He sank weakly into a chair.
Faughan rubbed a perplexed jaw, said in an undertone to Petraske: “Either the bruiser’s a damn’ sight better actor than I think he is — or he didn’t kill Zee-Zee or Kaulper.”
Petraske spoke past a dangling cigarette — either the same one he’d been smoking in the street, or its brother.
“A lot of this is over my head. But if you want proof whether the blood on Pendell’s handkerchief belongs to Kaulper — let me have it, and yours, and half an hour in our lab. I’ll tell you. Better yet — let me put a sphygmomanometer on Pendell.”
Faughan ground a fist into his palm. “By gad! A blood test and a lie test! Why didn’t I think of that?” He addressed Pendell. “Maybe I’ve got you wrong, Champ. Maybe you have been framed. Maybe there’s more to this than I can see right now.
“You’ve heard of the lie-detecting machine? Are you willing to submit to a test? If you’re really telling the truth — I’ll go the limit for you.”
Pendell sprang up, his face flushed with eagerness. “I’ll do anything — anything! If it’ll only get me out of this mess!”
Faughan spread his hands, exchanged glances with Petraske.
“Look at him,” he murmured. “As ingenuous as a babe in arms. Hell, I’m almost ready to believe him innocent without those tests.”
Petraske shrugged. “It’s up to you, chief.”
Faughan considered. “No — you take Pendell with you, make the tests. But first I’ll proceed with my original plan — on the theory he is innocent. If he is, I’ve got a job ahead of me tomorrow. I want to be ready.”
He pointed to a door at the far side of the living room. “Station yourself in that doorway with your camera. You’re going to ‘steal’ a candid shot.”
Petraske nodded, headed for the door, swinging his camera from his shoulder.
The lawyer pulled a gun from his pocket, turned to Pendell.
“Here, Champ, take this gun.”
The fighter took it uncertainly.
“Now,” Faughan went on, “stand over Zena Zorn’s body as if you’ve just shot her. Face that door. Besides being an ace scientist, my assistant, Mel Petraske, can do marvels with a camera. He’s going to snap your picture.”
Pendell hesitated a moment. Then, with an expression contorting his face that was palpably anguish, he placed himself over Zena Zorn’s body, gun poised.
“That’s right,” Faughan approved, and withdrew out of camera range. “Shoot it, Petraske.”
The blinding glare of an exploding flashlight bulb filled the room, and Petraske said: “Okay, chief. Got it.”
“Fine.” Faughan retrieved his gun from Pendell’s limp hand, hastily joined his assistant at the other side of the room.
“You’ve got a whale of a lot of work ahead of you, Petraske,” he told him in an undertone. “You’re to take Pendell with you, give him the lie-test. Test the blood in the handkerchiefs, too, just to be sure. Here’s mine.
“If he stands up, develop your picture. Print on the back of it in pencil, ‘This goes with the gun.’ Then wrap it up, and see that it gets to Martin Nord, the D. A., without a backtrail to us. But before you send it out, I want you to do this—”
Faughan’s voice dropped lower and he spoke swiftly and earnestly for several minutes. He finished with: “Can do?”
Petraske chuckled. There was an expression of frank admiration on his bland face. “Can do. When you cook up a job I can’t perform with my little camera I’ll retire to the old ladies’ home.”
“Good. I banked on you. Now — and this applies, too, only if you decide Pendell is innocent — when you’ve finished with him, hustle him out of the agency office.
“So far the cops don’t know about this kill. But they will shortly. It’s after three. They’ll know I’m representing him, and might search there for him. The Champ can’t go to a hotel; he’s too well known. Have Doyle hire a ‘U-Drive’ with a trailer — they’ve got ’em now, fully equipped. Pendell can grab some sleep — he’ll need it if he’s to win tomorrow’s set-to — while Doyle drives out into the country.
“At nine-thirty tomorrow morning, Doyle is to park his trailer in front of the Criminal Courts building. Now — you got everything straight?”
Petraske spat out a cigarette that was burning his lip. “I’m way ahead of you, chief,” he grinned. “Let’s go. What’re you gonna do meanwhile? Get some shut-eye?”
Faughan smiled sardonically. “Me? I’m going to put Slats Kaulper’s body on ice. I can’t afford to have it found just yet. Then I’ll hit the hay. But whatever the hour, call me and let me know the result of your test on Pendell.”
“Okay.” Petraske took Pendell’s arm. “Let’s go, Champ. I’ve got a feeling the cops’ll be swarming into this dump any second now.”
The three men left the room. Only one of them looked back. Gene Pendell stabbed a last glance at Zena Zorn’s still form. There was a suggestion of moisture in his dog-like eyes when he turned them away.
Chapter III
Snatch
Faughan hadn’t spoken figuratively when he told Petraske he was going to put Kaulper “on ice.” He drove his borrowed taxi containing the body of the night club owner down Third Avenue to the City Morgue. A lugubrious-visaged old man opened the basement receiving door to his persistent ring.
The morgue watchman peered at the lawyer through watery eyes.
“Goodness me, Mr. Faughan,” he cackled. “What’re you doin’ here at this hour?”
Faughan smiled cheerfully. “I’ve been doing the rounds, Pat,” he said. “Happened to remember I left my brief case upstairs on the third floor in Doc Savage’s laboratory. I consulted with him yesterday afternoon. I’m going to need some papers in it the first thing in the morning. Like a good fella — will you fetch it for me?”
“Sure. Sure. You wait here. I’ll be right back.” The morgue attendant ambled off down a dimly lighted corridor.
Faughan waited until he heard an elevator door clang shut. Then he went into speedy action. He pulled Kaulper’s body out of the cab, carried it fireman-fashion to the refrigerator vault. The atmosphere was dank, reeked of ammonia, and dead human flesh. It didn’t bother him.
The vast icebox seemed lined with huge filing-cabinets. Which they were actually. Filing-cabinets for the city’s unclaimed dead.
Hastily, he read some cards on the panels until he found one with a three-months’ old date. He rolled out the slab, deposited Kaulper’s body on top of the corpse it held, and pushed it back.
He was smoking calmly at the morgue entrance when Pat O’Brien returned.
“Are you sure you left your brief case in the lab?” Pat asked. “I hunted high an’ low. It ain’t there.”
Faughan wagged his head puzzledly. “That’s funny,” he murmured. “I could’ve sworn I left it there. But never mind. It’ll turn up. And thanks just the same, Pat.”
He slipped the old man a bill, hopped into his cab.
Before heading for the apartment-hotel where he maintained bachelor quarters, Faughan drove past the Rheingold Arms. Now a score of lighted windows dotted its facade. Two police cars were parked in front of it.
Face inscrutable, he drove on. So the authorities had been tipped off to Zena Zorn’s murder. Whether by Crowley in pursuance of a pre-conceived plan to fool him — or by a man with a nasal voice — Faughan did not know. He would know when he heard from Petraske.
Too tired to garage the taxi, he left it before his building. It was four-fifteen when he let himself into his suite, closed the door.