Flies buzzed against the closed windows of the kitchen. The place reeked. Randall stood in the middle of the floor, giving it the careful eye.
Then he walked softly through the swing door without touching it except low down with his toe and using that to push it far enough back so that it stayed open. The living room was much as I had remembered it. The radio was off.
Thats a nice radio, Randall said. Cost money. If its paid for. Heres something.
He went down on one knee and looked along the carpet. Then he went to the side of the radio and moved a loose cord with his foot. The plug came into view. He bent and studied the knobs on the radio front.
Yeah, he said. Smooth and rather large. Pretty smart, that. You dont get prints on a light cord, do you?
Shove it in and see if its turned on.
He reached around and shoved it into the plug in the baseboard. The light went on at once. We waited. The thing hummed for a while and then suddenly a heavy volume of sound began to pour out of the speaker. Randall jumped at the cord and yanked it loose again. The sound was snapped off sharp.
When he straightened his eyes were full of light.
We went swiftly into the bedroom. Mrs. Jessie Pierce Florian lay diagonally across the bed, in a rumpled cotton house dress, with her head close to one end of the footboard. The corner post of the bed was smeared darkly with something the flies liked.
She had been dead long enough.
Randall didnt touch her. He stared down at her for a long time and then looked at me with a wolfish baring of his teeth.
Brains on her face, he said. That seems to be the theme song of this case. Only this was done with just a pair of hands. But Jesus what a pair of hands. Look at the neck bruises, the spacing of the finger marks.
You look at them, I said. I turned away. Poor old Nulty. Its not just a shine killing any more.
31
A shiny black bug with a pink head and pink spots on it crawled slowly along the polished top of Randalls desk and waved a couple of feelers around, as if testing the breeze for a takeoff. It wobbled a little as it crawled, like an old woman carrying too many parcels. A nameless dick sat at another desk and kept talking into an old-fashioned hushaphone telephone mouthpiece, so that his voice sounded like someone whispering in a tunnel. He talked with his eyes half closed, a big scarred hand on the desk in front of him holding a burning cigarette between the knuckles of the first and second fingers.
The bug reached the end of Randalls desk and marched straight off into the air. It fell on its back on the floor, waved a few thin worn legs in the air feebly and then played dead. Nobody cared, so it began waving the legs again and finally struggled over on its face. It trundled slowly off into a corner towards nothing, going nowhere.
The police loudspeaker box on the wall put out a bulletin about a holdup on San Pedro south of Forty-fourth. The holdup was a middle-aged man wearing a dark gray suit and gray felt hat. He was last seen running east on Forty-fourth and then dodging between two houses. Approach carefully, the announcer said. This suspect is armed with a .32 caliber revolver and has just held up the proprietor of a Greek restaurant at Number 3966 South San Pedro.
A flat click and the announcer went off the air and another one came on and started to read a hot car list, in a slow monotonous voice that repeated everything twice.
The door opened and Randall came in with a sheaf of letter size typewritten sheets. He walked briskly across the room and sat down across the desk from me and pushed some papers at me.
Sign four copies, he said.
I signed four copies.
The pink bug reached a corner of the room and put feelers out for a good spot to take off from. It seemed a little discouraged. It went along the baseboard towards another corner. I lit a cigarette and the dick at the hushaphone abruptly got up and went out of the office.
Randall leaned back in his chair, looking just the same as ever, just as cool, just as smooth, just as ready to be nasty or nice as the occasion required.
Im telling you a few things, he said, just so you wont go having any more brainstorms. Just so you wont go master-minding all over the landscape any more. Just so maybe for Christs sake you will let this one lay.
I waited.
No prints in the dump, he said. You know which dump I mean. The cord was jerked to turn the radio off, but she turned it up herself probably. Thats pretty obvious. Drunks like loud radios. If you have gloves on to do a killing and you turn up the radio to drown shots or something, you can turn it off the same way. But that wasnt the way it was done. And that womans neck is broken. She was dead before the guy started to smack her head around. Now why did he start to smack her head around?
Im just listening.
Randall frowned. He probably didnt know hed broken her neck. He was sore at her, he said. Deduction. He smiled sourly.
I blew some smoke and waved it away from my face.
Well, why was he sore at her? There was a grand reward paid the time he was picked up at Florians for the bank job in Oregon. It was paid to a shyster who is dead since, but the Florians likely got some of it. Malloy may have suspected that. Maybe he actually knew it. And maybe he was just trying to shake it out of her.
I nodded. It sounded worth a nod. Randall went on:
He took hold of her neck just once and his fingers didnt slip. If we get him, we might be able to prove by the spacing of the marks that his hands did it. Maybe not. The doc figures it happened last night, fairly early. Motion picture time, anyway. So far we dont tie Malloy to the house last night, not by any neighbors. But it certainly looks like Malloy.
Yeah, I said. Malloy all right. He probably didnt mean to kill her, though. Hes just too strong.
That wont help him any, Randall said grimly.
I suppose not. I just make the point that Malloy does not appear to me to be a killer type. Kill if cornered but not for pleasure or money and not women.
Is that an important point? he asked dryly.
Maybe you know enough to know whats important. And what isnt. I dont.
He stared at me long enough for a police announcer to have time to put out another bulletin about the holdup of the Greek restaurant on South San Pedro. The suspect was now in custody. It turned out later that he was a fourteen-year-old Mexican armed with a water-pistol. So much for eye-witnesses.
Randall waited until the announcer stopped and went on:
We got friendly this morning. Lets stay that way. Go home and lie down and have a good rest. You look pretty peaked. Just let me and the police department handle the Marriott killing and find Moose Malloy and so on.
I got paid on the Marriott business, I said. I fell down on the job. Mrs. Grayle has hired me. What do you want me to do retire and live on my fat?
He stared at me again. I know. Im human. They give you guys licenses, which must mean they expect you to do something with them besides hang them on the wall in your office. On the other hand any acting-captain with a grouch can break you.
Not with the Grayles behind me.
He studied it. He hated to admit I could be even half right. So he frowned and tapped his desk.
Just so we understand each other, he said after a pause. If you crab this case, youll be in a jam. It may be a jam you can wriggle out of this time. I dont know. But little by little you will build up a body of hostility in this department that will make it damn hard for you to do any work.
Every private dick faces that every day of his life unless hes just a divorce man.
You cant work on murders.