“That story cracks a little there,” I said.
“What makes you think so? He’s not figuring on going to Boston, where he knows his first wife is, and he’s figuring on keeping out of the way of the few people that know him, including especially Wynant, and somebody’s told him there’s a statute of limitation making everything just lovely after seven years. He don’t figure he’s running much risk. They ain’t even going to stay here long.”
“I still don’t like that part of his story,” I insisted, “but go ahead.”
“Well, the second day he’s here—while they’re still trying to find Wynant—he gets a bad break. He runs into a friend of his first wife’s—this Olga Fenton—on the street and she recognizes him. He tries to talk her out of tipping off the first wife and does manage to stall her along a couple days with a moving-picture story he makes up—what an imagination that guy’s got!—but he don’t fool her long, and she goes to her parson and tells him about it and asks him what she ought to do and he says she ought to tell the first wife, and so she does, and the next time she sees Jorgensen she tells him what she’d done, and he lights out for Boston to try to keep his wife from kicking up trouble and we pick him up there.”
“How about his visit to the hock-shop?” I asked.
“That was part of it. He says there was a train for Boston leaving in a few minutes and he didn’t have any dough with him and didn’t have time to go home for some—besides not being anxious to face the second wife till he had the first one quieted down—and the banks were closed, so he soaked his watch. It checks up.”
“Did you see the watch?”
“I can. Why?”
“I was wondering. You don’t think it was once on the other end of that piece of chain Mimi turned over to you?”
He sat up straight. “By God!” Then he squinted at me suspiciously and asked: “Do you know anything about it or are you—”
“No. I was just wondering. What does he say about the murders now? Who does he think did them?”
“Wynant. He admits for a while he thought Mimi might’ve, but he says she convinced him different. He claims she wouldn’t tell him what she had on Wynant. He might be just trying to cover himself up on that. I don’t guess there’s any doubt about them meaning to use it to shake him down for that money they wanted.”
“Then you don’t think she planted the knife and chain?”
Guild pulled down the ends of his mouth. “She could’ve planted them to shake him down with. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s a little complicated for a fellow like me,” I said. “Find out if Face Peppler’s still in the Ohio pen?”
“Uh-huh. He gets out next week. That accounts for the diamond ring. He had a pal of his on the outside send it to her for him. Seems they were planning to get married and go straight together after he got out, or some such. Anyways, the warden says he saw letters passing between them reading like that. This Peppier won’t tell the warden that he knows anything that’ll help us, and the warden don’t call to mind anything that was in their letters that’s any good to us. Of course, even this much helps some, with the motive. Say Wynant’s jealous and she’s wearing this other guy’s ring and getting ready to go away with him. That’ll—” He broke off to answer his telephone. “Yes,” he said into it. “Yes…. What? … Sure…. Sure, but leave somebody there…. That’s right.” He pushed the telephone aside. “Another bum steer on that West Twenty-ninth Street killing yesterday.”
“Oh,” I said, “I thought I heard Wynant’s name. You know how some telephone voices carry.”
He blushed, cleared his throat. “Maybe something sounded like it—why not, I guess. Uh-huh, that could sound like it—why not. I almost forgot: we looked up that fellow Sparrow for you.”
“What’d you find out?”
“It looks like there’s nothing there for us. His name’s Jim Brophy. It figures out that he was making a play for that girl of Nunheim’s and she was sore at you and he was just drunk enough to think he could put himself in solid with her by taking a poke at you.”
“A nice idea,” I said. “I hope you didn’t make any trouble for Studsy.”
“A friend of yours? He’s an ex-con, you know, with a record as long as your arm.”
“Sure. I sent him over once.” I started to gather up my hat and overcoat. “You’re busy. I’ll run along and—”
“No, no,” he said. “Stick around if you got the time. I got a couple things coming in that’ll maybe interest you, and you can give me a hand with that Wynant kid, too, maybe.” I sat down again.
“Maybe you’d like a drink,” he suggested, opening a drawer of his desk, but I had never had much luck with policemen’s liquor, so I said: “No, thanks.”
His telephone rang again and he said into it: “Yes…. Yes…. That’s all right. Come on in.” This time no words leaked out to me.
He rocked back in his chair and put his feet on his desk. “Listen, I’m on the level about that silver fox farming and I want to ask you what you think of California for a place.”
I was trying to decide whether to tell him about the lion and ostrich farms in the lower part of the state when the door opened and a fat red-haired man brought Gilbert Wynant in. One of Gilbert’s eyes was completely shut by swollen flesh around it and his left knee showed through a tear in his pants-leg.
28
I said to Guild: “When you say bring ’em in, they bring ’em in, don’t they?”
“Wait,” he told me. “This is more’n you think.” He addressed the fat red-haired man: “Go ahead, Flint, let’s have it.”
Flint wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “He’s a wildcat for fair, the young fellow. He don’t look tough, but, man, he didn’t want to come along. I can tell you that. And can he run!”
Guild growled: “You’re a hero and I’ll see the Commissioner about your medal right away, but never mind that now. Talk turkey.”
“I wasn’t saying I did anything great,” Flint protested. “I was just—”
“I don’t give a damn what you did,” Guild said. “I want to know what he did.”
“Yes, sir, I was getting to that. I relieved Morgan at eight o’clock this morning and everything went along smooth and quiet as per usual, with not a creature was stirring, as the fellow says, till along about ten minutes after two, and then what do I hear but a key in the lock.” He sucked in his lips and gave us a chance to express our amazement.
“The Wolf dame’s apartment,” Guild explained to me. “I had a hunch.”
“And what a hunch!” Flint exclaimed, practically top-heavy with admiration. “Man, what a hunch!” Guild glared at him and he went on hastily: “Yes, sir, a key, and then the door opens and this young fellow comes in.” He grinned proudly, affectionately, at Gilbert. “Scared stiff, he looked, and when I went for him he was out and away like a streak and it wasn’t till the first floor that I caught him, and then, by golly, he put up a tussle and I had to bat him in the eye to tone him down. He don’t look tough, but—”
“What’d he do in the apartment?” Guild asked.
“He didn’t have a chance to do nothing. I—”
“You mean you jumped him without waiting to see what he was up to?” Guild’s neck bulged over the edge of his collar, and his face was as red as Flint’s hair.
“I thought it was best not to take no chances.”
Guild stared at me with angry incredulous eyes. I did my best to keep my face blank. He said in a choking voice: “That’ll do, Flint. Wait outside.”
The red-haired man seemed puzzled. He said, “Yes, sir,” slowly. “Here’s his key.” He put the key on Guild’s desk and went to the door. There he twisted his head over a shoulder to say: “He claims he’s Clyde Wynant’s son.” He laughed merrily.
Guild, still having trouble with his voice, said: “Oh, he does, does he?”
“Yeah. I seen him somewhere before. I got an idea he used to belong to Big Shorty Dolan’s mob. Seems to me I used to see him around—”