Mike rested his elbows on the sill above him, muscled himself up. He hadn’t taken all of the window-pane with him. He had to kick some of it out before he could climb back into Lily’s room.
The light was still on, his gun still on the floor, over in the corner where Gorilla George had kicked it. He picked it up.
The fat woman stood in the doorway, drywashing her hands and whining: “I thought you said there wasn’t gonna be any rough-house?”
Mike ignored it. “Where’d those two punks go?”
“Those men who ran out into the hall just now?”
Mike’s lips tightened. “Don’t stall. Where are they?”
She pointed to the stairs. “They went down. I didn’t know you were after them. I couldn’t have stopped them, anyway.”
“I’ll say you couldn’t. You know ’em!”
“Never saw either of them before tonight, in my life. Honest to God.”
“All right,” he growled. “If you see either of them again, and don’t report it to the precinct, you’ll take a good long vacation at the city’s expense.” He went up to third and top floor, made sure there was no trap to the roof.
Allison yelled up to him: “Mike! Janitor down here says a couple of mugs beat it out back into Seventy-first, through the basement, a minute ago. One was a kind of ape-man with a scar on his face. The other one just a real sweet thing. They the ones?”
“That’s the pair.” Mike came down, described Gorilla George and the Babe in lurid detail. “Phone that dope in to the dispatcher. Tell every man on duty to pick up either one of those lugs on sight.”
“They got guns, Mike?”
“They sure have. And they like to use ’em on a man’s back. They’d have used one on me, right away, except they didn’t want to attract too much attention here in a crowded district. The Babe shot at me, as it was.”
“You look like you been in another fracas, somewhere, Mike. Get chewed up a little?”
Mike put his hand up to his cheek. The cotton and collodion bandage was still there. “Rather be chewed up than boarded up, Allison. I still got my luck. Never mind filing an accident report. But after you finish with that alarm, you might phone Homicide and tell ’em what happened up here. Those punks must have a hangout in town somewhere. They know their way around too well to be strangers. So maybe some stoolie can help us out.”
He went back to Lily’s room, closed the door. There was no doubt this was the blonde’s “place of residence,” even if she didn’t always sleep here. There was another one of those letters in the bureau drawer, in the same handwriting, signed Mama, but very little else. On the dresser was a pyroxylin toilet set in flamboyant lavender-and-gilt.
Mike thoughtfully stuck the hairbrush in his pocket, went out and locked the door. He’d never seen a set just like that one. The fact might be worth a little nosing around.
He tossed the room key on the marble table. The fat woman eyed him fearfully.
“Lily won’t be back,” Mike said, curtly. “She’s got a date with an undertaker. Keep everybody out of this room until an officer tells you different.”
Chapter Four
Kredit Korner Clue
When he went down and climbed in his car, it hurt him to sit straight behind the wheel. He found he could get by if he twisted sideways a little. That rib would give the sawbones a little something extra to play with when he went to have his cheek dressed.
The part the girl had played in the robbery and killing had been cleared up a little. She had undoubtedly been a pick-up, hooked into the crime without knowing what it was all about. Probably they’d given her the one ring as her part of the payoff. But when Mac-Ready had spotted them, been murdered for his alertness, the girl got cold feet and tried to run out.
That still didn’t clear up the main problem. Who was behind this business? Neither the Babe or Gorilla George were more than cheap choppers. They wouldn’t be likely to have planned this whole series of window jobs on their own.
Mike stopped in at a bar opposite the News Building and ordered rum — a double Demerarra, straight. He felt better directly he’d downed it.
When he got down to Little Maiden Lane, Brundage, the Ames Protection Service guard, was inside the jewelry store with a small, dapper, apple-cheeked man in pince-nez who wore a Vandyke that looked as if it were made of old manila rope.
He bobbed his head to Hansard, held out a neatly manicured hand and said: “I am Ramon Dumont. You are from headquarters, Lieutenant...?”
“Yeah. Just Detective Hansard. Hello, Amesy.”
“Hello.” Brundage stared. “Judas Priest! They marked you up, didn’t they? I heard about it from the harness bull who took MacReady’s beat.”
“I’m still a hell of a lot better off than Tom. You make out that missing property list, Mr. Dumont?”
“I have it here. The total amount is near seven thousand. But of course the thieves cannot realize any sum such as that.”
“Don’t bet on it,” said Mike. “They might have ways and means.” He put the list in his pocket, took out the hairbrush. “You sell this?”
Dumont examined it. “No. It is not an item we carry.”
The Ames man goggled. “Nobody’d be fat-head enough to risk ten years in the pen for a hunk of junk like that, Hansard.”
“I didn’t think it was stolen, shamus.” The detective tossed the brush on the showcase. “But it belonged to the skirt who was in on the robbery here. Figured maybe she’d bought it down here, used it as an excuse to case the store.”
The little jeweler laid a finger alongside his nose, cocked his head quizzically. “As I say, it is not out of our stock. But it is possible” — he dived under the counter, disappeared from sight — “I might, perhaps, be able to tell you who is the manufacturer.”
“That might help,” Hansard agreed.
Dumont began to paw over illustrated pages in a catalogue.
Brundage said in an undertone: “I phoned a copy of the loot list to our Jersey office.”
“Can’t do any harm,” Mike said wearily. “Won’t do any good, either.”
“That’s what you Centre Street wiseys think.” Brundage was nettled. “The Newark cops just give out with a stolen-car bulletin. Guess what car?”
“Don’t tell me,” Hansard said sarcastically, “it’s that green sedan you saw?”
“Exactly,” retorted Brundage. “And from the way you described that lug with the scar on his puss, I’d say he’s one of the old Newark mob. A rat called Chuck Scanlon.”
“You must be out of practice, Amesy. You’re not calling your shots so good. The crut who put the bump on that blonde is named Gorilla George. I don’t know if he comes from Newark or not, but I’ve good reason to believe he’s still in New York.”
“Well for Crysake.” Brundage glowered angrily. “How you expect us to be any use on a job like this, if you keep all the info to yourselves?”
“I don’t, fella. I don’t. This is a cop case. A blue’s been knocked off. It’s a personal matter with those of us who knew MacReady, to get the guys who dropped him, Brundage. That lets you out.”
“In a pig’s whinny, it does. I been assigned by my office to follow through on this job. The insurance outfits are beginning to raise hell with Ames. So it’s a personal matter with us, too.”
The jeweler said excitedly: “Here it is. I’ve found it. It is a new design. The manufacturer is the Nik-Nak Novelty Company. They’re up in Attleboro, Massachusetts.”
Mike said briskly: “I hope they don’t go to bed before ten o’clock up in Attleboro.”
He reached for the phone and dialed headquarters. “Eddie,” he said, when he got his partner’s extension, “we might have a lead. Up in the Marsh mouse’s furnished room, I find a very gaudy piece of jewelry. A toilet set. It was made by Nik-Nak Novelty, up in Attelboro. According to their new catalogue, it’s listed as Number 27VO and is called Passionelle. Hot stuff, eh? Well, I figure maybe one of the killers might have given it to her. If so, it might help a lot to know where he bought it. Or stole it. Get on to Attelboro. I know it’s late, but get the cops up there to locate somebody who can tell you who bought sets like that, around New York. And hustle, Eddie. Hustle.”