Drake nodded to his nod, looked narrowly at the boy over his cigarette end, noting the uncertain flexible curve of his mouth, the dark gleam of something unrevealed in his eyes. He said: “How are they coming, Jimmy?”
“So so.” Jimmy Harris smiled twitchily, looked away. He tried to make his voice forceful, hearty. He didn’t succeed. “Looking for something good in the big race tomorrow. Got anything, Drake?”
“Maybe I have,” Drake said quietly. “If you want it, Jimmy—”
A small, squarely set man bumped aside a dancing couple, stopped at their table with a loud whoosh of expelled breath. His face was small, red, jolly. He said cheerfully: “Hello, Drake,” and looked down at the boy with the same expression. “You Jimmy Harris?”
Blood faded from Harris’ face, leaving it sheet-like. The dark something in his eyes flamed higher, spread. He made groping motions with his hand, started to get up, looked at Drake. He said: “Yes — yes,” in a breathless, excited voice.
“Proctor,” Drake said. He glanced up at him from the boy, puzzled. “What are you doing out here?”
The short man, still cheerful, jerked his head downward. “I guess he can tell you.”
Jimmy Harris started to speak, choked, blurted out: “I didn’t kill him. I went in there for something I forgot. When I—”
The short man said: “But you knew he was killed, Jimmy? Why didn’t you call somebody? Why you didn’t makes it kinda tough on you, Kid.” He looked across the dance-floor and nodded to a burly man by the entrance. Then he said: “Get your hat.”
“Wait a minute,” Drake put in slowly. “What’s the point? This isn’t a game of charades, Proctor?”
Proctor looked down at him, little eyes bright. “Nope,” he said. “Not charades. It’s a game called bing bing and hot foot, Drake. Joe Madigan’s it. He got tagged, knocked off, rolled down the chute. He’s croaked.”
“Joe Madigan!” Drake’s incredulous voice matched his eyes, his wide mouth. “But — I played cards with him this afternoon, Proctor. When — What you picking up the boy for?”
Proctor explained, a little impatiently: “For questioning. They found Madigan’s body in his compartment on the Limited half an hour after it pulled in. When we went down to look things over the conductor and porter give us the names of the guys that were playin’ with him. You, Neil Grant, Pete Mayo, the kid.” His thumb flipped briefly to Jimmy Harris. “The conductor saw this lad coming out of Madigan’s compartment as the train got in to the station. He said the kid’s face was white as hell. He looked all upset.” Proctor shrugged. “What would you figure it?”
Jimmy Harris cried desperately: “But I told you I forgot something — my cigarette case.” His eyes were dark, terrified in the pallor of his face. He held his arm rigid on the table, half lifting him out of his chair. “When I went back to get it I saw him. I got scared. Maybe I didn’t use my head. I thought if I told—”
Proctor said, his tone friendly: “I got nothing to do with that, brother. They won’t hang you tonight. All I was told was bring you down for questioning. If I was you I’d come along peacefully.”
Jimmy Harris nodded dully. He said: “All right.” He got up, not looking at Drake, and walked over to the doorway. Proctor followed him. The burly man turned, flanking them carefully.
An instant later Pete Mayo came in by the door they had left, turning his head over his shoulder to watch. Then he faced about, marched precisely, with his small contained arrogance, across the room. He said to Drake: “What’s the parade for?” in a tone faintly amused.
Drake’s tanned face was surfacely casual, pleasant. His voice affable, he asked: “You don’t know, Pete? Some little something. The boys played quoits with Joe Madigan. But Joe didn’t duck. Maybe you know something?”
Pete Mayo stopped smiling; the grave cold mask dropped down over his face, leaving it carefully inexpressive. He stared at Drake, said: “You speaking English?”
Drake didn’t answer, didn’t look at Neil Grant and the girl when they came up. He pushed back his chair and crossed the dance-floor in crisp strides
Drake felt lonely and a little cold, thinking of Pop Harris. Old Pop! The best friend a man ever had. And his boy now up for murder. Pleasant, that.
The yellowish sheen of a taxi left its line near the road and rumbled to him. With one foot on the running-board, Drake said: “Police Headquarters. And step on it.”
He got back to his room shortly past eleven. The radio was on, tuned loudly to an incoherent splutter of jazz. Before it Nicky was trying dance steps on the rug, with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and his eyes wrinkled against the smoke. When he saw Drake’s face he stopped, looked serious, shut off the radio with his small finger.
“Bad?” he asked. “I couldn’t figure what you wanted in the phone call.”
Drake sailed his hat to the bed and lit a cigarette before speaking. His voice poured out rapidly, earnestly. “Joe Madigan’s been murdered, Nicky. They picked up Jimmy Harris on suspicion. He owed Madigan eight thousand dollars in unpaid bets. I saw him at Headquarters and he admitted that to me. But the cops don’t know about that yet.”
Nicky said, wide mouthed. “Hey! Wait a minute! Joe Madigan croaked? Where, when?”
Drake explained, briefly. He went on: “Proctor let me see the boy at Headquarters. He says Grant and the girl left Madigan’s compartment before he did, and that when he got to his seat three cars down he remembered he’d left his cigarette case on the table. Then he got out his bags, brushed up a little in the smoking compartment — five minutes altogether — and went back for it. Madigan was lying on the floor with blood all over the back of his head. It frightened him so much that he didn’t tell anybody, but just sneaked out. He figured, too, the eight thousand might make it look bad for him.”
Nicky stopped scowling, stopped prodding his thumb at some side teeth long enough to say: “So what?”
Drake’s eyes were bitter, slitted; he moved his head impatiently, stared before him. After a while he said:
“Madigan carried money in that leather bag of his. A good bit of money. You and I knew that — so did every regular at the races — and that includes Mayo and Neil Grant. The bag was empty when they found Madigan. So he was killed for the money. An ordinary stick-up man wouldn’t take Madigan on the train — it would be easier, safer to get him in town. Figure it like that — a job done without planning, for money. Harris was away five minutes; plenty long enough for anybody who had left before him to come back and knock over Madigan.”
Nicky said. “I think you’re hinting, boss.”
Drake’s smile was brief, grim. “Smart boy, Nicky. We got in at seven, too late for the money to be banked. So it’s reasonable to suppose the killer still has the money somewhere around him.”
“That means?” Nicky asked.
“That means,” Drake said, “we search two rooms in this hotel. Neil Grant’s and Mayo’s — maybe Grant’s girl, too.”
Nicky grimaced. “Nice and easy. Just like that?”
Drake said: “Just like that.”
He went to the phone on the table and jiggled the hook. He said: “Mr. Mayo’s room, please.” When the connection was made he listened to the long ring, perhaps twenty times before the operator cut in. “Sorry, sir. Your party does not answer.”
Drake jerked impatience into his tone. “They’re in, operator. They must be in. Sure you’re ringing the right party? What room number are you trying?”