The Way the Cookie Crumbles

Chapter One

The wall clock showed 03.50 hours as the bell of the telephone on Sergeant Beigler’s desk rang briefly.

Beigler, a powerfully built, freckle-faced man in his late thirties, scowled at the telephone, glanced at the wall clock, then dropped a large, hairy hand on the receiver, scooped it up and snapped, ‘Beigler. Yeah?’

‘I’ve got Harry Browning on the line,’ the Desk Sergeant told him. ‘He wants you. Sounds like he’s ready to flip his wig.’

Beigler’s scowl deepened. Harry Browning was the owner of La Coquille Restaurant, one of the three top ranking restaurants in Paradise City. He was a personal friend of the Mayor and the Chief of Police, Captain Terrell. That put him in the Velvet Glove category so far as Beigler was concerned.

‘Let’s have him, Charley,’ Beigler said and reached for a cigarette. He looked regretfully at the empty carton on his desk. He had drunk the last of the coffee half an hour ago. Beigler had two vices: coffee drinking and cigarette smoking. ‘And send someone for coffee, Charley. I’m all dried out.’

‘Okay.’ The Desk Sergeant, Charley Tanner, sounded smugly resigned. He was always sending someone out for coffee for Beigler. ‘Here’s Browning.’

There was a click on the line, then a deep voice barked, ‘That you, Beigler?’

‘That’s right, Mr. Browning. Anything I can do?’

‘This is a hell of a thing! I have a dead woman in the restaurant. I want you to come out here fast and get rid of her. Now listen, Beigler, this may be just police routine to you, but to me, it’s goddamn serious. I don’t want any publicity. And when I say I don’t want any publicity that’s just what I mean. You understand? If the Press get onto this I’ll have someone’s skin and when I say I’ll have someone’s skin, I don’t give a goddamn who he is, I’ll have his skin. Do I make myself clear?’

Beigler was sitting bolt upright now, the heat in the big, dimly lit room forgotten.

‘That’s all right, Mr. Browning. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll be right over.’

‘The only thing I’m worrying about is to get this thing handled right! You handle it right, Beigler and I won’t worry... nor will you!’ and Browning hung up.

Beigler grimaced, then jiggled the cross piece of the telephone. When the Desk Sergeant answered, Beigler said, ‘Any reporters downstairs, Charley?’

‘Hamilton of the Sun. He’s asleep, half drunk. Why? What’s cooking?’

‘I don’t know yet, but something. Listen Charley, I’ve got to go out. If Hamilton wants to know where I’ve gone tell him I’ve gone home with the toothache. Who’s on duty?’

‘You got the toothache?’ Tanner asked, his voice concerned. ‘I’m sorry, Joe. I...’

‘Never mind being sorry,’ Beigler snapped. ‘Who’s on duty?’

‘Mandrake’s gone out for your coffee,’ Tanner said, disapproval in his voice. ‘There’s Jackson here, growing corns on his arse.’

‘Send him up to relieve me. Hess still around?’

‘He’s just leaving.’

‘Stop him! Tell him to wait for me. I’m coming down right now.’

Beigler struggled into his jacket, patted his hip pocket to assure himself he was wearing his gun, then snatching up a pack of cigarettes, he left the Detectives’ room and ran down to the Muster room.

Fred Hess, in charge of Homicide, was leaning against the wall, a resigned expression on his fat, round face.

‘Two minutes and I would have been out of this chicken coop,’ he said bitterly as Beigler joined him.

‘What’s cooking?’

Beigler strode down the steps to the parked police car. He got in and started the engine. Hess scrambled in beside him.

‘Dead woman at La Coquille. Browning is laying an egg.’ Beigler sent the car roaring down the deserted Main Street.

Hess grunted.

‘Murder?’

‘He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. We’ll start it moving when we get there. He didn’t sound in the mood to answer questions.’

‘I bet.’ Hess gave a loud guffaw. ‘From what I’ve heard of that joint, the last thing they would want is a stiff. You ever been inside, Joe?’

‘On my pay?’ Beigler was driving along the Promenade now. Only a few cars were parked by the beach. There was no traffic. ‘We’ll have to watch it, Fred. Browning draws a lot of water in this City.’

‘If it’s murder, it doesn’t matter a damn how much water he draws. It’s news.’

‘Yeah... but we don’t know if it’s murder yet. Let me handle it. Browning has lots of influential friends.’

‘It’s all yours, pal. I know when to keep my chin tucked in.’

La Coquille Restaurant stood at the far end of the Promenade, surrounded by lawns, flowerbeds and illuminated palm trees. Three marble steps led up to the imposing entrance. The restaurant closed at 02.30 hours and now the lighting consisted of a solitary chandelier in the lobby and a few concealed wall lights that cast long dark shadows across the heavy pile of the claret-coloured carpet.

Beigler and Hess got out of the car and walked up the steps, pushed their way through the revolving door and into the elegant lobby where Louis, the tall aristocratic maître d’hôtel, was waiting for them.

Louis, haughty and dignified, was seldom shaken, but Beigler could see he was certainly shaken now.

‘This way,’ Louis said, and moving with long, stiff strides, he led the two detectives into a second lobby and then up the stairs into a big bar.

Here, Harry Browning waited. He sat on the stool by the bar, a glass of brandy in his hand, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

Browning was fifty-five, heavily built and balding. His clean-shaven face was tanned dark by the sun. He wore a tartan tuxedo and a white carnation in his buttonhole. He looked what he was: smart, rich, powerful and arrogant.

‘She’s there,’ he said and waved to the end of the room. Along one side of the room was a number of banquettes in dark, heavily carved oak. Each banquette was screened by a red velvet curtain. ‘The end box.’

Beigler and Hess walked to the end of the room and peered into the banquette.

In the dim light, they could make out the figure of a blonde woman sprawled across the table. She was wearing a white, backless evening dress. Her blonde hair made a puddle of gold against the dark oak of the table.

Beigler looked back at Browning.

‘Could we have a little more light down here, Mr. Browning?’

Louis went behind the bar and snapped down some switches. The end of the bar where the two detectives were standing suddenly became illuminated by strong overhead lights that made them blink.

Beigler nodded his thanks and then moved into the banquette. He touched the woman’s shoulder. The chilling flesh confirmed Browning’s statement that she was dead, but to make absolutely sure, he pressed his fingers against the side of her neck, but there was no pulse beat.

‘Better not touch her until we get some photos,’ Hess said.

Browning came down the room, savagely chewing on his cigar.

‘I want her out of here right away, boys! Get moving! You can have all your fun and games at the morgue. If the press get hold of this, it’ll kill business for the season. Get her out of here!’

‘Can’t move her until we’ve photographed her,’ Hess said shortly. ‘This could be murder.’

Browning glared at him.

‘Who are you?’

Beigler silently cursed Hess for opening his mouth. He said hurriedly, ‘He’s in charge of Homicide, Mr. Browning. He’s right of course. This could be murder. I...’

‘This is suicide!’ Browning said, his face like granite. ‘There’s a hypo on the floor and her face is blue. I don’t have to be a goddamn dick to know she died of an overdose of heroin. Now, get her out of here!’

Beigler peered under the table. He saw an empty hypodermic syringe lying on the carpet. Straightening, he put his hands either side of the woman’s head and gently lifted her head to peer at her dead face. The blue colour of her skin and her pupil less wide eyes made him grunt. He lowered the head back on to the table.

‘Could still be murder, Mr. Browning,’ he said quietly. ‘She could have been given a shot.’

‘No one’s been near her since she came here,’ Browning said impatiently. ‘Now, get her out of here!’

‘All cases of suicide have to be treated as homicide until we prove it suicide. I’m sorry, Mr. Browning, but this can’t be an exception.’

Browning’s eyes gleamed angrily.

‘I don’t like uncooperative cops, Beigler. I have a long memory.’ He turned to Louis. ‘Get me Captain Terrell.’

As Louis hurried back to the bar, Beigler said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Browning, but that’s the way it is unless the Chief says otherwise. Is there another phone here I can use?’

‘You don’t use any goddamn phone until you’ve talked to Terrell!’ Browning snapped and walked back to the bar.

Beigler and Hess exchanged glances. Hess grinned. He knew if a chopper was to fall it wouldn’t be on his neck. He moved around Beigler and into the banquette. By the dead woman was a white and gold brocaded evening bag. He picked it up, opened it and glanced inside. He fished out an envelope, looked at it, then offered it to Beigler.

‘You’d better look at this, Joe. It’s for us.’

Beigler took the envelope. He could hear Browning talking in a low voice on the telephone. He glanced at the sprawling writing on the envelope which read: Police Department. He carefully slit open the envelope, using his penknife and drew out a folded sheet of paper. He spread it flat, and with Hess breathing down the back of his neck, read the note written in the same sprawling hand:

‘Hey, Beigler,’ Browning called. ‘Terrell wants you.’

Holding the note, Beigler moved to the bar and took the telephone receiver from Browning who walked away a few paces.

‘That you, Chief?’ Beigler asked.

‘Yes,’ Terrell said. ‘What’s going on, Joe?’

‘Mr. Browning reported a dead woman in the restaurant. I’ve just arrived. Looks like suicide: overdose of heroin. There’s an empty hypo and the woman’s face is blue. I found a suicide note in her bag. I’ll read it to you.’ Beigler flicked open the note and read it, keeping his voice low so Browning couldn’t hear what he was saying. ‘Sounds as if she’s knocked a guy off. Mr. Browning wants us to shift the body. I don’t see we can do that, do you, Chief? We should get the Squad down here.’

There was a pause, then Terrell said, ‘Who’s with you, Joe?’

‘Hess.’

‘Leave him with the body. You go to Seaview Boulevard and check. I’ll call Lepski to join you there. I’ll be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. Tell Hess to call the squad.’

‘Browning isn’t going to like this,’ Beigler said, glancing at Browning who was pacing up and down.

‘I’ll talk to him. You get off, Joe.’

‘I’m on my way’, Beigler said. He laid down the receiver and crossed to Browning who stopped pacing and swung around. ‘The Chief wants to talk to you, Mr. Browning.’

As Browning hurried to the telephone, Beigler went over to Hess.

‘Get the squad down here, Fred. This is the full treatment. The Chief’s on his way.’ He grinned. ‘I’m going over to Seaview Boulevard. So long, and watch your step with Browning.’

‘Maybe he won’t watch his step with me,’ Hess said uneasily.

As Beigler ran down the stairs, he heard Browning say in a loud, choking voice, ‘You can’t do this to me, Frank. You...’

His voice faded as Beigler hurried out into the hot night air. As he crossed to his car, a tall lanky figure came out of the darkness. It was Bert Hamilton of the Paradise Sun.

‘How’s the toothache, Joe?’ he asked, planting himself in front of Beigler. ‘I didn’t think you had any teeth left to ache.’

Beigler stepped around him.

‘Take my advice, Bert, and keep out of there,’ he said. ‘You’re likely to get your nuts chewed off.’

‘What makes you think I’ve got nuts?’ Hamilton asked.

As he walked up the steps to the restaurant’s entrance, Beigler sent his car racing down the driveway and headed for Seaview Boulevard.

Ticky Edris had a large globular shaped head, stumpy legs and arms and stood about three and a half feet high. He was what is known to the medical profession as an achondroplastic dwarf.

Edris had worked as a waiter and still-room assistant at La Coquille restaurant for the past eight years. Browning’s swank customers were contemptuously amused by the little man’s apparent good nature, his sad eyes and his quick, bustling walk. They found an offbeat pleasure in being waited on by the dwarf, and over the years, Edris had become a kind of court jester, greeting the customers with a familiarity that even Browning would have hesitated to use.

Wearing a chef’s apron, cut down to size, Edris was finishing polishing the last of the glasses when Louis, the maître d’hôtel, came in.

‘They want to talk to you, Ticky,’ he said. ‘Just answer their questions. The less everyone says about this the better for Mr. Browning.’

Edris hung up the glass cloth and took off his apron.

His odd shaped face was a little drawn and there were shadows under his eyes. He had been working non-stop since six o’clock and he felt pretty pooped.

‘Okay, Mr. Louis,’ he said, slipping into his white drill jacket. ‘You leave it to me.’

He trotted out of the room and into the bar. At the far end of the bar a photographer was taking pictures of the dead woman. Chief of Police Terrell, a big man with sandy hair, flecked with white, and a jutting, square jaw, was talking to Browning. Apart from a slight stubble of beard, Terrell showed no sign that he had just rolled out of bed and into his clothes at Beigler’s telephone call.

Dr. Lowis, the Medical officer, a short, fat man was waiting impatiently for the photographer to finish. Two fingerprint men who sat at the bar, looking longingly at the rows of bottles, also waited.

Fred Hess and Detective 3rd Grade Max Jacoby, a notebook in hand, sat in one of the banquettes. Looking up and seeing Edris, Hess beckoned.

Edris trotted over.

‘You the waiter who served the dead woman?’ Hess demanded.

‘Yes.’

Hess studied the dwarf. His expression said plainly he didn’t think much of what he saw. Edris stared back at him, his face expressionless, his stubby hands clasped before him.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ticky Edward Edris.’

‘Address?’

‘24, East Street, Seacombe.’

Seacombe was an extension of Paradise City where most workers of a low-income group lived.

While Hess was questioning Edris, Jacoby, a young bright looking Jew, recorded the answers.

‘What time did she arrive here?’ Hess asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘A little after eleven: eight minutes past to be exact.’

Hess looked sharply at the dwarf.

‘How can you be as sure as that?’

‘I own a watch. I use it.’

‘Was she alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had she reserved the banquette she’s in now?’

‘No. It was late. Nearly everyone had left the bar and had gone to the restaurant. There was plenty of room.’

‘She seem all right?’

Hess was aware that Browning and Terrell had come up and were listening. Glancing over his shoulder, Edris saw Browning frowning at him and he said, a little hurriedly, ‘She was all right.’

‘When she came in, what did she do?’

‘She went to the banquette and sat down. I asked her if she was waiting for anyone and she said no. She ordered a whisky sour. I served it and beat it.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I had to go down to the restaurant with drinks. When I came back the curtain was drawn. I asked the barman if anyone had joined her, but he said she was still on her own. I reckoned she wanted privacy so I didn’t go near her.’

‘You’re damned right she wanted privacy. Then what happened?’

‘We close around two-thirty. When most of the people had gone and the curtain still remained drawn, I went along to collect. I rapped on the stall, but got no answer. I looked in and there she was.’

‘You didn’t go near for three and a half hours?’

‘That’s right. I was busy. I work in the still-room. We had a heavy night. There was plenty to clear up.’

Browning suddenly grunted and turning to Terrell, said, ‘I’m going home. Louis will lock up. This is a hell of a thing for me. Could ruin my business. Get your men out of here as quickly as you can, Frank. I want Louis to get some sleep.’

‘We won’t be long now, Harry,’ Terrell said, shook hands and then watched Browning walk down the stairs and out of sight. He went down the bar to where Dr. Lowis was now examining the dead woman.

Edris said, ‘When you asked just now if she seemed all right, I didn’t tell you the truth. I’d like to answer that question again.’

Hess glared at him.

‘Look, your mother might have thought you were cute, but I don’t. You mean you were lying?’

‘I didn’t want to lose my job.’ Edris took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating face. ‘I like this job. The boss was listening. If I had told the truth and he had heard me, he would have booted me out.’

‘What makes you think he won’t boot you out if you tell the truth now?’

‘If you don’t tell him, he won’t know, will he?’

Hess eyed the dwarf thoughtfully, then shrugged.

‘Okay. So she didn’t seem all right?’

‘No. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was in trouble. She was white and shaking. I knew when she got that way, she’s likely to make a scene. Scream, get hysterical. So when I saw she was ready to flip her lid, I got her into the banquette and got her a drink. I pulled the curtain. I didn’t want her to make a scene. The boss doesn’t like scenes.’

Hess and Jacoby looked at each other, then Hess said, ‘You mean you know this woman?’

Edris glanced over his shoulder to where Louis was standing talking to Bert Hamilton, then lowering his voice, he said, ‘Yes, I know her. She lives in the apartment opposite mine.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you say so before?’ Hess snarled.

‘You didn’t ask me, and besides, I told you, Mr. Browning was listening. If he finds out I knew her and I put her in the banquette, he’ll boot me out.’

‘What do you know about her?’

‘She’s a junkie and a whore. I’ve known her off and on for eight years.’

Hess leaned forward.

‘You mean she’s your girl, Ticky?’

Edris looked at him for a moment, his eyes sad, then he said, ‘You think any girl would be my girl?’

‘You steered some of the rich playboys her way and she gave you a rake off? That’s it, isn’t it, Ticky?’

‘She happened to live in the apartment opposite mine,’ Edris said with quiet dignity. ‘From time to time, she used to talk to me. I guess she looked on me the way you and the rest of them do: like a freak. Just because she talked to me doesn’t make me a pimp, does it?’

They stared at each other. Hess was the first to look away.

‘What did she talk about?’

‘Lots of things. Her husband, her daughter, her life, her lovers.’

‘She married?’

‘That’s right.’

Louis came over.

‘You Mr. Hess?’

‘What of it?’ Hess snapped. ‘I’m busy.’

‘You’re wanted on the telephone,’ Louis said, his aristocratic nose tilting.

Hess got to his feet.

‘Stick around, pint size,’ he said to Edris. ‘I’m not through with you yet.’

He went to the bar and picked up the receiver.

‘Yeah?’

‘This is Joe,’ Beigler said. ‘We’ve got a murder in our laps. The Chief with you?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Tell him I’ve found this guy she mentions in her note. He’s got five holes shot in him. I want you over here.’

‘Okay. I’ll tell him. Nice, ain’t it? Doesn’t look as if we’re going to get any sleep, does it?’

‘That’s a goddamn fact. Hurry it up, Fred,’ and Beigler broke the connection.

As Hess replaced the receiver, two white-coated interns came up the stairs, carrying a folded stretcher.

‘The stiff ready yet?’ one of them asked.

‘Pretty near. Hang on. I’ll see.’ Hess started down the bar. As he passed Edris, he said, ‘Okay, Ticky, you can beat it. We’ll talk to you tomorrow. Get down to headquarters at eleven and ask for me. Hess is the name.’

He continued on to Terrell and Dr. Lowis.

‘Yes, you can take her away,’ Lowis said as he finished packing his bag. ‘I’ll have a report on your desk by tomorrow at ten. I’m going back to bed.’

Hess grinned at him.

‘That’s what you think, Doc,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ve got another stiff for you. Beigler’s just phoned. He’s waiting for you at 247, Seaview Boulevard.’

Dr. Lowis’ fat face was a study.

‘That means I won’t get any sleep tonight,’ he protested.

‘What do guys like us want with sleep?’ Hess said, his grin widening. ‘We’re supermen.’

As Lowis hurried away, Terrell said sharply, ‘What’s this, Fred?’

‘Joe just called, Chief. Reports a shooting murder. He wants us over there, sir.’

Terrell looked down at the woman who had been laid out on the floor. She was about forty; a thin, good-looking woman with a good figure.

‘A junkie, Fred. Her thighs are riddled with needle scars.’

‘The dwarf has been shooting the breeze. He knows her. Says she’s not only a junkie, but a whore too. Browning will love this when it comes out.’

Like a vulture smelling decay, Hamilton of the Sun was moving down the bar towards them.

‘We’ll leave Max to take care of this end,’ Terrell said. ‘Let’s get over to Joe.’

‘What’s happening now?’ Hamilton asked. He was a tall, grey-haired man in his early forties. Someone had told him once he looked like James Stewart and he had cultivated a plum-in-the-mouth drawl that made him even more like the famous actor.

Terrell started down the long bar.

‘Tag along and you’ll see,’ he said, over his shoulder.

‘What’s cooking?’ Hamilton asked as he fell into step with Hess.

‘Another stiff. She knocked him off and then knocked herself off,’ Hess said. ‘The kind of crap that’s right up your alley.’

As the two men passed him, Edris stepped back and looked after them. Then he watched the two interns lift the dead woman on to the stretcher and hurry away with her.

It wasn’t until he had trotted into the still-room and closed the door that his face lit up with an evil little grin. With sheer exuberance, he began to dance round and round the room, waving his stumpy arms in time with his dancing.

Seaview Boulevard connected Paradise City with the town of Seacombe. At the Paradise City end of the long boulevard the villas were large, lush and costly. Each of them had an acre or so of ornate garden, a swimming pool, triple garages and electronically controlled carriage gates. At the Seacombe end of the boulevard, the villas were small, shabby and cheap. They stood in tiny gardens and the sidewalk was chalked out for kids’ games. Seaview Boulevard represented as nothing else could the upper and the lower stratas of American life, the haves and the havenots, the rich and the poor.

The first pale fingers of dawn were lighting the night sky as Sergeant Beigler pulled up outside No. 247: a bungalow type of villa, screened by a high overgrown hedge.

He took a flashlight from the glove compartment of his car, then crossed the sidewalk, pushing open the wooden gate and using the beam of the flashlight to light his way up the short path to the front door. He lifted the well-worn mat and picked up the key the dead woman had written would be there.

He paused for a moment to look at the bungalow low opposite which was in darkness, then loosening his gun in its holster, he put his thumb on the bell push and kept it there. He didn’t expect anyone to answer the door, but he was a careful cop. He wasn’t using the key until he was sure that no one but the dead was in the bungalow.

A two-minute wait satisfied him, and slipping the key into the lock, he opened the door. He stepped into a small hall, shut the door and swung the beam of his flashlight around until he located the light switch. He snapped down the switch and the ceiling light came on, showing him a passage ahead of him with closed doors either side.

He was a little surprised to find, apart from grubby white nylon drapes, the two front rooms were unfurnished. The third door further down the passage gave onto a bathroom. From the towels on the hot rail and the pink sponge in the bath rack, he concluded someone used the bathroom. The door opposite led into the kitchenette. The empty, dusty cupboards and drawers told him no one living in this bungalow ever ate there.

He moved on to the two rooms at the end of the passage. He opened the left door, switched on the light and entered a bedroom. He saw at a glance this was no ordinary bedroom.

In the centre of the room was a king-size bed. The sheets and the pillowcases were immaculate and hadn’t been used. There was a big mirror fitted to the wall opposite the bed and another mirror covered the ceiling.

The carpet was thick and the colour of old claret. The bottle green coloured walls were decorated with framed photographs of smiling, naked showgirls. There was a big closet on one side of the room and Beigler walked over to it and opened the doors. A brief look showed him that here was all the perverted paraphernalia of a call girl from albums of erotica to whips and canes. He closed the cupboard, then walked out of the room and paused as he faced the closed door of the remaining room. He reached forward, turned the handle of the door and pushed it open. The door swung slowly back. There was a light on in the room. Facing him was a single bed. A man was slumped down in the bed, a newspaper spread across the sheet. Death had caught him in the harmless occupation of reading the evening news. He wore blue and white pyjamas; the front of the jacket was stained with blood. There was blood on his clenched hands and a smear of blood across his suntanned cheek.

Beigler stared at him for a long moment, then moved into the room.

The dead man was powerfully built with the shoulders of a boxer. His crew-cut hair was the colour of Indian ink. A pencil line moustache gave him a swaggering, sexy look. He belonged to the regiment of playboys you see on the beaches of Paradise City; flaunting their muscles, their maleness and their virility; their only assets, for the dollar never comes easy to men like them.

Beigler saw a telephone on the bedside table. He dialled La Coquille’s number. He had just finished speaking with Hess when the front door bell rang. He went to the front door to Find Detective 2nd Grade Tom Lepski standing on the doormat.

‘The Chief said there was trouble out here,’ Lepski said as he stepped into the hall. He was a wiry, tall man, tough, with a lined, suntanned face and clear ice-blue eyes.

‘Yeah a stiff. Come and see him.’

Beigler led the way back to the bedroom. Lepski stared at the dead man then pushed his hat to the back of his head.

‘That’s Johnnie Williams,’ he said. ‘Well, well, so he’s got his at last.’

‘You know him?’

‘Oh, sure. I’ve seen him around. One of the big money gigolos at the Palace hotel. What’s he doing in a dump like this?’

Beigler had been looking through the drawers of a chest that stood against one of the walls. He found a pigskin wallet. In it he found a Diner Club card, a driving licence and a chequebook. They were all in the name of Johnnie Williams. From the chequebook, Beigler learned that Williams had a cash balance at the bank of 3,756 dollars.

‘I guess he lives here,’ he said. ‘Take a squint at the room opposite.’

While Lepski was in the other room, Beigler continued to search the smaller bedroom. He found a closet full of Williams’ clothes.

Lepski came back.

‘A knocking shop,’ he said. ‘Who’s the woman?’

‘Calls herself Muriel Marsh Devon. She killed herself by an overdose of heroin at La Coquille restaurant tonight. She left a suicide note, admitting she knocked off our handsome lump of beef.’

Lepski wandered over to the dead man and peered at his chest. He grunted and moved back.

‘She certainly made sure of him. Cut his heart to pieces from the look of it.’

Beigler suddenly stooped and reached under the bed. He carefully drew into sight a .38 automatic. Taking out his handkerchief, he dropped it over the gun and picked it up.

‘Nice open and shut case,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t get an hour or two of sleep even now.’

A car pulled up outside the bungalow and Lepski went to the door. He returned with Dr. Lowis.

‘He’s all yours,’ Beigler said and waved to the dead man.

‘Thanks for nothing!’ Lowis snapped. ‘Now I have two reports to make.’

Beigler winked at Lepski and pushed him towards the door.

‘Never mind, doc,’ he said. ‘You’re not the only one.’ To Lepski, he said, ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’

The two men went down the passage and opened the front door. They moved into the garden and both lit cigarettes.

‘Funny no one reported the shooting,’ Lepski said, nodding to the bungalow opposite.

‘Could be they are on vacation,’ Beigler returned. ‘Besides, this end of Seacombe keeps to itself. Know something? I’ve been on the force ten years now, never had a squeal out of Seacombe yet.’

‘I wonder why she gave it to Johnnie. I wonder why he bothered with a two-dollar whore.’

‘She was a lot better than that. I’ve seen her. Well dressed; took care of herself. Most men who chase prostitutes like to perform in shabby surroundings. Don’t ask me why.’

‘I won’t then.’ Lepski stilled a yawn. ‘I wish the Chief hadn’t yanked me out of bed.’

‘Here they come now,’ Beigler said as two cars came racing down the broad boulevard, their headlights lighting up the row of bungalows as the cars swept past.

Half an hour later Dr. Lowis came out of the bungalow and joined Chief of Police Terrell who was sitting in his car, smoking a pipe, patiently waiting for his men’s reports.

‘I’d say he was shot around ten o’clock,’ Lowis said. ‘Five slugs in the heart. Good shooting, but she really couldn’t have missed. She fired from the foot of the bed. I’ll have a report for you by eleven. That all right?’

Terrell nodded.

‘It’ll have to be, doc. Okay, you get off and catch up with some sleep.’

When Lowis had driven away, Bert Hamilton came out of the bungalow. He had been busy on the telephone, filing his story.

‘Plenty of meat in this one,’ he said to Terrell. ‘Got any ideas why she shot him?’

‘That’s something I’ll have to find out,’ Terrell said getting out of the car. ‘See you some time, Bert,’ and moving past the reporter, he entered the bungalow.

Beigler and Hess were talking in the hall.

‘All clear here, sir,’ Hess said. ‘A nice, tidy job.’

‘It looks like it,’ Terrell returned, ‘but we won’t let it go as easy as that. You two boys go over to East Street and look at her home. Check her handwriting is the same as the suicide note. I think this case is straightforward, but let’s be sure. Have a talk with that dwarf. He seemed full of information. Maybe he can tell us why she shot Williams. I want a report on my desk by ten, so get moving, boys.’

Hess suppressed a groan.

‘Okay, Chief.’

Terrell went into the dead man’s room where Lepski was propping up the wall, talking to the finger print men who were packing their kit.

‘Tom,’ Terrell said, ‘I want you to find out if anyone heard the shots. Check up and down the boulevard and I want some background on Williams.’

‘You don’t want me to start checking now, do you, Chief?’ Lepski said. ‘It’s only just after six o’clock. You don’t want me to get people out of bed, do you?’

Terrell grinned.

‘Give them half an hour. They rise early this end of the boulevard.’ At the sound of an approaching car, he went on. ‘Here’s the ambulance now. I’ll leave you to handle this.’ He turned to the finger print men. ‘You got anything?’

‘Lots of prints,’ one of them said. ‘This room hasn’t been dusted in months. Mostly his prints, but there are others. We’ll run a check on them all.’

Terrell nodded, then went to the front door as the ambulance pulled up. He told the two interns where to find the body, then he got into his car and headed for Police headquarters.