“Dead man in an alley up the street,” Johnny told him. “There's a detective there now, and he'd like a little help.”
“You know the detective's name, son?”
“Rogers.”
There was slight movement beneath the raincoat. “No detective named Rogers in this precinct, son.”
“He's from West Fifty-fourth.”
The patrolman grunted. “I hear you saying so. What happened to the guy in the alley?”
“He lost the top of his head.”
The wide mouth pursed doubtfully. “I ought to take a look first. Still, you don't look like the jack-rabbit type. Mind you, if I turn the precinct out on a night like this, and there's nothing in that alley, I'll knock your ears down.”
“Go ahead and make your call,” Johnny said impatiently.
The big shoulders hitched at the raincoat. “You come right along with me, son, and watch me make it. I want my eye on you.”
Johnny half restrained a smile as he followed the patrolman across the street to the restaurant. From the bulge under the raincoat he knew that the service revolver had been unholstered; the officer was carrying it in his left hand, and this created a problem for him when faced with the wall pay phone.
“Like me to dial for you?” Johnny offered. “Or I'll hold the gun.”
The blue eyes inspected him critically for a moment, and then with a rustling of rubber the bulge disappeared. “Now I've got you in the light, son, you don't look quite like I made you on the street. Better get that nose straightened, though, before you apply to teach at Sunday school.” He turned back to the wall phone, and dialed. “Glidden, Sergeant. Man reported…”
The patrolman's voice droned on while Johnny listened with just a fraction of his attention. Russo's death had collapsed completely the major props of the framework within which he had been working. Somewhere, now, there was a man who had committed four murders, and he hadn't the slightest notion who it was.
He wondered if the police were any closer. Would Jimmy Rogers have been tailing Russo if he expected any such blow-off as this tonight? It figured that Rogers had been just as wrong as he was.
Officer Glidden nodded to Johnny as he backed away from the telephone, and they walked back out into the rain. Johnny gingerly moved his shoulders beneath the raincoat, which had now become a blotter and passed on its absorption to the sodden uniform beneath. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so uncomfortably wet.
Detective Rogers moved out from a dry corner of a warehouse platform as Officer Glidden's flashlight announced them from the alley. After a brief, low-voiced colloquy with the detective the big policeman laboriously removed a notebook from his raingear, folded it back painstakingly, heaved a mighty sigh and began writing. Johnny surmised that from Glidden's perfunctory questioning of him that Detective Rogers must have mentioned Johnny's actually being in his presence when the shots were heard. He didn't fool himself that the precinct detectives would be as easily satisfied; it looked like the beginning of a long night. When Glidden snapped his notebook shut with a grunt of relief Johnny spoke up with no real hope. “That wind me up, Chief? I could use some dry clothes.”
“That's not for me to say, son.” The patrolman looked around for Jimmy Rogers, then out at the mouth of the alley as headlights beamed through the narrow passageway into the semicircular dead end. The high beam of the car lights brilliantly illuminated the sprawled figure lying in the mud at the base of the loading area, and in the glare the rain beat down steadily. Other cars stacked up behind the first one and disgorged dark figures who moved purposefully; it was the type of night when a minimum of facts speedily arrived at was the goal of all concerned.
Johnny watched Patrolman Glidden jump heavily from the platform to the alley bed and advanced to meet the second contingent. His own position on the platform was not within the perimeter of the headlights, and he looked down for a moment at the activity in the arena of light below him. Take off, Killain, he told himself suddenly. Nobody's paying any attention to you. So they'll yank you in when they miss you later; they'll have to come and get you to do it, and at least you'll be dry.
He eased over to the darkest corner of the platform and jumped lightly to the mud below. He edged around the outer rim of the platforms and squeezed his way past the first of the parked cars. He had to brush past several latecomers on their way in from the street and he received several sharp glances, but no one offered to stop him. He walked swiftly away from the flashing red lights at the alley entrance and picked up a cab at the stand at the Second Avenue intersection. He settled into the back seat and listened to the soggy squish; he oozed water from every stitch.
As the cab swung west he realized suddenly they were within a block or two of Vic's apartment, and he leaned forward. “Cut over south a block, Mac.”
The cabbie turned left and looked over his shoulder when they came to the first corner. “Straight ahead?”
“One more block, anyway.” He looked for a familiar landmark as the cab rolled through the quiet streets. “Yeah. Turn right here.” When the cab straightened out from the turn they were passing the apartment, and Johnny looked up at the second floor and saw the light on in the front room. He slapped the leather-covered back of the front seat sharply to attract the driver's attention. “Pull in here a minute.”
“Listen, bud,” the cabbie said disgustedly as the cab slowed and turned into the curb. “This is no night to be cruisin' on instruments. Make up your-”
“Shut up, will you?” Johnny thought it over. After three now, and Lorraine was still up? Or she could have fallen asleep with the light on. It was hardly the hour for a social call-or was it? He opened the cab door and got out on the sidewalk. “What's the tab, Mac?”
“Thirty-five,” the cabby said morosely and then brightened. “Say, thanks, Jack.”
He walked past the familiar iron fence with its blunted pikes; he thought back fleetingly to that merry-go-round he had stumbled into coming out of this apartment. One more thing that had never been explained satisfactorily. With the aid of his cigarette lighter he found the right buzzer, and Lorraine's voice came so quickly he knew she could not have been asleep.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Johnny.”
A faint murmur of sound. Surprise? “Come up.”
He climbed the stairs; she was in the apartment door in pajamas and dressing gown, both of a lightish blue color that did nothing for the dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired, and her hair was disheveled and damp-looking. She closed the door behind him and patted at her hair defensively when she caught him looking at it. “It's a mess, I know; I'm just out of the shower, and I need to set it.” She looked at his wet clothing. “What have you been up to on a night like this?”
He didn't answer her. He took another hard look at her hair and deliberately pushed his way past her into the bathroom. The light was on, but the tub was dry. So was the shower stall; so were the neatly folded towels. He opened the hamper; no wet towels. He turned to find her in the doorway, and he could see the storm clouds in her face as he accused her. “You've been out in the rain, that's why your hair's wet. You just got in ahead of me.”
The voice was mocking, but there was an edge to it. “You've heard of a shampoo, no doubt?”
“First it was a shower.” So it was important to her to deny that she had been out tonight? He brushed her out of the doorway as she stood in his way, and bright anger flared in her face; back in the front hall he opened the closet door and ran a probing hand down the line of hanging clothing. It was not hard to find; his questing fingers picked up the wet folds of a raincoat, and he took it down from the rod, hanger and all, and flourished it at her. “You shampoo this, too?”