‘What were you doing between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty last night?’
‘I was asleep.’
‘You didn’t hear the shot?’
‘When I sleep, I sleep.’
He looked suspiciously at the cigar, turned it between his white, fat fingers and eased himself farther down in the swivelled chair. I had an idea he was enjoying himself.
‘Did you have any visitors last night?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘A dame. She had nothing to do with this murder, and she’s married. Sorry, Captain, but you don’t get her name.’
‘Was she a tall blonde in a flame-coloured evening dress?’ he asked abruptly and leaned over his desk to peer at me.
I was expecting him to jump something on me, otherwise he wouldn’t have questioned me personally, so I was ready for him, but for all that I was glad most of my spare evenings were spent in playing poker for stakes I couldn’t afford. I just managed to keep my face expressionless, but only just.
‘She was a redhead,’ I said. ‘Who’s the blonde?’
He studied me thoughtfully.
‘You told Mifflin Miss Lewis wasn’t working on any particular assignment,’ he said, shooting off at a tangent. ‘Is that right?’
‘If I told Mifflin that then it’s right.’
‘Not necessarily. You might be protecting a client.’
I looked past him to admire the harbour. It looked nice in the morning sun.
‘I’m not doing that,’ I said, because he seemed to expect me to say something.
‘If I find out you are protecting a client, Malloy,’ he said, a sudden snarl in his voice. ‘I’ll slam your itsy-bitsy organization shut, and hang an accessory rap on you so fast you’d be doing time before you know you’d been tried.’
‘Well, you’ll have to find that out first, won’t you?’ I returned shortly.
He leaned forward to scowl at me. Seeing him like that I could understand why his detectives were scared of him. He looked as pleasant and as sociable as a black mamba.
‘We’re not getting anywhere with this investigation, Malloy, because you are trying to play it the smart way. But you can’t fool me. Miss Lewis was working for a client of yours and got killed. You’re covering up a killer!’
‘I didn’t say so,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s your story, and you may be stuck with it.’
Mifflin made a slight movement like a man in agony, but when Brandon swung around and glared at him, he stiffened once more into his corpse-like trance.
‘Who’s this blonde?’ Brandon went on to me. ‘She was seen at Dana Lewis’s apartment last night. Who is she?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘She was a rich woman, Malloy. She had on a valuable diamond necklace. I want to know who she is and what she was doing with this Lewis girl. You’d better talk.’
‘I still don’t know,’ I said, meeting his hard scrutiny.
‘Well, I think that woman is the client you’re covering up. That’s what I think.’
‘It’s a free country. You can think what you like.’
He bit on the cigar, then said in a quieter tone, ‘Now look, Malloy. Let’s put it this way. I don’t know what you make out of this racket, but it can’t be much. There are plenty of jobs a fella like you can do, and make better money. Why don’t you get wise? Tell me who this client is and put yourself in the clear. I know all about this secrecy guarantee of yours. That’s a bit of shop window dressing, and all right as far as it goes, but you didn’t intend it to cover murder. All right, if you withdraw the guarantee, maybe you’ll have to close down. So what? That would be better and safer than being caught with an accessory rap, wouldn’t it? Come on, tell me who she is and I’ll see you right.’
‘You can’t expect me to know every woman in town who wears a diamond necklace,’ I said. ‘I’ve no idea who she is. Sorry, Captain, you have the wrong angle about this.’
Brandon laid down his cigar. His face tightened and he stared at me with hot, angry eyes.
‘Is that your last word?’
‘I guess so,’ I said, easing myself out of the chair. ‘If I could help you I would, but I can’t. I have to run along now, unless there’s anything else I can do for you.’
‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Well, we’ll see. From now on, watch your step. The next time you come in here you won’t get out so fast, and you’ll have a talk with my wrecking crew. We have lots of ways of softening up a punk like you.’
‘I guess that’s right,’ I said, drifting towards the door. ‘And there are lots of ways of getting a Captain of Police shifted out of office, Brandon. Don’t forget that.’
He looked suddenly as if he were going to rupture an artery. His face swelled up and turned a dusky crimson, and the pebbly eyes caught fire.
‘One step out of turn, Malloy, and in you come!’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘Just one step out of turn!’
‘Aw, go polish your badge!’ I said and went out, slamming the door behind me.
Chapter Three
I
Olaf’s gymnasium was in the basement of a block of offices on Princes Street, the East Side district of Orchid City. To get to it you went down a flight of well-worn stone steps, along a narrow, dimly lit passage, at the far end of which was a large wooden sign that read: Boxing Academy. Prop: Olaf Kruger.
The smell of perspiration and resin, the rhythmic sound of leather-covered fists thudding on punch-bags, the shuffling of feet on the canvas floor, and the peculiar snorting boxers make when exercising greeted me as I pushed open the double swing doors.
Beyond the doors was a vast room equipped with every conceivable athletic apparatus, dozens of light and heavy punch-bags, two full-sized rings, lit by powerful overhead lights, and all the other paraphernalia needed by professional fighters.
A thick fog of tobacco-smoke hung in the hot, sweaty atmosphere, and a big crowd of men stood around one of the rings watching a negro pounding the regular sparring partner who had been with Olaf as long as I could remember. A number of other boxers were dotted around the outer edges of the room, either slamming away at a punch-bag or skipping or shadow boxing; getting themselves into shape for the end-of-the-week fights Olaf staged at the Athletic Club.
I made my way across the room towards Olaf’s office.
‘Hello there, Vic.’
Hughson, the Herald sports writer, pushed his way out of the crowd around the ring and caught hold of my arm.
‘Hello there, yourself,’ I said.
Hughson was a tall, lean, cynical-looking bird, going bald, with liverish bags under his eyes and tobacco ash spread over his coat front. His sweat-stained hat rested on the back of his head, and a damp, dead cigar grew out of his big mouth.
‘You want to get a load of this, Vic,’ he said, waving towards the ring. ‘This nigger’s going to de-gut Hunter. You’d better get on to him before the odds shorten.’ His sharp little eyes dwelt on the bruise on my neck and he was sufficiently interested to remove his cigar and point with it.
‘Say, who’s been kicking you in the crop?’
‘Look, pal, go back to your nigger and leave me alone,’ I said. ‘Is Olaf around?’
‘In his office.’ He continued to eye the bruise wistfully. ‘Any new dope on the killing, Vic?’ he went on: ‘It’s my bet that crum Leadbetter did the job. He’s always crawling around those dunes like a goddamn snake, spying on couples.’ His yellowish face lengthened. ‘He once spied on me. Jay-sus! What a scare he gave me! I thought he was her husband.’