“Does it matter to us what he thinks?” Gollowitz demanded, moving irritably. “Does it matter to us?”
“I guess so,” McCann said. “Conrad’s a trouble-maker, and he’s smart, make no mistake about that. He’s got one set idea on his mind: to make trouble for you, Mr. Maurer.”
Maurer glanced up; his thick, almost negroid lips twisted into an amused smile.
“Sure he’s a smart guy,” he said, “but there’s enough room in this town for both of us.”
“There may not be,” McCann said ominously. “He thinks Jordan was murdered.”
Maurer’s smile widened.
“And of course he thinks I’m behind the murder. A cat can’t get run over without him thinking I’m responsible. So what? It happens every day.”
McCann pulled on his cigar. His eyes went from Maurer to Gollowitz, who was watching him with an alert expression in his black eyes.
“This is different. He’s got hold of a rumour that you and Miss Arnot were special friends,” he said, shifting his eyes back to Maurer. “This is the way he figures it: you found out Miss Arnot and Jordan were lovers. You went up there with Paretti. You killed her while Paretti took care of the staff. Then Paretti went around to Jordan’s apartment, cut his throat, left a razor in his hand, planted the murder weapon, took Jordan’s car out of the garage and crashed it against the garage door as evidence Jordan was full of dope. Then Paretti reported back to you and you knocked him off to shut his mouth.”
Maurer burst out laughing. His white plump hand came down on his knee with a loud smacking sound.
“What do you think of that, Abe?” he said. “The guy’s a trier, isn’t he? Did you ever hear such a story?”
McCann sat back; a look of relief and surprise chased across his brick-red face.
Gollowitz rubbed his jaw and raised his bushy eyebrows. He didn’t look anything like so amused as Maurer: he didn’t look amused at all.
“What’s his case?” he asked sharply.
“Don’t be so damned stupid, Abe,” Maurer said easily. “He hasn’t got a case, and he knows it.”
Gollowitz ignored the interruption.
“What’s his case?” he repeated, staring at McCann.
Seigel was listening to all this. He stood by the bar, behind Maurer and Gollowitz; there was a sick expression in his eyes that began to worry McCann.
“He’s got evidence that Mr. Maurer and Miss Arnot were special friends, and that Jordan was scared of Mr. Maurer,”
McCann said slowly. “He has a sworn statement to that effect.”
“Whose statement?” Gollowitz asked sharply.
“Jordan’s dresser.”
McCann and Gollowitz looked at Maurer, who continued to smile.
“So what?” Maurer said carelessly. “Who else has said so?”
“Just one statement,” McCann said.
Maurer shrugged and spread his hands, smiling at Gollowitz.
“That’s nothing,” Gollowitz said. “What else?”
“Flo Presser called on Conrad this morning. She reported that Paretti was missing. She said he had to do a job for Mr. Maurer at seven o’clock on the night of the murder, and Miss Arnot was murdered around seven o’clock.”
Gollowitz slightly relaxed.
“A streetwalker’s testimony is about as effective as a handful of feathers,” he said. “What else?”
“Flo was stabbed to death a couple of hours after she had seen Conrad,” McCann said, his eyes going to Seigel. He saw Seigel grimace uneasily.
“Who killed her?”
“Ted Pascal, one of the Brooklyn boys.”
Maurer shrugged.
“I don’t know him. What’s the excitement about? Can I help it if some whore gets knocked off?”
McCann’s little eyes began to turn red. It had been a severe shock to him when he had listened to Conrad’s report at the D.A.’s meeting, and Maurer’s careless, indifferent attitude and his unconcern flicked his anger into life.
“Where’s Paretti, Mr. Maurer?” he barked.
“Toni’s in New York,” Maurer said smoothly. “I sent him to collect a gambling debt. That was the job he had to do. He caught the seven o’clock plane.”
“Then you’d better get him back quick,” McCann said grimly. “Conrad wants to see him. A sketch-plan of Jordan’s apartment was found in Paretti’s apartment.”
Gollowitz stiffened and shot a hard, searching look at Maurer, who waved his hand airily.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “Who found it?”
“Van Roche.”
“Any witness?”
“No.”
“Obviously a plant,” Maurer said, and laughed. “Abe can take care of that, can’t you, Abe?”
Gollowitz nodded, but his eyes showed a growing uneasiness.
“If Toni shows up today or tomorrow,” McCann said, “half Conrad’s case will be knocked cold. You’d better get to Toni fast, Mr. Maurer.”
There was a long pause as Maurer studied the pattern on the carpet, then he said, without looking up, “Supposing I couldn’t get hold of Toni? Suppose he had decided to skip with the money I had sent him to collect? It is a big sum: twenty thousand dollars. I don’t say he has skipped, but suppose he has?”
McCann’s face suddenly turned purple. His big, hairy hands closed into knotted fists.
“He damn well better not have skipped!” he said through clenched teeth.
“Take it easy, Captain,” Maurer said, looking up and smiling. “I don’t think for a moment he has skipped, but even if he had, this cockeyed evidence of Conrad’s wouldn’t stand up in court. What have you got to worry about? I’m not worrying.”
“What else is there?” Gollowitz snapped, sensing that McCann hadn’t told them the worst of it.
“The guard who checks in all visitors to Miss Arnot’s place enters their names in a book,” McCann said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “At seven o’clock on the night of the killing a girl named Frances Coleman called to see Miss Arnot. We’re looking for her now, and she will be arrested as a material witness. Conrad thinks she may have seen the killer.”
Maurer looked at the glowing end of his cigar. A muscle in his cheek suddenly began to twitch, otherwise his face was expressionless.
There was a tight tension in the room.
Seigel lit a cigarette, his eyes on the back of Maurer’s head. He licked his lips as if they had gone suddenly dry.
Gollowitz stared down at his hands, frowning.
McCann’s hard little eyes took in each man, watching his reactions, a grinding, rising fury inside him made him feel short of breath.
“Well, say something!” he snarled. “Is this something Gollowitz can take care of?”
Maurer looked up. The flat snake’s eyes glowed as if they were on fire, and under his direct look, McCann’s eyes gave ground.
“I want to talk to the Captain,” Maurer said softly.
Gollowitz immediately got up and, followed by Seigel, left the room.
When the door closed behind them, Maurer crossed one short fat leg over the other. He took his cigar out of his mouth, leaned forward and touched off the ash into a cut-glass bowl. He didn’t look at McCann.
McCann sat still, his big fists on his knees, his face purple. Sweat gave an oily
appearance to his complexion.
“Frances Coleman, did you say?” Maurer said suddenly, keeping his voice down.
“That’s right,” McCann said.
“Who is she?”
“Let’s get this straight, Mr. Maurer, are you…?”
“Who is she?” Maurer repeated without raising his voice, but