“Possibly. Now as I understand it, your husband was shot on Pine Street, between Leavenworth and Jones, at about three o’clock Tuesday morning. That right?”
“Yes.”
“Where was he going?”
“Coming home, I suppose; but I don’t know where he had been. Nobody knows. The police haven’t found out, if they have tried. He told me Monday evening that he had a business engagement. He was a building contractor, you know. He went out at about half-past eleven, saying he would probably be gone four or five hours.”
“Wasn’t that an unusual hour to be keeping a business engagement?”
“Not for Bernard. He often had men come to the house at midnight.”
“Can you make any guess at all where he was going that night?”
She shook her head with emphasis.
“No. I knew nothing at all about his business affairs, and even the men in his office don’t seem to know where he went that night.”
That wasn’t unlikely. Most of the B. F. Gilmore Construction Company’s work had been on city and state contracts, and it isn’t altogether unheard-of for secret conferences to go with that kind of work. Your politician-contractor doesn’t always move in the open.
“How about enemies?” I asked.
“I don’t know anybody that hated him enough to kill him.”
“Where does this Kenbrook woman live, do you know?”
“Yes — in the Garford Apartments on Bush Street.”
“Nothing you’ve forgotten to tell me, is there?” I asked, stressing the me a little.
“No, I’ve told you everything I know — every single thing.”
Walking over to California Street, I shook down my memory for what I had heard here and there of Bernard Gilmore. I could remember a few things — the opposition papers had been in the habit of exposing him every election year — but none of them got me anywhere. I had known him by sight: a boisterous, red-faced man who had hammered his way up from hod-carrier to the ownership of a half-million-dollar business and a pretty place in politics. ‘A roughneck with a manicure,’ somebody had called him; a man with a lot of enemies and more friends; a big, good-natured, hard-hitting rowdy.
Odds and ends of a dozen graft scandals in which he had been mixed up, without anybody ever really getting anything on him, flitted through my head as I rode downtown on the too-small outside seat of a cable car. Then there had been some talk of a bootlegging syndicate of which he was supposed to be the head...
I left the car at Kearny Street and walked over to the Hall of Justice. In the detectives’ assembly-room I found O’Gar, the detective-sergeant in charge of the Homicide Detaiclass="underline" a squat man of fifty who went in for wide-brimmed hats of the movie-sheriff sort, but whose little blue eyes and bullet-head weren’t handicapped by the trick headgear.
“I want some dope on the Gilmore killing,” I told him.
“So do I,” he came back. “But if you’ll come along I’ll tell you what little I know while I’m eating. I ain’t had lunch yet.”
Safe from eavesdroppers in the clatter of a Sutter Street lunchroom, the detective-sergeant leaned over his clam chowder and told me what he knew about the murder, which wasn’t much.
“One of the boys, Kelly, was walking his beat early Tuesday morning, coming down the Jones Street hill from California Street to Pine. It was about three o’clock — no fog or nothing — a clear night. Kelly’s within maybe twenty feet of Pine Street when he hears a shot. He whisks around the corner, and there’s a man dying on the north sidewalk of Pine Street, halfway between Jones and Leavenworth. Nobody else is in sight. Kelly runs up to the man and finds it’s Gilmore. Gilmore dies before he can say a word. The doctors say he was knocked down and then shot; because there’s a bruise on his forehead, and the bullet slanted upward in his chest. See what I mean? He was lying on his back when the bullet hit him, with his feet pointing toward the gun it came from. It was a thirty-eight.”
“Any money on him?”
O’Gar fed himself two spoons of chowder and nodded.
“Six hundred smacks, a coupla diamonds, and a watch. Nothing touched.”
“What was he doing on Pine Street at that time in the morning?”
“Damned if I know, brother. Chances are he was going home, but we can’t find out where he’d been. Don’t even know what direction he was walking in when he was knocked over. He was lying across the sidewalk with his feet to the curb; but that don’t mean nothing — he could’ve turned around three or four times after he was hit.”
“All apartment buildings in that block, aren’t there?”
“Uh-huh. There’s an alley or two running off from the south side; but Kelly says he could see the mouths of both alleys when the shot was fired — before he turned the corner — and nobody got away through them.”
“Reckon somebody who lives in that block did the shooting?” I asked.
O’Gar tilted his bowl, scooped up the last drops of the chowder, put them in his mouth, and grunted.
“Maybe. But we got nothing to show that Gilmore knew anybody in that block.”
“Many people gather around afterward?”
“A few. There’s always people on the street to come running if anything happens. But Kelly says there wasn’t anybody that looked wrong — just the ordinary night crowd. The boys gave the neighborhood a combing, but didn’t turn up anything.”
“Any cars around?”
“Kelly says there wasn’t, that he didn’t see any, and couldn’t of missed seeing it if there’d been one.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
He got to his feet, glaring at me.
“I don’t think,” he said disagreeably; “I’m a police detective.”
I knew by that that somebody had been panning him for not finding the murderer.
“I have a line on a woman,” I told him. “Want to come along and talk to her with me?”
“I want to,” he growled, “but I can’t. I got to be in court this afternoon.”
In the vestibule of the Garford Apartments, I pressed the button tagged Miss Cara Kenbrook several times before the door clicked open. Then I mounted a flight of stairs and walked down a hall to her door. It was opened presently by a tall girl of twenty-three or — four in a black and white crepe dress.
“Miss Cara Kenbrook?”
“Yes.”
I gave her a card — one of those that tell the truth about me.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions; may I come in?”
“Do.”
Languidly she stepped aside for me to enter, closed the door behind me, and led me back into a living room that was littered with newspapers, cigarettes in all stages of consumption from unlighted freshness to cold ash, and miscellaneous articles of feminine clothing. She made room for me on a chair by dumping off a pair of pink silk stockings and a hat, and herself sat on some magazines that occupied another chair.
“I’m interested in Bernard Gilmore’s death,” I said, watching her face.
It wasn’t a beautiful face, although it should have been. Everything was there — perfect features; smooth, white skin; big, almost enormous, brown eyes — but the eyes were dead-dull, and the face was as empty of expression as a china doorknob, and what I said didn’t change it.
“Bernard Gilmore,” she said without interest. “Oh, yes.”
“You and he were pretty close friends, weren’t you?” I asked, puzzled by her blankness.
“We had been — yes.”
“What do you mean by had been?”
She pushed back a lock of her short-cut brown hair with a lazy hand.
“I gave him the air last week,” she said casually, as if speaking of something that had happened years ago.
“When was the last time you saw him?”