Having accomplished so much, Terry had but to reach Cynthia in advance of Malloy and see that she understood the situation. And he found himself baulked by the absurdly simple fact that he could find no effective means of transportation.
The hour was late. The neighborhood was one in which cruising cabs seldom ventured. It was, moreover, foggy and the steep, hilly pavements were wet and slippery. Even walking must be attempted with circumspection. Stores were closed. Nor could Terry pound on the door of a private residence or apartment house and ask to use the telephone. This section of the city was tenanted for the most part by a poorer class of Latin peoples who lived in terror of nocturnal visitors. So Terry, thinking every time he had negotiated one wet, slippery block that he would find a cab at the next block, or, at least, some place from which he could put in a telephone call, continued to hurry through the fog. Twice he tried to signal passing automobiles, thinking that by explaining his predicament to a motorist he might secure a lift to a better lighted, more prosperous district where he could find a cruising cab. In both instances the cars he signaled veered off, and whipping beads of muddy moisture thrown from the whirling tyres spattered Terry’s clothes and face in a coldly discouraging shower.
There was a night club half a dozen blocks away. Terry had visited it two weeks earlier. He knew he would find a cab there, and, as a last resort, set himself the task of negotiating those six blocks — and the night club was closed. A raid had left the building dark and tenantless. Finally, Terry found a little beer parlor. He was able to telephone, and a few minutes later, a cab came hissing through the darkness in response to his call. But Terry’s wrist-watch showed him that more time had been lost than he cared to contemplate.
He gave the driver the number of an apartment house a block from the place where he maintained his residence. If Malloy had closed in on the place, Terry didn’t want to come driving up in a cab and plump himself into Malloy’s hands.
Terry paid off his cab, walked rapidly towards his apartment house. No suspicious-looking cars were parked in front of the place. A casual glance through the windows of the lobby showed no one whom Terry could not account for. Reassured, he opened the lobby door and entered the lighted interior. The elevator was descending. As Terry moved towards it, it slid to a stop and the door opened. An athletic young man with heavy shoulders, a waist which was just a trifle too thick, a pugnacious jaw and hands which were clenched into fists, stood belligerently in the doorway of the elevator.
Terry inspected the blue serge, pin-stripe suit, the golf-club tie pin, the hostile grey eyes, and said casually, “Mr. Nash, I believe.”
Stubby Nash launched into invectives. “A hell of a friend you turned out to be!” he blazed.
“Of yours?” Terry asked.
“Of everyone.”
“I don’t think,” Terry told him, “I’ve ever made any particular claim to your friendship in the past, I certainly don’t care to do so now.”
“You’re a hell of a friend for Cynthia, then, if you want it that way.”
“And you, I take it, are censoring Cynthia’s friendships? Doubtless that will give her great pleasure.”
Nash pushed forward. Terry gave no ground, but swung slightly to one side. Nash said in a low voice, “Never mind what Cynthia wants. I know a rotter when I see one. You’ve dragged her into a hell of a mess, and now you’re keeping her in your apartment.”
Terry, looking over Stubby Nash’s shoulder, saw a police car slide to a stop at the curb. The door opened and Inspector Malloy bounded to the curb. Behind him other men spewed forth, and separated. Malloy barged into the lobby of the apartment house and grinned broadly as he took in the situation.
Stubby Nash said, “If you won’t understand words, you may understand this!...” and swung his fist.
Terry stepped smoothly back, shot up a deft hand, plucked Stubby’s blow out of the air, diverted it into glancing futility, and heard Inspector Malloy say:
“Now, now! That’s no way to do, boys! I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you. That’d be too bad! Come on, boys, into that elevator. I want to talk with you.”
His broad shoulders pushed them back into the cage. Two plain-clothes officers, following Malloy into the lobby, came crowding in after the inspector.
“Who the hell are you,” Stubby Nash demanded.
Inspector Malloy flipped back the lapel of his coat, gave Nash a glimpse of a gold shield, indicated the two plain-clothes men and said, “A couple of assistants.”
Nash was breathing rapidly from rage, and his exertion. “I’m Nash,” he said, “and I...”
“Yes, yes,” Malloy interrupted, “I know all about you, Nash. You’re a friend of Miss Cynthia’s. You retained a lawyer for her. Glad to see such devotion. The first thing I said when I heard about you and what you’d done was that it was too bad you’d had to do it. If you’d only have come directly to me in the first place we could have fixed things all up. It’s too bad you didn’t... But right now, my business is with Mr. Clane. I’m going to search your apartment, Clane.”
Terry said grimly, “Not without a warrant.”
Malloy beamed. “Do you know, Clane, what I told the boys at headquarters when I telephoned for them to meet me here? Well, I told them I fancied your nerves would be getting worn a bit thin, and that it was just too bad we had to intrude on you again to-night. You’ve had rather a long day, rather a strenuous day. It began when you were summoned to the D.A.’s office early this morning, and it’s been keeping up ever since. I told the boys I wouldn’t blame you a bit for refusing to let us in without a warrant, and I told them to get a warrant and meet me here. It’s just too bad, Clane, but it’s something I have to do.”
Clane said wearily, “Yes, I knew it would be too bad. What specifically are you searching for, Inspector?”
“A portrait of Jacob Mandra. It was stolen from the apartment of Janita Mandra some time after seven o’clock this evening. Of course, Clane, that doesn’t mean we suspect you of any crime. It merely means that we want to take a look through your apartment. Just a matter of form, you know. But when you consider that the murder weapon had been taken from your apartment, you must realize that it’s only reasonable to suppose some of the other things that figured in the crime might be hidden there.”
“Did the portrait figure in the murder?” Terry asked.
“I’m afraid it did,” Malloy told him.
“You can’t let them in there now!” Stubby expostulated to Clane.
Inspector Malloy seized on the remark.
“Not now?” he asked Stubby. “And why not now? What’s the reason this particular time is so inopportune?”