She smiled at him, but her face showed a serious look as though she appreciated the gravity of the situation.
“Think I’m a fool?” she asked. “I know when I can cut corners, and when I can’t. What’ll I tell the jane over there?” And she jerked her thumb in the general direction of The Gladstone.
“Tell her nothing!” snapped Ken Corning. “She’ll have to wait until we see how things turn out before she gets any information.”
Helen Vail turned with a swish of the evening gown, a glimpse of shapely ankles.
“And that’s an instruction I’ll take liberties with,” she called over her bare shoulder as she flounced the wrap off her arm, spread it. She grinned back at him as she covered her shoulders, and then tripped towards the elevator.
Ken Corning slammed the door shut, locked it, went to the telephone, called police headquarters. “Sergeant Home,” he said, when the operator at headquarters answered.
Five seconds later he heard the deep bass voice of Sergeant Home, calmly reassuring, steady as a rock.
Ken Corning said:
“I’m a criminal. That is, there’s a warrant out for my arrest. It’s a frame-up. I know you to be a square shooter. I want to surrender. But I want to do it on one condition. That is that you come after me alone and in person, that you promise you’ll give me a chance to talk without interruption until I’ve stated my case.”
Sergeant Home said: “I don’t make promises to crooks. Who is this, and what’s the warrant for?”
“This is Ken Corning,” Ken told him. “I’m a lawyer. The warrant’s on a charge of assault and battery for beating up a damned nosey reporter who busted into my private...”
“Yeah,” said the deep bass voice, “I know all about that. It ain’t so serious. If you hadn’t tried to conceal witnesses you might not have had any bail to put up. Why should I come after you personally?”
“Because I’ve got something that’s so hot I don’t dare to let it leak out around headquarters.”
Home said: “Where’ll I find you, Corning?”
Corning said: “I trust you enough to tell you where I am and let you come to me, but I don’t trust the gang up there, and I’m not sure the line’s clear. So you go to the corner of Seventh and Hattman Streets and stand there alone. Have a car parked at the curb with the motor running. I’ll get to you.”
“Right away?” asked Home
“Right away,” said Corning, and hung up.
Ken Corning took a taxicab.
“Go to the comer of Seventh and Hattman, park near the curb and keep your motor running,” he told the driver. “I’ll be down out of sight until I see the coast’s clear.”
The driver said: “Listen, Buddy, I’m married and got a kid, so don’t put me in no hot spots.”
“If that’s the case, you’ll need the extra dollar tip all the more,” said Corning, “and you won’t be in any hot spots.”
The cab lurched into motion. Ken Corning sat back on the seat until the cab was within two blocks of the place, then he dropped down on the floor of the cab. When it had pulled in to the curb he spoke to the driver.
“Okey,” he said. “Tell me if you see a police car parked, with the motor running?”
“Yeah. There’s one just ahead.”
Ken Corning pushed up a cautious head. Sergeant Home was standing on the sidewalk. He was alone. “Okey,” said Ken. “Drive up alongside it. Here’s the meter and a buck extra. When I open the door, you drive away.”
The driver crept the cab forward. Corning got to the running-board of the police car. The cab lurched away. Corning slid over in the seat of the police car and pressed the horn button. Sergeant Home gave a swift start at the sound of the horn, and his eyes snapped to focus on Corning.
He walked over to the car, went around it, opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.
“Hell,” he grunted. “How’d you get in here?”
“Little secret,” Corning told him. “Drive slowly. I’m spilling information. I’ve got to make a sale with you.”
“On that murder case?” asked Home, slipping in the gears with the careful clumsiness which characterizes a big man when he is doing something which requires some deftness of touch.
“On the murder case.”
“Shucks. There ain’t a thing to that. Colton’s a fool. It was a fight over his wife. If he’d spill the truth he could probably make out a case of self-defense. He wouldn’t even have to use anything else.”
Ken Corning said: “Nix on that stuff. Listen here. You know what’s going on in this city as well as I do. There’s a little ring that’s sold out to the underworld, only it ain’t so little. The mayor’s a figurehead in some things. There’s a power back of him that has interests in various places, and those interests are protected. See?”
Home grunted.
“What’s that got to do with murder?”
“Just this. Ladue was on the square. He made some money buying property and selling it to the city, but he made it by legitimate business guessing, and by using his head. Some of the other crowd tried to horn in. They used a dummy, a detective by the name of Perkins.
“Ladue found out about it and made Perkins disgorge. Otherwise he was going to blow the lid off the whole affair. Last night was the last minute he’d given Perkins. There was to be a blow-off if Perkins didn’t disgorge. All right. What did Perkins do? He framed it so Colton would be coming to the office while he was there. He sneaked in the side entrance. He and Ladue had been good friends. They called each other by their first names. Probably Ladue was deeply sympathetic with Perkins, the individual. It was the system that he was fighting.
“So he slipped Perkins in to his private office. Colton came, The girl announced him. Perkins said he’d duck out and come back when Colton had gone, Colton wasn’t the sort Ladue could keep waiting.
“So Perkins stepped out in the corridor. He went to the fuse box and unscrewed the fuse which gave light to Ladue’s office, the private office. Then he opened the corridor door. There was light enough for him to see what he was doing. It came from the little window over Ladue’s desk. He fired twice. He’s a dead shot. He tossed in the gun and went back to the fuse box. It was Colton’s gun.
“In the meantime the office force had rushed into the room. Seeing it dark, they snapped the switch. That turned the lights in the room off. They were on already. Perkins had counted on that. He then screwed in the fuse plug. That left the lights ready to come on when someone punched the switch again.”
Sergeant Home slowed the car almost to a crawl. His forehead was washboarded with thoughtful concentration.
“That’s a wild alibi to make,” he said. “Even a jury wouldn’t believe that, but—”
He paused, and his voice trailed off into silence. The car continued to crawl along at a snail’s pace.
“But,” said Corning, “for some reason or other you think it may be so, eh?”
Sergeant Home spoke after the manner of one who is merely thinking out loud. “The tip on this unwritten law angle came from Perkins,” he said. “He’s the one that gave us all the dates and stuff.”
Ken Corning said, slowly: “You’ve got that?”
“We’ve got Perkins’ word for it,” said Home. “The dead man can’t talk, and we can’t find his wife — Colton’s wife.”
Ken Corning said: “Well, how’d you like to prove the facts as I’ve given them to you? How’d you like to nail this case on Perkins with absolute proof?”
Sergeant Home shook his head. “Don’t be foolish, Corning. It can’t be done.”
Corning countered with a question.
“You’re on the square, Home, but your department’s honeycombed to such an extent that Perkins would know any important development that broke, wouldn’t he?”