Faughan rubbed his lean jaw thoughtfully. “And Slats Kaulper runs the Cairo Casino — where Zena Zorn danced. That’s another tie-in worth looking into.”
“If you think you can hang a kill on Slats Kaulper in twenty hours,” Crowley lipped, “guess again. He’s as slick as they come.”
“You’re telling me? But I won’t bank on that.” Faughan’s eyes swept to Pendell. “Zee-Zee was killed about three hours ago. I surmise her body hasn’t been discovered, or we’d’ve heard about it by now—”
“The chances are it won’t be found till morning — when her maid arrives. Unless the cops are tipped.”
“They will be. Your friends will see to that. Now we mustn’t be seen leaving here together. You go back to Zena’s apartment — Where is it, by the way?”
“The Rheingold Arms,” Pendell gulped, staring. “On Central Park West. You want me to go back — there?”
“Yes. As if nothing has happened. Wait for me; I’ll join you shortly. Now scram. Take a back way out of here if there is one.”
“Do as he says,” Crowley said, pointing. “Use my private elevator. Go down to the basement. There’s an exit there to a back alley.”
Pendell opened his mouth, closed it. He spun on his heel, brows warped, and entered the small cage. Its door slid silently shut behind him.
Faughan scooped up Crowley’s phone, whirled the dial. When his number responded, he snapped:
“Stone...? Faughan. Is Petraske around...? Good. Tell him to grab One-Eyed Eddie and meet me in front of the Rheingold Arms — Central Park West — in fifteen minutes. You get the wires hot and exercise your dogs. Find out all you can about two birds named Murray and Weiber. They’re presumably tools of some big betting and yegg man who’s been laying his shirt on K. O. Browberg in tomorrow’s fight. See if they trail to Slats Kaulper.”
He rang off, saying to Crowley, “My agency; I keep ace ops on call there day and night,” and spun the dial again. It was a long three minutes before he got an answer this time. While he waited, he fired a cigarette, face inscrutable. Crowley watched him intently, frowning.
Finally his connection was completed. He said: “Hello, Martin Nord...? Jetson Faughan... Sure, I know it’s almost three in the morning. Did I get you out of bed...? Tsk! Tsk! I hope you haven’t been there long... Since ten...? My, my, but you’re an early-to-bed-goer...! However — I had a hunch you’d be awakened soon anyway so park your grouch and listen.
“A murder is going to crack shortly... Never mind who — I can tell you this: Gene Pendell, the Champ, will be accused of the crime. I’ve been retained for him. I’ll be ready to turn him over to you tomorrow morning at nine. On one condition. You’ve got to arrange to arraign him and shove through a hearing on the charge by ten. Is it a deal...?
Faughan grinned while he listened to Nord explode. “Sure, I know it’s not according to Hoyle,” he said smoothly. “But you can manage it. Use your drag as District Attorney... If you don’t agree, I’ll let Donald Swan, one of the Assistant D.A.’s make the pinch. Think of all the juicy publicity you’ll lose... You’ll do it...? Fine! Fine! I’ll be seeing you.”
Faughan chuckled as he hung up. “The fat slob — dangle a little publicity in front of him — bait him with his jealousy of Swan — and he’ll break every rule in the book.”
Crowley was regarding the lawyer through smoky eyes. “What was the idea of tipping off the D. A. about the case at this stage?”
Faughan’s lean face was faintly mocking. “You want the Champ free to fight tomorrow night, don’t you?”
“I stand to lose a wad of dough if he isn’t. And you know what it means to Pendell.”
“Well, I’m not taking any chances of muffing it. I’m going to spike the guns of the clucks trying to snowball him.”
“How?”
“Be in court tomorrow at ten and you’ll see. Meanwhile, you can develop a bad case of lost memory. If anyone should ask — you haven’t seen me or the Champ tonight. Be seeing you.”
Chapter II
Counter-Offensive
Faughan retrieved his hat and coat from the cloakroom bandit downstairs, and hurried to the street. East Fifty-eighth Street was dark, deserted in the early morning starlight. An occasional automobile purred past, but not a cruising cab was in sight. Usually they were as thick as flies regardless of the hour.
The lawyer frowned, and started west toward a nearby hotel before which a hack stand was stationed. Just then a taxi drew up at the curb. He walked toward it, thanking his luck, when the door opened and a man lurched out.
Faughan’s brows knit. The man was Slats Kaulper. A bleary-eyed, loose-lipped Kaulper, who swayed on unsteady feet and stared at the lawyer blankly.
“Fancy meeting you here!” Faughan greeted cheerfully. “And pie-eyed! My, my, what could be sweeter! I intended to look you up later, but there’s no time like the present.”
His voice lost its bantering tone. “Get back in the cab, Kaulper. I’ve got a date. So we’ll talk while we ride.”
Kaulper rocked on his heels like a cornstalk blown in the wind.
“See me s’m’other time, Faughan,” he mumbled, thick-tongued. “Lookin’ for someone — now.” He tried to brush past the lawyer.
Faughan grabbed his arm. “I said back — in,” he snapped.
Kaulper wrenched himself loose, reeled drunkenly. “Damn you—” he muttered. His words were slurred, sounded slightly plaintive. “Get out of my way or—”
A hand, curiously lethargic, Faughan noticed, snaked inside the turned-up collar of a heavy camel’s hair coat. The lawyer sighed regretfully. His fist lanced up. It clipped the night club owner on the point of the chin, snapping his head back.
Kaulper let out air in a sudden gust. He began to melt like an icicle thrust into a hot furnace. The lawyer caught him on the way down, lifted his sagging body into the cab.
“The Rheingold Arms,” he told the goggle-eyed driver. “Central Park West.”
Gears clashed. The cab shot away from the curb. Faughan let three blocks slide past. When Kaulper did not regain consciousness, he leaned over and shook him.
“Come on — snap out of it,” he said. “You’re not hurt that bad. I pulled my punch—”
He broke off suddenly on a muffled gasp. The hackles of his neck stiffened. He had realized instinctively that he was shaking a dead man.
It did not seem possible. He could have sworn he had not hit Kaulper hard enough to kill him. Yet—
He dug under Kaulper’s coat to feel his heart. He smothered a gasp again, and jerked his hand away as though it had touched a red-hot stove.
The little light that seeped into the cab from the street showed his hand smeared with red. The gooey stuff from which his touch had shrunk was blood!
He suppressed his qualms, let his fingers probe beneath Kaulper’s blood-soaked shirt. A wet handkerchief was stuffed in a slit in the chest directly above the heart. A heart that was still.
His racing thoughts formed a hundred questions. Only one or two answers presented themselves.
Obviously a knife had done for the night-club owner. Undoubtedly he had been dying on his feet — not drunk — when he lurched from the cab.
Who had inflicted the fatal wound? When? Where had he been attacked? Why had he been headed for the Hi-De-Hi Club?
Absently Faughan fished out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers. The act recalled another handkerchief to his mind. Gene Pendell’s handkerchief had been blood-stained!
The lawyer’s thoughts took a sudden dive, and his thin lips fused in a taut line. Had he been played for a sucker, duped into believing Pendell innocent of Zena Zorn’s murder?