John Sutro was rocking slowly in a red leather rocker, staring down at the floor. He did not look up when Dalmas came into the room.
The fourth man sat behind a desk that looked as if it had cost a lot of money. He had soft brown hair parted in the middle and brushed back and down; thin lips and reddish-brown eyes that had hot lights in them. He watched Dalmas while he sat down and looked around. Then he spoke, glancing at Ricchio.
«The punk got a little out of hand. We’ve been telling him about it. I guess you’re not sorry.»
Dalmas laughed shortly, without mirth. «All right as far as it goes, Donner. How about the other one? I don’t see any marks on him.»
«Noddy’s all right. He worked under orders,» Donner said evenly. He picked up a long-handled file and began to file one of his nails. «You and I have things to talk about. That’s why you got in here. You look all right to me — if you don’t try to cover too much ground with your private-dick racket.»
Dalmas’ eyes widened a little. He said: «I’m listening, Donner.»
Sutro lifted his eyes and stared at the back of Donner’s head. Donner went on talking in a smooth indifferent voice.
«I know all about the play at Derek Walden’s place and I know about the shooting on Kenmore. If I’d thought Ricchio would go that crazy, I’d have stopped him before. As it is, I figure it’s up to me to straighten things out … And when we get through here Mister Ricchio will go downtown and speak his piece.
«Here’s how it happened. Ricchio used to work for Walden when the Hollywood crowd went in for bodyguards. Walden bought his liquor in Ensenada — still does, for all I know — and brought it in himself. Nobody bothered him. Ricchio saw a chance to bring in some white goods under good cover. Walden caught him at it. He didn’t want a scandal, so he just showed Ricchio the gate. Ricchio took advantage of that by trying to shake Walden down, on the theory that he wasn’t clean enough to stand the working-over the Feds would give him. Walden didn’t shake fast enough to suit Ricchio, so he went hog-wild and decided on a strong-arm play. You and your driver messed it up and Ricchio went gunning for you.»
Donner put down his file and smiled. Dalmas shrugged and glanced at the Filipino, who was standing by the wall, at the end of the divan.
Dalmas said: «I don’t have your organization, Donner, but I get around. I think that’s a smooth story and it would have got by — with a little co-operation downtown. But it won’t fit the facts as they are now.»
Donner raised his eyebrows. Sutro began to swing the tip of his polished shoe up and down in front of his knee.
Dalmas said: «How does Mister Sutro fit into all this?»
Sutro stared at him and stopped rocking. He made a swift, impatient movement. Donner smiled «He’s a friend of Walden’s. Walden talked to him a little and Sutro knows Ricchio worked for me. But being a councilman he didn’t want to tell Walden everything he knew.»
Dalmas said grimly: «I’ll tell you what’s wrong with your story, Donner. There’s not enough fear in it. Walden was too scared to help me even when I was working for him … And this afternoon somebody was so scared of him that he got shot.»
Donner leaned forward and his eyes got small and tight. His hands balled into fists on the desk before him.
«Walden is — dead?» he almost whispered.
Dalmas nodded. «Shot in the right temple … with a thirty-two. It looks like suicide. It isn’t.»
Sutro put his hand up quickly and covered his face. The sandy-haired man got rigid on his stool in the corner.
Dalmas said: «Want to hear a good honest guess, Donner? … We’ll call it a guess … Walden was in the dope-smuggling racket himself — and not all by his lonesome. But after Repeal he wanted to quit. The coast guards wouldn’t have to spend so much time watching liquor ships, and dope-smuggling up the coast wasn’t going to be gravy any more. And Walden got sweet on a gal that had good eyes and could add up to ten. So he wanted to walk out on the dope racket.»
Donner moistened his lips and said: «What dope racket?»
Dalmas eyed him. «You wouldn’t know about anything like that, would you, Donner? Hell, no, that’s something for the bad boys to play with. And the bad boys didn’t like the idea of Walden quitting that way. He was drinking too much — and he might start to broadcast to his girl friend. They wanted him to quit the way he did — on the receiving end of a gun.»
Donner turned his head slowly and stared at the bound man on the high-backed chair. He said very softly: «Ricchio.»
Then he got up and walked around his desk. Sutro took his hand down from his face and watched with his lips shaking.
Donner stood in front of Ricchio. He put his hand out against Ricchio’s head and jarred it back against the chair. Ricchio moaned. Donner smiled down at him.
«I must be slowing up. You killed Walden, you bastard! You went back and croaked him. You forgot to tell us about that part, baby.»
Ricchio opened his mouth and spit a stream of blood against Donner’s hand and wrist. Donner’s face twitched and he stepped back and away, holding the hand straight out in front of him. He took out a handkerchief and wiped it off carefully, dropped the handkerchief on the floor.
«Lend me your gun, Noddy,» he said quietly, going towards the sandy-haired man.
Sutro jerked and his mouth fell open. His eyes looked sick. The tall Filipino flicked his empty automatic into his hand as if he had forgotten it was empty. Noddy took a blunt revolver from under his right arm, held it out to Donner.
Donner took it from him and went back to Ricchio. He raised the gun.
Dalmas said: «Ricchio didn’t kill Walden.»
The Filipino took a quick step forward and slashed at him with his big automatic. The gun hit Dalmas on the point of the shoulder, and a wave of pain billowed down his arm. He rolled away and snapped his Colt into his hand. The Filipino swung at him again, missed.
Dalmas slid to his feet, side-stepped and laid the barrel of the Colt along the side of the Filipino’s head, with all his strength. The Filipino grunted, sat down on the floor, and the whites showed all around his eyes. He fell over slowly, clawing at the divan.
There was no expression on Donner’s face and he held his blunt revolver perfectly still. His long upper lip was beaded with sweat.
Dalmas said: «Ricchio didn’t kill Walden. Walden was killed with a filed gun and the gun was planted in his hand. Ricchio wouldn’t go within a block of a filed gun.»
Sutro’s face was ghastly. The sandy-haired man had got down off his stool and stood with his right hand swinging at his side.
«Tell me more,» Donner said evenly.
«The filed gun traces to a broad named Helen Dalton or Burwand,» Dalmas said. «It was her gun. She told me that she hocked it long ago. I didn’t believe her. She’s a good friend of Sutro’s and Sutro was so bothered by my going to see her that he pulled a gat on me himself. Why do you suppose Sutro was bothered, Donner, and how do you suppose he knew I was likely to go see the broad?»
Donner said: «Go ahead and tell me.» He looked at Sutro very quietly.
Dalmas took a step closer to Donner and held his Colt down at his side, not threateningly.
«I’ll tell you how and why. I’ve been tailed ever since I started to work for Walden — tailed by a clumsy ox of a studio dick I could spot a mile off. He was bought, Donner. The guy that killed Walden bought him. He figured the studio dick had a chance to get next to me, and I let him do just that — to give him rope and spot his game. His boss was Sutro. Sutro killed Walden — with his own hand. It was that kind of a job. An amateur job — a smart-aleck kill. The thing that made it smart was the thing that gave it away — the suicide plant, with a filed gun that the killer thought couldn’t be traced because he didn’t know most guns have numbers inside.»