“If it wasn’t Staro who did this gunwork — and the light’s so bad in the hall that I wouldn’t rule him out — in any case, you’re not going to see him here in your office, Amery.”
“Of course not,” the lawyer agreed. “If he came into the building now and saw a cordon of officers down in the lobby, he certainly wouldn’t try to come up to the office. I don’t know a great deal about his background but I’m sure he’s had some uncomfortable moments in the company of policemen.”
“Doesn’t anybody know where this Staro hangs out?”
Ross said, “He did live with Ned. Slept on the divan in the living-room.”
“What’s he look like?”
“He’s Italian. But doesn’t look like one, exactly.” The press agent held out his hands to indicate. “Heavy-built. About my height. Black hair — can’t remember what color his eyes are — guess you’d call his complexion florid. Wears flashy suits and neon neckties.”
“And the Little Boy Blues haven’t been able to pick up a traveling trademark like that!” Pedley went to Amery’s desk, wrote WOrth 2-4100 on the pad. “Phone me or leave a message at this number when you get in touch with the guy, hah?”
Amery said the next time he got in touch with anybody, it would be when he had a plain-clothes man at his elbow.
“That’s smart.” The marshal was emphatic. “If the ballyhoo boy here has any sense—” he turned to Ross — “he’ll ask headquarters for a plain-clothes pal for the next couple of days, too. This firebug plays for keeps — and I don’t think he’s played out his string yet.”
Pedley departed before the dragnet really got under way; it would take a couple of hours to comb the building; he wanted a little time to think things out before he had that conference with the commissioner.
He went to his favorite spot for secluded cerebration — the Bosphorus Baths, half a block from the Penn Station. The owner was a pensioned pilot who had been on Engine Nine when Pedley polished his first Maltese cross.
The marshal had the run of the establishment; at this time of day there wouldn’t be many patrons to disturb his contemplations.
There were only two; both departed before the marshal had been in the steam room fifteen minutes. Only one arrived while Pedley was there, a bald-headed, barrel-chested individual with grotesquely bowed legs and, apparently, a hang-over.
Pedley wrapped himself in a towel like a Roman of old, let the steam soak into his dog-tired muscles and put his mind to work on the problem; Who was next in line for the firebug’s lethal attentions?
It seemed to be beyond question that the glow-worm would strike again. The score to date was a pretty good indication of that. In the Brockhurst blaze; Lownes killed, his sister and his lawyer escaped with injuries. In Greenwich Village: Kim Wasson eliminated, one fireman seriously hurt. At Amery’s office: an outright attempt at assassination. It would be feeble-minded to assume that the killer would stop now.
His idea was evidently to remove everyone who might be able to tie him in with the death of Lownes. That left quite a list of possible candidates for the next attempt which probably would be made quickly.
The most reasonable conclusion he could arrive at was that the next try would also be on the life of the man who came so close to getting shot up there in the Tower Building. But there were other possibilities. Ross, Kelsey, Gaydel, Toleman — “’round and ’round again, Willie!”
Wasn’t this a pretty dish to set before the commissioner!
Well, the ill wind in Horatio Street had blown some small good; the head of the Fire Department couldn’t very well block the bureau from investigating that conflagration. Officially, he might frown on duplicating the work Sime Dublin would pretend to be doing; unofficially, Pedley knew he would have the commissioner’s hearty approval.
But the journalistic anvil chorus would begin its knocking before many more hours had passed — unless the firebug were caught. Editorial writers never asked for any better opportunity than a chance to pan city officials who failed to protect the citizenry.
He took his headache out to the plunge. The bald-headed man was there at the edge of the pool, testing the temperature of the water and shuddering with anticipation.
Pedley hooked his toes over the tiling, swung his arms, knifed in with scarcely an aftersplash. He let his body glide through the cool greenness with the force of his dive, was aware of commotion in the water alongside. He took a lazy underwater stroke to bring him to the surface, felt fingers clutch at his shoulder.
For that first brief instant, he supposed the other man had dived too close to him, was merely horsing around in the manner of kids grabbing each other under water. But the fingers didn’t let go. Another hand clamped itself on his neck, kept his head beneath the surface of the pool.
Pedley tried to roll over to see if the man whose hands were now at the marshal’s windpipe understood what he was doing. Then the marshal knew; heavy elbows pressed down on his shoulders, forced him toward the bottom of the pool!
The man on top had everything in his favor. The surface position, the weight, a fresh lungful of air inhaled about the same time Pedley had been ready to come up for a fresh breath. Also, the man who was trying to drown him had the advantage of the initial grip.
But the strangler might not have the special ability every smoke-eater is forced to acquire as a matter of course — the ability to get along on a thimbleful of air for a half a minute beyond the ordinary limit of lung endurance. Pedley would have to make the most of that.
He kicked, threshed, rolled. The man at his back followed every maneuver.
Pedley used knees and feet. The hands clamped more firmly around his throat.
One foot touched cold tile. The side of the pool. He made a convulsive effort, twisted on his side. The man rolled with him.
Pedley didn’t have much left. He put it all into one backward lunge. His head butted back against the man’s chin, banged the other’s skull against the side of the pool with bone-cracking force. The fingers at his throat loosened—
The marshal sucked in some water as he drifted up to the surface. He was too exhausted to do more than dog paddle, gasping and gulping until the mist cleared from his eyes.
He swam slowly to the edge of the pool, caught at the ladder.
There was no one else in the plunge room.
He climbed out as fast as he could make it, ran along the side of the pool, saw the white form magnified by the water against the green tile of the bottom.
He ought to leave the murdering son of a bitch with that thread of pink trailing up through the water from the bald head.
But he dived in, swam under, locked a forearm beneath the unconscious man’s chin. It took several periods of hauling and dragging to get the heavy body out of the pool, onto the tiling.
He rolled the bald man over on his stomach, held him up, let the water drain out of his lungs. Then he straddled the barrel-like torso, began the forward-pressure on the shoulder blades, the rhythmic back-way and the Schaefer count.
He never knew how long it took. But his arms were numb and his knees without feeling when the man began to breathe steadily.
“It’s not the recommended position for recuperation, you potbellied bastard,” he said close to the man’s ear. “But you’re going to have your wrists tied behind your back.”
He used the belt of his robe for the purpose. Then he slipped the rubber keyband from the bald man’s neck, padded through the steamy hall in straw slippers and bathrobe until he found a lock the key fitted.
The first thing he saw on the bed was a wig. A toupee of shiny black hair, neatly parted.