Then he bent over and picked up the piece, looked at it, tossed it out of the window.
«It’s a swell night. A bit warm for so late in the year,» he said.
Dalmas said slowly: «How well do you know Derek Walden, Denny?»
Denny looked out of the window. There was a sort of haze in the sky and the reflection of a red neon sign behind a nearby building looked like a fire.
He said: «I don’t what you call know him. I’ve seen him around. I know he’s one of the big money guys on the lot.»
«Then you won’t fall over if I tell you he’s dead,» Dalmas said evenly.
Denny turned around slowly. The cigar, still unlighted, moved up and down in his wide mouth. He looked mildly interested.
Dalmas went on: «It’s a funny one. A blackmail gang has been working on him, Denny. Looks like it got his goat. He’s dead — with a hole in his head and a gun in his hand. It happened this afternoon.»
Denny opened his small eyes a little wider. Dalmas sipped his drink and rested the glass on his thigh.
«His girl friend found him. She had a key to the apartment in the Kilmarnock. The Jap boy was away and that’s all the help he kept. The gal didn’t tell anyone. She beat it and called me up. I went over … I didn’t tell anybody either.»
The big man said very slowly: «For Pete’s sake! The cops’ll stick it into you and break it off, brother. You can’t get away with that stuff.»
Dalmas stared at him, then turned his head away and stared at a picture on the wall. He said coldly: «I’m doing it — and you’re helping me. We’ve got a job, and a damn powerful organization behind us. There’s a lot of sugar at stake.»
«How do you figure?» Denny asked grimly. He didn’t look pleased.
«The girl friend doesn’t think Walden suicided, Denny. I don’t either, and I’ve got a sort of lead. But it has to be worked fast, because it’s as good a lead for the law as us. I didn’t expect to be able to check it right away, but I got a break.»
Denny said: «Uh-huh. Don’t make it too clever. I’m a slow thinker.»
He struck a match and lit his cigar. His hand shook just a little.
Dalmas said: «It’s not clever. It’s kind of dumb. The gun that killed Walden is a filed gun. But I broke it and the inside number wasn’t filed. And Headquarters has the number, in the special permits.»
«And you just went in and asked for it and they gave it to you,» Denny said grimly. «And when they pick Walden up and trace the gun themselves, they’ll just think it was swell of you to beat them to it.» He made a harsh noise in his throat.
Dalmas said: «Take it easy, boy. The guy that did the checking rates. I don’t have to worry about that.»
«Like hell you don’t! And what would a guy like Walden be doin’ with a filed gun? That’s a felony rap.»
Dalmas finished his drink and carried his empty glass over to the bureau. He held the whiskey bottle out. Denny shook his head. He looked very disgusted.
«If he had the gun, he might not have known about that, Denny. And it could be that it wasn’t his gun at all. If it was a killer’s gun, then the killer was an amateur. A professional wouldn’t have that kind of artillery.»
The big man said slowly: «Okey, what you get on the rod?»
Dalmas sat down on the bed again. He dug a package of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, and leaned forward to toss the match through the open window. He said: «The permit was issued about a year ago to a newshawk on the Press-Chronicle, name of Dart Burwand. This Burwand was bumped off last April on the ramp of the Arcade Depot. He was all set to leave town, but he didn’t make it. They never cracked the case, but the hunch is that this Burwand was tied to some racket — like the Lingle killing in Chi — and that he tried to shake one of the big boys. The big boy backfired on the idea. Exit Burwand.»
The big man was breathing deeply. He had let his cigar go out. Dalmas watched him gravely while he talked.
«I got that from Westfalls, on the Press-Chronicle,» Dalmas said. «He’s a friend of mine. There’s more of it. This gun was given back to Burwand’s wife — probably. She still lives here — out on North Kenmore. She might tell me what she did with the gun … and she might be tied to some racket herself, Denny. In that case she wouldn’t tell me, but after I talk to her she might make some contacts we ought to know about. Get the idea?»
Denny struck another match and held it on the end of his cigar. His voice said thickly: «What do I do — tail the broad after you put the idea to her, about the gun?»
«Right.»
The big man stood up, pretended to yawn. «Can do,» he grunted. «But why all the hush-hush about Walden? Why not let the cops work it out? We’re just goin’ to get ourselves a lot of bad marks at Headquarters.»
Dalmas said slowly: «It’s got to be risked. We don’t know what the blackmail crowd had on Walden, and the studio stands to lose too much money if it comes out in the investigation and gets a front-page spread all over the country.»
Denny said: «You talk like Walden was spelled Valentino. Hell, the guy’s only a director. All they got to do is take his name off a couple of unreleased pictures.»
«They figure different,» Dalmas said. «But maybe that’s because they haven’t talked to you.»
Denny said roughly: «Okey. But me, I’d let the girl friend take the damn rap! All the law ever wants is a fall guy.»
He went around the bed to get his hat, crammed it on his head.
«Swell,» he said sourly. «We gotta find out all about it before the cops even know Walden is dead.» He gestured with one hand and laughed mirthlessly. «Like they do in the movies.»
Dalmas put the whiskey bottle away in the bureau drawer and put his hat on. He opened the door and stood aside for Denny to go out. He switched off the lights.
It was ten minutes to nine.
SIX
The tall blonde looked at Dalmas out of greenish eyes with very small pupils. He went in past her quickly, without seeming to move quickly. He pushed the door shut with his elbow.
He said: «I’m a dick — private — Mrs. Burwand. Trying to dig up a little dope you might know about.»
The blonde said: «The name is Dalton, Helen Dalton. Forget the Burwand stuff.»
Dalmas smiled and said: «I’m sorry. I should have known.» The blonde shrugged her shoulders and drifted away from the door. She sat down on the edge of a chair that had a cigarette burn on the arm. The room was a furnished-apartment living room with a lot of department store bric-à-brac spread around. Two floor lamps burned. There were flounced pillows on the floor, a French doll sprawled against the base of one lamp, and a row of gaudy novels went across the mantel, above the gas fire.
Dalmas said politely, swinging his hat: «It’s about a gun Dart Burwand used to own. It’s showed up on a case I’m working. I’m trying to trace it — from the time you had it.»
Helen Dalton scratched the upper part of her arm. She had half-inch-long fingernails. She said curtly: «I don’t have an idea what you’re talking about.»
Dalmas stared at her and leaned against the wall. His voice got on edge.
«Maybe you remember that you used to be married to Dart Burwand and that he got bumped off last April … Or is that too far back?»
The blonde bit one of her knuckles and said: «Smart guy, huh?»
«Not unless I have to be. But don’t fall asleep from that last shot in the arm.»
Helen Dalton sat up very straight, suddenly. All the vagueness went out of her expression. She spoke between tight lips.
«What’s the howl about the gun?»
«It killed a guy, that’s all,» Dalmas said carelessly.
She stared at him. After a moment she said: «I was broke. I hocked it. I never got it out. I had a husband that made sixty bucks a week but didn’t spend any of it on me. I never had a dime.»