvern smiled a little and walked across the carpet until he was near the end of the desk. He said: “I’d like to see that photograph” and leaned over suddenly and took it.
Courtway’s thin hand dropped to the gun, then relaxed. He leaned back in his chair and stared at Malvern.
Malvern stared at the photograph, lowered it, said softly to Jean Adrian: “Go sit down.”
She turned and went back to her chair, dropped into it wearily.
Malvern said: “I’d like your showdown idea, Senator. It’s clean and straightforward and a wholesome change in policy for Mister Conant. But it won’t work.” He snicked a fingernail at the photo. “This has a superficial resemblance, no more. I don’t think it’s the same girl at all myself. Her ears are differently shaped and lower on her head. Her eyes are closer together than Miss Adrian’s eyes, the line of her jaw is longer. Those things don’t change. So what have you got? An extortion letter? Maybe, but you can’t tie it to anyone or you’d have done it already. The girl’s name? Just coincidence. What else?”
Conant’s face was granite hard, his mouth bitter. His voice shook a little saying: “And how about that certificate the gal took out of her purse, wise guy?”
Malvern smiled faintly, rubbed the side of his jaw with his fingertips. “I thought you got that from Shenvair?” he said slyly. “And Shenvair is dead.”
Conant’s face was a mask of fury. He balled his fist, took a jerky step forward. “Why you — damn’ louse—”
Jean Adrian was leaning forward staring round-eyed at Malvern. Targo was staring at him, with a loose grin, pale hard eyes. Courtway was staring at him. There was no expression of any kind on Courtway’s face. He sat cold, relaxed, distant.
Conant laughed suddenly, snapped his fingers. “Okey, toot your horn,” he grunted.
Malvern said slowly: “I’ll tell you another reason why there’ll be no showdown. That shooting at Cyrano’s. Those threats to make Targo drop an unimportant fight. That hood that went to Miss Adrian’s hotel room and sapped her, left her lying on her doorway. Can’t you use your big noodle at all? Can’t you tie all that in, Conant. I can.”
Courtway leaned forward suddenly and placed his hand on his gun, folded it around the butt. His black eyes were holes in a white frozen face.
Conant didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Malvern went on: “Why did Targo get those threats, and after he didn’t drop the fight, why did a gun go to see him at Cyrano’s, a night-club, a very bad place for that kind of play? Because at Cyrano’s he was with the girl, and Cyrano was his backer, and if anything happened at Cyrano’s the law would get the threat story before they had time to think of anything else. That’s why. The threats were a build up for a killing. When the shooting came off Targo was to be with the girl, so the hood could get the girl and it would look as if Targo was the one he was after.
“He would have tried for Targo too, of course, but above all he would have got the girl. Because she was the dynamite behind this shakedown, without her it meant nothing, and with her it could always be made over into a legitimate paternity suit, if it didn’t work the other way. You know about her and about Targo, because Shenvair got cold feet and sold out. And Shenvair knew about the hood — because when the hood showed, and I saw him — and Shenvair knew I knew him, because he had heard me tell Targo about him — then Shenvair tried to pick a drunken fight with me and keep me from trying to interfere.”
Malvern stopped, rubbed the side of his head again, very slowly, very gently. He watched Conant with an up from under look.
Conant said slowly, very harshly: “I don’t play those games, buddy. Believe it or not — I don’t.”
Malvern said: “Listen. The hood could have killed the girl at the hotel with his sap. He didn’t, because Targo wasn’t there and the fight hadn’t been fought, and the build-up would have been all wasted. He went there to have a close look at her, without makeup. And she was scared about something, and had a gun with her. So he slapped her down and ran away. That visit was just a finger.”
Conant said again: “I don’t play those games, buddy.” Then he took the Luger out of his pocket and held it down at his side.
Malvern shrugged, turned his head to stare at Senator Courtway.
“No, but he does,” he said softly. “He had the motive, and the play wouldn’t look like him. He cooked it up with Shenvair — and if it went wrong, as it did, Shenvair would have breezed and if the law got wise, big tough Doll Conant is the boy whose nose would be in the mud.”
Courtway smiled a little and said in an utterly dead voice:
“The young man is very ingenious, but surely—”
Targo stood up. His face was a stiff mask. His lips moved slowly and he said:
“It sounds pretty good to me. I think I’ll twist your — damn’ neck, Mister Courtway.”
The albino snarled, “Sit down, punk,” and lifted his gun.
Targo turned slightly and slammed the albino on the jaw. He went over backwards, smashed his head against the wall. The gun sailed along the floor from his limp hand.
Targo started across the room.
Conant looked at him sidewise and didn’t move. Targo went past him, almost touching him. Conant didn’t move a muscle. His big face was blank, his eyes narrowed to a faint glitter between the heavy lids.
Nobody moved but Targo. Then Courtway lifted his gun and his finger whitened on the trigger and the gun roared.
Malvern moved across the room very swiftly and stood in front of Jean Adrian, between her and the rest of the room.