“Shapiro,” he said, “isn’t going to kill you without a pretty good reason. He’s not dumb enough to commit murder unless there’s money in it for him.”
“That’s just it,” the girl said. “I know where Bernie’s money is. I’m the only one who does.”
O’Neill found himself getting annoyed.
“Look,” he said, “I agreed to put you on the Chief tomorrow morning and I’ll do it. But I’m not getting mixed up in the rest of this deal. Arhoff’s money has probably all been claimed by the Treasury Department. It’s illegal, hot merchandise and it probably won’t ever do anybody any good. But I don’t give a damn about that. I’m not working for the Treasury Department so it’s none of my business. I’ll put you on the Chief but that’s all I’ll do.” He stood up, set his glass on the coffee table. “Anyway Shapiro won’t kill you if you’re the only one who knows where the money is. If he kills you he’ll never find it.”
She stood up then and she was very close to him. Her eyes looked enormous and frightened. “Please don’t talk about him killing me,” she whispered. She put her hands on his shoulders and came a little closer to him. “I just can’t stand the thought of that.”
“You’ll be all right,” O’Neil said. He wished he hadn’t had the third drink. He wished he hadn’t had any drink. The room was close and warm and he had trouble getting his thoughts on anything but the girl’s nearness.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“You’ll be all right,” O’Neill said again. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some work to do.”
“Please don’t leave me alone,” she said.
“You won’t be,” he said. “I know the house detective here pretty well. He’ll stay in the hall until I get back.”
The girl’s hands moved around to the back of his neck and her slender body pressed close to him. “Why can’t you stay here with me?” she said.
O’Neill pulled her hands away from his shoulders.
“You paid me fifty bucks,” he said. “It’s all I want. I don’t need a bonus.”
She turned away from him, picked up a pack of cigarettes and matches from the coffee table. “Are you angry?” Her voice didn’t tell him anything, but when she struck a match he saw two bright patches of color burning in her cheeks.
He grinned and walked to the phone. “No, I’m not,” he said. “But you are.”
“No woman likes that kind of brush-off,” she said. “What is it? Scruples or discrimination?”
O’Neill called the room clerk and asked him to send up the house detective. The room clerk said, “yes, sir,” in a discreetly alarmed voice and O’Neill hung up. The girl was standing before the fireplace, taking nervous drags on her cigarette.
He said, “the house detective is on his way up. You haven’t anything to worry about. He’ll stay until I get back.”
“Fine,” the girl said. “We can read the book section together. Or is chess your game?”
O’Neill grinned at her. “It wasn’t a question of discrimination. That’s what you want me to say. Does it make you happy?”
The girl smiled then, carelessly.
“I guess it really doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if I sounded bitchy. But women like to think that every man they meet it simply dying to go to bed with them. And when they meet one who doesn’t it hurts pretty hard.”
“I’m probably the one in a million who wouldn’t,” O’Neill said. “Don’t let it worry you.”
“Thanks for that much,” the girl said. “Bernie told me you were tough but maybe you’re nice too.”
There was a knock on the door then, a loud firm knock. It wasn’t the way a bell hop would knock.
“That’s Sam Spencer, the house detective,” O’Neill said. “You can tell by the knock he’s expecting to find Arsene Lupin in here going through your jewel case.”
He walked over and opened the door. A heavy-set, mild faced man stood in the doorway. He blinked in surprise when he saw O’Neill.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing serious,” O’Neill said. “There’s no trouble. But I’d like you to do me a favor. Come in.”
Sam Spencer came in, nodded at the girl, then said to O’Neill, “anything I can do I’ll be glad to.”
“Good,” O’Neill said. He knew he could trust Spencer. The house detective was a retired city patrolman, a solid, dependable man who always tried to take care of his friends. And O’Neill was one of his friends. Spencer was married, had two teen-aged kids and a home in the suburbs, where O’Neill had spent a number of pleasant evenings, drinking beer and admiring Spencer’s collection of foreign pistols. He was as normal as his job would let him be.
“It’s this,” O’Neill said. “Miss Moran here is in a little trouble; somebody’s been bothering her. I’d like you to keep an eye on her until I get back. I’ll just be gone a few hours.”
“Sure thing,” Sam said. “I’ll park right out in the corridor.” He nodded again at the girl and smiled. “You won’t be bothered, Miss, I’ll see to it.”
“I’m very much obliged,” she said.
“Now that’s settled,” O’Neill said. He picked up his hat and coat. “Don’t let anyone into the apartment, Sam, unless he gives you his name and Miss Moran says he’s okay.”
“Sure,” Sam said.
O’Neill turned to the girl. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll be back shortly.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
She bent to put out her cigarette and O’Neill saw the tense lines of worry in her face.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m right.”
Two hours later he was sitting in his office tying up the last of a few loose ends when the phone rang.
It rang shrilly, insistently.
He picked it up, said, “Yes?”
A voice said, “O’Neill? This is Logan.”
“What’s up, Inspector?”
“I want to talk to you. Can you get down to the Metropolitan in a hurry.”
The Metropolitan... the girl’s hotel. O’Neill’s fist tightened on the phone.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Sam Spencer got shot here about a half hour ago.” The Inspector’s voice was urgent. “I heard you talked to him just before it happened. Thought you might know something.”
“I’ll be right down,” O’Neill said. “Do you know who did it?”
“No. We got a girl here, Estelle Moran her name is, saw the whole thing. But the guy made a clean break.”
“I’ll be right down,” O’Neill said, and hung up.
Chapter III
There was a crowd in the hallway outside Estelle Moran’s apartment. O’Neill saw men from the coroner’s office, the city papers and Central station.
Inspector Logan was standing in the open doorway of the apartment talking to two reporters. He left them and walked to meet O’Neill.
“Glad you got here,” he said. “Let’s go inside where we can talk.”
He elbowed his way through the crowd, O’Neill following. They closed the door of Estelle Moran’s apartment and went into the living room. There was no one there but a self conscious looking detective, wearing a limp gray hat and staring thoughtfully at the floor.
“Where’s the girl?” O’Neill said.
“In the bed room,” Logan answered. “There’s a matron in there with her. She’s okay. Just pretty shocked.” He nodded to the detective and said, “wait outside, Jensen.”
The detective said, “Okay,” and went out.
“Now what do you know O’Neill?” Logan said. “I know you do a lot of work for the D.A. that nobody’s supposed to ask any questions about. But I got to know you know about this deal.”
He looked at O’Neill squarely and there was an uncompromising, stubborn set to his jaw.