When he saw me he gave a half-smirk, got off his machine, jacked it up on its rest and came over.
I had been cursing steadily all the way from the Santa Rosa Estate, and although now drained of expletives I was still mad. My neck felt as if it had been boffed by the fiat side of a battleaxe, and there was a ring of soreness around my middle that added fuel to my rage.
I was more mad at myself than I was at Mills. To have allowed a half-grown Dead End Kid to kick me around was something that hurt my pride, and when a Malloy’s pride gets hurt the Klu KIux Klan rides again.
‘And what do you want?’ I demanded, tough enough to chew a mouthful of nails. ‘I’ve got enough grief without a cop adding to it, so say your little piece and dust.’
The cop grinned sympathetically as he eyed the black and green bruise on the side of my neck. He whistled softly and shook his head.
‘What happened?’ he asked, folding his arms on the car door and leaning his weight on them. ‘Horse kick you?’
‘A horse?’ I said sarcastically. ‘Think a horse’d mark me up like this? You know that steam hammer working on the corner of Rossmore and Jefferson?’
He said he did, his eyes opening wide.
‘Well, I stuck my neck between that and the anvil and took a few whams to show me how tough I am.’
He digested this slowly. He was the kind who’d believe anything he was told, even if someone said he was handsome. But after a while, the nickel dropped, and he decided I was kidding.
‘Wise guy, huh?’ he said, grinning. ‘Well, okay. It’s your neck. The Captain wants you at Headquarters. He told me to bring you in.’
‘You go back and tell him I’ve better things to do than waste time with a buzzard like him,’ I said, preparing to get out of the car. ‘This is a snobby town, and I’ve got to be careful who I mix with.’
‘He said either to bring you in or carry you in: please yourself,’ the cop said amiably. ‘If the old man says carry you in he means I can sock you on the conk with my skull-bender. Pity to add to your bruises, Bud.’
‘He can’t talk that way to me!’ I said indignantly.
‘Funny, but he thinks he can,’ the cop returned, grinning. He seemed a good-natured, friendly guy, so I grinned back at him. ‘He only wants to have a little talk about this killing last night. Better come, Bud.’
‘Right,’ I said, and trod on the starter. ‘But one of these days I’ll meet that jerk up a dark alley and I hope I have my spiked boots on when I do.’
‘Yeah,’ the cop said, starting his engine. ‘I hope so too.’
‘And listen, Jock,’ I shouted above the roar of his engine. ‘If I’m coming, I’m coming in style, so set your siren going.’
And we went in style. It was fun driving through the crowded streets at sixty miles an hour with the cop in front blasting the traffic out of the way with his siren. We crashed every red light, beat up a good dozen motorists, turned right when it said No Right Turn, and set everyone we met gaping at us.
When we pulled up outside Police Headquarters the cop grinned at me over his shoulder.
‘Okay?’ he asked, hoisting his machine up on its rest. ‘Was that stylish enough for you?’
‘Pretty good,’ I said, getting out of the car. ‘We’ll try it again some time. I needed something like that to get rid of my bile.’
I found Mifflin in the lobby, a worried frown on his flat, red face.
‘Hello, Mike,’ I said. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘The Captain wants you,’ Mifflin said. ‘Treat him nice and smooth. He reckons you know more than you’ve told us about this killing, and he’s in a mood to tame alligators. So watch yourself.’
I followed him up the stone stairs, along a corridor to a door marked: Edwin Brandon, Captain of Police.
Mifflin tapped on the door as if it were made of eggshells, opened it and waved me in.
The room was big and airy and well furnished. There was a nice Turkey rug to cover the floor, several easy chairs, one or two reproductions of Van Gogh’s country scenes on the walls, and a big desk in the corner of the room between the two windows, one that overlooked the harbour and the other that gave on to a panorama of the business section of the city. Behind the desk sat Brandon, and just in case you didn’t know who he was and what he did there was a gold and mahogany sign on his desk facing you that read Edwin Brandon. Captain of Police.
Brandon was a man around the wrong side of fifty, short, inclined to fat, with a lot of thick hair as white as a dove’s back, and eyes that were as animated and as friendly as a couple of river-washed pebbles.
‘Sit down,’ he said, waving a fat white hand to an easy chair by the desk. ‘I thought it was time we had a little talk.’
‘Sure,’ I said, and lowered myself carefully into the chair. The muscles in my belly winced as I sat down and I winced with them.
This was the first time I had any dealings with Brandon. I’d seen him on the streets, but had never talked to him, and I looked him over as curiously as he was looking me over.
Mifflin stood by the door and stared up at the ceiling, as quiet as a corpse in a grave. It was said that Brandon was a hard man, and the detectives under him were scared of him and the patrolmen had a horror of him. Judging by Mifflin’s subdued stillness this seemed no exaggeration.
‘What do you know about this murder last night?’ Brandon began.
‘Not a thing,’ I said. ‘I was there when Mifflin found her, but that’s where it begins and ends.’
He opened his desk drawer and produced a box of cigars.
‘What do you make of it?’ he asked, peering at the cigars as if he suspected someone had been helping themselves.
‘Looks like a sex killing to me.’
He looked up to stare at me thoughtfully, then turned his attention once more to the cigar-box.
‘The medical evidence says not,’ he said. ‘No assault, no bruising, no sign of a struggle. She was stripped after she was shot.’
I watched him select a cigar, lay it on the desk and put the box away. I had an idea he wasn’t going to offer the cigar to me. I was right.
‘I understand Miss Lewis worked with you on any assignment you happened to be handling,’ he said, touching the cigar with tender fingertips. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘So you would know a little more about her than most people?’ he went on, unpeeling the band from the cigar, frowning as if that was all he was interested in at the moment.
‘Well, I guess I know as much, but not necessarily more about her than most people.’
‘Would you say she had enemies?’
‘I guess not.’
‘A lover?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
He glanced up.
‘Would you know?’
‘Not unless she told me. She didn’t.’
‘Have you any idea why she should be out at East Beach at that time?’
‘What time would that be?’
‘As near twelve-thirty as makes no difference.’ He had removed the band now and was fumbling for a match.
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘She hadn’t been to see you, had she?’
I said she hadn’t, and by the odd look he gave me it occurred to me he was likely to groom me for the killer if I didn’t watch out.
‘But she had to pass your place to get to where she was killed, didn’t she? It seems funny she didn’t look in on you.’
‘We worked together, Captain,’ I said mildly. ‘We didn’t sleep together.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Maybe there are some guys who don’t know who they sleep with, but I do. Yeah, I’m sure about it.’
He found a match, scraped it on his shoe and lit the cigar.