Everyone in the front room stared as we loped past them into the bedroom. Barney continued on into the bathroom, but I crashed headlong into Bubbles Duval, who picked that moment to come out of the bedroom finally.
“Whoops!” Bubbles said, grabbing me around the neck to retain her balance. She continued to hang on long after all danger of her falling over was past.
Reaching around behind my neck, I grasped her wrists, spread them outward and gently pushed her away.
“Sorry,” I said. “Hurt any?”
The blonde shook her head and giggled. “What blew up?” she inquired.
“The celebration,” I told her. “We have a murder on our hands.”
Through the closed bathroom door I could hear Barney Amhurst retching over the bowl. Deciding he would keep for the moment, I shooed Bubbles into the front room. None of the occupants there had moved, but since Amhurst had thrown the door into the study wide in his headlong flight, two people were in a position to see the body on the floor. Ed Friday was gazing at it with a thoughtful expression on his face, and Evelyn Karnes was carefully avoiding looking at it at all.
Fausta asked, “What happened, Manny?”
“Murder,” I said. “Somebody outside knocked out a window and fired through it. Who and why we’ll let the police figure out. I suggest everyone sit down and relax while I call them.”
Evelyn started toward the bedroom. “Where are you going?” I asked.
The enameled brunette showed her teeth in a meaningless smile. “I have to get up early. I’d better go home.”
Ed Friday’s rubbery voice said, “Sit down like the man said, you goddamned moron.”
His brutal tone startled everyone in the room except Evelyn, who seemingly was used to such talk from Friday. Without appearing in the least perturbed or resentful, she shrugged and obediently sat. Bubbles Duval broke the silence created by Friday’s words.
“You said murder, Manny. Who?”
Everyone looked at her, but it was Ed Friday who answered. “There were eight of us, Bubbles. Subtract the six here plus Barney in the bathroom, and you got it.” His tone was nearly as savage as when he had spoken to his own date, and I began to get the impression that for some reason he was furious over Walter Ford’s murder.
The blonde’s eyes swept over us one by one. Then she squealed, “Walter! My date!” She looked at me with widening eyes and asked, “Now, how am I going to get home?”
“For Pete’s sake!” Friday remarked, and headed for the kitchen with a highball glass in his hand.
I phoned headquarters and reported the killing to Night Desk Sergeant Danny Blake.
Chapter Four
Just as I hung up the phone, Barney Amhurst rejoined us. He was still breathing heavily but had regained most of his color and, aside from a rather dazed expression, seemed to have shaken off the effects of shock. I noticed he still carried the boxlike object he had been holding when I first poked my head into the study. He looked at it rather puzzledly, as though wondering why he was carrying it around, then crossed to the fireplace and laid it on the mantel.
“That part of the Huntsafe?” I asked.
Amhurst nodded. “The transmitter.” Then tentatively he said, “The killer, Mr. Moon. Shouldn’t we...”
“Run outside to hunt him down in the dark?” I finished for him when he paused. “No. He’s gone by now, and we’d only trample any footprints he may have left if we start milling around in the yard. Besides, you have a gun?”
“Those.” Vaguely he gestured toward the rifle and shotgun in the wall rack.
“By the time we got those loaded, he’d be even farther away. We’ll let the cops handle the search.”
Friday returned from the kitchen with a fresh drink, bringing with him a tray containing a bottle of bourbon, a soda siphon and a bowl of ice. He set it on an end table next to Evelyn, who immediately began to mix herself another drink.
To Friday I said, “I’m going outside and bring in your bodyguard. See that no one leaves this room, and particularly that no one goes in there.” I pointed at the door of the murder room.
“Sure,” he said.
In the apartment house hallway several tenants were standing around discussing the explosion. When I stepped from Amhurst’s door, they all looked at me.
“Somebody dropped a light bulb,” I explained.
One or two looked dubious, but they all started to drift back toward their own apartments.
The gray coupé containing Friday’s bodyguard was parked almost squarely in front of the building at a point where its occupant could not see the side lawn. Recalling that Friday had addressed the man as Max, I called him by name.
He was leaning back with his eyes closed listening to the car radio, and when I spoke through the open window, he merely opened his eyes and rolled his head sidewise.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“You see anyone come from the side of the building there in the last few minutes?” I pointed toward the corner of the building behind him.
Straightening, he peered over his shoulder. “I ain’t got eyes in the back of my head, mister. What’s up? Anything the matter with Mr. Friday?”
“No, but you’re wanted inside.”
When we entered the apartment together, Max looked at his employer inquiringly.
“Take your hat off,” Friday said.
Without changing expression the bodyguard hung his hat on the back of a chair, leaned against the wall next to the door and waited.
The first police to arrive were a couple of radio-car patrolmen. The elder of the pair glanced into the room containing the dead man, asked if anyone had left since the killing occurred, and when we told him no, advised us to relax until someone from Homicide got there. Then he picked an easy chair to relax in himself and simply waited, leaving his younger companion standing with his back to the door.
A few minutes later I was surprised when the chief of Homicide himself arrived. Usually Inspector Warren Day likes to forget his work after five P.M., and unless special circumstances or important people are involved, he leaves night calls to subordinates.
Day was trailed by his perennial shadow, Lieutenant Hannegan, who, as always, wore a plain blue serge suit which looked like a police uniform without brass buttons.
When Day was sure he had everyone’s undivided attention, he swept off his straw hat, baring a totally bald scalp, and announced in the tone heralds customarily employ following a flurry of trumpets, “I’m Inspector Warren Day of Homicide.”
Then, before the company fully recovered from this impressive performance, he swung his gaze at me. “What are you doing here, Moon?”
“I was invited, Inspector. I was about to ask you the same thing. Doesn’t Homicide have a night shift any more?”
“The chief was holding a department-head meeting, and it broke up just as your call came in.” He peered at me owlishly. “When Blake told me you made the call, I decided to come over and see who you bumped this time.”
I said regretfully, “Sorry, Inspector. Somebody else did the bumping.”
I led him into the combination workroom-study while Lieutenant Hannegan kept a watchful eye on the other occupants of the apartment. After kneeling beside the corpse for a moment, Day rose, glanced at the jagged hole the murder bullet had made in the plaster in the far corner of the room after it removed the top of Walter Ford’s head, then turned his eyes toward the broken pane of the French doors.
“Walter Ford... that’s the dead man... and Barney Amhurst... he’s the slim, curly-haired guy with dimples... were in here alone when it happened,” I explained. “According to Amhurst, someone outside smashed the pane and then fired.”