Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

What a lovely party! Everybody high as a kite, nobody knew anyone else and a riotous time was had by all. All, that is, except the blonde they left behind them. She was very shapely and very young — and she wouldn’t be getting any older. Not with that bullet-hole through her pretty head!

Chapter One Wine, Women and Worse

Everybody at the party was drunker than I was, and I was afraid to stand up from fear I’d fall down. I just sat there staring into space, trying to figure out whose apartment Phil Sutton had brought me to and where it was.

My watch was still running, and I knew it had been two hours since Sutton had come upon me in a south-side honky-tonk and insisted that I go with him to a “swell party.” If I hadn’t been three sheets to the wind I’d never have walked out of any public place with Phil Sutton.

There were plenty of people willing to associate with him since he’d organized the Acme Auto Insurance Company, but not me. I’m funny about respecting people just because they have money and even funnier about the way they got it. I knew how Sutton had got his.

A couple of weeks before Pearl Harbor he had gone into bankruptcy and stuck his creditors for a hundred thousand dollars. By the time the Nips took Bataan he was riding around in a black Cadillac with white side-wall tires, and a year later he was so rich that when he bought a new fur coat for his secretary he even bought one for his wife.

If you wanted a case of Scotch, Sutton wouldn’t sell it to you, but if you wanted a truck-load of it and were willing to pay a hundred thirty-five a case, he would. He wouldn’t sell you a set of tires, either, but if you had a place for a gross, he was your man. There is a popular notion that the federal boys always get their man, too, but when they finally put the pinch on Sutton he walked out none the worse for it except what it had cost for lawyers.

After that he was a bigger shot than ever, and you never saw him without a whole gang of stooges. They weren’t always poolroom punks — sometimes it was amazing to see who traveled around with him.

Of course this was in a large part due to the fact that Sutton provided plenty of free liquor and girls.

That was why I was here tonight at this apartment. Sutton had cracked about a swell girl I’d like to meet, and though I knew what his idea of a swell girl was, at the moment, the idea suited me fine.

I felt that I had a right to pitch a wild party, and I wanted more than anything else to convince myself that I didn’t care about Kay. I mean Kay Kennedy, the beautiful creature who is private secretary to my boss, the Hon. Burton H. Keever, attorney general of our fair state.

She’d given me plenty of trouble before, giving dates to a heel named Curtis T. Durbin. This Durbin is a reformed college professor trying to go straight on his salary as “State Criminologist” in the office of the attorney general. Keever imported him from a cow-patch college, thinking a Ph. D in the joint would give it class. It took Keever only a few months to get his belly full of Durbin, but by that time the drip had put himself in so solid with the ladies’ reform leagues that Keever was afraid to pitch him out.

I could never understand Kay’s interest in the guy, and I didn’t try very hard, for I never considered him serious competition. Then Shellie had come along.

His real name was Preston P. Shelton, but everybody called him “Shellie.” He was just out of the Army, where he had distinguished himself with a .45 Army Automatic, blasting no less than eight little brown brothers with as many slugs. He was a sleek twenty-five, smart as a fox and Cary Grentish. And, he was strictly swell guy.

I couldn’t blame him for moving in on Kay, for she has everything a gal should have. She’d been dating Shellie about twice a week, which was bad enough, but tonight it was the third time in a week, and that was why I was knocking myself out in that honky-tonk when Sutton walked in.

I thought I would go along and meet this dame he was telling me about and show myself no woman could really get me down. The idea had sounded good until I met the dame.

Her name was Millie Martin, and she was a travesty of Kay. I’d be willing to bet that if anybody had taken a tape and measured both girls their measurements would have been identical. They even had the same hair and the same complexion. Millie’s clothes fit her about like Kay’s, and even I could see that they were more expensive. But everything else about Millie was five-and-ten.

“Oh, Mr. Corbett,” she said, “I’m so happy to meet you! I told Philly he just had to introduce us some time.”

Sutton put an arm around my shoulders and said: “I told you she was a honey, didn’t I, Ben? I sure can pick ’em, can’t I, boy?”

I said he sure could pick ’em, but I didn’t mention what kind. He went off to a corner to his temporary heart-throb, a plump blonde who would be a fat one with about a year’s more boozing. There was plenty of booze, and it was good booze, so I made for it, trying not to notice Millie Martin.

I’m not a guy to nurse a drink. I was lapping the stuff out of tumblers after the first hour, and Millie had to lead me over to a chair. She sat on the arm a while, handing me a line of chatter that had something about going to her apartment in it. So, as I sat there staring, I knew the apartment wasn’t Millie’s, only I couldn’t just remember when she’d moved off the chair arm and mercifully gone away.

An automatic phonograph had long since got to the top record and was now playing it for the twentieth time. A couple stood in front of it, jiggling as if in a trance, apparently under the delusion that they were dancing to the music. The record was “Rollin’ ” — no bad tune, but pretty sour after twenty times in a row. It was just starting all over again when a skinny guy with a pasty face walked into the room, looked at me and asked: “You Corbett?”

I managed to nod.

“Phone.”

I let that soak in a little while, then pulled myself to my feet and managed to walk, jostling the dancing couple only slightly. I didn’t fall down until I was in the next room, and then I caught myself on a table, for it was a dining room. The phone was there for some reason, and I dragged a chair over and answered it.

Kay was calling.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“Yep.”

“Well, you’ve picked a fine time! Keever’s tearing his hair out trying to find you. All hell’s popped loose.”

“Let ’er pop.”

“Can the wisecracks. This is serious. Governor Patterson’s going to remove Keever from office the first thing in the morning!”

I held the phone about a foot away, thinking there must be something the matter with it. Then I drew it closer and said: “Will you please say that again.”

“You heard me. Keever’s in a jam — a bad jam. It’s the worst in his career. It’s got him licked. You’ve got to chase over to the State House Annex and pull him together before he blows his top.”

I hesitated, then said: “It can’t be that bad. Why does he need me when he’s got a great genius like Curtis T. Durbin? And Shellie’s on the job, too, isn’t he, or is he sitting in your lap?”

Kay’s comment would justify the telephone people removing her phone. “Listen, you lame-brained lug,” she said when she had cooled down, “this is no time for a comedy act! I’m telling you the boss is in the grease, but bad! You’ve got to chase right over to the Annex and take over.”

“Are you there, too?”

“No, I’m at my apartment. I didn’t find your call until I got in a minute ago.”

“My what?”

“Your call. The night clerk said somebody’d called and left this number. I supposed it was you.”

“Well, for your information, I didn’t call you tonight. So quit handing me that line.”

“It’s no line. How do you suppose I located you? Do you think I dreamed up the number?”

I kicked that one around a few seconds and decided I must have called Kay after all. That burned me — I didn’t want her to get any wrong ideas.

“All right, let’s skip that. Just tell me what kind of jam Keever’s in.”

“Not over the phone. You’ll find out fast enough once you get over there. Better not use your car — you’ll get pinched before you get there.”

“I don’t have my car — I don’t even remember where I left it. I’ll take a taxi. Find out where I am and send one over, will you?”

“Are you kidding? Don’t tell me you don’t know where you are!”

“I am telling you. Use your drag as Keever’s secretary and get the phone company to give you the address of this place. Then send a taxi over.”

Kay promised disgustedly that she would, then I hung up and sat there a while. I was worried. Kay is not a gal to cry wolf. The odds were that this time Keever was in a real jam. The going had been getting increasingly tough, what with the governor and nearly every other state official of the opposite political party. Added to that, the other gang had a majority in both houses of the state legislature. Keever had been flies in their soup ever since his election, and they were all lying in ambush awaiting his first slip.

I didn’t want to see it happen. He wasn’t really a bad guy at heart. And besides, if the governor gave him the old heave-ho and made it stick, I was through as his chief investigator, and there are lots of worse jobs for cops.

So I sat there brooding over what the governor could possibly have got on Keever this time. I wasn’t worried about anything crooked — Keever was always scrupulously honest. Sure, when he’d been D.A. of Capital County there’d been a few gambling joints running wide open, but that was because Keever had sense enough to know you can’t change human nature with a night-stick. I mean it hadn’t been because he had his hand out.

I was still racking my brain over what the jam could be when the same skinny guy with the same pasty face walked into the dining room and said: “A taxi guy here for you.”

I managed to get on my feet.

“Thanks, pal. Mind telling me whose scatter this is?”

The pasty face looked puzzled.

“Damned if I know. I’m a stranger here myself.”

I made it out of the place, not even trying to find my hat. The cab driver wanted to give me some help, but I shoved him away. It’s the Corbett pride.

I noted that the apartment number was 4B, and when we got downstairs I saw that it was in a six-story apartment house on the corner of Elmhurst and Arlington Road. I meant to ask the driver whose apartment it was, but as soon as the cab started rolling I lost all interest in questions. I told the driver to drive slower or he’d have cause to regret it.

It was after midnight when he dumped me out at the side door of the Annex. When I paid him I discovered I still had most of my roll, which was some consolation, for I had an idea the gal Millie wasn’t above a little larceny. I wondered vaguely where she’d got to as I opened the door with my key. I walked through the dimly lighted, deserted corridor to the wing housing Keever’s offices, and Shelton let me in there.

The kid looked worried.

“I’m sure glad you’ve come, Ben. It’s been awful.”

I crossed toward Keever’s office. Curtis T. Durbin was seated glumly outside. He usually had a sneer for me, but this time I thought I detected an actual expression of relief as I showed up.

“Go right in,” said Shelton. “We’ll wait outside.”

My first impression when I saw Keever slumped over his desk was that he had gone to sleep. Then he straightened at the sound of my footsteps, and I saw that the man had been crying. He tried to get control over himself and even grin, and it was a sight I thought I’d never see.

The Keever I’d known had always been possessed of perfect poise, armed with an almost arrogant nonchalance. It’s an act that any good lawyer has to put on. A lawyer runs into so many surprises and has so many rugs pulled out from under him that he becomes an expert at landing on his feet and coming up with a smile.

Keever was especially adapted to this, for he had a postage-stamp face, commanding, with a fine-line mustache that impressed even judges. But now he was all in pieces. His face was flushed, and his eyes were bloodshot. I hate to think of any man crying, even Keever.

“It’s all over, Ben,” he said. “I’m ruined.”

It was enough to sober me, and it did. I sat down across the desk from him and said: “Let’s have it, boss. It can’t be that bad.”

“But it is, Ben. It is. That rat Patterson has got me where he wants me, and he knows it. After all these years of faithful public service I’m about to be disgraced! I’ll be disbarred, Ben, perhaps even sent to prison!”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been a stupid fool! Believe me, I wasn’t dishonest — I was just dumber than hell!” Tears welled in his eyes again.

“Listen, boss, we’re getting no place fast.”

“You’ve heard of Phil Sutton?”

I caught my breath. “Go on.”

“Then you know what a crook he is. Nobody has any less use for him than I have, but when he organized the Acme Auto Insurance Company there was nothing I could do because his lawyers incorporated the concern properly and complied with the law in every detail. That was six months ago. Last week the state insurance department asked for a ruling on whether they should take over the concern. I went into the matter thoroughly.

“Perhaps you know that every automobile casualty insurance company must file an estimate of the amount of liability of every claim filed against its assured. Sufficient collateral in government bonds must be held in escrow to cover twice the amount of all the estimated claims.

“The insurance department had cheeked the Acme claims and turned in a report that they were underestimated. They demanded that Acme put up collateral commensurate with their own estimate of the claims. Acme refused. The insurance department asked for a ruling on whether it should close up Acme and liquidate the assets.

“Last week, the tenth of the month, I gave a ruling. After a careful examination of the insurance law of this state I saw that a loophole protected Acme. Their own estimate of the liability of outstanding claims was final unless suit had been filed against them. I reported this to the insurance department and recommended reform of the state law.

“Governor Patterson himself stormed in and said I was letting Phil Sutton get away with murder. He said Sutton ought to be run out of the state. I agreed with him, but said it was going to be done legally if I were a party to it. Patterson accused me of fronting for Sutton, and I lost my temper and ordered him out.

“Tonight I got a phone call from Lew Brown, an old law school pal of mine in the D.A.’s office. He said a warrant had been issued for Phil Sutton. The charge was bribery of a state official. The official was me. Brown said that Gordon Kress, the D.A., had got the warrant after Governor Patterson had produced a photographic copy of a check for ten thousand dollars.

“The check had been issued by Sam Price, one of Phil Sutton’s lawyers. It was Price who organized Acme Insurance. He’s still their chief counsel. The check was made payable to cash. There was no endorsement. The photostatic copy was also accompanied by an affidavit signed by one Lester Toland, a teller at the Second National. Toland stated that a man he did not know had presented the check for payment and had refused to endorse it. He phoned Price, and Price said it was O.K., he could cash it. So he cashed it. Later he learned the identity of the man to whom he had paid the ten thousand.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “It was you.”

Keever nodded, dropped his eyes, and I thought the tears were going to come again. I said: “What are you up in the air about? It’s the teller’s word against yours! Besides, you were right when you ruled in favor of Sutton’s insurance company.”

“Yes, but Patterson will still argue that I took the ten thousand to rule the way I did. If I accepted a bribe, it would make no difference whether I was right or not. He’s probably arrested Sutton by now, and Brown says he’s going to remove me from office in the morning.”

“Can he do that?”

“Temporarily, until the state legislature hears the charges. It’s packed with Patterson’s pals. Unless I can come up with positive proof that I had nothing to do with that ten thousand, I’m through!”

“Have you contacted Sam Price?”

“No. I’ve tried my best to locate him, but I can’t. The fact that the D.A. hasn’t got a warrant for him is an indication that Price is turning state’s evidence.”

“Against his own client, Phil Sutton?”

“No, with his own client. My bet is that Patterson made a deal with Sutton. Sutton has ambitions in this state. By turning state’s evidence and claiming I forced the ten thousand out of him for a favorable opinion on the Acme deal, he’ll avoid prosecution and reap a huge reward from the governor’s office.”

“What about Price? That’s an awful chance for a lawyer to take.”

“No, Price is in the clear. Lew Brown tells me that his story is that he gave the check to Sutton in settlement of a claim he’d collected for him and made it to cash on Sutton’s request. He’ll say he knew nothing about why it was given to me but told the teller it was O.K. because he figured Sutton knew how to take care of his money.”

“And you haven’t talked to Sutton?”

“No. I’ve had all six of my investigators out trying to find him. They haven’t turned in even a trace.”

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, I’d have laughed in his face. The idea of Keever’s six “investigators,” known in the newspapers as “Keever’s Keystone Kops,” finding their way around the block was funny to me. To a man they were poor relations of country politicians. Keever hired them for political patronage reasons only, and if they had all been turned out in a cloudburst they couldn’t have found a drop of rain.

“It looks like Sutton’s in hiding,” Keever moaned. “If you can’t crack this thing before morning, Ben, the fat will be in the fire.”

I said: “Keever, you’re a shrewd cookie if ever I saw one, but the heat has been too much for you. You think Sutton’s in this deal against you. Yet the D.A.’s office is after him with a warrant. I can’t buy that. Besides, I happen to know that Sutton isn’t hiding at all. I was with him a couple of hours ago.”

Keever bounced out of his chair, his face livid with rage.

“Now you’ve done it, Ben! Now you’ve tightened the noose about my neck! When it gets out that my chief investigator was with Sutton on the night a warrant was issued for bribing me, not even my own wife will believe I’m innocent!”

I didn’t feel so bright then, for I hadn’t thought of that.

Chapter Two Dead to the World

After Keever had finally cooled off, I said: “Maybe it’s not so bad that I should have been with Sutton this evening. Maybe that’ll give me a lead on finding him before the D.A.’s boys do. You’re sure they haven’t nailed him already?”

“Yes, but it’s only a matter of time until they do. Even if Sutton isn’t conspiring to ruin me, I’ve got to find him first.”

“Why is finding him so important, boss?”

Keever looked pained. “Even you should be able to figure that out, Ben. What’s Sutton’s main racket?”

“The black market, of course.”

“All right. The odds are a thousand-to-one that the cheek Price gave him made payable to cash was to pay off a black market operator. So what can Sutton say when the D.A.’s boys ask him who really cashed that check?”

“I see your point.” I was beginning to think I hadn’t sobered up much, missing one like that one. A black market pinch is a federal rap. Bribery of a state official is only a state rap. It was a lead-pipe cinch that if Sutton had to take a choice between the two he’d clam up about the black market deal. So It was plain that Keever’s only chance to make him talk was to grab him first.

“That’s your job, finding him,” Keever told me. “If it ever gets out that you, my chief investigator, were at a drunken brawl with him the same night the D.A.’s office was after him for bribing me, I’m through. And so are you.”

It looked that way, for a fact. I got up. “Give me Shellie,” I said. “He’s waiting around outside. As for Durbin, why don’t you send him to bed?”

Keever sneered. “At least Durbin doesn’t carouse around with black market crooks!”

I couldn’t say a word. I went out, motioned to Shelton that he was to come along, which he did with alacrity. Durbin eyed us suspiciously as we left.

“We’ll take a cab to the south side,” I told Shelton. “I left my car at a honky-tonk down there — I hope.”

Shelton was full of questions. “Do you think Mr. Keever’s really in as serious a jam as he thinks he is?”

“Worse. There’s nothing more dangerous than being an honest politician, and Keever’s just that. All the rest of the politicians resent his honesty, and even if they weren’t his political enemies, they’d try to grease the skids under him just on general principles.”

Shelton looked away, and I guessed it was because my breath, not my answer, reeked. I didn’t particularly like the idea of the kid seeing me with a flushed face and bloodshot eyes, especially as he had been the indirect cause of it all. But I was coming around pretty fast by the time we got to the honky-tonk, and it helped my morale quite a bit to find my car there.

I realized, though, that I wasn’t as sober as I thought I was after we’d gone ten blocks and Shelton wanted to know when I was going to shift out of second gear.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To a party. Sutton took me there tonight in his Cadillac, and then he came up missing. It could be that he got wind of the D.A.’s warrant for him and lit out. Maybe somebody there will have an idea about that or even tell us where he went.”

It took only about fifteen minutes to get to the corner of Elmhurst and Arlington Road. I came in on Arlington, which skirts that end of town, because it was the quickest way from the south side. Elmhurst led straight downtown. I noticed there weren’t any cars parked around the apartment house, though an apartment on the fourth floor was all lighted up. I guessed that this was 4B.

The card in the mail box said the apartment belonged to a guy named George Cranston, and the name didn’t mean a thing. The foyer was deserted, and we used the automatic elevator, which was on the main floor. When we reached 4B I wondered if somebody had wrecked the phonograph, for it wasn’t playing.

I tried the door, and it opened. I entered, and Shelton followed. There wasn’t a soul in the living room, where the phonograph was. There wasn’t even a sound in the house. I went on into the dining room, through it and into the kitchen without finding a sign of life. One thing I thought was odd.

The gang had taken the trouble to wash every glass in the place and stack them up in neat rows. There wasn’t a bottle, even an empty one in sight. I looked in the trash basket beside the electric range, and there wasn’t a bottle in it, either. I thought it was really remarkable for a gang of drunks as knocked-out as that bunch had been to be so neat and tidy and even carry away the little dead soldiers.

“Where is everybody?” asked Shelton.

“They probably moved on to some other apartment,” I guessed. “It’s only two o’clock now, and that would be the mere shank of the evening for that gang. But let’s look in the bedrooms just for luck — maybe somebody’s passed out in there.”

There were three bedrooms, and the first two were vacant The girl lay stretched out on the bed in the third one, and she looked dead to the world. Which is exactly what she was, for somebody had shot her under her left eye.

Shelton froze in the doorway, though he has seen much more death than I have. The difference was that I’m accustomed to seeing it in unexpected places, and Shelton wasn’t.

I went over to the girl, looked down at the ugly little wound and said: “The dirty skunk. From the powder marks it looks as if the guy held the gun about a foot from her face and let her have it. He must have been shooting at her eye. The only reason he didn’t hit it was either because he was a bad shot or under the influence. Come over here, Shellie, and get a look at this babe. Ever see her before?”

Shelton came diffidently over as if invading the privacy of an undressed woman, though this girl was fully clothed. Her dress had been drawn up to the tops of her nylons, which gave me the idea she had been lifted onto the bed. Another thing that gave me the same idea was the bruise on her chin. It seemed pretty plain that her killer had clipped her first, carried her to the bed and let her have it.

“No,” said Shelton. “I never saw her before. Have you?”

“Yes. She was the girl who was so friendly with Phil Sutton tonight.”

It was the blonde, all right, the plump blonde that Sutton had evidently come here to meet. I turned to Shelton and said: “Look around for a cartridge case. It’ll be either a .22 or a .25.”

It was a small wound. While Shelton looked I took the girl by her hair and turned her head. The slug hadn’t gone out the back, which convinced me that it was indeed of small caliber. A moment later Shelton said he’d found it, and I turned about.

The little brass case lay in a corner. I went over, got down on my knees and looked at it Without picking it up. It was a .22 Long Rifle with the U indentation which the Remington people put on such cartridges. There was also the indentation of an extractor bar, visible in bad light and to the naked eye. There was a good chance that the cartridge case could be used to identify the killer’s gun — if the killer Was ever found.

“Hadn’t we better call the city police?” Shelton asked.

I got up and shook my head.

“Not unless you want to quit your job with Keever. If I’m ever connected with this girl’s murder, Keever might as well go to China. Don’t you get the idea, Shellie? She was Sutton’s girl. Sutton’s bound to make the headlines. If I, as Keever’s chief investigator, make the headlines with him, it will be too much on top of the bribery charge already filed. Everybody in the state will be convinced that Sutton and Keever are thick as thieves.”

“But what are we going to do?”

“Get out of here. But first I want you to look into all the bureau drawers of the other bedrooms, along with the closets. Tell me what you find there.”

Shelton left, and I gave the room the once-over. I couldn’t find a thing. The girl’s handbag was missing, and I didn’t even have an idea as to who she was. When Shelton came back he looked puzzled.

“I don’t know what kind of person this George Cranston could be — or anyone else who’d live here. There isn’t a thing in those rooms. Every drawer is bare.”

I nodded. “This room’s the same way. So that can mean only one thing. George Cranston is a phony name used by somebody who’s rented this apartment solely for the purpose of giving such parties as the one thrown here tonight. Nobody lives here at all!”

Shelton looked dubious. “Maybe Cranston moved everything out — like those bottles.”

“Nix. The bottles were carried out by the guests in their inside pockets. It was the guests who washed the glasses. They were liquored up enough to think they were doing something real cute, getting rid of fingerprints like that. There must have been a hell of a busy time around here after somebody found this dead girl.”

Shelton frowned. “You haven’t told me much about what happened at the party. Where was Sutton by then?”

“He’d gone when I left. That is, I’m sure he wasn’t in a bedroom, especially this one. My hunch is he was the first to discover the body and he got out as fast as he could.”

Shelton mused: “I wonder where he could have gone?”

“Where does any man go when he gets into bad trouble?”

“To see his lawyer. But would Sutton go to Price? Price made an incriminating statement to the D.A. about that check.”

“Not incriminating — except in connection with other circumstances to be proved. Price was on the spot — the check spoke for itself. It showed that he, Price, had written it to cash. Either he told the D.A. to whom he’d given it or he’d have been indicted himself. As a lawyer you know that a lawyer doesn’t have to keep his mouth shut about his client’s affairs if doing so incriminates him.”

“You think we’ll find Sutton with Price, then?”

“If not, Price will know where to find him.”

We had just reached the main floor again when the siren sounded. We sprinted to my car, and I got away fast. I didn’t see the approaching police car, for it evidently was coming up Elmhurst. I kept on going out Arlington Road, then cut back downtown.

“Well,” asked Shelton, “what do you think?”

“Somebody’s phoned the cops about the body, of course. Maybe one of the guests got conscience-stricken. I don’t really think anybody was trying to nail us there before we got away. If that had been the case, they could have had the place staked out.”

I made another turn and drove toward the north side, where Worthington Heights, a swanky new addition, was located. Sam Price had sunk about seventy grand in a big house out there, and I had an idea he’d be at home rather than at the office. I also had an idea that the D.A.’s boys would have the place staked out, so I took it easy when I got there, driving by slowly.

Sure enough, a little blob of light was extinguished as I went by some shrubbery — one of the D.A.’s trained seals was right on the job. I turned a corner and got out of the car.

“Go back to Keever and report,” I told Shelton. “I’m going to pay a little visit on Price via the back way.”

Shelton didn’t like the idea, but he obeyed meekly enough. I legged it through some back lots, hoping I wouldn’t be shot at for a snooper and finally got in back of Price’s big stone house. No light had shone from the front, but there was a light in back, all right, and a Cadillac parked there. I couldn’t be too sure, but I was betting that it was Sutton’s Cadillac.

The light came through French doors opening on a terrace. One of the doors was ajar, and I heard a voice. By the time I had reached the doors I knew it was Price talking and that he was using a phone. I paused to listen, but all I heard was: “O.K., Brocky, I’ll call you back.”

Then Price hung up. I tried to remember whom I knew named Brocky, but I couldn’t think of anyone. I stepped into the doorway and said:

“Hi-ya, Sam. What’s new?”

Price jumped a foot. He whirled and said angrily: “What the hell you doing here? I’ve seen enough cops for one night!”

“I’m different.” I walked into the room, got out a cigarette and lighted it, looking over the room. It was a sort of combination office, library and den. There was a walnut table in the middle and built-in bookcases on the side walls. The ends were variously adorned with gun racks and flashy nudes. The guns were trap guns, expensive English importations, and the nudes also looked expensive.

“O.K.!” Price snapped. “What the hell are you doing here? I told Keever over the phone I had nothing to say.”

I regarded Price before answering him. People credited him with a lot of legal brains because of a ferret-like face and a pair of shifty eyes.

Price had the reputation, anyway. He was the kind of lawyer Sutton would take to, and though Sutton used several lawyers, Price was far ahead of the field in the enjoyment of his patronage. That was the main reason why I thought Price was my best lead to Sutton.

“I don’t care what you told Keever,” I said. “I want Sutton. Tell me where I can find him.”

Price gestured with his hands and gave me what he intended to be a look of despair. “I wish to heaven I knew! This thing broke before I could contact him, and I’ve turned the town upside down!”

“Isn’t that Sutton’s car out there?”

“No. That’s my daughter’s car. I wish she would put it up. She leaves it out every night because she gets home too plastered to drive it into the garage. I hate to say a thing like that, but I’m getting desperate about that girl. I guess a father can’t bring up a girl the way she should be.”

I remembered that Price’s wife had died years before. He had never remarried, and he had a reputation for getting around. I didn’t know the daughter; she would run with a lot younger set them I did and a lot more expensive set, too.

“Come on, Sam,” I said. “Stop stalling. If you don’t know where Sutton is, nobody does.”

“It looks as if you’re right — nobody does. Why wouldn’t the fool phone me before this? I suppose he’s out drinking his head off again. I never saw a man lap up as much booze as he does.”

“I wish I knew where he gets his booze. Maybe it would make me smart, too.”

Price deprecatingly waved a hand. “You. don’t have to be smart to make money. You. just have to not give a damn what you touch.”

I thought Price would be an excellent authority on that.

“Look here, Sam, you’re handing me a whale of a line, and you know it. I’m going to find Sutton. You can slow me down, but you can’t stop me. You won’t do yourself any harm showing a little co-operation to the attorney general’s office.”

Price’s face became slightly pink.

“Is that a threat? If it is, you can get the hell out!”

I wasn’t getting anywhere. The closest way to a man is usually through his hobbies, so I pretended just to notice the trap guns, and said: “Say, that’s a fine collection there. Mind if I have a look?”

“I do mind,” said Price, but I crossed over toward the guns anyway. I never completed the distance because I stopped short when I noticed the photograph on one of the bookcases.

I asked: “Who’s that?”

“Patricia, my daughter.” Price’s voice had softened at the mention of her name, but he quickly added: “You heard me — get out!”

“Sure, only, tell me — where were you when your daughter came home?”

“Right here, of course.”

I turned and faced Price. “You’re lying, Sam. You weren’t in the house when she came home. Admit it.”

“Damn you. I don’t have to be called a liar in my own house! Not that I care what you think, but I never left this house this night!”

I sighed and walked to the French door. When I reached it, I turned back. “You’ll regret your attitude, Sam. Remember — I could have made it a lot easier for you if you’d leveled with me.”

I think he realized that I was telling the truth — though of course he couldn’t know what I meant. I felt sorry for him. He was in for a terrible shock when he was told, as eventually he had to be, that his daughter Patricia lay shot to death in an abandoned apartment at the corner of Elmhurst and Arlington Road.

Chapter Three Homicide Hangover

I knew that I couldn’t be mistaken about the girl’s identity. The photograph had been a perfect likeness of Patricia Price. Her father took for granted that she was upstairs in her bedroom because her car had been brought home.

I wondered if Sutton himself had delivered it. I looked it over carefully as I left the grounds. I was positive that it was the same car Sutton had used. He had been driving it when he had picked me up at the south-side honky-tonk. I kept on going, reaching the street and walking towards the center of town.

Sam Price didn’t know Patricia was running around with Phil Sutton. Or did he? Perhaps it was anger that had made him so quick to make a statement about the check he had given to Sutton. Perhaps he had never given the check to Sutton at all. Perhaps the whole plot was the work of an enraged parent bent on wreaking revenge.

I had gone upon the reasonable assumption that the plot had been cooked up to ruin Keever. Now it seemed altogether possible that any inconvenience caused him was merely incidental to the main purpose, the ruination of Sutton himself.

I had to find Sutton. If the check was a plant, he would know. He would also know about the Cadillac being delivered to Price’s home. It was no pretty picture that I had of Sutton, running out on the party after discovering the girl murdered and returning her car to fool her father.

“Want to ride, or do you like walking?”

I stopped and turned. I had been so preoccupied that I hadn’t noticed the parked car. It was my own. Shelton had been sitting in it with the lights out. He slid out from under the wheel as I crossed and took the driver’s seat.

“I told you to report to Keever.”

“I did — by phone. I thought you might need me. If you hadn’t come pretty quickly I was going after you.”

“What did Keever have to tell you?”

“Nothing. The D.A.’s office haven’t found Sutton. But neither has Keever. He’s counting on you.”

“I’m flattered. Tell me, do you know anybody named Brocky?”

“Brocky? Brocky who?”

“That’s what I want to find out. Price was concluding a phone call to him when I walked in. By the way, I’ve learned the identity of the murdered girl — Patricia Price, Sam’s daughter.”

Shelton whistled, “You didn’t tell Price, of course.”

“Hardly. Though I would have, if he’d leveled with me. He’s playing some kind of game. I’m not sure whether it’s for or against Sutton. You can guess why he might be against him.”

“I’ll say! If I had a daughter running around with Sutton, I’d fix his wagon, one way or another.”

I nodded. I was heading downtown at a pretty good clip. I told Shelton about the Cadillac. He said: “The house was watched. The odds are that whoever returned the Cadillac didn’t know that. So it couldn’t have been Sutton who returned it — the cop on the job would have nailed him.”

I hadn’t thought of that, and I said so. Shelton seemed pleased. I didn’t unbend much — I couldn’t forget that a few hours ago Shelton had been out with Kay. And just thinking about Kay made me remember a detail I’d overlooked.

Somebody had given her the phone number of that apartment. Somebody had known I was there. I gave the wheel a jerk, and Shelton was startled.

“What’s the idea?”

“We’re calling on Kay. She’s going to tell us how she happened to have the phone number of that apartment.”

“Well, I can answer that,” Shelton said sheepishly. “When I took her home tonight the old boy at the desk had the number. She asked him who’d given it to him, and he said he didn’t know. Some guy had phoned it in and said to give it to her.”

I didn’t look at Shelton. I turned back into the main drag and continued on downtown. When we came to a bar that was open I parked in front of it.

“I can use a shot,” I told Shelton. “I’m getting a headache.”

He joined me. When the barman brought our drinks, I asked casually: “Brocky been in tonight?”

The barman looked me over.

“Brocky who, pal?”

“I don’t know the guy’s last name. What is it anyway?”

The barman looked me over very thoughtfully, and said: “I don’t know what the gag is, pal. I don’t know no Brocky, and I don’t know you. Shall I set up another round?”

“No, thanks.”

We left. We stopped at the next open bar, which was blocks away, for it was so late that only those with night club permits remained open. We got about the same kind of response from a barman there. After we had visited three more bars and almost reached the center of town, I knew I couldn’t keep it up without getting drunk all over again. Shelton had been pouring them down right with me and he didn’t show it a bit. Of course I had been in a hell of a shape to begin with.

“Look here,” I told him, as I drove away, “we’d better contact Keever and have him turn the entire staff loose looking for this guy Brocky instead of Sutton. My hunch is that if we find Brocky, we’ll find Sutton.”

Shelton was looking into the mirror, which he’d adjusted so that he could see through the rear glass.

“Maybe we won’t have to find Brocky. Maybe Brocky is looking for us.”

I reached up and adjusted the mirror so that I could have a look. There was a car half a block behind. I made a couple of turns, and the trailing lights stuck there. I felt relieved.

“Well, if you want to get off, it’ll be all right with me. There may be some shooting in about a minute.”

“If there is, I want to do some of it.”

I was glad he felt that way about it. He carried a .45 automatic that wasn’t noticeable because his chest was so thick that even a hand-me-down suit wouldn’t show a bulge. I carried a gun on the same kind of frame, only it was a Super .38 loaded with Super-X cartridges that push a bullet through eleven pine boards. I had an idea we could take care of whoever wanted to play rough. So I jammed on the brakes and turned the car across the center of the street.

The other car’s tires screeched, and it stopped only a few feet short of us. I was out on the pavement by that time, and Shelton made it even faster than I did. He took one side of the car, and I took the other. We reached the other car just as the driver was slamming the gears into reverse.

“Hold it!” I snapped to the driver, and he did this, for the muzzle of a Super .38 looks as big as a cannon. Shelton on his side was doing all right — the other guy in the car seemed to be trying to shrivel down into the seat. The car was stopped now, and I asked: “All right, boys, who sent you?”

The driver gave me the silent treatment. He was a smarty, I could see at a glance. His hair was rust-colored, and his face was florid. He had a quick temper, but he was holding it in because he wanted more than anything else to be smart. He was going to make an issue of not answering me.

His pal looked too small to be in such a game. He was still shriveling down, looking terrified at the gaping muzzle of Shelton’s automatic. Fortunately there was no traffic in the side street I’d turned into. So I jerked open the door, reached inside with the Super .38 and slapped the smart guy’s temple with a back-handed blow of the slide. He went out like a light, and I dragged him out from under the wheel and shoved him unconscious into the street. Then I turned to the little, shriveling guy.

“All right, jerk, do you want some of the same?”

He began to whimper.

“Don’t hit me, Mr. Corbett! Brocky only wanted us to find out why you were asking about him!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Brocky who?”

The little man looked puzzled. I got it then. I was supposed to know Brocky. I said gently: “Just come with us and take us to Brocky. We’ll tell him what we want.”

The little fellow looked terrified at the thought of being dragged in before his boss, but when Shelton opened the door he got out after one gesture from the .45. Then I heard a scraping noise behind me and whirled.

At the same time I cocked the Super .38, for I’d carried it hammer-down. It’s a good thing for me that I did, for Smart Guy had risen on one elbow. Blood was streaming from his temple and getting into one eye. He was giving me no pleasant look as he tugged at something under his coat and in the region of his belt. It turned out that the something was a snub-nosed revolver.

Smart guy was mad enough to use it. I saw no reason whatever to let him take the first shot, so I put a slug through his right shoulder. The revolver rattled on the pavement as Smart Guy screamed and cursed. Then he passed out cold.

The little fellow on the other side of the car was crying like a baby. Shelton had run around to help me out and left him standing there. He suddenly realized nobody was watching him, so he sprinted away from the car. Shelton was after him in a flash and easily overtook him before he had gone sixty feet. He led him back and asked nervously: “Now what?”

“We’re lamming out of here.”

“But the guy you shot is badly hurt. He’ll bleed to death!”

“No, somebody will come running any minute. See — there’s a light on in that house over there.”

I started for the car, and Shelton dragged his little captive along with him. We got moving just as a man in a dressing robe rushed out into the street. I doused the lights so he couldn’t catch my number, and didn’t put them on until I’d turned off the street. Then I looked side-wise at the little fellow sitting between us and said: “You tell us where we’re going.”

Very meekly he named the south-side honky-tonk where Sutton had picked me up in the first place. I made it there in about twenty minutes, for there was no traffic. It was after closing hours, though, and the place looked deserted. The little fellow nevertheless insisted that Brocky was there.

“You go first,” I told him when I’d parked. “Remember that we’ll be right beside you.”

He went to a side door, and Shelton and I stood at each side. So when the door opened, we just gave the little fellow a push and followed through, gun muzzles pointing in the direction of the skinny, pasty-faced man who had opened the door.

He wasn’t much more startled than I was. He was the same guy I’d seen at the party, the man who had told me about Kay’s phone call. I turned to the little fellow, who was quivering like a sick kitten and said: “This Brocky?”

He nodded and began to cry again. Pasty-face tried to put on a bold front.

“Say, Corbett, what’s this all about?”

“You tell us.” I looked around the room. The door was a private one in what seemed to be a pretty large office for a honky-tonk. The place was empty. “You can begin,” I told Pasty-face, “by telling us your name.”

Pasty-face was trying to be pleasant. “You got me all wrong, Corbett. Don’t get any ideas just because I had the boys pick up your trail. When the barman at the Hoot Owl phoned me you was in asking for me, naturally I got curious.”

“Naturally. What did you say your name was?”

“Joe Brockley. Everybody in town just calls me Joe, but people I used to know when I lived in Cincinnati call me Brocky.”

“So you knew Sam Price in Cincinnati?” I asked.

Brockley paled. “I don’t get it, Corbett. I don’t even know Sam Price to speak to.”

“Take it easy,” I assured him. “It’s all right. I was with Sam when he talked to you on the phone. I knew your name all right — I was just curious about your being called ‘Brocky.’ ”

Brockley didn’t buy that one, but he was plainly impressed about my knowing Price had called him. So I said: “Sam even told me you were the guy that cashed the ten grand check, the one that teller said Keever cashed.”

Brockley’s eyes popped, and I saw that my shot in the dark had scored a bull’s-eye. But Brockley shook his head as if in dumb wonder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never saw no check for ten grand.”

I was satisfied I had the right man, so I didn’t argue. I looked around the office. There were cardboard cartons stacked along one wall, and when I saw the label of the printing concern on them I knew I had Brockley’s right number.

He pushed tickets.

That accounted for the size of the office and the two low-budget tough-guys he had put on my trail. They weren’t real gunsels, just punks whose regular job was pushing tickets. The tickets, of course, were the kind sold in cookie jars, five for a quarter, with prizes running from four bits to three bucks.

It’s quite a nice thing if you have a small bar and slow hours during the day. All you need to show a nice profit is a couple of drunks. They see the cookie jar sitting on the bar, and they have a quarter change which they think they’ll blow on some tickets. What’s a quarter?

So maybe they hit for fifty cents or maybe they don’t — it makes no difference. They try again, and they keep it up until the bar is cluttered up with tickets. If they were sober they’d know the odds are hopelessly against them, but they’re buzzed up, and they keep on fishing tickets out of the jar until they’re breaking big bills.

It’s a poor bar that can’t push a couple of jars a day, and that means a net profit of sixty dollars, even though the tickets cost from six to ten dollars a jar, depending on how much the fix costs.

So that was Brockley’s racket. The quivering little fellow and Smart Guy whom I’d shot were “salesmen.” Brockley saw that I was taking the whole set-up in, and he shrugged.

“If you’re here to put the bite on my racket, say so.”

“I don’t give a damn about your racket. I don’t want much — just tell me who shot Patricia Price.”

Brockley said slowly: “If I’d known, I’d have told Price.”

“Oh, so you told him about it over the phone?”

“I thought you said you was there.”

“I was, but I got in a little late. Price pretended to me that he didn’t know.”

“Well, I don’t know who rubbed out the girl — any more than you do.” Brockley seemed to have a brainstorm then. His eyes narrowed, and he said meaningly: “Maybe you’re the guy that knows all about it. Maybe you done the job yourself!”

“Skip it, Brockley. I didn’t bump the girl — I was buzzed up all evening.”

“You could of knocked her off and forgotten about it.”

“Nix. I could have forgotten a lot of things that happened at that party and a lot of people who were there. But I remember murder. So let’s begin at the beginning. You spotted me here earlier in the evening and phoned Sutton that I was here. Why?”

“I didn’t phone him — about you, that is. I had a little business deal on with him, and when he called me I mentioned that you were here. So he said he’d come over and get you and take you to a swell party. He told me to come along too and told me where it was.”

I thought it sounded plausible that Brockley would have “a little business deal” with Sutton. It was an open secret around town that Sutton was sitting pretty with two thousand cases of black market Scotch.

“All right, take it up from there.”

“Well, I finally made it to the party, and you know how it was. Everybody was fried, and I started getting fried, too. But I didn’t see Sutton. I asked about him, and a guy said he and the Price girl was in that room. I didn’t want to bother ’em, so I stayed away from that door. That’s why nobody tumbled to what had happened till maybe half an hour after you left.”

“Who found the body?”

“I don’t know the dame’s name. She was falling down drunk and thought the room was the bath. When she seen the girl was dead, she liked to raised the dead.”

“So everybody tidied up the joint and sneaked out?”

“Why not? Nobody wanted to be mixed up in a murder case. They was some pretty nice people at that party.”

“Of course you can give me the names of all those nice people.”

Brockley assumed what he thought to be a noble expression.

“I ain’t no squealer!”

“Then you didn’t phone Kay and give her the apartment phone number?”

Brockley frowned. “Kay who?”

“Skip it.” I turned to Shelton. “I think he’s telling the truth. He’s not a crook, just a cheap chiseler.”

Shelton eyed Brockley, who slowly reddened.

“Why did you phone Price?”

“Why, because I got to thinkin’ he should oughta know about his girl layin’ there dead. I think he appreciated it, too. It don’t do a guy in my racket no harm to be in right with an important man like Price. Just bein’ seen with him helps out.”

I went over to a chair, sat down and held my head in my hands. I began to laugh a little helplessly.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Shelton. “Are you having a laughing jag?”

I stopped laughing and looked up.

“No, I’m just laughing at myself. I should hire out as a ventriloquist’s dummy. It just now dawned on me who’s behind the frame-up to smear Keever. And I think I know who killed Patricia Price, too!”

Chapter Four D.T.’s for the D.A

I got up, walked over to Brockley and slapped him off his feet. He got up, shaking with anger.

“What the hell was the idea of that?”

“Just to give you a sample of what you’re going to get if you don’t give me a list of the people at that party. There’s pencil and paper on that desk. Start writing.”

Brockley hesitated, then I took a step toward him, and he went to the desk. He began to write. When he stopped there were only five names on the paper.

“Go on, write all the names. There must have been twenty people there at one time or another.”

“Honest, Corbett, that’s all the people I know. There was people there that was total strangers to me, and I didn’t get introduced.”

I looked at the names, which meant nothing to me. “Pick out somebody who was there at the beginning of the party and stayed till the end.”

Brockley studied the names and finally said: “Of course, I ain’t sure, but I think this guy Jervis was there as long as anybody was.”

I looked at the name. “Who’s Jake Jervis?”

“He’s a big shot ticket operator. He’s the guy I get all my tickets from. Please, Mr. Corbett, don’t tell him I squealed, or he’ll stop doing business with me!”

“Where do I find Jervis?”

“The Wedgewood Hotel.”

The Wedgewood was the swankiest hotel in town, located opposite the State House. It had the town’s biggest cocktail lounge, and your elbow was always in the ribs of either a state senator, a lobbyist or a pickpocket. I reached for the phone and dialed the office.

Keever seemed to be in the last stages of hysteria.

“They’ve got Sutton!” he screamed. “Ben, why did you have to let me down this time, when it means everything!”

“How long have they had Sutton?”

“Half an hour. My man in the D.A.’s office hasn’t been able to find out a thing! The D.A.’s got Sutton in a locked room with a stenographer and a recording machine. God only knows what he’s telling them! I’m ruined, Ben, I’m ruined — and all because you couldn’t even find Sutton!”

“Calm yourself, Keever. I’ve got this thing sewed up in a bag. I even know who killed the Price girl.”

“What? What do you know about that? Durbin just told me the girl’d been murdered. My God, don’t tell me they can tie up my office in that!”

“I was there when it happened, boss. But keep your shirt on — I’ll bust the case wide open to the greater glory of the attorney general’s office. I’ll show them how we crack the cases that take in the D.A.”

Keever began to talk, but I couldn’t make any sense out of what he was saying. He seemed to be talking to himself. When I finally got him to listen, I said: “Round up some of the Keystone Kops and have them drag Jake Jervis out of bed over at the Wedgewood. Have him at your office by the time I get there. Maybe you’d better get Kay, too, to take down some statements.”

“Jake Jervis? That racketeer? What’s he got to do with this.”

“You’ll find out. I also want you to locate Sam Price. He’ll either be at home or at police headquarters. Get him, too.”

Keever had started to talk to himself again when I hung up. I turned to Brockley and said: “Come on, Brockley — we’re going to the A.G.’s office and make some phonograph records.”

Brockley groaned, then sighed resignedly and got to his feet. Shelton asked: “What do we do with this punk?”

He indicated the little fellow, and I said: “We’ll take him along just in case the cops ask any embarrassing questions about the street shooting tonight.”

I knew something was wrong when we pulled into the Annex parking lot. Two police cars were there, also a Buick that belonged to Gordon Kress, the district attorney. Shelton and I walked in with our reluctant companions.

And the sight that met my eyes when I opened the door of the big reception room in Keever’s suite was one I’ll never forget.

The first faces I saw were those of the city police, in uniform and out. They stared pop-eyed as I entered, then their eyes narrowed. They reminded me of an alleyful of cats coming across an astigmatic mouse.

They converged upon me.

“You’re under arrest!” said Lew Kaverman, a city detective captain.

“For what?”

“For shooting down Waxy Walters in cold blood! He came to at the hospital and told us who did it!”

Keever’s private door opened, and he appeared therein. He looked as if he were in the last stages of delirium tremens, and he had to brace himself against the door jamb to stand up. Fatly gloating, Durbin peered over his shoulder.

“Tell me!” screamed Keever. “Tell me it isn’t so! You didn’t shoot that man Walters, did you? Tell me that it wasn’t you!”

“Why, I couldn’t do that, boss — that would be telling a falsehood. Sure I plugged the guy.”

Keever collapsed. He fell backwards against Durbin, who lost his balance and fell down, Keever on top of him. Kay appeared then with a wet towel. I went over to help, but Kay stopped me with the most venomous glare I ever saw outside a zoo.

“You’ve done enough damage around here!” she said. “Why did you have to shoot somebody, tonight of all nights?”

“All in the line of duty,” I said, but not smartly. Kay’s look had seared my insides. I let Shelton pull Keever off the squealing Durbin, who got to his feet with the assistance of two cops. Beyond, in Keever’s private office, District Attorney Gordon Kress watched gloatingly.

He was accompanied by Phil Sutton, Sam Price and a man I vaguely remembered from the party. He would be Jake Jervis, I knew, the large-scale ticket operator.

Keever’s blood pressure finally went down to a point where he could stand up. Shelton helped him to his desk. He also helped me, explaining that Waxy Walters had tried to shoot me first But Keever’s glare in my direction was still murderous. It took extra chairs to provide seats for all of us, including Brockley. He was getting his own share of dirty looks from Jake Jervis and Phil Sutton.

“Maybe we can get somewhere now,” said Gordon Kress, who obviously regarded the affair as his own show. “I brought Sutton over here to give you a chance to make a statement in his presence, Keever. Did he or did he not give you that check in consideration for your favorable opinion in the Acme Auto Insurance matter?”

Keever was beginning to regain his composure. He eyed Kress in deadly earnest. “I never saw a check for ten thousand, much less one given me by Sutton. How about that, Sutton? What have you got to say?”

Sutton seemed to enjoy being the center of attraction. He took his time before he said: “Sure, sure, Mr. Keever, you never saw the check!”

Then he deliberately winked.

Keever paled. Sutton had sealed his doom as surely as if he had said: “Sure, I gave you the check, and you cashed it!”

I thought for a moment Keever was going to have a stroke. I didn’t want that to happen, because that would mean my job for sure. So I spoke up.

“Sutton, you’re putting on an act. You know Keever didn’t cash the check. Brockley here did. Isn’t that right, Brockley?”

One thing is certain — I had put the fear of God in Brockley. He was afraid of Sutton, of Jervis, of his shadow, but most of all he was afraid of me. Maybe the news of my shooting Walters accounted for it. Anyway, he said meekly: “Yes, I cashed the check, all right.”

The district attorney didn’t believe him. He asked coldly: “Why?”

“Because Mr. Sutton told me to.”

“And why did he want you to cash the check?”

“To frame Mr. Keever, I guess. The teller at the bank was in on it, too. He’d lost some dough at a gambling joint Sutton owns a piece of, and I guess he had to do it, like I did.” Brockley looked to me and said almost tearfully: “I had to do what Sutton said. He really owns my place, not me!”

“Sure. And he owns the ticket business, too.”

Brockley nodded. Sutton was very red in the face. He snarled: “The man’s lying! Why would I frame Keever? Why, that would be framing me, too!”

I turned to Jake Jervis. He had been almost dead drunk at the party, but he was cold sober now and studying Sutton intently.

“Mr. Jervis, I won’t ask you to incriminate yourself. I know what your racket it. Let’s just say it’s a business, and let’s also say that Mr. Sutton wanted a partnership in your business. Is that right?”

Jervis eyed me perhaps ten seconds, then he nodded almost imperceptibly. “That’s right. Sutton wanted to buy a partnership in my business.”

“I was sure of that. But you didn’t want to sell any part of that business to Sutton, did you?”

Again Jervis eyed me several seconds in silence. Then he said: “No. I didn’t need Sutton, and I didn’t need his capital.”

“Of course you didn’t. You own one of the best rack — let’s say most profitable businesses in the state. There was no point in sharing it with somebody else. Unless you had to, for some reason.

“That was to be Sutton’s big argument. He had to convince you that you couldn’t operate without him. He had to convince you that he and the attorney general, Mr. Keever, were like that.” I held up my crossed fingers. “Of course that would take a lot of doing. Every crook in the state knows that nobody can get to Keever, that he’s perfectly honest.

“So Sutton had to blast his good name and connect himself with him in the eyes of the whole state. He took advantage of the favorable opinion rendered by Keever in the insurance case. So he framed the check deal. He was careful, not going too far. The thing was to be a nine-days’ wonder, not a frame for keeps.

“After Keever’s reputation was thoroughly ruined, the teller would suddenly remember that it wasn’t Keever at all who cashed the check. The teller’s identification was the only thing against Keever — nobody could ever prove he got the money, for he didn’t.

“Sutton would dramatically end his damning silence. He would admit that Brockley cashed the check, and Brockley would come forward to testify. Other people in the bank at the time would remember Brockley and Keever would be cleared. In the meantime, Sutton would have managed to close his deal with Jake Jervis.

“Everything was done to impress Jervis. That explains why Sutton drove over to Brockley’s place to pick me up. He wanted to impress Jervis by bringing me into his party. I was Keever’s chief investigator — didn’t it all go to show? As an added inspiration, Sutton phoned Kay’s apartment house and left the apartment number.

“He knew she’d be trying to find me as soon as the scandal broke. And he knew I’d want him to go and talk with Keever. He pictured us going out in great haste together, Jervis taking it all in and believing the charges against Keever when he read the papers the next morning.

“Jervis would yield and accept Sutton as a partner because the public scandal would convince him that Sutton was right with the attorney general’s office. Jervis would be frightened by the prospect of having attorney general heat put on him and baited by the prospect of wider operations owing to cooperation from Keever.” I turned to Jervis. “I’m asking you, Mr. Jervis, if that isn’t what happened?”

Jervis gave me another long stare.

“Son, I won’t say another word without my lawyer.”

“You don’t have to. The entire scheme’s plain once you see through it. I got the idea from a remark Brockley made, that he phoned Sam Price tonight because it helped to be on friendly terms with a big shot. Even being seen with Price, he said, made him look important.

“Of course Brockley’s just a little shot. But the same thing applies to the big boys. They’re always trying to compromise the public officials they’ve bought or want to buy. For a long time I thought it was stupid of racketeers to be seen publicly with politicians. Now I know their game. They want to scare off all the possible competition by flaunting their protection that way.”

Gordon Kress said slowly: “You have an interesting theory, Corbett. But, as a lawyer, I’m telling you that it’s only a theory. Brockley has admitted that he cashed the check. That clears Keever, but it doesn’t prove Sutton conspired to frame Keever. You cant prove that.”

“Oh, yes, I can!” I looked across at Sam Price. The little lawyer had sat absently through the dialogue, apparently oblivious to it. I knew that he was tom with grief over his daughter’s death. I tried to ease up a bit as I spoke to him.

“Sutton couldn’t have planned a frame as clever as this one all by himself. It would take a lawyer to tell him just how far to go. Otherwise the frame might back-fire. How about that, Mr. Price?”

Price eyed me dully.

“You don’t think that I would admit that, do you?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t protect your daughter’s murderer, would you?”

Very pale, Price said calmly: “If you think Sutton killed her, you’re mistaken. He couldn’t have. It was Sutton himself who called me and asked me to meet him at a bar on the outskirts of Worthington Heights. I met him there, and he told me Pat was at the apartment he’d rented under the name of George Cranston. He said she was terribly drunk and wouldn’t leave when he’d tried to persuade her to.

“He wanted me to ride back with him and pick her up. He said she was too drunk to drive. But I’d done such a thing once before, and Pat had never forgiven me. She said I disgraced her, treating her like a child. So I phoned the apartment and talked to her. I asked her to come home at once, and she said she would.

“Her car was in the drive when I got back. I supposed she was safely in the house. Anyway, Sutton couldn’t have shot her. We had a couple of drinks at the bar before I went home. It was eleven o’clock when I phoned Pat. The coroner says she died between eleven and eleven thirty. It would be a half-hour’s drive from that bar to the apartment. Sutton couldn’t have gone back there and shot her, for it was nearly eleven-thirty when we left the bar. I know that.”

“But he could have shot her before he left the apartment and got a girl to impersonate her on the phone.”

“But the coroner said she was alive at eleven. Sutton was with me then. He couldn’t have shot her before he came to the bar.”

“Oh, yes, but he could have! You’re going on the assumption that your daughter died instantly after she was shot. You know that she was shot under her left eye and that the bullet lodged in her brain. So you’ve taken it for granted that she died instantly. You’re forgetting that many brain wounds, especially those made with small-calibered guns, don’t produce death for days. Some even fail to be fatal.” I turned to Kress. “Isn’t that right, Mr. District Attorney?”

Kress nodded. “Sutton could have shot the girl, all right, but what about the voice on the phone? A father should be able to recognize his own daughter’s voice!”

“Not when she’s as drunk as this girl was supposed to be. Sutton knew the girl would die — he got another girl to impersonate her an the phone. I think I know who the girl was. Millie Martin’s her name — she looks a lot like Kay.”

Kay looked up then. She was taking this all down. I went on. “Sutton palmed Millie off on me. That must have been for effect. He didn’t want Patricia to think there was anything between himself and Millie. But she must have found out the truth. She threatened to tell her father how many times she’d visited that apartment. Sutton got frightened. He thought Sam Price would kill him if he found out the truth. So he lost his head and shot the girl. While she lay dying he and Millie improvised an alibi. Millie drove the Cadillac to Price’s house immediately after her act on the phone. I’m gambling, Mr. District Attorney, that the man you planted at Price’s house will identify her.”

Sutton gambled the same way. He got excitedly to his feet and tore at his collar as sweat streamed down his face.

“I didn’t do it! I tell you Sam, it wasn’t me! It was Millie! Yes, that’s right, it was Millie! She was jealous! She did it. Don’t believe anything she tells you!”

Price said very quietly. “You’ve got it wrong, Phil. I’m not to believe anything you tell me!”

He got out a small automatic and shot Sutton. The funny thing was, he got Sutton right under his left eye. It had to be accidental, for it turned out Price had never fired a pistol before in his life.

Of course I could have cut Price down, but I might have killed him, and I wanted him to confirm my story of how he had worked out the frame on Keever. He did this very satisfactorily.

At least Keever was satisfied. He was so grateful for the way I cleared him that it was pretty close to a full week before he called me an idiot.