‘Don’t leave me!’ she screamed out, struggling frantically. ‘Come back!’
‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘I’ll try not to be too long.’
I went out and shut the bedroom door.
As I hurried down the passage and into the hall, I heard her scream out after me: ‘Ches! Don’t leave me! Please, don’t leave me!’
Ignoring her cries, I locked the bungalow and then ran down the path where I had left the Buick.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I
WHEN I reached town, I bought a couple of Sunday newspapers and took a quick look at the headlines as I walked back to the Buick. I expected to find the murders of Dolores and Ed Nutley plastered over the front page, but there was, as far as I could see, no mention of them.
I got into the car, and as I was in a no-parking zone, I drove fast to Slim’s bar where I could examine the papers and have a sandwich and a beer before deciding on a plan of campaign.
The bar was nearly empty, but sitting in one of the booths with a man I didn’t know was Joe Fellowes. Both were drinking beer and eating hamburgers. Joe spotted me before I could duck out of sight.
‘Hey, Ches! Come on over.’
There was nothing I could do but to wave to him and say I’d be with him. I ordered a sandwich and a beer from Slim, then carried the drink and food over to Joe’s booth.
‘I thought you were playing golf,’ Joe said. ‘Sit down. Meet Jim Buckley. He’s the star man on the Inquirer.’
‘Only the Inquirer doesn’t know it,’ Buckley said and grinned. He was short, fat and middleaged with a pair of probing ice-blue eyes.
He stared pointedly at the scratches on my neck.
‘Boy!’ he said in wonder. ‘She certainly sold her honour at a high price.’
Joe too was staring.
‘Don’t get ideas.’ I said. ‘One of those things. There was a guy bothering a girl, and like a dope, I interfered. It turned out she liked him bothering her and didn’t like me interfering. It’s a wonder I got away with my life.’
They both laughed, but Joe looked wonderingly at me, his eyes puzzled.
‘What are you doing here on a Sunday?’ I asked him, to change the subject.
‘I had arranged to spend the day on the beach with this louse,’ Joe said, jerking his thumb at Buckley, ‘and now he tells me he has to work! So we eat together and I go on the beach alone unless you have nothing to do and will keep me company.’
‘I’d like to, Joe, I said, ‘but I’m tied up.’
‘So long as she’s tied up too, that’ll make a pair of you,’ Buckley said and bellowed with laughter.
I thought of Lucille lying on my bed. He was unconsciously getting a little too close to the truth.
‘Is that the Inquirer you’ve got there?’ he went on, looking at the paper I’d laid on the seat.
‘Yes. You want it?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to see what they did with the stuff I filed last night.’ He reached out, took the paper, shook it open and glanced at the front page. He snorted, opened the paper, turned several pages, then paused. Finally, he refolded the paper and handed it back to me. ‘Three thousand words, written in blood and Scotch, and the black-hearted punk cuts it down to two hundred. Why I work for this rag beats me.’
Joe said: ‘Jim’s covering this hit-and-run case.’
I bit into my sandwich and chewed.
‘Is that right?’ I said. ‘I haven’t had time to read the paper this morning. Anything new?’
Buckley took a long swig from his glass, sat back and lit a cigarette.
‘New? Listen, bud, this is going to be one of the major sensations of the year. This is going to be something that could get the whole of our beautiful Administration tossed out on its fat neck.’
‘Suppose you skip the build-up and let’s have the dope,’ Joe said. ‘If it’s all that hot, why isn’t it hitting the headlines?’
‘Because we’re not ready yet,’ Buckley said. ‘Wait until tomorrow. We reckon to bust this thing wide open tomorrow if we have any luck.’
‘What thing? What are you talking about?’ Joe asked impatiently.
‘I’ll tell you,’ Buckley said. ‘If O’Brien hadn’t been killed no one would have got on to him for maybe years. All that crap Sullivan gave out about what a fine guy O’Brien was sounded all right until we started to investigate him. Then the cloven hoof came to the surface. Know what? O’Brien had a bank balance of a hundred and twenty-five thousand bucks, and he owned a bungalow out on Palm Crescent that is about as fancy as any movie star could wish to own. When a cop lives like that, there’s only one explanation—graft. There were two people who might have known what his racket was. The woman he planned to marry: a nightclub singer, and her agent, a guy named Nutley. Know what happened to them last night?’
Joe was staring at him with round eyes.
‘What happened to them?’
‘They were both knocked off. Nutley was found in the Washington Hotel, shot through the heart and the night clerk bashed over the head. The killer walked in, persuaded the night clerk to tell him in which room Nutley was, then killed him. He then walked upstairs and shot Nutley to death. He killed the girl as she was leaving her apartment.’
‘It’s not even in the paper,’ Joe said indignantly.
‘Yes, it is. It rates ten lines; but boy! it’s going to hit the front page tomorrow. We’re working on it now. We’re trying to get a line on O’Brien’s racket. The police commissioner thinks he was hooked up with some gang. Sullivan thinks he was a blackmailer.’
‘How about the guy who ran over him?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t they found him yet?’
Buckley shrugged his shoulders.
‘They have twenty-three damaged cars at police headquarters and they’re checking every driver’s alibi. They reckon they’ll find the killer among these twenty-three drivers, and I guess if they do find him, they should give him a medal. If O’Brien hadn’t been killed, this would never have come out.’
‘This girl who was killed last night: didn’t she sing at the Little Tavern?’ I asked as casually as I could.
‘That’s the one: a nice-looking wren who couldn’t sing for dimes.’
I asked an inspired question.
‘Who’s behind the Little Tavern?’
Buckley lifted his shoulders.
‘That’s something I’ve tried to find out when I have had nothing better to do. It’s registered in the name of Art Galgano, but no one seems to know who he is. I don’t reckon he lives in town. The joint is run by Jack Claude, who is no better than he could be. What makes you ask?’
‘I heard last night there’s a roulette table upstairs and the stakes are high.’
Buckley stared at me, then shook his head.
‘That’s just talk. Gambling is out in this town. A number of smart operators have tried it, but the commissioner has slammed them shut before they have had a chance to wear the shine off the ball. The Little Tavern has been going now for three years. We’d have heard about it if they had a table there.’
‘Would you? Sure? I was in there last night, and a guy told me there was a table upstairs.’
Buckley stroked his thick nose. His eyes showed his interest.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said, staring fixedly at me. ‘O’Brien covered that sector. He could have kept them in the clear. Say, this could be something! Maybe that’s where he got his money from! You go there often?’
‘I don’t go there often,’ I said. ‘I go there sometimes.’
‘You couldn’t find out for sure if there is a table upstairs, could you?’ Buckley asked, squirming forward on his seat.