He switched on the light in his living-room. And froze in an attitude of shocked surprise.
Two men were seated in two of his best chairs. One was short and dark. The other, tall and hard-looking. Both held black-snouted automatics in their fists. Both heaved themselves erect, hefting their guns.
The short one said: “You were long enough gettin’ here, Faughan. Now — behave. An’ you won’t get hurt.” His voice, Faughan noted, wasn’t nasal. It was guttural, harsh.
The lawyer’s lids flickered. The amazement went out of his face, leaving it blandly expressionless. He recalled Pendell’s description of the men who had propositioned him, drawled:
“Murray and Weiber, the ‘wise-money’ twins, I believe. I’m glad you’re here. This’ll save me the trouble of looking you up. This business that started with your attempt to buy Pen-dell’s fight and wound up with the murders of Zena Zorn and Slats Kaulper has me ga-ga. There’re angles I don’t understand.
“I see now you found out Pendell planned a fast one after you — or your boss — placed a mint of money on Browberg. To salvage your investment, you framed him for Zee-Zee’s murder. Result — no dice. Pendell turned out to be an honest scrapper with a one-track mind. You couldn’t buy him. You couldn’t intimidate him.
“You learned, somehow, I was going to bat for him. Now you want to crack down on him by gunning me out so I can’t clear him. Why go to all that trouble? Why not simply blast him down? And why did you kill Kaulper? Where does he fit in?”
The tall man snapped in a gruff bass: “We ain’t killers. You can’t dump the Kaulper or Zorn kills on our doorstep. We’ve got air-tight alibis. But if you act up that ain’t saying we won’t smoke you.”
He turned to his companion. “Fan him, Weiber.”
Faughan’s mouth curled ironic-ally. He submitted meekly to a thorough search, watched his gun disappear into the short man’s pocket.
“That makes you Murray,” he said to the tall man. “And you’ve got alibis... Think of that! If you didn’t kill them you shouldn’t even know they are dead! Or are you clairvoyant?”
Murray sidled forward, swung his fist. Faughan crashed against the wall, eyes flaring.
“What the hell was that for?” he grated, a dangerous flush on his lean cheeks.
“To button your lip. You talk too much. Now we’re going bye-bye. One peep and you get ventilated. Be nice, and you’ll live to grow whiskers.”
Faughan sighed. “You wouldn’t fool—”
Just then his phone began ringing with startling suddenness.
Weiber and Murray exchanged quick, uneasy glances.
Murray poked Faughan with his gun. “Move, shyster. We’re fading.”
Weiber said: “Wait. Maybe we better let him answer it. This dump has a switchboard downstairs. The op must’ve seen him come up. If there’s no answer, he’s liable to investigate.”
Murray nodded. “You’re using your bean.” He prodded Faughan again with his gun. “All right. Answer it. And remember. No shenanigans. We mean business.”
Faughan crossed the room, picked up his phone, murmured, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece.
Petraske’s voice crackled over the wire to him. “Pendell was telling the truth, chief. I’ve shipped him out with Doyle. Stone wants me to tell you he’s run down the names you gave him. Murray and Weiber are a couple of big-money sharpshooters from Chi. No tie-up with Kaulper that he could find. Anything else?”
“No, Rube,” Faughan said. “Except you might check all ‘out’ calls from Algonquin 4-3528.”
“Okay, chief,” Petraske said quietly, and rang off.
Faughan cradled the receiver, joined Murray and Weiber. They sandwiched him between them, trotted him out into the corridor. Then into an elevator. The car dropped them to the lobby. A deserted lobby. Not even the switchboard operator was in sight. Nevertheless, Murray and Weiber kept their guns discreetly in their pockets.
They walked the lawyer to the street, to a car waiting half a block away. The tall man got into the rear seat with him. The short man took the wheel. The starter coughed once, metallically. The motor roared to life. The machine drove off.
Four blocks west it turned south on Eighth Avenue.
No one spoke. Faughan remembered the sock on the jaw he’d received. So he essayed no speech except to ask if he could dig out a cigarette. Murray, who sat with his gun on his knee, gave him one, and a book of matches. The lawyer lit up. He puffed away, watching Eighth Avenue unwind its drabness alongside the speeding car. And thought.
The more he thought, the crazier the case he’d undertaken became. His captors could have killed him in his apartment — easily. They hadn’t. That meant his guess had been only half right. They didn’t wish to kill him — only to hold him prisoner until Gene Pendell had been indicted for Zena Zorn’s murder. Once that happened there would be no getting him out. Innocent, or not innocent. And the Champ was innocent. That much had been established.
If Murray and Weiber had killed the dancer and Kaulper, why hadn’t they killed him — Faughan? Instead of snatching him? That in itself didn’t make sense. Their attempt to frame Pendell into throwing his fight had failed. They were afraid he — Faughan — would vindicate the Champ in time for the bout. Apparently they were anxious to save their investment. Why hadn’t they simply killed the scrapper? Instead of complicating matters by kidnaping his lawyer?
Another thing. Why had Slats Kaulper been killed? The possibility occurred to Faughan that he had been in cahoots with Murray and Weiber. That there had been an argument resulting in the fatal attack.
And finally — Zena Zorn’s murder had been cold-blooded. In their present roles neither Murray nor Weiber were acting like killers. That presented another problem. Had Murray stated the truth when he said they hadn’t murdered the dancer and Kaulper? Then — who the hell had committed the crimes?
Faughan gave up. He flipped his cigarette from the fast-traveling car, dropped his chin to his chest, closed his eyes. Before he knew it, he was asleep.
He might have dozed five minutes, or fifty. He didn’t know. A rough hand shaking his shoulder roused him. A voice — Murray’s — said:
“Can you beat that? He’s asleep! Hey, wake up! This is the end of the line.”
Faughan dragged himself out of the car on Murray’s heels.
“My hours’re killing me,” he yawned, and looked around. “I’m dead on my feet.”
He recognized the neighborhood for what it was. The water-front. Frowsy, dismal buildings, gloomy warehouses, cowered in the darkness of a poorly-lighted, odoriferous street. An occasional hoot, the groan of rivercraft straining at their moorings at nearby wharves, and the low moan of a melancholy wind were the only sounds to break the eerie stillness of the night.
Murray said dryly: “From what I hear one of these days one of the cases you stick your nose into is going to kill you. You’re lucky we’re not hoods. Or by now you’d be dead on your back.”
He shoved the lawyer toward a house that seemed to be leaning dejectedly on its neighbor.
“This’ll be your address for a time. Like I told you — if you behave. In.”
Weiber had unlocked a door flush with the sidewalk, and switched on a sickly light inside the building. Faughan walked into a dirty hall that held the ghosts of so many smells none was definable.
“Behaving with a gun in my back,” he said caustically, wrinkling his nose, “is the best thing I do.”
They led him up a rickety flight of stairs, pushed him into a dark room. The door slammed behind him, and the lock clicked.
Faughan snapped on his lighter, held it over his head, and surveyed his surroundings. In one corner was a mildewed cot that sent a shudder over him. The only window in the room was boarded up. The planks were thick. The nails, big as spikes. It would have required a hefty axe to batter it open.