Tucker’s eyes grew round. He said, “They strangled the old dame and then breezed!”
“She’s strangled, all right,” mused Kennedy. “Just as Marty Sullivan was strangled.” His voice dropped lower as he turned to the girclass="underline" “What were you looking for in the Carioca — back in Sullivan’s office?”
Webb broke in — “She was—”
“Clam yourself,” Kennedy told him dryly. “I’m talking to the girl. Come on, Inez, up and out with it.”
Her fists were clenched, her lips pressed tightly together. She shook her head. Kennedy strolled over and stood back of her, his gun trained on Webb.
He was still tranquiclass="underline" “Come on, Inez, spout.”
“I’ll tell you!” Webb rapped out.
Kennedy smiled. “Make it good this time.”
Webb’s jaw jutted. “I was in Sullivan’s office the night of the raid. I was waiting there for him to come back to the office. I was sitting there smoking a cigarette when I saw a light on his desk blink. That meant trouble out front. The hat-check girl must have flashed it when you came in.”
“How do you know the light meant trouble?”
“I’d been in the office before, once, when a fight started in the lobby and the light flashed. The night of the raid I was sitting there, smoking, as I said, when the light flashed. I got up and ran out of the office and when I saw what was going on I beat it out the back way. I left my cigarette case behind. When you saw Inez there, she was looking for it.”
“Why didn’t you go back after it?”
“She wouldn’t let me. Besides, she had a key to the back door and wouldn’t give it to me.”
“And why were you worried about the cigarette case?”
Webb looked suddenly confused.
Kennedy said, “Now did you do this? When you saw the trouble light flash, did you leave the office, go down that narrow hallway to the little door that leads into the dining-room? Did you reach in through that door and choke Sullivan to death before the lights went on? Did you then run out back, go to the alley in the rear and catch the fan dancer — Inez here — as she came out of her dressing-room window?”
The girl cried out, “No, no!”
“Now I’m talking to Webby,” Kennedy said.
Webb’s voice sounded clotted: “Why should I kill Sullivan?”
“Why were you in his office? Why, why, why — there’s a lot of whys floating around. Maybe this. Sullivan was the only one, so far as we knew then, that knew the identity of his fan dancer. You knew that if the cops nailed him ten to one her identity would come out. You didn’t want that. Why? Well, you love her. You don’t want her name dragged in the mud. You choke Sullivan to keep the secret. You skin out the back way, taking the girl with you. Then you remember that you left your cigarette case behind.”
The girl got to her feet, her lips shaking, her fists clenched. “It’s a lie... a lie... a lie!” she choked. “He was there — he did leave his cigarette case there — he did help me out the back window — but he didn’t kill Sullivan!”
“How do you know? You were back-stage.”
“I know! I know, I tell you!”
Kennedy smiled ruefully. “Then you know who did kill him?”
She choked, tightened her lips. Her eyes sprang wide open with shock and her hand flew to her face.
Kennedy said to Tucker, “Okey, Tucks. She knows. Phone Headquarters and tell them to send over somebody.”
Tucker walked across the room to the phone but he never reached it. The closet door opened and Jaeger stood there with a big gun in his hand. His shirt was torn, there were scratches on his face, his hair was matted. He looked big and gross and pasty.
“Stay away from that phone,” he muttered thickly. His eyes were haggard.
Kennedy aimed, pulled his trigger. Nothing happened. He tried twice more.
“Drop it,” said Jaeger.
“I may as well.”
Jaeger said to the girl and Webb, “You two go. Go on.”
The girl stared at him as though he were a ghost.
Jaeger muttered bitterly, “Take her, Webb. Take her out.”
Webb’s face was lined, grim. He crossed the room, took Inez by the hand and went with her to the door. They left. Jaeger remained, leaning in the closet doorway, his breathing slow and thick. “Wait,” he said. “Just wait.” And when five minutes had passed, he moved from the closet, crossed the room to the corridor door and said, “If you come after me, it’s the works.” He opened the door, backed out, closed the door.
Kennedy pointed. “You stay here. Call the office about this dead one. Her name’s Emmy Canfield. The other one’s her daughter. Then call the police.”
He scooped up the automatic he had dropped, yanked out the magazine. It was empty. “That tramp Paderoofski,” he said, and ran into the bedroom. He went out by way of the window and down the fire-escape to the courtyard. When he reached the front, he saw Jaeger jogging along a block away. Kennedy looked at the car, wondering about the chances of driving it and trying to run Jaeger down. He jumped in — but of course Tucker had the key. He jumped out again, took the old shotgun with him and started off up the street.
Jaeger saw him and fired but the bullet passed somewhere overhead. Kennedy ran on, hugging the housewalls. He could hear Jaeger’s big feet clubbing the pavement, see his big ungainly body lunging on through the darkness. A second shot was closer: it scarred the sidewalk beneath Kennedy’s feet. Kennedy jumped. He licked his lip and wondered whether he ought to stop but while he was wondering about it he kept on running.
He saw Jaeger turn again and plant himself in the middle of the sidewalk. Kennedy dropped behind an iron lamp standard as Jaeger cut loose. Four explosions banged in the street and lead whanged against the iron lamp standard. Kennedy was grateful for being skinny as a rail. He saw Jaeger reloading. Jumping up, he ran towards the man, hefting the shotgun as a club, hoping to reach Jaeger before he could reload. But the distance was too great to strike him with it. Kennedy saw him snap shut the gun.
Kennedy was fifteen feet from him in the open; there was nothing to hide behind. He waved his shotgun, yelled, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” and made a pretense of aiming the gun. He even went so far as to press the trigger. The shotgun banged and the recoil knocked him to the sidewalk. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Jaeger lying on the corner. Kennedy picked up the shotgun, went forward, aiming.
He said, “Don’t move, Jaeger.”
“You got me,” Jaeger panted. “In the leg, high up. I can’t move and I’m bleeding. Listen, leave Inez alone. She didn’t have nothing to do with it. It was me killed Emmy. ’Cause why? Well, I’m a fine-looking guy to be nuts about Inez, but I am. She ain’t that way about me, but you can’t blame her for that. Her and Webb are nuts about each other. I knew I’d let Emmy have it some day.
“Look, Kennedy. She ain’t that gal’s mother. She never was. She’s the one made Inez do that fan dance. When Inez’d fight against it, the old lady would threaten her with a knife. She had Inez scared to death. I seen she was scared to death. You see, Marty wasn’t the only one knew who the fan dancer was. I did, too. Inez thought she was her mother, but she wasn’t. I found that out. I found out that her mother died twenty-one years ago, out in Tulsa, and left her with Emmy, who ran a boarding house. I just found it out the day the cops raided the Carioca.
“I’d been begging Marty to cut out the fan dance. He used to just laugh. And when I got this news, I went up to him and told him. He says, ‘Sure, I know that. Do you know who her father is?’ I said I didn’t and he said, ‘Dan Osborne. But Dan doesn’t know. If he closes me up, I’ll spring it on him then.’ That kind of floored me. He laughed. He thought it’d be a great joke. Then when the raid came— Look, I knew Inez didn’t care a rap for me, but — well, I didn’t want to see her scandalized. When the raid came — I seen it through the door — I seen MacBride come in — why, I just went in that hallway, stepped through that little door and let Marty have it.”