Osborne’s blue eyes were fixed intently on Kennedy; they remained so fixed for a moment after Kennedy had finished talking.
Kennedy went on: “You and I went in the back way. We got in about five minutes before Steve turned the bright lights on. I left you and went up front to see the thing break. You said you wanted to stay back to get a close-up of the fan dancer when she came off the stage.”
He said no more. He got off the radiator and rubbed his hands together and stared dreamily at the floor. Osborne never took his eyes off him. There was a peculiar quality to the silence that ensued for a long minute. Then Kennedy took a rumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.
He said. “Why, Dan, did you really hold off raiding the Carioca until you absolutely had to?”
Osborne sat back and seemed depressed. “Marty,” he said. “I told him several times to cut out the undressed shows and especially the fan dancer. He laughed at me. He never took me seriously. I was trying to give him a break. He thought it was fun to goad me, I guess. He was that kind of a guy.”
“No other reason, huh?”
Osborne looked up, smiled blandly. “Of course not.”
Kennedy inhaled. “This thing might break Steve’s heart,” he said. “As far as I know, he’s never had a mark against him. He’s a proud guy. So proud that sometimes he’s funny. I don’t approve of a guy being as proud as he is, but he’s that way, and that’s that. Sullivan was murdered. The fan dancer disappears. She doesn’t show up. There’s a connection. Got to be. Between her and the murder of Marty Sullivan. If the opposition press keeps hammering long enough, everybody’ll believe that the cops actually killed Sullivan. They didn’t. I know they didn’t. I hate to have to prove it, it entails too much work, but I guess I’ll have to. Not because I want any glory. Hell, I hate guys who want glory. I hate work. I hate to have to prove things. But I’ve got to. They’ve railroaded the skipper and—”
The door opened and Lakeman, one of Osborne’s field men, appeared red-nosed from the cold outdoors, and excited.
“Later, Sam,” Osborne clipped. “I’m in conference.”
Lakeman was breathless: “But I—”
“Later, I said!”
Lakeman looked confused, injured. He shrugged and backed out, closing the door.
Osborne said, “Lakeman’s enthusiasm sometimes runs away with him. I’m inclined to believe with you, Kennedy, that Marty was murdered. If you can prove it, they’ll have to reinstate MacBride — because they suspended him on the premise that Marty was accidentally killed when MacBride let his men get out of hand. Good luck. And on your way out tell Lakeman to come in.”
Kennedy took a cab to the South Side. He rode huddled in the back seat, half-asleep, his body jolting as the cab jolted. When he got out of the cab in Trumpet Street he fumbled sleepily in his pockets, brought a couple of bills out and gave one to the driver. He tipped a dime and, yawning and shivering, climbed the steps of the old brownstone and was let in by the superintendent.
“Where’s Mr. Jaeger’s apartment?”
“On the second floor. Number Six.”
Kennedy climbed slowly, his head between his huddled shoulders, and knocked on the door of Number Six. It was opened after a couple of minutes by the head waiter of the Carioca. Jaeger was in a bathrobe. His eyes were bloodshot, his fat face pasty, his stringy hair uncombed.
“What do you want, what do you want?” he asked irritably.
“I’m Kennedy from the Free Press. I want to talk to you.”
“Listen, I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’m sick. I got a headache and a bellyache and I’m sick. Go ’way.”
“What you need is a drink. I need one, too.”
“What do you want?”
“Talk to you.”
“Listen, I told you I don’t want to talk to you. Why should I have to talk to people when I got a headache and a bellyache? Go ’way.”
Kennedy stepped on his slippered foot and Jaeger yelped and teetered and Kennedy walked in saying, “And don’t strike me, because I’m undernourished and you might kill me.”
Jaeger, bulky and ungainly in his bathrobe, looked angry and vexed. Kennedy strolled past him into a large, clean, shabby living-room and saw a woman sitting on a straight-backed chair smoking a cigarette. She was stout, fifty-odd, with a swell head of red hair, painted lips, and she wore a mink coat, open and thrown back.
She said to Jaeger, “Who’s the nasty man, Hermie?”
“He’s one of those damned newspaper guys,” Jaeger crabbed.
“The name, madam, is Kennedy. And yours?”
“Lady Godiva.”
“I thought she was a blonde and rode a horse, or maybe the horse was blond.”
“He’s a wise guy, too,” observed the woman, steely-eyed.
Kennedy said, “I’m just a poor scrivener.”
“If scrivener means scarecrow, you’re it, except that I’ve seen more attractive scarecrows in my time. So sorry to have you go. You must drop by again sometime when nobody’s home, laddy.”
Kennedy calmly turned his back on her and addressed Jaeger: “Where was the last place you saw Marty Sullivan before the cops arrived?”
Jaeger looked miserable. “Now listen, buddy. I got a headache, see? My head is near to bust, see? I got a bellyache, too. I feel lousy.”
“Where was Marty?”
Jaeger held his head between his hands and groaned. “Where he always was, I guess. At the table he was always at. How do I know? I was busy.”
“The table where we found him dead?”
“Sure. Sure. Listen, buddy—”
“Then he always sat at the table, eh?”
Jaeger rocked his head in his hands. “Sure — sure he did, when he wasn’t nowhere else. How do I know? Can I be ten places at the one time? Oh, my head — what a head I got — Ooo, what a head I got! Listen — please do me a favor — go somewheres else.”
Kennedy sat down.
Jaeger shook a finger at him. “If you don’t, I... I will! I can’t stand to be annoyed this morning. Not with this head I got.”
Kennedy said, “Calm yourself. I’m trying to find out who killed Marty Sullivan.”
“Ah, you’re trying to find out! Now ain’t that something!”
“You,” said the woman to Kennedy, “don’t look as if you could find your way home, even with a map. Why don’t you throw him out, Hermie?”
Jaeger sobbed, “Me — with my head — I should throw anybody out? No. No. No! It’d jar my head right off, Emmy.” He groaned and fled into another room, slamming the door.
Emmy said, “See here, half-pint, why don’t you take the air? They say fresh air is healthy and you don’t look as if a little fresh air would hurt you. Hermie’s got a hangover.”
“And I’ve got a yen to ask him things,” Kennedy said, rising and drifting towards the closed door.
Emmy jumped up and got in his way. She was a big woman. In her day, she must have been handsome, with that head of hair. But her eyes were too much like steel now, her mouth too hard.
“Get out,” she said.
“Sit down and tend to your knitting.”
“I never knit. Get out. Hermie’s got a hangover.”
“Please—”
“You don’t have to be polite, laddy. Pick up your dogs and shuffle.”
He started to brush her negligently aside. She doubled her fist and let him have it flush on the jaw. He reeled backward, tripped and fell flat on his back. She jumped after him, grabbed him by the back of the collar, dragged him across the floor, opened the corridor door and then dragged him to the head of the staircase. Saying, “This is called the shoot-the-chute,” she started him headlong down the staircase, turned and went back into the apartment.