“So whatever you say. But this murder angle is something. Providing they don’t catch up with him and give him a fifteen-thousand volt hot-foot. You will have something on him which ought to make him hold up his paws and bark for a biscuit.”
“I believe penalties are provided for the compounding of a felony, my agile-minded friend. Withholding information concerning a murder would distinctly come under that classification, would it not?”
“You’re damn tooting it would.” Morrie giggled again, stroked his mustache. “That’s what I get paid for. Withholding the information that lets you put over this, — uh, — coercion... for your client.”
The lawyer examined his fingernails, took out a file, began to rasp them energetically. “As a member of the bar and an officer of the court, I couldn’t condone any such suggestion, Morrie. But,” he raised his eyes quizzically, “I doubt if you have your facts in hand.”
“I got enough. I trail M.O. from the bus station when he gets in from Charleston. I’m on his rear bumper over to a place on Swamp Street where he has a heart-to-heart with a man name of Joslin. He’s sitting in one end of a subway car over to Brooklyn, and I’m on the platform at the other end. I’m right behind him out to a shipyard over there, Rodd’s, they call it. I even crash the gate past the guard by saying I’m for the Seavett, too. I don’t see him after he goes on board the yacht. But I hear him and some other man, likely this Gjersten, talking through a porthole. I can’t get close enough to catch much of the conversation because there is an old boy fussing around with ropes on the deck. But I hear M.O. say something about Big Dommy’s place. He is supposed to meet someone there, maybe this other man he is talking to. So when the motors begin to buzz and some Porto Rican or maybe a Filipino comes out on the dock, I beat it.”
“Interesting,” Fross smiled a reproof, “but not conclusive.”
“Wait’ll I finish. It takes me a while to locate this Big Dommy’s, which is a dump over behind the Erie Basin and I mean a dump. I spend some jingle at the bar and don’t see M.O. But while I’m standing there guzzling, in comes a skinny blonde with henna hair and a kind of lonesome look to her. She goes around the barroom and asks everyone if they have seen Ansel around. This Ansel must be known in those parts because they don’t say they don’t know him, just that they haven’t seen him.” Morrie retrieved the newspaper, crackled it significantly. “Ansel is the party of the first part in this suitcase story.”
“I read it. What is the point?”
“The point is this. I stick around quite a while and this girl who everybody calls Claire goes upstairs to the stopover rooms and comes down a few times, but all along she is whining about Ansel not having met her like he promised. According to her, he was there in the afternoon and didn’t pay off but told her he would see her later. By and by she goes away and in comes a flint-face from the city force; I can spot one of those badge-carriers like a sore thumb. He ruffles up the proprietor’s feathers some and they go upstairs together. I am just deciding M.O. is not going to show and am about to run along when down comes the city sleuth with Big Dommy in tow. They are looking for someone and who do you think it is?”
“M.O.?”
“No. At least, not right then. The city cop is inquiring about Claire. The girl who was with Ansel in the afternoon.”
The lawyer laced and unlaced his fingers, abstractedly. “What has all this to do with our little investigation, Morrie?”
“Quite a good deal, quite a lot. I don’t hang around while the badge does his business but later on I go back and the place is swarming with buttons. I buy a drink where it will do the most good and I use my ears and after a while I get the layout. The room upstairs where Ansel and the girl went earlier in the day, that was where the murder was committed. The corpse couldn’t be identified completely, being in sections as it were, but the police are convinced it is Ansel.”
Fross let annoyance sharpen his tone. “All very absorbing, Morrie. But it leaves a little to be desired. You haven’t placed M.O. at the crime.”
“I heard him say he was going there. I heard him say it to the man who got killed. The buttons have flyers out for M.O. They sent his description out on the teletype and on the radio. It might not be enough for the prosecutor’s office but it ought to go a long way to help you. I don’t know just what it is you’re after. But I got a four-star hunch there’s more to it than just some stock deal.”
A green glass button on the inner edge of Fross’s desk glowed like a lighted emerald, went out. He opened the drawer.
“...a gentleman to see yon, Mister Fross...”
“Mister Fross has gone out, Herman. He will be back in an hour.” Fross started to close the drawer but the box inside spoke again, hurriedly.
“...the gentleman is from the police, sir... his name is Koski... Lieutenant Koski... and he says he must see Mister Fross immed — HERE — STOP — YOU CAN’T—” the voice changed abruptly. “...Do you come out, Fross? Or do I come in after you?”
Schlauff got to his feet fast. “Psst!... Let me out through that trick exit of yours. That’s the city badge I was telling you about. I don’t want him to find me—”
Fross slammed the drawer. “You imbecile! He heard you! That switch was open—”
The door opened softly.
Koski walked in.
XIX
The man from the Harbor Squad eyed Schlauff with satisfaction. “Well, well. The face is familiar. But I don’t seem to recall the name.”
“Name is Schlauff. Morris Schlauff. Of Schlauff International Investigators, Incorporated.”
“I meant to pass around a pat on the back for that handwriting on the wall. But you got away too fast.” Koski measured him up and down. It would be hard for Schlauff to masquerade as a sailor, even with a bandage hiding his foxlike, protruding teeth. “How you do get around.”
“Professional duties.” Morrie smirked.
“I’ve had every cop in Brooklyn on the qui vive for you. Where do you fit in this picture?”
Fross said smoothly: “One of my clients has been employing Mister Schlauff on a divorce investigation.”
“That’s right. Nothing to do — with my being over at Dommy’s place.” Morrie smoothed the newspaper with the flat of his hand.
“Do I look like Charlie McCarthy?” Koski roamed around the room. “I’m not enough of a dummy to take that. You were trailing Gjersten or young Ovett. Or both. Else you wouldn’t have recognized the Purdo girl.” He talked to Schlauff; watched Fross.
“I just happened to be there,” Morrie protested, “when someone mentioned her name. That’s absolutely the fact.”
“You’re working for Fross, hah? Well,” Koski faced the lawyer, “who are you working for?”
“I am bound to respect the confidence of my client,” Fross smiled frankly, “but I don’t believe she’d have any objection to your being informed. Mrs. Barbara Ovett.”
“What’s the blueprint? She afraid her husband is going to divorce her? She after evidence against him so court proceedings against her would be a standoff?”
“You are very keen.” Fross’s eyebrows went up in obvious admiration. “That is the way it lines up, exactly.”
“Might be the way you’d like me to believe it lines up. But don’t tell me Schlauff was in that Brooklyn dive after an adultery affidavit!” Koski was sardonic. “A judge would rule that out so fast it would make your ears ring. Nobody’d know that better than you. Maybe you were trying to get the goods on young Ovett. But there’ll be some other reason. Whatsit?”