Black Mask (Vol. 18, No. 11 — January 1936)

Fan Dance by Frederick Nebel

Kennedy, like a stick of dynamite, is all right if left alone; but when they start throwing him around — bango!

The Summit Arms stands on the northeast corner of Summit Avenue and Pencil Street, in the West End of Richmond City. This intersection is the highest point in the city and from the top, the tenth floor of the Arms, you can on clear nights see the harbor lights or the Night Express crossing the Eastmarsh Bridge.

It was a clear night and Osborne, gazing through the casement window on the tenth floor, saw the Night Express cross the bridge. He checked his watch with it. Ten-ten. Right. His butler, who had left him a moment before, returned now ushering in Kennedy of the Free Press, and then departed.

Osborne said, “Hello, Kennedy,” without removing his eyes from the moving lights of the Night Express.

Kennedy, rubbing his chilled hands together, came over to stand beside Osborne. The reporter looked pale and faded in his rumpled suit. The Special Prosecutor was a big man, with amiable shaggy brows, hard padded cheeks, big hands with square-ended fingers. He was in slippers and velvet housecoat and pulled on a triangular cigar. He was fifty, but his eyes were youthful and blue and shrewd.

“Help yourself to a drink, Kennedy.”

Kennedy watched the Night Express vanish back of the packing houses, then crossed to a table and poured out some rye. He said, “Flannery’d like a statement before he puts the edition to bed,” and downed the drink.

“On what?” Osborne said casually, turning and going to a wing-chair, where he sat down and propped his heels on a footstool.

Kennedy shrugged. “You know as well as I do, Dan. The Carioca Club.”

“H’m,” mused Osborne.

“The bad news has reached a climax. We’re running a statement by Howard Gilcrist, Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce. He wonders why you closed down sixteen night spots in the past two weeks and omitted to close down the Carioca Club. He doesn’t think it’s an oversight, because you’ve been prodded on this twice before. He found out that you and Marty Sullivan, the owner of the Carioca, went to school together out in Detroit. He claims you’re not closing the Carioca because Marty Sullivan knows things about you that you wouldn’t want publicly known. Would you like to read his statement?”

“Yeah.”

Kennedy handed him a typewritten sheet of foolscap. Osborne read it from beginning to end in silence, without a move, without any change of expression. When he had finished he folded the sheet of paper neatly and returned it.

“Thanks,” he said. He rose and went to the window and put one hand against the wall and leaned there straight-armed. He nibbled on his lip, his eyelids widening and narrowing. “You’re going to print that, of course,” he said.

“Have to,” said Kennedy.

“Of course,” nodded Osborne.

Kennedy said reasonably, “Gilcrist’s right. And he’s a damned sight more polite about it than a lot of other people. Down in Jockey Street they’re saying it’s just plain lack of insides — you’re afraid of Marty Sullivan.”

“Yeah?” said Osborne, squinting at the harbor lights. He turned to Kennedy and smiled and said again, “Yeah?” There was a certain glitter in his smile that was puzzling. “Let’s see; tonight’s Friday. Isn’t it some kind of ‘big night’ there?”

Kennedy nodded. “Visiting Salesmen’s Night. Every Friday night it’s something else.”

Osborne went to the phone, picked it up. “Yes, Kennedy; I went to school with Marty Sullivan, in a little town outside of Detroit. I used to be a kind of big brother to Marty. Used to fight his fights... well, he was a little guy. I used to lend him pennies, then nickels; and as I grew older, dollars. I saved his life twice as a boy. When I was admitted to the bar, I hung out my shingle in Detroit. He was my first case. I won it. He’d been driving a milk route then and had got tight and blown in all the money he collected on his route. I got him out of that... Operator, give me Police Headquarters... Yes, Kennedy, I’ve known Marty a long, long time. There was always something about the little runt you couldn’t help liking... Headquarters? This is Dan Osborne. Give me Mac-Bride... Steve, this is Dan Osborne. Run around and close up the Carioca... Tonight. Make it at about eleven, when his show’s on, just for fun.”

He hung up, sighed bitterly. “There’s your statement, Kennedy.”

“Which picture would you like us to use?”

“Better use Marty’s. He was always nuts about publicity.” Osborne knocked the ash from his cigar. He looked morose, preoccupied. He kept flicking the cigar long after the ash had fallen.

The police sedan was hiking down Center Avenue at a lively clip. It passed a trolley car on the wrong side, ran through a safety zone, jumped a red light, and cut the inside of the corner going into North Jockey Street.

MacBride, sitting in the back with Moriarity and Cohen, said, “Gahagan, if you got to bust every traffic law that was ever made, why don’t you at least use the siren? I haven’t heard a peep out of it.”

“Ah,” yawned Cohen, “he don’t like to wake people up.”

Moriarity said, “No, Ike; he’s just bashful. He don’t want everybody to know it’s a police car.”

“Youse is all wrong,” laughed Gahagan coarsely. “I ain’t blowing the siren because there ain’t no siren.”

“There ain’t no siren?” echoed Mac-Bride.

Gahagan said, “Didn’t Sergeant Bettdecken tell youse? Ha,” chortled Gahagan, “somebody stole the siren this evening while the car was parked in front of Headquarters. Ha, ha!”

MacBride growled, “If you weren’t at the wheel of this car, you jackass, I’d kick you in the ear. Last week no lights. The week before no spare tire. This week no siren—”

“Next week, maybe,” said Cohen, “no Gahagan.”

Gahagan sulked and gunned the car hard down Jockey Street. The animated lights of the Carioca bloomed at the bottom of the hill. Cars were parked for blocks around and there were a couple of cops on duty out front. The captain’s sedan stopped. The skipper got out and watched the squad car draw up behind. Sergeant Holtzmann climbed out with a flock of uniformed policemen.

The big Negro doorman of the Carioca craned his neck and began to look worried. The taxicab drivers hanging around began talking among themselves.

The skipper said to Sergeant Holtzmann, “Okey, Rudy. Send a man up to Lark Street and another down to Vickers. Cut traffic out of Jockey between those streets, so we can clean these cars out in a hurry. Detail three men to move these cars quick. You run things outside, and don’t let anybody go in the Carioca.” He looked up. “Here come the two wagons. If anybody gets nasty, pile ’em in and we’ll dump ’em later.”

“Right, Cap’n.”

MacBride raised his voice: “Ike... Mory!”

“Yowssuh.”

“Come with me,” he said, and picked six more cops.

He picked up the two cops who were standing in front of the entrance. “We’re clamping down, boys. You come in with us.”

Plain-clothed Sergeant Doake, from the local precinct, touched MacBride on the arm and said, “What kind of a runaround is this?”

“What’s eating you, Bennie?”

“Slamming down on Sullivan, I mean. What’s the idea? I mean, on a Friday night. Marty’ll be sore as a boil.”

“I told that little Mick a week ago to go slow. I told him to yank off this fan dancer, or put some clothes on her. I warned him. I warned him that Dan Osborne might put the finger on him any minute.”

“But, hell, Cap’n, why didn’t you phone him?”

“Bennie, I warned him that when I came around it’d be with bells on.”

The skipper opened his overcoat, looked at his watch. It was exactly eleven. “Let’s go,” he said. He was the first through the door.

The Carioca was jammed. There must have been five hundred persons there. The lights were dimmed in the vast room and there was a milky blue spotlight trained on the small, semicircular stage. This fan dancer had taken the town by storm, not only because of her ability as a dancer and a shocker but also because she had succeeded in keeping her identity hidden. Her slender body was covered with a kind of platinum grease paint. Her face was like a Benda mask — unsmiling, immobile. The traps were rolling, the knocking sound of the gourds was electrifying. The dance was pagan, voluptuous. It was spellbinding. There was not a sound among the five hundred persons seated at the hundred-odd tables.

MacBride tapped the hat-check girl on the shoulder. She turned. He held up his hand and in its palm his badge shone.

“Where’s the master switch?” he said.

She stared at him. He gripped her arm, shook her. Frightened, she led him to a door that opened on a small corridor. The switches were in the corridor.

“Bright lights,” he said.

She hesitated, her hand resting on one of the levers. He reached up and pulled the lever and he could see a white glare spring into the lobby. He heard the music falter. He heard small, scattered sounds of astonishment. The music dribbled away. There were running footsteps and these culminated in the appearance of Jaeger, the head waiter — an angry, purpling man.

MacBride blocked him at the corridor entrance, pushed him back into the lobby. “Padlock, Jaeger. Go make your little speech. Tell ’em all to leave quietly.”

Jaeger looked incredulous. He spouted, “What’s the meaning of this? You can’t do this!”

“I know, I know, Jaeger. You’re surprised. I didn’t warn Marty a week ago. I know, I know—”

“This... this is our biggest night!” choked Jaeger.

“Tough. Go make your speech.”

Jaeger’s fat jaw shook. “I’ve got to see Marty first.”

MacBride gripped his arm. “Skip that. Do as I tell you, Jaeger, and don’t be a dummy.”

The sounds of confusion were growing. The waiters were skittering around. Some of the people had risen and were shouting questions. The fan dancer had vanished. There was an air of frustration, of anger. Some began to clap hands, to stamp feet. Chairs scraped.

Jaeger’s jaw still shook. He refused to move.

Moriarity walked into the ornate bar and said to the head barman, “Close it up, pal. Lights out.”

“Yeah?” said the head barman.

“Honest,” said Moriarity.

“I take orders from Mr. Sullivan.”

Ike Cohen came in and said, “What’s the matter, Mory?”

“Big boy says he takes orders only from Mr. Sullivan.”

Ike said, “One, two—”

“Three,” said Moriarity, and they dragged the barman across the bar, slapped manacles on him.

“I’ll turn the lights out,” said the assistant barman.

“You catch on, brother,” Cohen grinned.

The uniformed cops began to circulate in the main room. MacBride, his hands in his overcoat pockets, walked hard-heeled down the center of the room, crossed the dance-floor and climbed to the stage.

He said in a loud voice, “Everybody clear out. The place is closed by order of the police. Please go quietly.”

“Nuts to the police!” somebody yelled.

Angry voices hummed, surged, broke in a wave. The uniformed cops stood motionless, scattered, saying, “Clear out, clear out.”

Somebody threw a bottle. It bounced off the head of Patrolman Mariano, who promptly sat down on the floor. The other cops did not move; their hands tightened on their nightsticks but they did not move. Mariano got up slowly.

“Take it easy, Tony,” another cop said.

The women were querulous, insulting. MacBride stood on the stage, his hands on his hips, his nose in the air, his eyes flicking the vast room. Bread, meat, potatoes were thrown at the policemen. Oaths rose. The cops remained motionless; they kept throwing glances at the skipper. He watched. He yelled:

“Come on, come on; clear out!”

Moriarity came up to him. “I can’t find Sullivan.”

“Look again.”

Dan Osborne, in overcoat and derby, walked out on the stage, smiled. “Hello, Steve,” he said to MacBride. “Having trouble?”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Oh, I came in the back way.”

“Did you see Marty?”

Osborne was still smiling. “No,” he said.

Somebody was squirting a siphon at Patrolman Shotz. Patrolman Shotz, cursing under his breath, took it, while his eyes strayed hopefully to MacBride.

A man yelled. “There he is! There’s Osborne! Let him have it!”

“Duck, Dan!” MacBride rasped.

“Not me, skipper.”

A flung bottle brought him down.

MacBride, who had seen the thrower, jumped from the stage, barked, “Okey, boys — the mop!” and made a bee-line for a tall, blond man who was crowing to his companions, “Did you see me crown him?”

MacBride kicked three chairs out of the way, said, “Yeah, we saw you, sweety pie,” and hit him a terrific blow on the chin. The man folded up like a folding chair and lay down. MacBride rapped out, “You other guys bail out! Beat it!”

The nightsticks were chopping. The women were yelping, screaming. One of the cops cut loose with the tear gas. Tables spun over, crockery crashed.

Kennedy was strolling about idly, wandering magically among blows and flung objects that never touched him. MacBride ran into him.

“How’d you get in?” the skipper barked.

“With Dan Osborne. Lively, isn’t it?”

“Go up and see if Dan’s hurt. He’s on the stage.” A glass crashed against his shoulder. He looked disgusted. He reached up and stopped in mid-career a water carafe that otherwise would have knocked Kennedy flat. “Go on, Kennedy; get out of this before you get killed.”

Ike Cohen appeared saying, “I’m damned if I can find Marty Sullivan.”

The tear gas was a great persuader. The crowd began streaming towards the door, leaving behind it a wasteland of broken chairs, crockery, glass, foodstuff. The cops bunched together and herded the crowd out into the street and in a little while only MacBride, Moriarity and Cohen, Kennedy and Dan Osborne remained. Jaeger appeared in a moment, white with rage.

“Look what you done, look what you done!” he choked. “Just look at the place. A wreck!”

“Where’s Marty?” the skipper asked.

“How do I know? He was here when the show started. Look, just look at the place! This is an outrage—”

“Yoo-hoo,” called Kennedy from the opposite side of the room. “Come over and see what I found.”

MacBride strode across the littered dance-floor to where Kennedy was standing. A man lay on the floor against the wall, his body twisted awkwardly, his hard white collar rumpled. His face was discolored. Near him was a narrow doorway, open.

The skipper muttered, “Good cripes!” and dropped to his knees. When he rose he lifted his chin and called out, “Hey, Dan!”

Osborne came slowly across the floor, holding a handkerchief to a cut on his forehead.

MacBride was pointing. “Marty Sullivan.”

“Passed out?” Osborne asked negligently.

“Passed out complete,” the skipper said. “Dead.”

Osborne stopped. He stared down at Sullivan with blue, expressionless eyes. He patted the cut on his forehead absent-mindedly.

“Choked to death,” the skipper said.

“H’m,” Osborne mused.

“He must have been choked before the fighting started,” Cohen said. “Because I never saw him — not once.”

“Me neither,” Moriarity said.

MacBride stared towards the door. “Something like this would have to happen,” he growled. “And everybody that was sitting around here is now gone out — including the guy that choked him. As sure as we’re standing here the opposition press will claim a cop did it. Mark me, fellas; mark me.”

Jaeger was shaking all over. His fat hand rose to his lips, his eyes bulged as he stared down at Sullivan.

MacBride went backstage, where half a dozen girls and as many men were sitting around under the uncompromising eye of a policeman.

“Where’s the fan dancer?” the skipper asked.

“She musta breezed,” the policeman said. He pointed. “That there is her room. The door was locked and I busted it down but she wasn’t in there.”

MacBride entered the room. A rear window was open and he stuck his head out and saw an alleyway. He returned to the group outside the door.

“Who is this fan dancer?”

One of the girls said, “Ask Mr. Sullivan. He’s the only one who knows.”

MacBride chuckled ironically, bit the end off a three-cent cigar, lit up.

The repercussion was greater than anyone expected. The opposition press, egged on by the Liberal League and insurgent political cliques, exploded; and the backwash was pretty devastating. The Mayor came in for a drubbing for having appointed Dan Osborne to the post of Special Prosecutor in the Chief Executive’s vice drive. Osborne himself came in for a merciless hammering. The police were roundly criticized, from the Commissioner down. It came out in the newspapers that Marty Sullivan had been beaten and strangled to death by brutal policemen...

MacBride himself issued a statement denying this charge. He stated that his men had endured all kinds of insults and been at the mercy of the mob for ten minutes before a nightstick was wielded or tear gas unleashed. The opposition press was full of statements of persons who had been in the Carioca when the police raided it. Every statement was a hot indictment of the police and of the way the raid was handled. Some threatened court action. No one had actually seen a policeman choke Marty Sullivan to death but since all the statements enumerated acts of brutality on the part of the officers the opposition press felt free to assume that Sullivan had died as a result of an act of police brutality.

City Hall was in an uproar. Committee after committee called on the Mayor. Naturally there had to be lambs for this slaughter. The buck had to be passed. Some palliative had to be given to the outraged opposition press, to the Liberal League, to the political insurgents.

MacBride was suspended for thirty days without pay. The order stated that when he returned to duty it would be as acting captain in some outlying precinct. Moriarity and Cohen were removed from Headquarters to the Ninth Precinct. Every policeman who had taken part in the raid was farmed out to various precincts. The shake-up jarred the whole Department. Captain George Danno, formerly of the Alien Squad, moved into MacBride’s office.

“I’m not going to like this job, Steve,” he said.

MacBride was bitter, hard-jawed. “I’ve been taken for a ride, George! I’m the goat! There’s an awful boner somewhere and Marty Sullivan was murdered and those crackpots are so anxious to fry me that they forget all about that — they forget that Marty Sullivan was murdered! Okey, I’m suspended. I’ve been a cop almost thirty years and I’m suspended. I ought to’ve been kicked in the head the first day I ever put on a uniform. I’m suspended. Okey, I’m suspended. Almost thirty years a cop and because a lot of lousy drunks in a honkytonk start throwing things so fast that a cop has to defend himself—” He threw up his arms and glared at George Danno. “What the hell are cops supposed to be anyhow — part of a daisy chain? This city reeks to high heaven, George!”

Danno looked gloomy. “I know just how you feel, Steve. I only hope I can do half as well here as you’ve done.”

MacBride punched him in the ribs. “Hell, George, you’re the tops.”

Flannery of the Free Press said, “This is funny, it’s really screwy. Here a guy is ostensibly murdered and all the yelling seems to be about something else. About City Hall and the Special Prosecutor and Steve MacBride, with a generous history, not complimentary, of City Hall and the Police Department thrown in. If it makes sense, if it even makes news — then I’m a punk editor.”

“I would never argue with you,” Kennedy said dreamily.

“I wasn’t talking to you. I was thinking out loud. I told you years ago that one day MacBride would go a step too far and get himself a Bronx cheer, with trimmings.”

Kennedy yawned. “The skipper is a big bull-headed mutt. He’s got a one-track mind and he thinks that shield he wears is another kind of bible. It never occurs to him to walk around a tree, he’s got to batter his head against it. To him the law, my friend, is the law: good, bad, or indifferent; it’s the law. He carries it out as strictly on himself as on any heel that he picks up. Sometimes I think he’s goofy. I don’t approve of his outlook on life, his foolhardy honesty, his blind loyalty to his shield. But I like him. He’s probably the best friend I’ve got. That being the case” — he rose wearily, a spare shadow of a man, frail, emaciated — “something’s got to be done about conditions in Denmark. They seem to be particularly dirty. Would you have a drink in that desk of yours?”

“I would not.”

“You would not, of course. If I ever saw a bottle come out of that desk I’d swear it was a mirage. Toodle-oo.”

“Where you going?”

“To investigate conditions in Denmark.”

Flannery barked, “Be sure to keep your name and address on you, in case you pass out drunk somewhere, so they’ll know where to take you.”

Kennedy shivered as he stepped into the bitter wind that slammed down Hill Street. The threadbare light topcoat he wore was hardly adequate for midwinter weather. His shoes were low, thin; his socks silk. His suit had been intended for spring. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the money; he just never got around to buying things for himself.

When he reached Dan Osborne’s office, in the Municipal Building, he was jittery with the cold and his skinny hands were almost blue. The office was warm. Dan Osborne looked warm and comfortable in a gray herringbone suit. He was leaning on his elbows on the desk — a neat, well-groomed, healthy-looking man, amiable as always, even when he was worried. He puffed a triangular cigar.

Kennedy sat down on a radiator. Osborne had not spoken; he had evidently been following a line of thought, and though his eyes greeted Kennedy familiarly, he did not utter a word for several minutes. Finally he sat back, shrugged, smiled ruefully.

“I got Steve MacBride in a nice jam, didn’t I, Kennedy?”

“I don’t think he figures you did.”

Osborne’s large, well-packed face looked grave. He said, “I did all I could, Kennedy. I talked with the Mayor, with the Commissioner. I offered to resign if they’d keep the ax off Steve’s head.” He shook his head. “They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Kennedy smiled. “The Mayor couldn’t afford to do that. He appointed you. He couldn’t lose face by kicking you out. He didn’t appoint MacBride. Hence... MacBride.”

“I suppose so,” Osborne sighed. “You don’t think Sullivan was accidentally killed by a cop, do you?”

Kennedy said, “Sullivan wasn’t accidentally killed and he wasn’t killed by Steve’s flying squad. I was there about a minute before the cops cut loose. I didn’t see Marty anywhere. If Marty was alive then he’d have been on his feet. He wasn’t alive. He was dead then. Up till then, up until the time Steve turned the bright lights on, the place was practically in darkness, except for the stage. Everybody’s eyes were glued on the fan dancer.

“We know now that Marty Sullivan was alone at the table. The table was against the wall, the chair he was sitting on was next to that door that leads back to his office and the men’s lavatory. Somebody could have stepped through the door. The drums and the gourds were pretty loud. Somebody could have stepped through that door and throttled him then, while the music was loud, while everybody was watching the fan dancer.”

Osborne’s blue eyes were fixed intently on Kennedy; they remained so fixed for a moment after Kennedy had finished talking.

Kennedy went on: “You and I went in the back way. We got in about five minutes before Steve turned the bright lights on. I left you and went up front to see the thing break. You said you wanted to stay back to get a close-up of the fan dancer when she came off the stage.”

He said no more. He got off the radiator and rubbed his hands together and stared dreamily at the floor. Osborne never took his eyes off him. There was a peculiar quality to the silence that ensued for a long minute. Then Kennedy took a rumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

He said. “Why, Dan, did you really hold off raiding the Carioca until you absolutely had to?”

Osborne sat back and seemed depressed. “Marty,” he said. “I told him several times to cut out the undressed shows and especially the fan dancer. He laughed at me. He never took me seriously. I was trying to give him a break. He thought it was fun to goad me, I guess. He was that kind of a guy.”

“No other reason, huh?”

Osborne looked up, smiled blandly. “Of course not.”

Kennedy inhaled. “This thing might break Steve’s heart,” he said. “As far as I know, he’s never had a mark against him. He’s a proud guy. So proud that sometimes he’s funny. I don’t approve of a guy being as proud as he is, but he’s that way, and that’s that. Sullivan was murdered. The fan dancer disappears. She doesn’t show up. There’s a connection. Got to be. Between her and the murder of Marty Sullivan. If the opposition press keeps hammering long enough, everybody’ll believe that the cops actually killed Sullivan. They didn’t. I know they didn’t. I hate to have to prove it, it entails too much work, but I guess I’ll have to. Not because I want any glory. Hell, I hate guys who want glory. I hate work. I hate to have to prove things. But I’ve got to. They’ve railroaded the skipper and—”

The door opened and Lakeman, one of Osborne’s field men, appeared red-nosed from the cold outdoors, and excited.

“Later, Sam,” Osborne clipped. “I’m in conference.”

Lakeman was breathless: “But I—”

“Later, I said!”

Lakeman looked confused, injured. He shrugged and backed out, closing the door.

Osborne said, “Lakeman’s enthusiasm sometimes runs away with him. I’m inclined to believe with you, Kennedy, that Marty was murdered. If you can prove it, they’ll have to reinstate MacBride — because they suspended him on the premise that Marty was accidentally killed when MacBride let his men get out of hand. Good luck. And on your way out tell Lakeman to come in.”

Kennedy took a cab to the South Side. He rode huddled in the back seat, half-asleep, his body jolting as the cab jolted. When he got out of the cab in Trumpet Street he fumbled sleepily in his pockets, brought a couple of bills out and gave one to the driver. He tipped a dime and, yawning and shivering, climbed the steps of the old brownstone and was let in by the superintendent.

“Where’s Mr. Jaeger’s apartment?”

“On the second floor. Number Six.”

Kennedy climbed slowly, his head between his huddled shoulders, and knocked on the door of Number Six. It was opened after a couple of minutes by the head waiter of the Carioca. Jaeger was in a bathrobe. His eyes were bloodshot, his fat face pasty, his stringy hair uncombed.

“What do you want, what do you want?” he asked irritably.

“I’m Kennedy from the Free Press. I want to talk to you.”

“Listen, I don’t want to talk to anybody. I’m sick. I got a headache and a bellyache and I’m sick. Go ’way.”

“What you need is a drink. I need one, too.”

“What do you want?”

“Talk to you.”

“Listen, I told you I don’t want to talk to you. Why should I have to talk to people when I got a headache and a bellyache? Go ’way.”

Kennedy stepped on his slippered foot and Jaeger yelped and teetered and Kennedy walked in saying, “And don’t strike me, because I’m undernourished and you might kill me.”

Jaeger, bulky and ungainly in his bathrobe, looked angry and vexed. Kennedy strolled past him into a large, clean, shabby living-room and saw a woman sitting on a straight-backed chair smoking a cigarette. She was stout, fifty-odd, with a swell head of red hair, painted lips, and she wore a mink coat, open and thrown back.

She said to Jaeger, “Who’s the nasty man, Hermie?”

“He’s one of those damned newspaper guys,” Jaeger crabbed.

“The name, madam, is Kennedy. And yours?”

“Lady Godiva.”

“I thought she was a blonde and rode a horse, or maybe the horse was blond.”

“He’s a wise guy, too,” observed the woman, steely-eyed.

Kennedy said, “I’m just a poor scrivener.”

“If scrivener means scarecrow, you’re it, except that I’ve seen more attractive scarecrows in my time. So sorry to have you go. You must drop by again sometime when nobody’s home, laddy.”

Kennedy calmly turned his back on her and addressed Jaeger: “Where was the last place you saw Marty Sullivan before the cops arrived?”

Jaeger looked miserable. “Now listen, buddy. I got a headache, see? My head is near to bust, see? I got a bellyache, too. I feel lousy.”

“Where was Marty?”

Jaeger held his head between his hands and groaned. “Where he always was, I guess. At the table he was always at. How do I know? I was busy.”

“The table where we found him dead?”

“Sure. Sure. Listen, buddy—”

“Then he always sat at the table, eh?”

Jaeger rocked his head in his hands. “Sure — sure he did, when he wasn’t nowhere else. How do I know? Can I be ten places at the one time? Oh, my head — what a head I got — Ooo, what a head I got! Listen — please do me a favor — go somewheres else.”

Kennedy sat down.

Jaeger shook a finger at him. “If you don’t, I... I will! I can’t stand to be annoyed this morning. Not with this head I got.”

Kennedy said, “Calm yourself. I’m trying to find out who killed Marty Sullivan.”

“Ah, you’re trying to find out! Now ain’t that something!”

“You,” said the woman to Kennedy, “don’t look as if you could find your way home, even with a map. Why don’t you throw him out, Hermie?”

Jaeger sobbed, “Me — with my head — I should throw anybody out? No. No. No! It’d jar my head right off, Emmy.” He groaned and fled into another room, slamming the door.

Emmy said, “See here, half-pint, why don’t you take the air? They say fresh air is healthy and you don’t look as if a little fresh air would hurt you. Hermie’s got a hangover.”

“And I’ve got a yen to ask him things,” Kennedy said, rising and drifting towards the closed door.

Emmy jumped up and got in his way. She was a big woman. In her day, she must have been handsome, with that head of hair. But her eyes were too much like steel now, her mouth too hard.

“Get out,” she said.

“Sit down and tend to your knitting.”

“I never knit. Get out. Hermie’s got a hangover.”

“Please—”

“You don’t have to be polite, laddy. Pick up your dogs and shuffle.”

He started to brush her negligently aside. She doubled her fist and let him have it flush on the jaw. He reeled backward, tripped and fell flat on his back. She jumped after him, grabbed him by the back of the collar, dragged him across the floor, opened the corridor door and then dragged him to the head of the staircase. Saying, “This is called the shoot-the-chute,” she started him headlong down the staircase, turned and went back into the apartment.

He lay for minutes in the hallway below, thinking things over. Then he got painfully to his feet, opened the hall door and went outside. He stood for a minute in the wind, shivering, his teeth knocking. A cab came along and he flagged it and said, “Go to the Carioca Club.”

They had closed, padlocked the Carioca, daylight its façade looked tarnished, drab, and the street itself was no beauty spot. The shutters had been closed, the canvas marquee removed.

Kennedy leaned against a pole across the street, eying the building as though he hoped to wring some secret from its yellow brick walls. There was no evidence of anyone being about. The building yawned with desertion. After a while he turned up his collar, crossed the street and followed the service alley-way to the rear of the building, to a square cindered yard. There were a dozen garbage drums lined up, waiting to be removed. He tried a couple of windows but they were locked. He tried a couple of doors. They were locked also. He blew his breath into his cold hands, drummed his cold feet. He tried a third door and almost fell down when it swung inward at his touch. Instead of entering immediately, he remained on the threshold, pondering. Then he stepped in, closed the door quietly.

He was in a small room and there were half a dozen battered easy chairs standing around. There was a phone on the wall and against the wall a table littered with magazines. A door leading from this room was ajar. He sauntered through it and into a narrower room fitted with rods and coat hangers and on some of these hangers there were ballet dresses. There was daylight, but it was dim, feeble.

Suddenly he found himself on the small stage, with the vast sweep of the main dining-room before him. A rectangular skylight admitted light but could not dispel the gloom of the place. Wreckage was still scattered all over the dance floor. Nothing apparently had been removed, or even straightened. The inside of the building was, without the aid of incandescents, more drab than the outside.

Taking his time, he crossed the dance-floor to the table at which Marty Sullivan had died. He stepped into the narrow doorway there, reached out to the point where the chair on which Sullivan had sat still stood. He nodded to himself, then entered the corridor which gave off the doorway. He followed this rearward to a point outside the dressing-room, where he remembered he had left Dan Osborne.

There was an L in the corridor and he took it, feeling his way now, for no daylight penetrated here. He stopped short when small sounds came to his ears. He did not move for a full two minutes. The sounds were nearby, small, unsteady, erratic. With his fingertips feeling along the wall, he proceeded. Suddenly he was in front of an open doorway and saw beyond, in a small room, a glowing flashlight aimed downward on a littered desk. A small hand, white-gloved, was scattering papers to left and right.

A woman’s hand. He could tell that she was slender. Vagrant offshoots of the flashlight’s glow showed him, intermittently, a young woman’s face, lean, desperate-lipped. A cloth coat of some dark red material with a thick fur collar. On her head, cocked over one eye, a moderated shako. She was, he thought, very good-looking in a strange, black-eyed, desperate way.

He did not enter the room. He did not make his presence known. Slowly, step by step, he backed up, then turned and made his way cautiously back to the main corridor. He left by the door through which he had entered the building, walked to the street and entered a bar a few doors away. He ordered rye and stood at the front end of the bar, where he could see the alleyway of the Carioca.

“The cops sure mopped that place up across the street,” the bartender said.

“Yeah,” said Kennedy.

“The bums.”

“Yeah.”

“But I see they got theirs. That flat-foot MacBride, too.”

“Yeah.”

“Ever since I’m a kid I have got no use for cops. They’re bums.”

Kennedy threw a half-dollar on the bar, picked up the fifteen cents in change and watched the girl in the black shako walk past. She looked lean, lithe, muscular. He opened the door and drifted into the street and followed her, though you would never have guessed he was following anybody. Though she walked rapidly he could tell that she was watching for a cab. One came along, but he was nearer, so he grabbed it. There were not many cabs afield in this neighborhood.

Kennedy said to the driver, “I’m going to get off at the next block. Make a right turn and stop. The girl in the funny hat we just passed is looking for a cab. She’ll see you parked there and probably want to get in. When she gives you the address, say you’re hired.”

“Nix. It ain’t legal.”

Kennedy showed him his press card. “How’d you like to get your picture in the paper and a notice saying you’re the most polite driver in the city?”

“Was that the dame we just passed?”

There was a cigar store on the corner and Kennedy, leaving the cab, went in to get a deck of cigarettes. Through the glass door he saw the girl approach the cab, pull open the cab’s door and say something to the driver. The driver shrugged. The girl made an impatient gesture and walked on. Kennedy went out.

The driver said, “Six-fourteen Westland.”

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Six-fourteen Westland.”

The cab swung around in the middle of the street end headed westward through the city, skirting the untidy hem of Little Italy. Fifteen minutes later it wheeled into Westland, in the two-hundred block. As it pulled up, four blocks beyond, in front of the Somerset Home, Kennedy saw Dan Osborne come out of the doorway, cross the sidewalk and climb into a Ford coupe, which he drove off.

The Somerset was an old hotel that had been refurbished during the past year. It was second-rate, showy, with a popular coffee shop and a rowdy bar. A lot of traveling men stopped there. The rates were low, the hotel was convenient to the trolley lines, buses, and the shopping center, and it had a lot of sample rooms. It did a thriving business.

“Well, this must be six-fourteen,” the driver said, squinting. “I wonder why the hell she didn’t just say the Somerset.”

“You sure you got the number right?”

“Sure I got the number. I pride meself on gettin’ numbers right.”

Kennedy climbed out, paid up and meandered into the garish lobby. He was still puzzled about Osborne. Not that Osborne didn’t have a right to come in or go out of the Somerset; but under the circumstances...

Kennedy shrugged. He considered the possibility of snatching a drink, but the bar was downstairs, at the other end of the lobby, and he gave up the idea. He placed himself just inside the main entrance, and when, five minutes later, he saw the girl alight from a cab he crossed to the desk, showed his press card and said:

“Is Benedictine Krause, the actress, stopping here?”

“Benedictine Krause?” the clerk asked, puzzled.

“She’s that new Alsatian actress. I heard she was in town. I’m trying to find out where she’s staying.”

“I never heard of Benedictine Krause.”

“Sorry,” said Kennedy, and turning leisurely, broke open a packet of cigarettes.

The girl in the black shako came up to the panel beside the desk and picked up one of three house phones. Kennedy heard her say:

“Mr. Webb, please.” And in a moment: “Joel?... Inez. Listen, Joel,” she said in a taut, fearful voice, “I didn’t find it... Yes, everywhere... Everywhere, I tell you!... I’m down here in the lobby... I just came from there... No, no, Joel! I tell you I looked everywhere! There’s no use talking over the phone this way. I’ll come up... But I must see you!... Well, all right... All right... But make sure you call me.”

Kennedy walked out to the sidewalk, drew a cigarette out of the packet he had opened and stood on the curb lighting up in the wind. The girl almost brushed his shoulder.

“Go to nine-ten Waterford,” she said to the driver of the cab parked there.

Kennedy tossed away the match and reentered the lobby and strolled up to the desk.

The clerk said, “I just asked one of the operators if she ever heard of Benedictine Krause and she said no.”

“Well, look,” said Kennedy. “You have a Joel Webb stopping here, haven’t you?”

The clerk referred to his card index, said, “Yes.”

“Ah,” said Kennedy, rubbing his hands. “That’s the man was supposed to have brought her to America. I knew him when I was covering the shows in New York. I’ll surprise him. What room’s he in?”

The clerk grinned. “Five-o-five.”

Kennedy winked. “Mum’s the word.”

“Mum’s the word,” nodded the clerk, also winking.

Mr. Joel Webb was a long-legged young man with crisp brown hair, impetuous blue eyes, and a small but determined mouth. He looked upset, harried, but by no means abject. His neck was lean, wiry, his chin aggressive.

“Well?” he demanded of Kennedy, who drowsed in the doorway.

“I’ve got something very important to tell you, Mr. Webb.”

“Okey. Tell it.”

“It will take time and I wouldn’t want passersby to hear it.”

“Well,” snapped Webb, “come in then.”

Kennedy sighed pleasurably and drifted into the small bedroom and Webb closed the door, barged across the room, found a pipe and piled tobacco into the bowl. He was still upset, still harassed, and apparently more preoccupied with his own thoughts than he was interested in the presence of Kennedy. But in a minute he seemed to remember that Kennedy was in the room. He snapped:

“Well, well, come on, come on. You’ve got something to tell me. Spill it, spill it.”

Kennedy was half-reclining on the bed. “My name is Kennedy.”

“All right, your name is Kennedy. So what?”

“So this, Mr. Webb. What was Inez looking for at the Carioca about half an hour ago?”

Webb, who had struck a match and was about to light his pipe, dropped the pipe and the match.

“Better step on the match,” Kennedy recommended placidly.

Webb slapped his foot down on the burning match, put it out. His eyes bounced on Kennedy, his lips tightened, his lean jaw grew hard. He turned and strode to the window, rubbed the back of his neck. He swiveled. He leveled an arm at Kennedy and seemed all set to unleash a torrent of invective. But instantly he appeared to change his mind. He did change his mind. He came over and sat on the bed and said rapidly and in a low, earnest voice:

“Now be reasonable, Mr. Kennedy. Inez and I were at the Carioca the night the police raided it. We had to get out in a hurry. In the rush, Inez lost her handbag — a little bag — oh, you know, one of those small mesh bags.” He eyed Kennedy steadily. “You’re a broadminded man, aren’t you?”

“Very.”

“Well, look now,” Webb went on confidentially. “Inez and I went to school together. We’re old friends. I’ve been away, oh, for years, and when I came back, why, Inez was married. She’s been married for three years. To a nice guy, but” — he wagged his finger — “a very jealous guy. He’ll never let Inez see anybody, even her old friends. You understand, things between Inez and me are strictly on the level. But we went out that night.

“We went to the Carioca. She lost this handbag, with some of her cards in it. She was afraid it would be found and her husband would find out that she was there. She said she was going to try to get in the Carioca and see if she could find it. I told her not to. I told her that if the worse went to the worst, I’d explain everything to her husband. But she wouldn’t listen. She went to the Carioca to see if she could find the bag. For God’s sake, mister, don’t tell her husband. He’s a nice guy, a swell guy, only he’s jealous — and if I thought I’d make trouble for Inez, why, I’d never forgive myself.”

Kennedy sat up, scratched his ear, smiled dreamily. He rose from the bed, chuckled reflectively, and wandered to the door.

“Okey, Mr. Webb,” he said. “I believe you implicitly.”

“Gee, that’s swell of you.”

“Don’t mention it. I was just keeping an eye out on the Carioca and I saw Inez come out. No harm done. If I run across the bag, I’ll return it to you.”

Webb actually beamed. “Will you! Say, you’re a regular guy, Mr. Kennedy!”

Kennedy went down to the lobby, entered a phone booth and called Flannery at the office. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve run into something that’s worth fooling around with but I can’t be sixty-eight places at one time, so I’ll need some help... Well, I want a guy to tail a guy... Is Tucker around?... Well, send him over to the Somerset House. Pronto, baby.”

Tucker arrived ten minutes later. He was a small, slight, middle-aged man, who wore spectacles. A derby was perched high on the top of his head. He looked innocuous, simple-minded, but he was a good man on spot news and a good all-around newshawk. You would expect him to speak softly, precisely, apologetically.

He said, “Is this on the level, bozo, or is it just one of your practical jokes?”

Kennedy said, “Level as a mill pond, Tucks. I want you to tail a guy. Don’t let him out of your sight. Check every place he visits. If he tries to take a train, a plane, a boat, or a bus — have him pinched.”

“On what charge?”

“Any charge. Rough-house him, stick your watch in his pocket and then tell a cop he stole it. Anything to hold him. His name is Joel Webb. He’s stopping here. In five-o-five. Go up to the fifth corridor and float up and down. If he leaves, tail him. If he comes down while you’re on the way up, I’ll tail him and send up a bell-hop to tell you. If a hop doesn’t come in five minutes, you’ll know Webb’s still in his room. Got it?”

“Sure,” said Tucker, and took an elevator up.

Kennedy waited five minutes, then left.

The cab he rode in had a broken window and before it had gone six blocks Kennedy was chilled to the bone. He called out:

“Stop at Enrico’s.” And when the cab stopped in front of Enrico’s, in Flamingo Street: “Wait for me.”

MacBride was sitting at the bar eating ham and baked beans and drinking beer. Paderoofski, the barman, was paring his fingernails. His huge eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead and he grinned, greeted:

“Hah, Meester Kennedy, no seeing for a long time, mebbe t’ree days. Huss afry leetle t’ing?”

“Jake, Paderoofski. You’re looking tip-top.”

“Shoo, I’m alwuz top-tip. M’ wife she’s say, ‘Honey-bun, youzza top-tip, youzza da berries, youzza da coffee in m’ crim.’ Honey-bun she’s call me.”

MacBride looked sour. He muttered, “Honey-bun!”

“Shoo, Honey-bun. She’s swal nack-neem, no?”

MacBride glared at him, swallowed, went on eating.

“Rye,” said Kennedy. “And don’t mind the skipper. Somebody hit him in the face with a bottle of sour cream. Well, well, Captain MacBride! Fancy meeting you here!”

“Nuts,” said MacBride.

“How is everything at Headquarters, Stevie?”

“Nuts.”

“Still working as hard as ever?”

“Nuts.”

“Ha — nots!” laughed Paderoofski.

MacBride stabbed him with a violent stare, picked up his food and his drink and moved to the other end of the bar.

Paderoofski scratched the top of his head with the middle finger of his left hand, and wondered what he had done.

Kennedy picked up his drink and made his way amiably to the end of the bar where the skipper had gone. The skipper pointed with his fork, growled:

“Lay off, Kennedy. I feel meaner than a mad dog. I feel so mean I can’t even be civil to my wife. Now I don’t have to be civil in a public bar and I don’t intend to be. The reason why I came here was because I wouldn’t have to be civil. And I don’t want any suggestions, any sympathy, or any razz-berry. In fact, I don’t want anything — from you or anybody else. I want to be left alone. If people don’t leave me alone I’m going to punch them in the nose.”

Kennedy chuckled, downed his drink and skated the empty glass down the bar. From the doorway he saluted, saying gaily:

“Tally-ho, skippery-wippery.”

MacBride glared at him.

Number 910 Waterford was a greystone apartment house of six stories built around a small circular court which had a circular driveway. The lobby was at the back of the circle. There was no desk but there was a rack for letters and a small switchboard and a mopey negro in plum-colored livery. His eyes were only one-third open and he sat on a high stool, droop-shoulder, with his lower lip hanging down to his chin.

“Hello, George,” Kennedy said.

“Cunningham is m’ name.”

“I’m looking for an attractive young lady who wears a hat that looks something like a coal scuttle.”

The negro suddenly burst into a guffaw and slapped himself on the knee. “Boss man, you took de words right outen ma mowf! It sho do look like unto a coal scuttle! Yassuh, boss man cap’n, it sho’ do!” Then suddenly he was morose again and seemed on the point of falling asleep.

“Cunningham—”

“Folks don’t call me Cunningham, boss. Dey call me Oscar.”

“Well, Oscar, I’d like to see Miss Inez. She’s in two-five, isn’t she?”

“No, suh. She’s in four-eight.”

You operated the elevator yourself.

There was a white button alongside the door numbered 48 and Kennedy, looking tranquilly pleased with himself, pressed it. He heard prompt footsteps. The door opened and he was face to face with the girl. Even without the shako she looked striking. Her throat was slender but strong, her face was angular, handsome, with wide full lips. Her eyes were like two jets of black fire — full of passion and, he thought, touched with tragedy.

“I bring important news from Joel Webb,” said Kennedy.

She started. Her eyes leaped, then settled. “Come in,” she said in a low, curious voice.

He entered blithely and strolled through a small foyer and into a living-room. As he tossed his hat on to the divan a shape bulked in the bedroom doorway. The woman Emmy, who had thrown him out of Jaeger’s place. She scowled. Her eyes darkened and hardened and she snapped at the girl:

“Who let him in?”

“Why — I did. He said—”

“He said!” snarled Emmy, striding into the room. “You,” she commanded the girl, “get in the bedroom. Get!”

The girl ran into the bedroom and Emmy closed the door after her, locked it.

Kennedy sighed, “Well, it’s a small world after all.”

The woman pivoted. “It’s probably going to be smaller than you ever thought it was before, smart guy,” she growled. “How did you find out she lived here?”

“I heard her give the address to a taxi driver.”

“You stinking liar!”

He shrugged philosophically. “Okey, Emmy. No matter how I got here, I’m here. I don’t want to talk to you, Godiva. I want to talk to the girl.”

Emmy laughed harshly, dangerously. “And why, laddie?”

“I want to find out what she was looking for in the Carioca this morning.”

Emmy put her hands on her hips. She grinned broadly, showing all her teeth; but there was no mirth in that grin. Her eyes shimmered. “Now ain’t that just wonderful!” she mocked. “The little newspaperman wants to find out what she was looking for in the Carioca!”

“Emmy,” said Kennedy, “let us have done with this repartee. It is written in the stars that I must meet the girl.” His voice was tranquil, there was the barest shadow of a smile on his lips. He was genial and good-natured, but even so a man can be purposeful. Kennedy was purposeful without being dramatically high-flown about it. He said in his gentle, almost coaxing voice:

“Open the door, Emmy.”

He had never seen a woman tower the way Emmy towered. The rage which had started burning within her was whipped to white heat by his casual, easy-going manner; harsh words could not have enraged her more. Hatred and fury lashed out from her eyes. Her lips tightened and worked against each other and her jaw hardened and seemed to grow larger. She seemed to expand, to swell all over, and Kennedy expected to hear an unleashed torrent of abuse and invective.

But Emmy turned suddenly and walked hard-heeled into a small pantry, her elbows out from her side, her arms swinging. She reappeared instantly with a twelve-inch heavy carving knife gripped in her hand. Her voice was thick, rasping:

“So you’ll shove your nose into my business, will you!”

She bore down on him and there was no doubt in his mind about what she intended doing. He scooped up a pillow and flung it and she was so primed to strike that instantly the blade wheeled. Its point pierced the pillow and when she saw this she cried out hoarsely, ripped the pillow free and hurled it away.

Kennedy was at the other end of the room. He said dryly, watchfully, “If you’ve got a head, Emmy, use it now. Put that cleaver away.”

She made no reply. Her broad nostrils twitched. With her left hand she swept a chair out of the way. She headed across the room and on the way she used her left hand to pick up a vase. She hurled the vase at him and then charged with the knife. He was watching both, but the vase caught him; it shattered against his head, brought blood to his forehead. The pain was so sharp that he flung himself halfway across the room on the reflex. He would have gone farther, but the open pantry door stopped him. It stopped him abruptly, jarred his whole body. In trying to steady himself, he reached out a hand blindly. It caught the top of a light chair and closed on it.

His eyes danced and he saw two or three Emmies coming at him, two or three knives sweeping towards him. Even in this split second he must have realized that it would be just as fatal to remain motionless as to take a swing. He gripped the chair with both hands, took a swing and connected and instead of feeling the swift incision of a knife he felt the hard bulk of the woman crash awkwardly against him, then fall away and crash to the floor. The knife was out of her hand. He did not see it anywhere. Then he saw it imbedded in the pantry door, its handle still quivering. Emmy lay in a heap, quite senseless.

Kennedy staggered to the bedroom door, unlocked it and tripped on his way into the bedroom. Rising, he looked around. Things still danced before his eyes and his head, having stopped the vase and been stopped by the pantry door, seemed to be jogging up and down on his shoulders. But he could see that the girl was not in the room. He looked under the twin beds. The bathroom was empty. So was a closet. Then he saw an open window and bowled across to it, thrust out his head. There was a fire-escape leading to a rear alleyway. The cold air felt good. He saw drops of blood falling on the windowsill and remembered his head. As he pulled his head in he heard a door slam.

Turning unsteadily, breathing heavily, he saw that the connecting door, through which he had entered, was closed. He fell on it, fought the knob. It was locked. Then he saw a door which he had overlooked before and stumbled towards it, yanked it open. But it was only another closet. He did not close it instantly, however. Reaching in, he withdrew an immense white fan. He made a small, rueful sound. Then he noticed that drops of blood were falling on the fan. His head felt like a huge red-hot clinker. He dropped the fan and went into the bathroom.

He washed the blood from his face and painted three cuts with iodine. His stomach felt a little shaky too by this time, so he took some bicarbonate of soda. Then he returned to the bedroom, picked up a chair and broke down the connecting door. The living-room was empty but on the floor next to the rim of the carpet the stub of a cigar smoldered. It was triangular in shape.

The beating-up called for a drink. After a ten-minute talk with the plum-liveried negro, Kennedy hopped a cab and returned to Enrico’s, hoping to catch MacBride. But MacBride had left.

“Did he say where?”

Paderoofski shook his head. “He’s say he was take his car and go f’r a long ride, suzz he’s not pastered by pipple. It’s to me a great mysterium, the skipper he’s so axcitement.”

Kennedy sighed, “The lug would do something like that,” and turned to go. But he saw Jaeger sitting at a corner table, obviously plastered to the eyebrows. Jaeger’s eyes wore that dizzy expression of a drunk who sees nothing, hears nothing. Kennedy strolled over and sat down opposite him, saying, “Trying a bit of the hair of the dog, eh?”

Jaeger’s fat brown eyes revolved, his big head wabbled. It took him a minute to place Kennedy. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m having a li’l’ pick-me-up.”

“How long have you known Emmy Canfield?”

“Lishen. When I’m on the job, and I’m a damn’ goodsh headwaisher, I” — he waved his index finger — “never tush drop likker. Never! Likker ’n’ work don’t mix, hah? Nope. But no job, no work — so drink likker. Hah? Sure.”

“How long have you known Emmy Canfield?”

“Never, never mixsh work ’n’ likker, my friend. Don’t pay. Lookit me — besh headwaisher in business. Why? Never mixsh work ’n’ likker.”

“Does Emmy Canfield come from Detroit?”

“Emmy? Sure. Everybody cumsh from Detroit. Ever know that? Hah? Sure. Lots ’n’ lots people cumsh from Detroit.”

“When did Emmy come from Detroit?”

“Shanksgibbin Day.”

“Thanksgiving Day?”

Jaeger banged the table petulantly. “Damn it, di’n’t I shay Shanksgibbin Day!”

“Did she kill Marty Sullivan?”

Jaeger’s eyes bounced. He stared stupidly at Kennedy for a full minute, then began to chuckle. His chuckle grew and grew until it became a laugh and then he was roaring, shaking with laughter, the tears streaming down his face. He put his head on the table and laughed and laughed and slapped the table uproariously with his hands. Then suddenly he sat up and looked grave in the manner that only drunks can look grave.

“Me,” he said, touching his chest, “I killed Marty.”

“Why?”

“Sh!” whispered Jaeger, leaning forward. “Becaush hish left eyebrow wash yeller an’ hish right wash black. Time an’ time again I ashked him, please, Marty, either bleach black one ’r dye yeller one. He laughs at me. Laughs at me! Sho I kill him. Ha, ha, ha! Pretty good, hah!” He hiccupped. “Well, think I’ll git drunk. Ober! Rye!” He giggled and pawed his face and shook with silent mirth.

Kennedy gave it up. He rose, turned up the collar of his topcoat and went out. He took a cab to the Free Press and had a talk with Flannery and then he made a long distance call and spent twenty minutes on the wire.

It was three o’clock when he drifted into Dan Osborne’s office. Osborne, busy with a sheaf of papers, looked up, frowned, and sat back. He said with real concern:

“What the hell happened to your face?”

Kennedy was tranquil. “When are you going to put your cards on the table, Dan?”

“What are we playing,” Osborne grinned, “poker?”

“I don’t know what you’re playing, Dan.”

Osborne chuckled good-naturedly. “What’s troubling you, kid? Let’s have it.”

“What were you doing at the Somerset this morning?”

“Telling the manager that his cocktail-hour entertainment was not funny, it was smutty. He was reasonable. He said he’d cut it out. Why?”

Kennedy went over and stood by the window, his hands in his pockets. He gazed drowsily down at the street traffic for a minute, then turned and sat on the broad windowsill, his feet dangling.

He said, “I always thought you were a bachelor.”

“I am.”

“You weren’t always.”

Osborne sat back, clasped his hands behind his head and smiled jovially. “Been checking up?”

“Where’s the wife?”

“Kennedy, I married twenty-four years ago. A girl named Sally McLean. She ran away from me three months after we were married. I never heard of her again.”

“Ever hear of Emmy Canfield?”

“No.”

“Inez Canfield?”

“No.”

“Ever been in apartment forty-eight at nine-ten Waterford?”

“No.” Osborne leaned forward. “Why?”

Kennedy crossed to the desk, opened the humidor and lifted out a triangular cigar. “I found one of these in that apartment.”

“I suppose other men smoke them, too.”

“I suppose so.” Kennedy dropped the cigar into the box. “It happens to be the place where I got beaten up. I found the fan dancer there.”

Osborne’s eyes were steady. “Where is she?”

“She skipped. Her name’s Inez Can-field. Her mother’s name is Emmy Can-field. Emmy’s an Amazon. She came at me with a knife and while she was doing it Inez left by a fire-escape, from another room. I knocked Emmy out with a chair and went in the other room to get Inez. But she was gone and while I was looking out a window the connecting door slammed and I was locked in. When I broke it down, Emmy was gone, too. There was this triangular cigar, still burning, on the floor.”

“You figure that somebody came in and took Emmy out, eh?”

Kennedy looked at him. “Yeah.”

Osborne knit his brows thoughtfully. His eyes stared at the surface of the desk, glazed with thought, and his fingers drummed lightly on the square blotter. After a couple of minutes he shook his head, said, “I can’t make it out, Kennedy.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know a young fellow named Joel Webb, would you?”

“No.” He looked up. “Who is he?”

“He’s in the puzzle, too. He’s stopping at the Somerset.”

Osborne sat back. “Oh, so that’s who you thought I went to see. Did you grab him?”

“No. I put a tail on him. I didn’t want to grab anybody until I had a talk with you.”

Osborne eyed him speculatively. “I can’t make you out, kid. But you needn’t worry about me. Grab anybody you like.”

Kennedy dropped his eyes, gazed curiously at the floor. Then he turned and went out slowly, his head still lowered. He was still in a kind of day-dream when he reached the street, but the sharp wind roused him and he looked up as if surprised to find himself there. He walked around to the Free Press office and found Tucker sitting gloomily in the office.

Kennedy said, “Don’t tell me you lost him.”

“He checked out of the Somerset with a bag and took a cab and I took another cab. The cab I took got a flat and before I could get another your special oyster was among the missing.

I shot right down to the railroad station, got in a booth where I could watch people come in and phoned Bob Angler at the airport. I told him to watch and see if Webb took a plane — gave him a description of the guy. Well, he didn’t, show up at the railroad station and according to Bob Angler he didn’t show up at the airport.”

“When did you lose him?”

“Two hours ago. What happened to your face?”

“It’s a rash. I get it every winter.”

Kennedy killed a couple of hours floating from bar to bar. He felt he was up against a stone wall for the time being and saw no sense in running his head against it. It was much pleasanter to browse over a drink, to idly chase thoughts here and there in the hope of running to ground one that was useful.

Soon it was dark, and time to eat, and he took a cab to Enrico’s. He had paid the driver and was ambling to the door when he heard the driver scream:

“Look out!”

Kennedy threw himself flat on the sidewalk as three shots blasted the silence of the street and dug into Enrico’s heavy door. The cab-driver blew his horn wildly. Kennedy lay tense, motionless, the sound of the horn braying in his ears. Then the horn stopped and he was being lifted to his feet by the driver, who gasped:

“You hurt? You hurt?”

“I... I d-don’t think so,” stammered Kennedy.

“I scared him wit’ me horn. D’ja hear me scare him?”

Kennedy was trembling like a leaf. “Wuh-where is he?”

“He beat it. Up that way. Out o’ sight now.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Damned if I know. Only thing I seen, I seen this shape run out in the street and lift his arm out level and I yelled.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Enrico was standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips. “So what is this, so what?”

“I arrive,” said Kennedy, “under a salute of guns.” He tottered through the doorway. “A drink, before I pass out.”

He took three in quick succession, under the concerned eye of Paderoofski. All he could eat was a ham sandwich. His appetite had been blown away. An hour and a half later Paderoofski said:

“Please to axcuse you, Meester Kennedy. On de telephono is a poddy was wishing he should spik wit’ you horry-op”

“Paderoofski, your French gets better and better,” Kennedy said and went to the phone; and on the phone, “Yes?... When?... Okey, Tucks, grab a car and pick me up here. In the lower left-hand drawer of my desk is a pair of manacles I stole from MacBride a year ago. Bring those, too. Can you get a gun?... Swell. Snap on it, Tucks.”

He returned to the bar, said, “Paderoofski, lend me Susie.”

Paderoofski took an automatic from beneath the bar and said, “Please, Meester Kennedy, being too careful,” and handed across the gun. Kennedy shoved it into his pocket and, entering the restaurant, stood by the front window waiting. In a little while a black sedan yanked to a stop outside and Kennedy went out and found Tucker at the wheel. Kennedy climbed in, slammed the door, said, “What’s that in back?”

“A gun. You said bring a gun. The cuffs weren’t there.”

“I didn’t tell you to bring a twelve-gauge shotgun. You can’t go walking around the streets with that thing.”

“It was the only one in the office. Flannery bought it once, about five years ago, when he thought he might go duck hunting. He never went. Well, don’t worry; I don’t think it works anyhow.”

He slammed the car into gear and drove off and as they boomed up the street Kennedy heard his name being yelled. He looked around. Tucker put on the brakes.

“Keep going. It’s only Paderoofski. Probably Flannery phoning to give orders. Step on it. What time does the plane leave?”

“In half an hour.”

Tucker parked the car in the parking lot at the airport and climbed out, saying, “Well, the plane hasn’t arrived yet.” He pulled the shotgun out of the back seat.

“Nix,” said Kennedy.

“But you said bring a gun.”

“Forget it, Tucks. This is no grandstand play. Just walk with me and act disinterested.”

They went through the swing door into the waiting room and crossed to the desk behind which stood Bob Angler. Angler said, “Hello, gang. They’re standing over in the corner.”

“Thanks,” said Tucker.

Neither Joel Webb nor Inez Canfield moved when they saw Kennedy coming towards them. Webb’s eyes darkened and his lean jaw tightened up. The girl took hold of his arm. Kennedy and Tucker came up to them and Kennedy, taking his gun from his inside pocket and putting it into his overcoat pocket, said:

“Let’s go.”

Webb muttered angrily, “Now look here—”

“I’m looking, sweetheart — right at you. We’ve got a car outside. You and the girl get moving.”

“Now listen—”

The schoolmasterly looking Tucker said from beneath his derby, “Can it, bozo. Ankle out. This is no celebrity interview.”

The girl’s eyes were wide with fright. There was something sinister about Kennedy’s emaciated, lacerated face, and about his quiet, dreamy voice. She tugged at Webb’s arm. Scowling, he started walking with her. Kennedy walked at his elbow. Tucker walked at the girl’s elbow. Outside, Kennedy said to the girl:

“You ride in front.” And to Webb: “You and me in back. Get in.”

The sedan picked up speed on the cement highway. “Where are we going?” Tucker asked.

“Nine-ten Waterford,” said Kennedy.

The girl looked around, startled.

Kennedy nodded. “Yes, Inez — back home. Gradually I’m going to get all you people in one spot. This has got so far that it’s a circus, with me the head clown. Now somebody else is going to be the clown. Step on it, Tucks. The boy friend here is getting restless and if he doesn’t sit still I’m going to shoot out a rib.”

“Shoot between the ribs,” Tucker recommended. “It goes farther. So I hear, anyhow.”

Webb suddenly shouted, “You can’t arrest us! You guys aren’t cops!”

“He’s just thought of something,” Kennedy sighed; and then he snapped, “Sit still! Is a bullet in the gut worth arguing about whether we can arrest you or not?”

The girl said, “Don’t, Joel. Don’t.”

Webb folded his arms and towered in savage silence, his teeth digging into his lower lip. The sedan rolled through the outskirts of the city, hit Southern Road and followed it to South Waterford. Eleven blocks farther on it pulled up in front of 910 Waterford and Kennedy said:

“Now wait. There’s not going to be any confusion here. Tucks, you go in with the girl first and go right up to four-eight. Wait outside four-eight. I’ll be up in a minute with Webb.”

Tucker got out, gripped the girl by the arm and entered the apartment house. A minute later Kennedy backed out, said, “Okey, brother,” and Webb followed.

Webb sneered. “Pretty cagey, aren’t you?”

“Just careful, for once in my life. If you try to make a break for it now, the girl won’t be with you. Move along.”

When they reached the lobby the elevator pointer was stopped at the fourth floor. Kennedy buttoned it down, told Webb to open it, and then stepped in close behind him. When they got off at the fourth floor Tucker and Inez were standing half-way down the hall.

“Open it,” said Kennedy.

Her lips were shaking, there was terror in her eyes. With fumbling fingers she took a key from her purse, clattered it into the keyhole, turned it. Her face was dead-white. Tucker took hold of the knob and pushed the door open. Kennedy pulled his gun out of his pocket and said:

“In, Webby.”

Tucker hustled the girl in and then Kennedy prodded Webb in with the gun. He saw the girl stop, put her hands to her cheeks, sway. She uttered not a sound but he could see her back grow rigid. It was Tucker who said:

“Blow me down! Will you look at this!”

Emmy lay on the floor, disheveled, part of her dress torn. Kennedy began to see that the room was in a greater state of chaos than when he had left it. Webb turned and looked at Kennedy furiously, as though Kennedy were the cause of it. The girl dropped to a chair and began shaking violently, though she made no sound. Regret seemed not a part of her emotions: there was tragedy in her dark eyes, and fear, too.

Tucker’s eyes grew round. He said, “They strangled the old dame and then breezed!”

“She’s strangled, all right,” mused Kennedy. “Just as Marty Sullivan was strangled.” His voice dropped lower as he turned to the girl: “What were you looking for in the Carioca — back in Sullivan’s office?”

Webb broke in — “She was—”

“Clam yourself,” Kennedy told him dryly. “I’m talking to the girl. Come on, Inez, up and out with it.”

Her fists were clenched, her lips pressed tightly together. She shook her head. Kennedy strolled over and stood back of her, his gun trained on Webb.

He was still tranquil: “Come on, Inez, spout.”

“I’ll tell you!” Webb rapped out.

Kennedy smiled. “Make it good this time.”

Webb’s jaw jutted. “I was in Sullivan’s office the night of the raid. I was waiting there for him to come back to the office. I was sitting there smoking a cigarette when I saw a light on his desk blink. That meant trouble out front. The hat-check girl must have flashed it when you came in.”

“How do you know the light meant trouble?”

“I’d been in the office before, once, when a fight started in the lobby and the light flashed. The night of the raid I was sitting there, smoking, as I said, when the light flashed. I got up and ran out of the office and when I saw what was going on I beat it out the back way. I left my cigarette case behind. When you saw Inez there, she was looking for it.”

“Why didn’t you go back after it?”

“She wouldn’t let me. Besides, she had a key to the back door and wouldn’t give it to me.”

“And why were you worried about the cigarette case?”

Webb looked suddenly confused.

Kennedy said, “Now did you do this? When you saw the trouble light flash, did you leave the office, go down that narrow hallway to the little door that leads into the dining-room? Did you reach in through that door and choke Sullivan to death before the lights went on? Did you then run out back, go to the alley in the rear and catch the fan dancer — Inez here — as she came out of her dressing-room window?”

The girl cried out, “No, no!”

“Now I’m talking to Webby,” Kennedy said.

Webb’s voice sounded clotted: “Why should I kill Sullivan?”

“Why were you in his office? Why, why, why — there’s a lot of whys floating around. Maybe this. Sullivan was the only one, so far as we knew then, that knew the identity of his fan dancer. You knew that if the cops nailed him ten to one her identity would come out. You didn’t want that. Why? Well, you love her. You don’t want her name dragged in the mud. You choke Sullivan to keep the secret. You skin out the back way, taking the girl with you. Then you remember that you left your cigarette case behind.”

The girl got to her feet, her lips shaking, her fists clenched. “It’s a lie... a lie... a lie!” she choked. “He was there — he did leave his cigarette case there — he did help me out the back window — but he didn’t kill Sullivan!”

“How do you know? You were back-stage.”

“I know! I know, I tell you!”

Kennedy smiled ruefully. “Then you know who did kill him?”

She choked, tightened her lips. Her eyes sprang wide open with shock and her hand flew to her face.

Kennedy said to Tucker, “Okey, Tucks. She knows. Phone Headquarters and tell them to send over somebody.”

Tucker walked across the room to the phone but he never reached it. The closet door opened and Jaeger stood there with a big gun in his hand. His shirt was torn, there were scratches on his face, his hair was matted. He looked big and gross and pasty.

“Stay away from that phone,” he muttered thickly. His eyes were haggard.

Kennedy aimed, pulled his trigger. Nothing happened. He tried twice more.

“Drop it,” said Jaeger.

“I may as well.”

Jaeger said to the girl and Webb, “You two go. Go on.”

The girl stared at him as though he were a ghost.

Jaeger muttered bitterly, “Take her, Webb. Take her out.”

Webb’s face was lined, grim. He crossed the room, took Inez by the hand and went with her to the door. They left. Jaeger remained, leaning in the closet doorway, his breathing slow and thick. “Wait,” he said. “Just wait.” And when five minutes had passed, he moved from the closet, crossed the room to the corridor door and said, “If you come after me, it’s the works.” He opened the door, backed out, closed the door.

Kennedy pointed. “You stay here. Call the office about this dead one. Her name’s Emmy Canfield. The other one’s her daughter. Then call the police.”

He scooped up the automatic he had dropped, yanked out the magazine. It was empty. “That tramp Paderoofski,” he said, and ran into the bedroom. He went out by way of the window and down the fire-escape to the courtyard. When he reached the front, he saw Jaeger jogging along a block away. Kennedy looked at the car, wondering about the chances of driving it and trying to run Jaeger down. He jumped in — but of course Tucker had the key. He jumped out again, took the old shotgun with him and started off up the street.

Jaeger saw him and fired but the bullet passed somewhere overhead. Kennedy ran on, hugging the housewalls. He could hear Jaeger’s big feet clubbing the pavement, see his big ungainly body lunging on through the darkness. A second shot was closer: it scarred the sidewalk beneath Kennedy’s feet. Kennedy jumped. He licked his lip and wondered whether he ought to stop but while he was wondering about it he kept on running.

He saw Jaeger turn again and plant himself in the middle of the sidewalk. Kennedy dropped behind an iron lamp standard as Jaeger cut loose. Four explosions banged in the street and lead whanged against the iron lamp standard. Kennedy was grateful for being skinny as a rail. He saw Jaeger reloading. Jumping up, he ran towards the man, hefting the shotgun as a club, hoping to reach Jaeger before he could reload. But the distance was too great to strike him with it. Kennedy saw him snap shut the gun.

Kennedy was fifteen feet from him in the open; there was nothing to hide behind. He waved his shotgun, yelled, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” and made a pretense of aiming the gun. He even went so far as to press the trigger. The shotgun banged and the recoil knocked him to the sidewalk. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Jaeger lying on the corner. Kennedy picked up the shotgun, went forward, aiming.

He said, “Don’t move, Jaeger.”

“You got me,” Jaeger panted. “In the leg, high up. I can’t move and I’m bleeding. Listen, leave Inez alone. She didn’t have nothing to do with it. It was me killed Emmy. ’Cause why? Well, I’m a fine-looking guy to be nuts about Inez, but I am. She ain’t that way about me, but you can’t blame her for that. Her and Webb are nuts about each other. I knew I’d let Emmy have it some day.

“Look, Kennedy. She ain’t that gal’s mother. She never was. She’s the one made Inez do that fan dance. When Inez’d fight against it, the old lady would threaten her with a knife. She had Inez scared to death. I seen she was scared to death. You see, Marty wasn’t the only one knew who the fan dancer was. I did, too. Inez thought she was her mother, but she wasn’t. I found that out. I found out that her mother died twenty-one years ago, out in Tulsa, and left her with Emmy, who ran a boarding house. I just found it out the day the cops raided the Carioca.

“I’d been begging Marty to cut out the fan dance. He used to just laugh. And when I got this news, I went up to him and told him. He says, ‘Sure, I know that. Do you know who her father is?’ I said I didn’t and he said, ‘Dan Osborne. But Dan doesn’t know. If he closes me up, I’ll spring it on him then.’ That kind of floored me. He laughed. He thought it’d be a great joke. Then when the raid came— Look, I knew Inez didn’t care a rap for me, but — well, I didn’t want to see her scandalized. When the raid came — I seen it through the door — I seen MacBride come in — why, I just went in that hallway, stepped through that little door and let Marty have it.”

“Why’d you give it to Emmy?”

“She suspected I’d killed Marty. She came to my place and told me so — that was when you got there and she chucked you down the stairs. Well, I told her I knew Inez wasn’t her kid. I told her if she’d squeal on me I’d tell what I knew. So that was a bargain. But I got drunk. I thought o’ the times she’d threatened Inez and got sore enough to kill her then. I went up there first and seen her coming to on the floor — that was after she had the fight with you. I heard you in the other room and took her out, figuring to take her to my place and beat hell out of her.

“But downstairs, I saw Inez running away. I ran after her and she said she was going to meet Webb and they were going to run away and get married. That kind of socked me, though I half expected it. I let her go. Then I lost sight of Emmy. I came back later and found her. She said Inez had gone away and she was going to turn me up because I’d always taken Inez’ side against her. Then I choked her to death.”

He rolled over and a cigar fell out of his pocket. Kennedy picked it up. It was triangular in shape.

“You smoke these?”

“Dan Osborne gave me a couple. He was around asking me questions and he gave me a couple.”

“Does he know about Inez?”

“No.”

“I’ll get an ambulance.”

“No, no,” begged Jaeger. “Let me pass out here. I tried to kill you in front of Enrico’s, Kennedy. You knew too much. I tried it again here. I killed Marty. I killed Emmy. I don’t want an ambulance.”

Kennedy stared at him, said, “Well, it’ll take a while for one to get here.”

The night wind was strong, it whistled past the high casement windows. Osborne watched the Night Express come up to the Eastmarsh Bridge, string across it. He pulled on his cigar.

“I never thought Marty was a rat like that,” he said. “He always used to kid me, ride me, but I never thought he’d do a thing like that. When he kept telling me that if I closed him up I’d rue the day, I don’t know, I just thought it was bluff. He was always full of bluff. But now I can remember his evil grin — I didn’t think it was particularly evil then. But I know it was, now. He hated my guts. He hated me in his smiling, droll way when I went over on the side of the law. Kidded me about it. Razzed me. But I always gave him a break. I should have killed him.”

Kennedy said from the depths of the divan, “I sure had you picked as a major suspect for a long time. I guess I wasn’t big-hearted enough to believe that you’d pull punches with Marty just for old times’ sake. I really thought he had something on you.”

“I know you did.” Osborne’s eyes dreamed. “You see, the child must have been born after my wife left me. I never knew about it. She ran away with some musician. I suppose I was to blame, a bit. I buried myself in work so.”

Kennedy stood up, yawned. He said, “Well, MacBride goes back to work tomorrow. Same job. He doesn’t know it yet, so I think I’ll go find him and razz him a while, because tomorrow I won’t be able to.”

Osborne was wrapped in thought. “Did Inez say she would come here?” he asked.

“Yes. She and Webb never did leave the apartment house. They went down as far as the lobby and then Inez wouldn’t go any further. I found them there when I ran back, after I shot Jaeger.”

Osborne sat down, saying, “I won’t know how to act. How do you act, Kennedy, when you meet a daughter you’ve never seen?”

Kennedy was on his way to the door. “I never was a father, Dan. I wouldn’t know. So long. I’m going around to Enrico’s and take a punch at Paderoofski.”

When he drifted into Enrico’s fifteen minutes later Enrico himself was behind the bar. At sight of Kennedy he held his head in his hands.

Kennedy said, “Come on — tell Paderoofski to get out from under the bar.”

Enrico threw his hands in the air. “But ain’t you heard!” he exclaimed. He groaned, “Poor Paderoofski!”

Kennedy looked puzzled. “Huh?”

“Look, Kennedy, sir. After Paderoofski gives you the gun he remembers it ain’t loaded with no bullets. He cries out. He runs to the street and yells, but you drive off. He yells some more. He pulls his hair. He jumps. He prays. Then... yes, then poor Paderoofski has nervous collapse. I send him to the husspital in an ambulance. In an ambulance to the husspital goes poor Paderoofski with big nervous collapse! Is that not sad, Kennedy, sir?... Please, quick, go to the husspital so Paderoofski shouldn’t beat up no more doctors. Four already he’s beat up, not counting three orderlies. Quick, before the husspital she’s a wreck!”