Moe shoved the gun into the waistband of his jeans and walked quickly along the waterfront. Within fifty yards was Fris-Fris’s bar. Fris-Fris had once been Moe’s lover. He was a fat, elderly Jamaican, a reefer addict, who made a reasonable living organising a Call-boy service for the degenerate rich of Miami.
Moe entered the dark little bar. At this hour, only Fris-Fris was in the bar. He was dozing behind the counter, a sporting sheet spread out before him, a cup of cold coffee near at hand.
Moe grabbed his arm.
“Fris! Get me under cover! The cops are after me!”
Fris-Fris sprang out of his daydreams. He moved with the smoothness of a snake. Holding Moe’s arm, he drew him into a room at the back of the bar, pulled aside a curtain, shoved Moe into another room where a man slept on a straw mattress, past the sleeping man and into a narrow corridor.
Fris-Fris fiddled with a hidden catch: a panel that looked like a continuation of the wooden wall slid back and he shoved Moe into a small recess.
“Wait, I’ll fix it,” he said and closed the panel.
He scurried back to the bar, settled himself and closed his eyes. A minute later, two patrol officers came in. One of them reached across the bar and slapped Fris-Fris across his fat face.
“Wake up, Queen,” the officer barked. “Where’s Moe Lincoln?”
Fris-Fris blinked the tears out of his eyes.
“Lincoln? I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
The two officers, guns in hands, went through the sordid little building, but they didn’t find Moe.
While the hunt for Moe was going on, the news of Williams’s death was flashed to police headquarters.
Terrell and Beigler bundled into a police car and rushed over to Hardy’s penthouse. Lepski was already there.
Hardy lay on the settee. A livid bruise from Moe’s gun showed on his white face. Gina, sick looking, her eyes dark with fear, sat in an armchair, sipping whisky.
Lepski was prowling around the room, jumpy and ready to hit out at anyone.
As Terrell and Beigler entered the apartment block, four white coated interns staggered out, carrying Jacko’s gross body on a stretcher. Terrell stared at the vast mound of flesh, hidden under the sheet, grunted and then walked with Beigler to the elevator.
“This slob was hiding them,” Lepski said as Terrell and Beigler came into the penthouse. “I don’t give a damn what he says... he was hiding them!”
“Okay,” Terrell said. “Get after Lincoln. Tom. I’ll handle this.”
Lepski snarled at Hardy who had slowly sat up. Then he walked out of the lounge.
Hardy knew as he met Terrell’s cold, hostile eyes, that this was his moment of truth. He had either to play his cards right or he would land in the gas chamber.
“Chief... they came here last night,” he said. “Jacko and Moe. I was out. They settled in: threatening Miss Lang. When I came in, they told me they had knocked off Henekey. He had double-crossed them in some deal. They didn’t say what. They wanted a getaway stake... five thousand. At first, I wouldn’t play, but they had me. They said if I didn’t give them the money, they would crucify Gina Miss Lang. Those were Jacko’s very words. When that hood promises to do something like that... he does it. So I got the money. Then Lepski came here. Those two were in the bedroom. They heard Lepski tell me there was an officer outside. When Lepski left, they forced Gina to go out there and talk to the officer, then Moe went out and killed him.” Dramatically, Hardy tossed his automatic on the table. “I killed Jacko. I admit it. When I heard the shooting, I grabbed my gun and fired at him as he got into the elevator.”
“All right,” Terrell said curtly. “Let’s start again.” He looked at Beigler. “Let’s have it down in writing.”
It was a little after five o’clock that evening that Terrell heard from Lepski that he had met Val Burnett in Hardy’s penthouse and that she had been there representing the Miami Sun.
Terrell was both tired and worried. Moe Lincoln had again slipped through the police dragnet. Terrell had arrested Lee Hardy for killing Jacko, but Hardy’s lawyer had got Hardy out of the hands of the police on bail. Hardy had claimed he had been forced to kill Jacko as Jacko was about to shoot Gina. As Gina supported this story, there was nothing Terrell could do but to allow Hardy out on bail.
At first he couldn’t believe that Val Burnett had masqueraded as a press reporter, but when Lepski had finally convinced him, he got in his car and drove fast to the Spanish Bay hotel.
Val received him in the sitting-room of her suite.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Burnett,” Terrell said as he came into the room. “I understand from one of my officers that you were in Hardy’s penthouse a few minutes before this shooting affair.”
Val, who had been expecting this call, had prepared her story, and although she was tense, she faced Terrell calmly enough.
“Yes, I was there. It was very stupid of me,” she said. “Do sit down. Of course you want an explanation.”
Terrell sat down.
“I understand you told Hardy you were Mary Sherrek of the Miami Sun, Mrs. Burnett. Is that correct?”
Val sat down, facing Terrell.
“Yes. It was like this: Miss Sherrek wanted to go home. She was short of money. I was sorry for her so I bought her press card. I suppose I had no right to do it, but I wanted an excuse to help her and I also wanted to amuse myself.”
“She had no right to sell the card to you,” Terrell said sharply. “I don’t understand: just why did you buy it?”
“Oh, a sudden impulse.” Val made a vague gesture with her hands. “I suppose it is difficult for you to understand my position. I am wealthy. I have nothing to do. I have always been fascinated by crime.” She forced a smile. “This woman’s murder... Sue Parnell... more than interested me. I’ve followed the case in the papers. It suddenly occurred to me while I was talking to the girl it would be amusing and interesting to meet some of the people connected with the case. I realised if I had a press card, I could go to these people’s homes and talk to them. So I just couldn’t resist the temptation and I bought the card from this girl. I called on Mr. Hardy. You’ll probably think this is rather morbid, but people like myself who have too much money and not enough to do, do these things for... for kicks.”
Terrell stared at her. He didn’t believe a word she was saying, but he had to be careful.
“It was a very foolish and dangerous thing to have done, Mrs. Burnett,” he said finally.
“Yes, wasn’t it? Well, I’m sorry if I have caused trouble. Perhaps you will be kind enough to write it off as a silly, rich woman’s whim.”
Terrell wasn’t to be taken in by this kind of humility.
“When you were in the penthouse,” he said, “had you any idea these two killers were there?”
“Oh of course not!”
“Could I have Sherrek’s press card, please?”
Val stiffened, then stared steadily at him.
“I hope you’re not going to make trouble for the girl,” she said. “I wouldn’t like that. All this is entirely my fault. I destroyed the card when I got back here.”
Terrell shifted ground.
“There’s another thing, Mrs. Burnett. It has come to my knowledge that you have given Homer Hare twenty thousand dollars. He claims it is a retainer for work to be done. I admit this isn’t my business, but I feel it is my duty to warn you that Hare is thoroughly unreliable and thoroughly dishonest.” He hesitated, then went on, “On the face of it, Mrs. Burnett, it seems to me that Hare might be blackmailing you. Nothing would please me more than to put him away for fourteen years. Anything you wish to tell me that would enable me to get a conviction against him would be in the strictest confidence, I assure you of that.” He paused, then went on. “Is there anything you would care to tell me?”