"So you didn't hear or see anything, like the rest of them?"

"I can't help it, can I?" May said. "Murdered! Gee! I never liked her, but I wouldn't wish that on anyone." She got up and crossed the room to where the gin bottle stood on the window seat. "Excuse me, but my nerves are shot this morning." She poured a big drink. "Want one?"

"No. So you didn't see her last night ?"

May shook her head, gulped down the gin, thumped herself on her chest and coughed.

"That's better. No, I didn't see her." Donovan lit a cigarette.

"This killer may come back," he said, leaning forward to stare at May. "He may visit you. If you know anything, you'd better spill it."

"But I don't know anything."

"Didn't you see anyone? This would be between one and two o'clock."

May stared up at the ceiling. The fumes of the gin made her feel dizzy.

"I got back around two," she said. "I did meet a guy in the hall, but he could have come from any of the apartments."

Donovan edged forward in his chair.

"Never mind where he came from. What was he like?"

"He seemed in a hurry. He nearly knocked me over. He was tall, dark and good-looking. I thought he might like to have a drink." She gave Donovan a little leer. "You know how it is ..."

"Never mind that," Donovan said curtly. "How was he dressed?"

"He had on a light-grey suit and a grey hat."

"Would you know him again?"

"I think so, but he didn't look like a killer."

"They never do. How old would he be ?"

"About thirty."

Donovan grimaced. He remembered the cleaner woman had told him Fay specialized in old guys.

"Can't you tell me anything else about him ?"

"Well, I asked him to have a drink, and he said he was in a hurry. He pushed me aside and ran into the street."

"Did he look upset?"

"I didn't notice. He just seemed to be in a h.e.l.l of a hurry."

"Did he have a car outside?"

May shook her head.

"No one ever parks outside. If they have a car they leave it at the parking lot down the street."

Donovan got to his feet.

"Okay. Keep your eyes open, and if you see this guy again, call headquarters. Understand?"

It was just after ten o'clock when Donovan walked into Fay's sitting room again.

Doc Summerfield had gone. Adams sat in an armchair, a cigarette between his thin lips, his eyes closed.

Fletcher and Holtby were working in the bedroom.

'Well, what have you got?" Adams asked, opening his eyes. Donovan was having to make an effort to suppress his excitement.

"A description of a guy who could have done it," he said. "He was seen leaving the building around two o'clock and he was in a hurry."

"Most guys would be in a hurry to leave this joint," Adams said.

"I've checked back. None of the girls had a guy with them last night answering this one's description. That must mean he came to see Carson. Doc say when she died?"

"Around half-past one."

"Then he could have done it."

"Doesn't follow. He might have come up here, found her dead, and got out in a hurry."

A soft buzzing noise made both men look up. The sound came from the telephone bell. Donovan went over to the bell and stared at it.

"Look at this: someone's deadened the bell."

Adams picked up the receiver.

Donovan turned to watch him. He saw Adams frown, then he said, "This is Lieutenant Adams, City Police, talking. Who are you?"

Donovan heard a click on the line and Adams hung up, shrugging.

"One of her mashers, I guess," Adams said. "He certainly got off the line in a hurry."

Donovan s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver, called the operator and said urgently, "This is the police. Trace that call and snap it up."

Adams stared at him his eyes disapproving.

"What's the idea? You don't imagine the killer's going to call this number, do you?"

"I want to know who called," Donovan said obstinately.

The operator broke in. "The call came from the Eastern National Bank: from a pay booth."

"Thanks, sister," Donovan said, and hung up.

He went back to the telephone bell.

"Did she m.u.f.fle the bell or did the killer?" he said.

Raising his voice, Adams called Fletcher.

"Did you check the telephone bell for prints?" he asked, as Fletcher came to the door.

"Yeah. It's clean."

"Didn't you see the bell was m.u.f.fled ?"

"Sure, but I didn't think anything of it."

"You wouldn't," Adams said in disgust. "No prints at all?"

Fletcher shook his head.

"Looks like the killer did it," Donovan said. "She would have left a print." Adams waved Fletcher away.

"Better find out if anyone heard the bell ring during the evening."

"I'm going down to the bank," Donovan said. "I want to find out if anyone spotted that caller."

"What the h.e.l.l for?"

"This girl didn't work the streets. She had regulars. Guys who recommended her. I want to talk to as many of them as I can find. One of them might be this guy in the grey suit."

Adams shrugged.

"Okay: you might do worse."

Donovan hurried out of the room. As he ran down the stairs, he was thinking at last he was getting a break. That's all he asked for. Given a little luck, he might crack this case, and men he would spit in Adams' right eye.

III.

Police Commissioner Paul Howard sat behind his big mahogany desk, a cigar between his strong white teeth, his hard weather-beaten face worried.

Howard was fifty-one. He was an ambitious man, climbing laboriously up the political ladder, hoping soon to be made a judge and later a senator. He was well in with the political machine, willing to do as he was told, providing the rewards were adequate. He was in a good position to grant favours, and had acquired considerable wealth from the financial tips he had received for turning a blind eye to the corruption and racketeering running rife through the present Administration.

In an armchair by the window, Captain of Police Joe Motley sat with his legs outstretched, a cigar between his fingers, and his flabby, purple bloomed face expressionless.

Motley was Howard's brother-in-law, the only reason why he remained Captain of Police.

When Howard first took over office, Motley realized his own job was in jeopardy. Motley had no interest in the police force. He was a racing man, but his position was a useful one and he had no intention of losing it. He was a judge of character, and it didn't take him long to discover Howard's weakness for young, attractive girls.

Gloria, Motley's kid sister, was young and more than attractive. Motley had had little difficulty in persuading her to show off her charms before Howard.

Within a month Howard had married her, realizing when it was too late that the Captain of Police he planned to get rid of was now his brother-in-law.

From that time on Motley was sacrosanct. Howard quickly found that if he put any kind of pressure on Motley, he was promptly shut out of his wife's room. So long as he let Motley alone, Gloria performed her wifely duties. Crazy about this vivacious, beautiful girl, he had now accepted the position and had taken the line of least resistance.

Adams sitting opposite the Commissioner, was aware of these facts. He knew Motley was useless, as a police captain, and he knew, if Motley went, he himself would be the automatic choice to replace him. For months now he had been patiently waiting his opportunity to get rid of both Motley and Donovan. He had discovered, however, that it would need a major political explosion to blast Motley out of office, and even now, while he listened to Howard talking, his mind was trying to find a way to use Fay Carson's death as the spark to touch off the explosion.

"I want this cracked and cracked fast!" Howard was saying, in a soft furious voice. He looked across at Motley. "Get every man working on it! We've got to nab this killer! A house full of prost.i.tutes! You told me there wasn't a callhouse in town."

Motley smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

"There are always callhouses," he said. "We shut them up and they open again."

"Why didn't you shut this one up?" Howard demanded.

Motley stared at him.

"You know why, don't you? It's one of O'Brien's houses."

Howard flushed, then went white. He looked quickly at Adams, who was staring down at his brightly polished shoes, his face blank. Howard was rea.s.sured: either Adams hadn't heard Motley's remark or O'Brien's name meant nothing to him.

But O'Brien's name meant plenty to Adams. He knew O'Brien was the money behind the party. He knew he was the boss of the party machine. He felt a tingle run up his spine. This could be it. So O'Brien owned 25 Lessington Avenue. Here was the scandal he had been hunting for months. If he could trap Motley into giving O'Brien away, the explosion he had been waiting to touch off would take place.

Only a few of the higher-placed officers of the Administration knew O'Brien was behind the party. Adams wasn't supposed to know, but there wasn't much about the party he hadn't found out.

Howard felt a restricting band of rage tighten across his chest. This fat, loose-mouthed slob must be crazy to shoot his mouth off about O'Brien in front of Adams. He looked again at Adams. No, he didn't know about O'Brien. The remark had pa.s.sed over his head. Adams was a good police officer, but that was all. He was only interested in his work: politics meant nothing to him.

Howard had no idea O'Brien owned 25 Lessington Avenue, and he was dismayed to hear it. If the press found out, the repercussions might very easily unseat the Administration.

It was essential that this killing should be cleared up as quickly as possible and the killer caught.

"How far have you got to now?" he asked Motley.

Motley waved an indifferent hand towards Adams.

"He's taking care of it. You know, Paul, you're making a h.e.l.l of a fuss about the killing of this woman. Who cares, anyway?"

"You'll care when you see the press tomorrow morning," Howard said grimly. "Got any leads yet?" he went on to Adams.

"We have a description of a guy who could have done it," Adams said. "Donovan's working on it, now."

"Donovan? You should be working on it," Howard said violently. "Donovan . . .!" He stopped short, scowled down at the desk and then shrugged.