It was possible the fighter, driven into a jealous frenzy, had manhandled Zena. And she had confessed to being over-friendly with Slats Kaulper. That jibed. The night-club owner had taken her out of a chorus, made her. He wasn’t the type to dispense favors without strings. Thereupon Pendell had shot her. After ditching his gun he had sought out Kaulper, knifed him.
Panic-stricken he had to run to Mark Crowley with his troubles. The gambler was noted for two things: his shrewdness; and his love of money. He knew he would lose a fortune if Pendell were arrested and the scheduled fight stopped. He knew also Faughan’s penchant for clearing any innocent person accused of crime regardless of ways and means. So he had concocted a credible story to convince the lawyer of Pendell’s innocence. The fight had to go on. What happened after that wouldn’t bother him.
In the darkness of the cab, Faughan’s eyes blazed angrily. That he’d been duped wasn’t his only concern. If the cab driver told what he’d seen in front of the Hi-De-Hi Club, the result was evident. Faughan would be charged with Kaulper’s murder!
The lawyer swore softly. He couldn’t report Kaulper’s death. He couldn’t be found with the body. And to save himself he was in the unenviable position of needing to prove a man guilty of murder whom he had set out to clear of another murder!
He rapped his knuckles on the driver’s partition. The cab stopped.
“Where did you pick up your fare?” Faughan asked, indicating the form of Kaulper slouched in the cushions.
“It was a call-in,” the driver said. “I picked Mr. Kaulper up in front of his apartment house on West Seventy-second.” The hackman chuckled. “He sure had a load on. An’ that clout you handed him, Mr. Faughan, was a beaut. Is he still out?”
“Yes,” Faughan said, grimly. “So you know him and me, eh?”
The cabbie grinned. “I hacked him lotsa times. An’ I seen your picture in the paper plenty.”
Faughan grunted. That tied it. He took a bill out of his wallet. “Listen. I’m going to need your cab the rest of the night. But I want to drive it. Will fifty bucks cover it?”
The taxi driver licked his lips, grabbed the money.
“Throw in another ten, Mr. Faughan,” he grinned, “an’ the heap’s yours.” He slid from behind the wheel with alacrity.
Faughan took his place. “You’ll find your cab in front of my office in the morning,” he said, and drove off.
The Rheingold Arms was an imposing pile of brick and glass. Not a light shone in its towering facade. Some illumination gleamed from its entrance under a canvas marquee that ran to the curb. Across the street, Central Park was a dark blob of shrubs and trees.
Faughan parked ten feet from the marquee, hopped to the sidewalk. He took time to tumble Kaulper out of sight on the floor of the cab. He was locking the second door, when a figure sauntered toward him out of the shadows of the building. He was a small man with a cigarette dangling in his mouth. A black box was strung from his shoulder by a strap.
“Hello, chief,” he greeted.
Faughan said: “Hello, Petraske.” His glance fell on the black box. “I see you didn’t forget One-eyed Eddie.”
Petraske fell in step beside the lawyer. “Nope. What’s up, chief? Whose picture d’you want me to take at this hour of the night?”
Faughan laughed dryly. “Plenty’s up. The Glorious Zee-Zee’s been murdered. I wanted you to use your camera on her corpse before the police found her. But something’s happened to make me change my mind.”
Petraske whistled softly. “What?”
Faughan jerked a thumb backwards. “Slats Kaulper. He’s in that cab. Knifed.”
Petraske chuckled callously. “His destiny caught up with him finally. He’s been chiseling his way ’round this man’s town too long. Same party kill him and Zena Zorn?”
“Must’ve. You’ll meet him soon.”
Faughan swung his lithe figure across the ornate lobby of the Rheingold Arms toward a bank of elevators. A colored operator squinted sleepy eyes at the two men as they entered his cage.
The lawyer said: “Miss Zorn’s penthouse apartment. Make it snappy.”
The Negro pointed to a switchboard in the rear of the lobby at which an operator dozed. “You gotta be announced, suh,” he offered, diffidently.
“We’ll skip that, Sam. You took Gene Pendell up a short time ago, didn’t you?”
“Yassuh. I done took Mistah Pendell up ’round twelve. But he come down ’most right away. Den I took him up fifteen — twenty minutes ago agin.”
“Well, he’s expecting us. Let’s go.”
The darkie took one helpless look into Faughan’s level, respect-commanding eyes, and set the elevator in motion.
Zena Zorn’s living room was expensively, but tastefully, furnished. It showed the expert touch of an interior decorator.
The dancer lay on the floor near a tapestried divan. She was dressed in a black sheer peignoir over black pajamas. Her flimsy garments had seeped blood in profusion. It had congealed in a wide pool under her body.
Not over twenty-five, neither death, nor the manner of her dying had detracted from her beauty. If anything, death had erased the tell-tale hard line of sophistication from her face.
Bruises stood out on the ivory of her neck where ruthless hands had evidently choked her. There was a cut on her chin, purple rimmed, where a fist had left its imprint.
Gene Pendell was seated before a fireplace, smoking in jerky puffs, his back to the body. When Faughan and Petraske entered — they had found the door unlocked — he bounded to his feet like a frightened rabbit.
Faughan let his glance linger only a moment on the corpse of Zena Zorn, then he fixed icy eyes on the fighter.
Pendell wet his lips nervously. “Gosh, Mr. Faughan,” he stammered. “I thought you’d never come— Waiting here — alone — with her — was awful—”
“I should think it would be,” Faughan frowned. “With her murder on your conscience.”
Pendell fell back as if slapped. His eyes pinwheeled.
“What... what do you mean?” he blurted.
“I mean I’m wise to Crowley’s game. The two of you tried to trick me into going to bat for you. You did kill Zena Zorn. And that isn’t all — you killed Slats Kaulper. Knifed him to death.”
Pendell gagged. “I killed...? Is... is Slats Kaulper dead?”
Faughan scowled. “Stop stalling, Pendell. I’ve got the how of it now. You came here at midnight as you said. You found Zee-Zee alone. But you weren’t satisfied. You had a bug in your ear and you wanted the truth. You choked her, and beat her, until she admitted she’d been seeing Kaulper. Then you shot her.
“That yarn about not finding your gun at your camp was an invention. Of Crowley’s. After you ditched your gun in some sewer, you decided to polish off Kaulper, too. You went to his apartment, waited for him. Stuck a shiv into him. Left him for dead.
“He came to, doctored himself, and went looking for you. I met him in front of the Hi-De-Hi. He died in a taxi I forced him to take with me.
“If you want to know what gave you away — your handkerchief. You admitted you didn’t touch Zena. Yet it was covered with blood. Blood that spurted onto your fingers when you stabbed Kaulper.”
The lawyer took out his own handkerchief, held it up. “Look. I got some of Kaulper’s blood on my own fingers. Did the natural thing. Wiped them off on it.”
Sweat was oozing from every pore in Pendell’s face. He pulled out a handkerchief — the same blood-stained handkerchief he had exhibited in Crowley’s office. This time horror-distended eyes strained at it. He dropped it, cried:
“That blood — I got a poke in the nose sparring this afternoon. And a nose bleed. On my way down from Singac my nose started to bleed again. I used that handkerchief. So help me, Mr. Faughan — that’s the truth. I didn’t kill Zena — or Kaulper!”