He examined the door. He had noticed it opened inward. It was old, but of solid oak. Its panels were sturdy enough to withstand the onslaught of any two men.
He sighed, removed his overcoat, and spread it on the cot. It had no pillow. So he doffed his jacket, rolled it. He stretched himself out on the cot, and was dead to the world before his head hit the improvised pillow.
At first he thought the crash of thunder had awakened him. He jackknifed erect, blinking sleep-laden eyes. Again a series of detonations, sharply defined, echoed through the lower part of the house. It was accompanied by harsh shouts, hoarse curses. Then pounding footsteps shook the ramshackle building.
Faughan grinned in the darkness, took his jacket and overcoat from the cot, and donned them. He was lighting a cigarette when the door swung wide, and the beam of an electric torch spotlighted him.
A voice — Petraske’s — said: “Hell, chief. You all right?”
Faughan pocketed his automatic lighter, walked from the room into the upper hall. A single, dust-caked bulb illuminated it rather badly.
“Yes,” he said, rubbing his jaw where Murray had hit him. “Only my feelings are hurt.” He glanced at his watch. “Six-thirty. What kept you? I was asleep when you crashed in, but I was dreaming you didn’t get the agency ‘S. O. S.’ ”
Petraske followed him downstairs, chuckling:
“You would be asleep. I got the ‘Rube,’ all right. And when you told me to check ‘out’ calls from your own phone, I figured as you wanted me to. That someone had the drop on you and was crating you bye-bye.
“I called back Freddy Grunn, your switchboard operator, gave him the lowdown. He was for calling the cops. But I voted that out. Thought you’d prefer to keep this strictly ‘agency.’ I told him to tail you. Luckily he found a cab parked in front of your apartment house with the keys in it.”
Faughan laughed. “That was my cab. A bad habit mine — leaving keys in cars.”
“Yeah. Very. Well, Grunn spotted this dump, called me. It took him half an hour to locate a phone. That accounts for the delay. I hightailed it down here with Stone and Peters. And here we are.”
They reached the lower hall. Stone and Peters, another Black Faun Agency dick, were standing spread-footed in the center of it, smoking. Sprawled on the floor between them were two still bodies.
“Hello, boys,” Faughan greeted, and nudged a lean jaw at the inert forms. “Dead?”
Stone, a broadshouldered individual with keen eyes, and a battle-scarred face, nodded.
“Dead as pickled herrings. They put up a fight. Who are they?”
“Muggs named Murray and Weiber.” Faughan clucked his tongue. “Too bad you had to plug them. Alive, they might’ve talked. In fact, I was depending on them to help me crack this case. Now—”
He fell silent, considered a moment. Then he murmured, half to himself: “Sometimes even a smart guy can’t see the forest for the trees... I wonder—”
He turned to Petraske. “You never travel anywhere without a camera. Got one in the car you came down in?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Grab some shots of the faces of Murray and Weiber. Then lug their bodies down to the cellar. Hide ’em. I don’t want them discovered for a while. Your shooting foray must’ve gone unnoticed or we’d be hearing police sirens by this time.
“Then lam. I suppose you haven’t finished the other jobs I assigned you?”
Petraske shook his head. “Nope. Things’ve been happening too fast.”
“Well, attend to them first. Then develop the pictures of Murray and Weiber. Better make ’em life-size. Stone, you and Peters, tuck copies under your arms and trace the movements of the two blokes.
“Account for every minute of their time. Say from eight o’clock last night to four this morning. Your trail should wind up at my apartment-hotel. Report to me as soon as you can. I’ll be at the Criminal Courts Building from nine on. Check?”
The lawyer’s instructions were received with silent nods.
He saluted his men cheerfully, said, “Be seein’ you, boys,” and went out, yawning.
Chapter IV
Arraignment
A shower, shave, change of clothes, and breakfast refreshed Faughan some. But he was still yawning when, at nine, a cab deposited him before the Criminal Courts Building. There was a Chrysler sedan, with a trailer hitched behind, parked at the curb. Doyle, his. op, sat at the wheel, staring straight ahead.
As he passed him, Faughan whispered out of the corner of his mouth:
“When I give you the high-sign let Pendell out.”
Without looking around, Doyle inclined his head slightly.
On the stone steps of the Courts Building a group of reporters loitered. Glimpsing the lawyer, they swarmed over him, plying him with questions. Over their heads, he spotted Martin Nord and Inspector Carter, of Homicide, at the building entrance.
The morning papers, which he’d read during breakfast, had carried scareheads about Zena Zorn’s murder. Chronicled facts had been meager. No mention had been made of his connection with the case, although it was stated the Champion, Gene Pendell, was being sought for questioning.
Apparently some rumor had leaked out, however. That would account for the presence of the scribes. Jetson Faughan’s name linked to any case meant more than news. It meant sensation.
“Hey, Blackie! Is it true you’re representing the Champ?”
Another legman shouted: “We heat you’re surrendering him to the D. A. this morning. Is that straight?”
And: “Got any rabbits up your sleeve this a.m., Blackie?”
Faughan grinned affably. He liked the newshounds. Their interest in him had made him famous, had helped to put his income in the seven figure bracket. There wasn’t one of them he did not know by name.
He said: “It’s a fine morning this morning, boys. Or am I wrong?”
Good-natured laughter greeted his evasive sally. The scribes fell back, let him make his way to Nord’s side.
The D.A. was a large, meaty man with the squashed-in face and hanging jowls of an English Bull. His close-set eyes, his whole bearing, stamped him a smug egotist. A mediocre lawyer at best, he had secured his position through political phenagling, and he had used his office for self-glorification ever since.
He stabbed a glance of belligerent appraisal at Faughan, said: “Well, where’s Pendell?”
Faughan looked at Inspector Carter, and back at Nord. He screwed up one corner of his mouth, countered with: “Got everything set? What judge will preside at the hearing?”
Nord became a lobster red. “Trustful as usual. Judge Porter.” He puffed out his cheeks angrily. “I’m sorry now I made a deal with you. If I’d known last night what an air-tight case I had against Pendell, I’d’ve gone after you; forced you to turn him in. Or you’d have gone to jail for compounding a felony.”
His little eyes narrowed slyly. “What’s to stop me from ordering your arrest now?”
“Don’t get ideas, Nord,” Faughan said quietly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Those pencil-pushers are friends of mine. If you tried any back-knifing, I’d give them the facts. They’d make your name mud — politically.”
The slyness went out of Nord’s eyes; apprehension crept in.
“Besides,” Faughan continued, “Pendell didn’t commit a felony. So I couldn’t’ve compounded one, even if I knew where he was last night.”
Inspector Carter took a black stogy out of his mouth. He was a big man, wide across the chest, with a ruddy complexion. He wore a tailored, blue-serge suit, and a tailored overcoat of blue broadcloth. He had a hard, craggy face with a network of crow’s-feet around shrewd eyes. When he smiled you knew frowning hadn’t caused the crow’s-feet.