A half-hour before he had set out from headquarters with his only hope of solution the finding of the two gunmen. And he had found them; or they had found him. And now he was worse off than before.
It was not him alone now. Walcott would have to pay the penalty along with him. And then Rita Jordan. Nason felt that the girl, too, was marked for death.
He cocked one eyebrow at Leo, who stood over by the windows, watching the street below with occasional quick side glances. “So you framed Donigan, hunh?”
Leo grinned and remained silent. Nason shrugged and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “What I can't figure is how you knew Steig was still alive.” He was shooting in the dark now, but he tried to make his voice idly curious.
“You must've hung around that alley and followed the ambulance to the hospital; or maybe called up—”
Nason stiffened there on the chair as his mind trapped the idea. That question that had lain dormant for so long at the back of his head. He did not have the answer yet. But he felt sure he knew what it would be. And if he was right—
“Sure,” said Leo, “what about it?” Nason stood up and stretched nonchalantly. The thoughts which had vortexed in his brain for so long began to fall into an orderly sequence. Much of his idea was still hunch, still a matter of conjecture. Only—unless he had a chance to follow through, Donigan would be branded a crook forever.
LEO glanced at his strap watch uneasily, shifted his automatic slightly. Nason took a step forward, towards the center of the room and put his fists on his hips.
Leo's brows lifted. “You wouldn't want to start something, would you?”
“Me?” Nason jabbed a thumb at his chest and looked surprised. “Don't be foolish.”
“Then go back and sit down.” Nason grinned with that tight, weird smile at his lips and remained motionless. Leo's pimply face flushed and he moved forward with a threatening set to his shoulders. He started to step over Walcott's body, seemed to think better of it. He detoured and walked around in front of the photographer.
Then it happened. Leo had nearly passed out of Walcott's reach when that hand shot up. It was the first movement Walcott had made since he fell, and he was lying on his face, his eyes apparently closed, so that the element of surprise was all in his favor. He could not hold Leo, but this hand caught one ankle long enough to trip him off balance.
Leo cursed shrilly and went to one knee. Before he could swing the automatic around, Nason hit him; hit him with a lunging dive that brought his shoulder into the gunman's neck.
They went down together, arms and legs thrashing. The automatic flew from Leo's grasp, smacked against the wall and bounced back towards him. Nason, rolling clear, concentrated on that gun. His forward momentum, as he bowled Leo over, carried him on a few feet, and he snatched up the automatic as he twisted to his knees.
Walcott was struggling to his feet. Leo, swinging a wild right as Nason turned to face him, made one more last, desperate lunge. Then the detective whipped the gun down on the unprotected head.
Leo, on one knee, started to sag and his breath whistled through his teeth. Nason cocked his arms once more. The gun came down in a short, vicious arc. There was a quick, crunching sound. Leo went over on his back, his arm outflung. One leg drew up, straightened. The other twitched once. He did not move again. He did not look as if he would ever move.
Nason watched the gunman for a moment, then turned to Walcott. The photographer had a handkerchief in his hand now, was dabbing at the bloody spot on his head. He said: “You hit that guy like you was mad,” thickly.
Nason grunted. “Nice work. How long you been around?”
“When Hymie took the girl out, I guess. I didn't figure we had much chance against that gun unless—”
“You newspaper guys,” Nason said grimly, “don't do so bad.”
He slipped the automatic in his coat pocket, crossed quickly to the telephone, snapped up the receiver and dialed the operator.
“City Hospital. Sure. I know they got a number. Get it. Police business.”
After a moment he got his number. Then it took him some minutes before he could reach the party he wanted. When he did, he spoke crisply, a bit profanely for a few seconds, hung up.
He picked up his hat and started for the door, and Walcott said: “What're you gonna do with this guy?”
“Leave him,” lipped Nason. “He won't be goin' places alone. We'll send for him.”
THE taxi driver was asleep when they got downstairs. He started to protest Nason's rude method of wakening him, but something in the detective's manner stopped him.
Nason gave an address off Commonwealth Avenue and as soon as the cab started, Walcott said:
“What's out there?” His voice got eager,
excited. “I can tell you've got something by the look on your pan. Is that where Hymie and the girl went?” Then, without waiting for an answer: “How do you know?”
“I don't”
“You're a hell of a dick.”
“You heard me call the hospital.”
“What about it?”
“How did those two torpedoes know where Steig was?”
“They coulda followed the ambulance. I heard you say that yourself, when I was playin' 'possum.”
“Yeah. And boy was I dumb to think that.” Nason's voice got sarcastic, mocking. “They could've followed the ambulance. Then they could've gone to the Greek's, decided to go back and rub him out, got the idea of getting your camera to front for 'em.”
“Sure,” grunted Walcott. “Why not?”
“Then how did they know which room to go to? How'd they know just what room Steig had?”
“Hell, they could've asked.”
“Yeh,” rapped Nason. “They could've asked. Only they didn't!“
“They didn't?” echoed Walcott hollowly. “Then—”
“I got the reception room girl on the telephone. She remembers those guys coming in. But they breezed right past her. She's sure of it.”
“Hell!” wheezed Walcott, jerking erect on the seat. “Then somebody tipped 'em off.”
“Sure.” Nason cursed softly. “Carrigan, Alpert, Fitzpatrick and me in the room with Steig.”
“It coulda been somebody in the hospital.”
“It could, but it wasn't. I had the girl check with the operator. Nobody called in about Steig until after the shooting.”
“Alpert!” Walcott said hoarsely. Nason said: “He must've called those two hoods at the Greek's just after he left the hospital. You happened to be there when the call came. And somebody—Leo, probably—flashed the idea of using your camera and card.”
The taxi slowed down and Nason rapped on the glass partition and said: “Pull on up to the corner.”
THE two men walked back to the marquee of a modern brick apartment house in the middle of the block. There was no name on the wide, chromium-trimmed doors, but in the rubber mat which crossed the sidewalk were white letters which spelled: The Ellington.
At that hour there was no doorman, and Nason crossed the spacious entryway to the sunken lobby. A sleepy-eyed clerk blinked at them from his desk on the left wall, but Nason paid him no attention, continuing on to the elevators with Walcott, still lugging his camera and plate case, at his heels.
The elevator boy furnished the information that Alpert had apartment 4-F, and they went up. It was the last apartment on the left side of a thickly- carpeted hall, and as Nason stopped in front of the pastel-gray door, he sobered slightly as he analyzed his hunch.
In his own mind he was certain that Alpert had been connected with Steig's death. But even so, there was no proof; and the only chance was to bluff his way through—or find Alpert and Hymie and Rita Jordan. He turned to Walcott, spoke in quick, low tones.
“If Alpert is here alone, it may be a bust. I may have to get rough, and it'll be a mess if I don't produce.”