Moraine sat up on the davenport, turning the idea over in his mind.
“My God!” she cried, “snap out of it! We’ve got to do something and do it quick. Don’t you see what a jam you’re in?”
“Thought he was the boy-friend of your sister.”
“He is, but he’s trying to find out something about those murder cases. He’s coming up, I tell you. Get in the closet!”
Sam Moraine got to his feet, permitted himself to be guided to the closet. She opened the door, pushed him in and said, “Wait there. I’ll meet him in the corridor and try to head him off.”
She ran toward the outer door, and had no more than opened it when Tom Wickes’ voice said cautiously, “Hello, Dorry.”
“Listen, Tom,” she said, “I want to talk with you.”
She stepped out into the corridor, half-closing the door behind her.
Sam Moraine moved with cat-like quickness and complete silence. He opened the door of the closet, carefully closed it behind him, ran across the room to the door which led to the kitchenette. He stood there waiting.
A few moments later, the door of the apartment opened, and Doris Bender entered, with Tom Wickes at her elbow. Moraine held the door of the kitchenette open a crack, so that he could see as well as hear.
She placed her fingers to her lips, glanced at Wickes, moved cautiously toward the closet door. There was a key in the outside of the door. She pressed the door firmly into position, grasped the key between her thumb and forefinger.
She nodded to Wickes.
Wickes raised his voice and said, “Say, what the hell’s been going on here? You’ve had a man in the apartment. Who is it — a dick?”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said, raising her own voice. “There’s no one here.”
“Well, I’m going to look around and see.”
“The hell you are! This isn’t your apartment!”
“Say, don’t hand me any lip; and don’t try to double-cross me. The place is full of dicks.”
“Why?” she asked. “They aren’t after us, are they?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re Mrs. Gertrude Chester. No one’s looking for you.”
“But why is the place full of dicks?”
“That damn fool, Moraine, is headed in this direction. He’s hot. The damn fool’s been messing in politics and they’re going to railroad him to the gallows. This is a hell of a time for you to be picking up stray boy-friends, but you’re just the sort of a tramp that can’t keep your hands off. Let me look in that closet.”
“You go to the devil.”
She twisted the key in the lock, then jerked it out.
“Now, then,” she exclaimed, “try and take that key away from me. You’ll have to do it before you can look in that closet.”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” he said. “Perhaps I was just a little upset. Ann’s death has raised the devil with me. Come on in the kitchen and buy a drink.”
She nodded toward Moraine’s suitcase.
Wickes picked it up, glanced significantly at her.
Together, they tip-toed toward the door which led from the apartment to the corridor.
Chapter Eighteen
Sam Moraine’s voice was pleasant as he pushed open the door and stepped into the room.
“Swell!” he said. “You couldn’t have done better with a rehearsal.”
Doris Bender gasped, whirled to face him, her face white, eyes wide with terror. Wickes dropped the suitcase, and his right hand shot toward his hip-pocket. Moraine jumped forward.
Wickes fumbled for a moment getting the gun from his pocket. Moraine’s fist caught him on the jaw. As his body jerked backward, the gun was pulled from his pocket, flung through the air, and fell to the floor. Wickes cursed, made a swing with his left. Moraine stepped inside of the swing, jolted Wickes with a right and left uppercut, and Wickes flung his right arm out wildly, caught Moraine by the lapel of the coat, kicked viciously at Moraine’s groin, then shifted his grip to Moraine’s waist and tried to throw him. Moraine tripped Wickes to the floor, and fell across him.
Doris Bender grabbed for the gun. Moraine caught her ankle, jerked her feet from under her. She came to her knees with a jar. He jerked her foot again, and she went forward on her face. She twisted free and kicked at his face with her heels.
As Moraine dodged the kicking heels, Wickes made a supreme effort and threw him off. Moraine lit on hands and knees. Wickes lunged out in a tackle; Moraine avoided his arms. Doris Bender kicked at him, and Moraine crawled across the floor. Doris Bender screamed, “Look out, he’s after the gun!”
Wickes made another lunge and caught Moraine’s leg, but Moraine grabbed the gun, twisted around and clubbed Wickes on the head. Wickes loosened his hold; Moraine swung to a sitting position, held the gun on him and said, “Now, then, we’ll talk.”
“Don’t say a word,” Doris Binder half-screamed. “He’s dangerous as hell, Tom. He’ll trap you if you say a word.”
Moraine grinned at Wickes and said, “I saw that telegram Doris sent to you, so you can dispense with lying about what brought you here.”
Doris Bender started to cry.
“D-d-d-d-damn you,” she sobbed. “I knew you were going to be too f-f-f-f-fast for us.”
Wickes, with his left hand pressed to his head where Moraine hath struck him with the gun barrel, said, “Shut up, Dorry!”
Moraine kept the gun trained on Wickes.
“Where were you when Ann Hartwell was killed?” he asked.
“You can’t pin that on me,” Wickes said, gasping for breath. “I’ve got — a good alibi.”
“Where were you when Dixon was killed?”
“None of your damn business.”
Moraine said, almost dreamily, “A car ran along the boulevard and stopped within about a block of Dixon’s place. Ann Hartwell got out and walked toward Dixon’s house: Someone was driving that automobile. If you were the one who was driving the automobile, it would be a swell break for you to say so — if you could prove it.”
“Yeah,” Wickes said, breathing heavily, “put myself on a spot — last person to see her alive — all that sort of stuff...”
“Not at all,” Moraine replied cheerfully. “Witnesses heard the car stop and saw the girl get out of the car, and the car drive away. That would put you out of the picture as being the one who killed Ann, and if you drove away, they couldn’t pin Dixon’s killing on you.”
“They can’t — anyway.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised what they can do these days,” Moraine remarked cheerfully. “A clever politician who has a pull with the district attorney can accomplish a lot when it comes to pinning a murder on a man, particularly if the fellow’s guilty.”
“Go to hell!” Wickes said, almost sobbing.
“Now, then, let’s look at it the other way,” Moraine went on. “You, Doris and Ann had arranged to sell Thorne out to Dixon. Dixon was going before the Grand Jury. You knew that was going to be the blow-off, so you decided to scatter and keep under cover, where Thorne couldn’t find you. Doris was the first to go. Then you found out through me that Ann had been murdered. That put a terrific scare into you. You telephoned Doris.”
“That’s a lie!” Wickes yelled.
Moraine shook his head chidingly, and said, “Let’s get back to brass tacks. Before you skipped out, you learned that Dixon was dead. Then you wondered what had happened to the papers. You waited to find out. Thorne wouldn’t have connected you with the sell-out — not at first. He’d have figured on Ann and Doris. Then, when Doris figured that I was the one who had the papers, she thought it would be a cinch to grab them and keep Thorne from knowing he’d been sold out.”
“That’s a lie!” Doris said.
“Gosh, I wish you’d get a new line,” Moraine told her, “that one’s worn out. But let’s talk sense while we have the chance. If you’ll admit killing Dixon, Wickes, I think I can get you off with life. You see, I’m friendly with the district attorney. Of course, you would have to admit you were the one who drove that automobile, so that it would clear you on the murder of Ann Hartwell.”