“Or they might just kill him,” Crowley rapped out. He swung around. “Why don’t you do something instead of sitting here gabbing? Get after Slats Kaulper! I swear that punk’s implicated in this!”
Faughan laughed lightly. “He was you mean. Kaulper is dead.”
Crowley started. “Dead? When was he killed? I haven’t heard anything about it!”
“I met him last night in front of the Hi-De-Hi getting out of a taxi. He’d been stabbed somewhere by either Murray or Weiber. I don’t know why — yet. They left him for dead. I suppose they came here to cover Pendell. He must’ve trailed them. I shoved him back in the cab, where he died on me. So I had to get rid of his body.” Crowley’s phone rang. He picked it up, scowling, said, “Yes,” a couple of times, then, “I can make it in an hour.” Then he listened to his caller for a moment and growled: “All right.”
He hung up, faced Faughan. “Well, what’re we going to do?” he demanded.
The lawyer uncoiled from his chair. “You — nothing. Me — I’m going to find Pendell.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty. I’ll have him at Madison Square Garden in time for his scrap. It’ll cost you twenty grand. That includes white-washing him this morning.”
“Cheap enough if you can do it,” Crowley said with a wry face.
“Gad, I’m tired,” Faughan said in the middle of a sudden yawn. He clicked his teeth shut, added: “What d’you mean — if? I guarantee it. So bring the money to the Garden with you. Tomorrow’s pay-day for my staff, and I can use it. I’ve got an overhead like the foreign war debt.”
He left the Hi-De-Hi Club, walked west to the nearest corner. Here, in a drug store, he folded himself in a phone booth. Ten minutes later he emerged on the street again, hailed a cab. Twenty minutes later he was in his apartment — in bed. And sound asleep.
At eight o’clock he woke up as if an alarm had roused him. He dressed in tails fresh from the tailor’s, and supped in leisurely fashion. Quarter of ten found him entering the dressing room under the Garden reserved for the Champ.
It was filled with men and smoke. Trainers, handlers, masseurs stood around indecisively. They were making ash out of cigarettes and cigars as if their lives depended on it. Mark Crowley, brows knit, sat slouched in a chair, mangling a Corona.
Upon Faughan’s entrance he jumped up. “Where the hell’ve you been? I’ve been calling your office, your agency, your hotel for hours— Nobody’s seen you, or knew where you were—”
“They hadn’t and didn’t,” Faughan grinned. He blew out breath. “Phew! The air in here’s foul!”
“Never mind the air,” Crowley snorted. “Did you give out the press release saying Pendell’d been released by his snatchers? That his fight would go on, and that he’d stay under cover until time for the fight?”
Faughan pushed his silk hat to the back of his head. “Yep. You didn’t want the Garden to be without customers, did you?”
“They’re hanging to the rafters. But what good is it? Where’s Pendell?”
At that moment a cheer came from the stadium proper. It rose wave on wave, a tremendous roar of sound that threatened to raise the roof.
“There’s Pendell,” Faughan smiled. “Just in time for his bout.” Crowley stifled an exclamation, and leaped for the door. The lawyer stopped him. “Just one minute, Crowley. My fee — if you please!”
The Champ’s manager muttered something under his breath, dug a hand in his breast pocket, took out a packet of bills. These he tossed to Faughan and darted on his way. He almost collided with a ruddy-faced man coming down the passageway. Without bothering to apologize he disappeared.
The man let out a muffled curse. Faughan, approaching him, said: “As I live and breathe! Inspector Carter! What’re you doing here?”
Carter flicked unsmiling eyes at the money the lawyer still held in his hand, then they bored into the lawyer’s.
“I came here expecting to find you, Blackie,” he said. “And hoping I wouldn’t.”
Faughan thrust the money away, patted the pocket. “That has an ominous sound,” he grinned. “What have I done now?”
Carter bit his lip. “I hate this job, Blackie,” he said, and looked as if he meant it. “I’ve got to take you downtown and book you — for murder!”
Faughan’s face clouded momentarily, then he grinned slowly.
“So you found Slats Kaulper,” he murmured.
Carter nodded. “Kaulper was found — not an hour ago. Where you hid him. The morgue keeper told us how you drove up in a taxi, sent him on a fool’s errand. We located the driver from whom you hired the cab. He filled in the gaps.” The cop paused. “Why did you do it, Blackie?”
Faughan sighed. “Creature of impulse — that’s me. I act first and think later. For instance—”
His fist shot up, and exploded on the point of Carter’s chin like a stick of dynamite. Carter didn’t even grunt. He buckled at the knees, fell.
Faughan caught him, muttered: “Sorry, Inspector. This hurts me more than it hurts you.”
He dragged the police officer’s inert form to a room across the narrow corridor. It proved to be an office. He deposited Carter in a small closet.
Three minutes later he was hurrying down an aisle in the Garden stadium toward the raised ring. The Champion, dressed in a striped robe, was being introduced to the shouting crowd. His opponent stood in a corner.
Crowley was standing beside the ring, his fists jammed in his pockets; his face impassive.
Just as Faughan reached the ring, Pendell gasped hollowly, snaked a taped hand toward his chest in a convulsive movement — and fell over backwards.
The excited, puzzled cry of the audience thundered in his ears as Faughan vaulted into the ring. His features were tautly set. When Pendell fell, Crowley, too, had leaped into the ring. The two men knelt beside the Champ.
Above them, jaws sagging, stood the challenger, Browberg; the officiating referee; a half a dozen other men that had surged into the ring.
Pendell had his eyes open. White-faced, he was breathing hard.
Crowley husked: “Gene — what happened? Are you all right?”
Pendell gulped; faltered: “I... I guess so—” He looked at Faughan.
The lawyer tore the fighter’s robe aside. Instead of disclosing a bare chest, he brought to light a jacket of fine steel mesh. The links over the heart were mashed a little; but they were still intact.
A chorus of stunned, incredulous gasps greeted the sight, and its significance.
Faughan ground out: “As I expected would happen — someone took a shot at him. The jolt of the bullet hitting him knocked him down. Think you can go on with the fight, Champ?”
Pendell essayed a sickly grin, staggered to his feet. “Sure,” he said. “Be all right soon’s I catch my breath. Only—” here he darted appraising eyes at Browberg — “I guess I’ll have to use both hands — now.”
Crowley seemed to have lost his composure. He was mopping his brow, trembling. The gaze he gave Faughan had awe in it.
“Whew!” he said.
The lawyer took his arm, said: “Come on downstairs, Crowley. The final act of this affair will take place there. You should be in on it.” He paused, added, chuckling: “It won’t cost you a cent.”
The office opposite Pendell’s dressing rooms wasn’t empty. Stone, Faughan’s operative, stood in the center of it. He held a gun in his hand casually. It was trained on a rat-faced man who cowered in a chair before him.
Without looking around, Stone said: “The punk’s name is ‘Crunch’ Malley, chief. He’s a freelance hood. Caught him with his pants down. There’s the gun he used.”