Pendell’s doglike eyes sizzled with panic. “Hey, Mr. Faughan,” he blurted. “You don’t think I really killed her! She... she was dead when I went to her apartment! Honest!”
“So you’re involved in the murder of a ‘she.’ Who?”
“Didn’t Mark tell you?” Pendell gulped. “It’s Zena. Zena Zorn.”
Two startled jets of smoke pumped from Faughan’s nostrils. Zena Zorn — the Glamorous Zee-Zee — was a headlined singer and dancer at the Cairo Casino. She was beautiful, exotic as her name. She was more. Walter Winched and the tabs had let the world know she was the Champ’s girl.
Crowley said unemotionally: “Gene didn’t kill her. He put his neck into a lousy frame.”
Faughan lowered himself into a chair, crossed long legs. “Suppose you tell me about it, Champ.”
Pendell shuffled his big feet. “Late this evening I got a phone call at the camp. Someone buzzed in my ear that if I dropped in Zena’s apartment around midnight I’d—”
He paused, then choked out words as if they scorched his throat: “—I’d catch her cold two-timing me. You know how crazy I was about her—”
Faughan nodded, smiling wryly. “I know. And crazy jealous. Didn’t I go to court for you the time you nearly crowned a guy who— But skip it. Go on.”
“I saw red. I piled into a car, and made tracks for New York. I got to Zena’s penthouse about twelve, let myself in—”
“You had a key to Zee-Zee’s apartment?”
Pendell’s jaw jutted. “What’s wrong with that?”
Faughan shrugged distantly. “Oh, nothing. Nothing. Just asked. What happened when you waltzed in?”
“I... I found her stretched in her living room — shot through the heart! It was awful! Poor Zena — she was blood all over.”
He fished a crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket. As he started to raise it toward his steaming forehead, his glance fell on it. So did Faughan’s. The handkerchief bore crimson stains that were unmistakably blood.
Pendell licked his lips, put the handkerchief away hastily, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Did you touch her?” Faughan asked.
“No. I didn’t touch her. I could tell she was dead. I... well, got scared and beat it here to Mark’s. When I told him what was what, he told me to sit tight until he saw you.”
“Assuming you didn’t kill her. Champ... Why were you scared? Were you shocked to find her dead because you’d gone there prepared to do some blasting of your own?”
Pendell swallowed noisily, shifted his weight. “I guess I would’ve killed. I was kind of nuts. But I didn’t. I didn’t have a gun.”
Faughan pursed his lips, looked at Crowley. “He didn’t have a gun. Yet — only last week I got him a license to carry one.”
Pendell’s huge hands that could easily have encircled a ham pawed the air. “Honest, Mr. Faughan. I looked for my gun before I left my training camp. I kept it in my bureau. But it was gone. So I came along without it.”
Crowley said: “Unless Gene is lying about his gun — which I doubt — someone swiped it and killed Zena with it.” He turned to his manager. “Tell Faughan what you told me, Hal.”
Fencher coughed, drew in his breath, and let it out slowly.
“About an hour ago a call came for the boss. Mark wasn’t around. Whoever it was phoning gave me a message for him. He said: ‘Tell Crowley I was hidden in Zena Zorn’s apartment twenty minutes ago. Gene Pendell came in, beat her up, and then shot her. I followed him, saw him ditch a gun in a sewer.’ ”
The anemic club manager paused, blinked once, and went on:
“Then the guy said: ‘Now get this straight, guy, and see that Crowley gets it. He’s to contact Pendell — right away. He’s to tell the Champ to lose tomorrow’s fight — or the cops will be tipped off where they can find that gun. We’ll call back at three sharp for his answer.’ With that he hung up.”
“Do you get it?” Crowley asked Faughan. “Gene is the odds-on favorite to win tomorrow’s scrap. He could shellack the hide off his opponent, K. O. Browberg, with one hand. Some ‘wise-money’ heels want to fix it to clean up a fortune on bets. They thought as the Champ’s manager I’d talk him into laying down rather than lose my cut in his purse.”
“Sure, that’s it, Mr. Faughan,” the Champ croaked. “Only last week a couple of punks contacted me, tried to buy me to throw the fight. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars they offered me. And a promise of a return match with Browberg in six months — which would be on the up-and-up.”
Crowley’s expressionless eyes slewed around. “You never told me that, Gene,” he said.
Pendell laughed shortly. “No. And I never told you I took ’em up.”
“What?” Crowley barked. Faughan sucked a last drag on his cigarette, ash-trayed it.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Pendell explained. “I took ’em up. Then I got Zena to bet every dollar I owned on me — to win. Look.”
He reached into his breast-pocket, pulled out a slip of paper. He gave it to Crowley.
Faughan got up, circled the desk and read it over the gambler’s shoulder.
It was an acknowledgment signed by a betting commissioner noted for his square-shooting of a wager placed on Gene Pendell to win the scheduled fight. The amount was eight hundred thousand dollars. The odds were eight to three.
“Nice,” Faughan drawled. “Very nice. So you sucked them in, Champ — intending to take them to the cleaners!”
“You young fool!” Crowley snapped. “Why didn’t you ask my advice? Don’t you see what happened? The gang found out you planned a double-cross. So they framed you for murder to force you to play ball their way. By acting wise, you signed Zena’s death warrant.”
Pendell’s face congested. “I didn’t mean to do that. I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought,” Crowley growled. “The fat’s an the fire now.” He swung on Faughan.
“Before I fetched you I put it up to Gene whether or not he wanted to throw the fight to save his hide. He said no. Emphatically. Now I understand why. He’d be wiped clean. Lose his championship. His dough. And he’d never get another crack at Browberg.
“At three o’clock, I’m going to tell whoever calls me to go to hell. That puts it up to you. Gene’ll be arrested. You’ve got to fix it so he can fight. Either by getting him out on bail, or by clearing him before ten tomorrow night. Can you swing it?”
Faughan toyed with his mustache. “I couldn’t get bail for the King of England on a murder charge,” he confessed slowly.
He glanced at his watch. “Two-thirty. That leaves me less than twenty hours to crack a murder case. Champ — who were the men that tried to bribe you to throw your fight?”
Pendell spread his palms. “I’d know them if I saw them again. But I never saw them before. One was short and dark. The other, tall and tough-looking. The birds called themselves ‘Murray’ and ‘Weiber.’ ”
“You’re a great help. Crowley, those names mean anything to you?”
“Nothing. Must be out-of-towners. I know all the sharp-shooters that follow the fight racket in this burg.”
Faughan swung to the Hi-De-Hi’s manager. “Fencher, did the bloke’s voice that spoke to you sound familiar?”
“He had kind of a nasal voice. It did remind me a little of Slats Kaulper’s.”
“Slats Kaulper!” Crowley cried. “There’s a tie-in! I’ve heard rumors that Slats was laying heavy sugar on the fight. But I thought he was backing Gene.”