‘Yeah?’

  ‘Fred?’

  ‘Who wants him?’

  ‘Lantry.’

  ‘Mike!’ The voice changed, sharpened, became awake. ‘Hell, I didn’t recognise your voice. How’s it going?’

  ‘Lousy. Did you get it?’

  ‘Sure.’ He chuckled as if at a job well done. ‘I looked up the records and found what you wanted. Mrs. Geeson was born in New Jersey and had the name of Mona Hartridge. She married the Colonel—’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said tiredly. ‘Sure there’s no mistake?’

  ‘You know me, Mike.’ He sounded hurt and I guessed that I’d done him an injustice. ‘No soap, huh?’

  ‘You get your money,’ I said. ‘Thanks, anyway.’

  I hung up and stared at the telephone. A hunch? Sure, but this game is full of them. I should have had more sense than not to trust Wendle; a smart lawyer like him would have checked all the angles. So far, my hunch had cost me just ten dollars.

  I was still staring at the phone when it rang at me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr. Lantry?’ It was a man’s voice.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Mr. Mike Lantry?’ He couldn’t seem to get the idea.

  ‘This is him,’ I growled. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘This is the General Mercy Hospital down near the Bronx. There is a man here, a hit-and-run case, but he had your card in his pocket and we thought that maybe you could identify him.’

  He paused, waiting. I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ I said.

  ‘Well, can you?’

  ‘Can I do what?’

  ‘Can you identify him?’

  ‘Look,’ I said patiently. ‘I have those cards printed by the thousand. I give them to everyone I meet. How the hell can I tell who carries them around with them?’ My voice must have echoed my irritation, because he sounded a little hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Lantry, but I thought that maybe this man might be a friend of yours.’

  ‘So he might,’ I agreed. ‘But it’s almost dawn; I haven’t slept yet, and the temperature is somewhere around zero. Did you think of that or do you work nights?’

  ‘I work nights,’ he admitted, and became a little more human. ‘Sorry to bother you, Mr. Lantry, but this is in the nature of an emergency. This man, whoever he is, needs an operation but fast. We’d like to contact his relatives just in case.’

  ‘As bad as that?’ Little spiders began running up and down my spine. ‘Is he a big man, tough, scarred hands and a boxer’s ear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No wallet, paper, identification?’

  ‘None, that’s why I called you.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ I said, and hung up. I hadn’t gotten dressed before the phone rang again. This was my busy night.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mike? This is Constance Young. Remember me?’

  ‘Could I ever forget?’

  ‘Thank you. What about that body in your office?’

  ‘Ask the police.’

  ‘I’m asking you, Mike. You know why.’

  ‘You want a story,’ I said. ‘Don’t you reporters ever sleep?’

  ‘I’m on the owl shift,’ she sounded amused. ‘If I drop over will you talk about it?’

  ‘I won’t be in.’ I hesitated. ‘Look, Constance, I know this is a lot to ask, but I’ve got to get over to the General Mercy Hospital over by the Bronx. Can you pick me up and take me there?’

  ‘Emergency?’

  ‘Perhaps; I don’t know until I get there.’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ she said, and rang off.

  It was seven and I was waiting by the door when she pulled into the kerb. The cold, pre-dawn air had started me shivering again, and I was glad of the bottle she seemed to carry as an accessory to her car. She didn’t speak during the drive and I didn’t try any smart conversation either.

  She followed me into the hospital and stood by while I asked the necessary questions and found the right people. The intern who had called me was a fresh-faced youngster who had already seen enough of life to get cynical and not seen enough to get sympathetic. That would come later. He smiled at Constance, looked at me, then smiled at Constance again.

  I couldn’t blame him, but I was in a hurry.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the casualty ward. We’re operating within the hour.’

  ‘Take me to him.’

  ‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘Unless it’s essential I’d rather not wake him. I—’

  ‘It’s a case of murder,’ I snapped. ‘Take me to him.’

  * * * *

  It was Pug all right. He lay, swathed in bandages and looking like a mummy. He was breathing, I could tell that from the sounds he was making, but that’s about all I could tell. I stepped to his side.

  ‘Pug.’

  No answer.

  ‘Pug, you lame-brain. It’s me, Mike, open up that yap of yours and spill it.’

  Crude? Maybe, but I was speaking his language and he needed the boost. He stirred, opened his eyes, and grinned at me.

  ‘Hi, Mike.’

  ‘You saw him? The killer?’

  He nodded. He knew what I was talking about, so his mind wasn’t affected, but his injuries had done something to his time sense. He grinned again.

  ‘Spill it,’ I urged. ‘What happened?’

  He thought about it. He thought about it while a nurse fussed at my side and the intern looked grave. Constance didn’t say anything and, aside from the little sounds made by Pug’s breathing, the ward was like a morgue.

  ‘I was there, Mike. I didn’t let you down.’

  ‘I know that, Pug. What happened?’

  ‘He came. I was waiting for him.’ He breathed and I tried not to think of the pain he was in. ‘I went out, you know, and heard the shot. I came back just in time to hear someone rushing down the stairs. I followed him.’

  ‘The killer.’ I nodded. ‘Go on, Pug. What happened then?’

  ‘Lost him in the snow. Looked for him. He must have had a car because he came at me. Knocked me down.’ Pug swallowed again and I could see the beads of sweat on his face. ‘Lousy driver, missed and stopped. I tried to swing at him and he sapped me. That’s all.’

  ‘Who was he, Pug? Describe him!’

  ‘I—’ Pug swallowed again. ‘He—’

  ‘That’s enough.’ The intern stepped forward and nodded to the nurse. Before I could say anything she had stuck a hypodermic into Pug’s arm and I knew that more words would be a waste of time. I touched my face and was surprised to find that I was sweating.

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘I think so.’ The intern was professionally cheerful as he ushered us out. ‘From what I can tell he was knocked down, sapped, and then run over. A man found him lying in a gutter and called the police. They passed him over to us.’

  I looked around. I couldn’t see anything that looked like a policeman.

  ‘I told him to come back later,’ explained the intern. ‘Nothing he could do here anyway.’

  ‘No,’ I said bitterly. ‘Nothing but sit beside him and wait for him to talk. Or maybe they just don’t want to know about it?’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t want him bothered,’ said the intern and I looked at him with a new respect. Young, yes. Brash, yes. Dumb, no. He’d probably had the police in his hair before, and thought more of saving a life than that some rookie should fill his notebook with dying mumbles. I grinned at him.

  ‘Sorry, and thanks for calling me. Do your best for him, Doc.’

  ‘We always do that.’

  ‘I know, but you know what I mean. The sky’s the limit, send the bills to me.’

  He nodded and somehow I got the impression that he didn’t like me anymore. I didn’t blame him.

  ‘I’m a friend of his,’ I said quietly. ‘Does that explain anything?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and smiled. ‘Sorry, but it always gets under my skin when people think we only do our best work for money.’

  ‘Forget it. When will he be able to talk?’

  ‘After he comes out of the anaesthetic.’

  ‘Not so good. Try again, Doc. Remember, I don’t want him worried.’

  ‘Two days, if you mean what I think you mean. Do you?’

  ‘He didn’t see the man who ran him down. He didn’t see the actual face of the murderer. I believe that but the police wouldn’t. They won’t give him a minute’s rest and, as soon as he can walk, they’ll drag him down for questioning. I want him to get well, Doc. Give him a few hours to sort himself out and he’ll know what to do. Spring the cops on him while he’s groggy and he’ll talk himself into jail.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  I hoped that he did.

  Constance remained silent until we entered her car and then she asked me:

  ‘What’s it all about, Mike?’

  ‘A man, Harmond, was shot in my office a while ago. Pug was supposed to be with him. He’d stepped out for a minute and while he was away the killer pulled the trigger. Pug came back and chased him. He got sapped and run over for his trouble, but even at that he was lucky. If he’d stayed in the office with Harmond he’d have been shot too.’

  ‘Or he might have saved Harmond,’ she said quietly.

  I shook my head. ‘No. That guy is playing for keeps. Pug would have just been another target.’

  She sat silent for so long that I felt I had to say something.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Constance?’

  ‘You know how it would look to the police if they wanted it to look that way?’

  ‘Sure. I arranged for Harmond to be at my office and for Pug to kill him. Then, to get rid of Pug, I sapped him and staged an accident. I thought of that, that’s why I want to keep the police out of his hair.’ I stared at her. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re crazy,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think that you’re a killer. Under wraps?’

  ‘I can’t ask that,’ I said. ‘If you want to use what you’ve got, then use it.’

  ‘But if I don’t?’

  ‘I’ll hand you the scoop on a platter—unless I get my head beaten off first.’

  ‘I’d rather you kept your health,’ she said, and didn’t say another word all the way back to where I lived.

  I found the apartment as I’d left it. I stared one more time at the pawn ticket and the receipts, then I peeled off my clothes, took a drink to keep the cold out, and fell into bed.

  Sleep hit me like a ton of bricks.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I awoke at two in the afternoon, shivering with cold and with a mouth which seemed to be lined with fur. Crawling from my bed, I knocked over the bottle of Scotch and took a quick drink. It stayed down, so I took another, the spirit both warming me and cutting some of the slime from around my teeth. A shower, a shave, and a pot of coffee restored me halfway to normal.

  I went through the usual routine of dressing, not forgetting to check my gun before tucking it under my arm, and then ventured out into the cold. I dropped past the bank and drew out some spending money. I ate a quick meal and had some more coffee, then I dropped into police headquarters and asked to see Captain Bresholm.

  He nodded at me as I entered his office. His eyes were heavy with lack of sleep and his chin dark with stubble. He yawned and pushed a sheaf of typed sheets towards me.

  ‘Your statement. Sign three copies.’

  I signed three copies.

  ‘You look like hell,’ said Bresholm cheerfully. He lit a cigar and I wondered at the state of his stomach. I refused his offer of one and gave myself a cigarette.

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘He was killed with a slug from a point-thirty-eight automatic. Death was instantaneous.’ He yawned again. ‘The usual thing. The Doc sets the time of death around nine-thirty which, incidentally, doesn’t let you out as a suspect.’

  ‘We’ve been through all that,’ I said. ‘Get anything from his stuff?’

  ‘This?’ Bresholm took a fat envelope from his drawer and spilled out the contents of Harmon’s pockets. ‘Not a thing. The photograph is as old as you’d think it is, some girl he knew when he was young, I expect. We’ve checked his room at the big house with the same result. Nothing.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘None, not as far as we can tell, but there must be at least one, mustn’t there?’

  ‘That or someone thought he knew too much and wanted to stop him talking.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ he said seriously. ‘It adds up, doesn’t it? Any idea as to what he was going to tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think you had.’ He shoved the stuff back into the envelope and put it away. He rubbed his chin and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He looked all in.

  ‘How about the kids?’

  ‘Stephan was drunk, as usual. Susan didn’t get home until around dawn. She was escorted and her alibi is better than yours. No soap.’

  ‘The staff?’

  ‘The maid went out, she says to a movie, we’re checking on that now. The chauffeur, Marvin, he was around until past midnight when he took a drive. He’s clear. ‘

  ‘The Colonel?’

  ‘Suspicious, aren’t you? He was at one of his clubs until well after the shooting. Try again.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve run out of suspects.’ I breathed smoke towards him. ‘What gives with Thornedyke?’

  ‘Thornedyke?’ A veil seemed to drop before Bresholm’s eyes.

  ‘You know who I mean. The smart operator out at the Purple Orchid. Well?’

  ‘A gambler. Running his place against the law, but who cares about that.’ Bresholm sucked his teeth. ‘At least, that’s what people keep telling me. I’m Homicide, remember, not the vice squad.’

  ‘Protection?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ He smiled blandly, enigmatically, and I knew it was time for me to change the subject.

  Gambling, when you came down to it, wasn’t so bad. Not as bad as dope and the reefer racket. But it was still against the law. Officially, Thornedyke couldn’t exist, but the fact that he did meant that someone was pulling down some heavy sugar. For a decent cop it wasn’t something to be proud of.

  Bresholm was a decent cop.

  I got up and said goodbye and promised to let him know if anything happened. Outside I sniffed at the cold air and then caught a cab. It dropped me outside a pawn shop, and I went in and showed the man behind the counter the ticket I had taken from Harmond.

  He was a smooth-faced character who saw a lot more than he ever let on about, and his eyes, as they searched my face, were as wise as time. He fingered the pasteboard.

  ‘Your pledge?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not if you have the ticket,’ he admitted. ‘You want to redeem it?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’ I dug money from my pocket and passed it to him. He counted it, rang it up on a cash register, and was about to take the ticket when I stopped him. ‘Leave it.’

  He stared at me, then shrugged. He glanced at the number, went somewhere, and came back with a ladies’ wristwatch. It wasn’t what I’d expected.

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I took it, turning it over in my hands. It was old, wellworn, an inexpensive sort of watch, the kind a couple of loving parents would give to their daughter when she reached the age when she started thinking about dates and boyfriends and getting married. It had stopped and I gave the stem a couple of turns. The ticking sounded like the works of a time-bomb.

  I turned it over and stared at the back.

  There was an inscription on it. Faded now and almost worn away with time and friction, but, holding it against the light, I could make out what it said.

  A name, Rhoda Fleming. A date, a town, and words to the effect that it had been given by a Mr. and Mrs. Fleming to their daughter on her sixteenth birthday.

  There was also a pawnbroker’s mark, the only one, and I looked at the man behind the counter.

  ‘This your mark?’

  ‘Yes.’ He leaned forward and took the watch from my hand. ‘Look, mister,’ he said quietly. ‘You know your own business, but I’d say that this watch isn’t yours.’

  ‘You’d be right,’ I agreed. ‘It isn’t. I’m redeeming it for a friend.’ I looked at him. ‘An old guy, looks like a butler, name of Harmond. Recognise him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long ago was this watch pledged?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  I thumbed out one of my cards and dropped it on to the counter.

  ‘I’m a private eye on a case. I don’t want anything from you but a couple of answers. You needn’t give them to me if you don’t want to, but maybe you’d rather give them to me than to the police.’

  I gave him time to think about it.

  ‘How long ago? A week? Two weeks?’

  ‘Ten days, the date’s on the ticket.’

  I wondered what was wrong with me that I hadn’t already thought of that.

  ‘Did I describe the man who pledged it?’

  ‘Near enough. Look, mister, what’s all this about?’

  ‘Nothing that could trouble you.’ I held out my hand for the watch and he gave it to me. I read the inscription again then pushed it back towards him. ‘Right. Take it back and let me have the ticket.’

  ‘You’re repledging it?’

  ‘Not exactly. Let’s just say that I haven’t been in here at all.’ I winked at him. ‘Understand?’

  ‘No.’ He went across to the cash register and rang it open. He took out my money and threw it down in front of me. I picked it up, peeled off a five-dollar bill and, putting the rest away, left the fin on the counter.

  It was still lying there when I walked out into the street. I had a couple of drinks at a bar, not because I wanted them, but because I felt cold, and wondered whether or not I was going to come down with pneumonia. While in the bar I remembered to call the agency to see if there were any messages for me. There were three, one from the Smith character, one from the hospital informing me that Pug had been operated on and was on the road back to health, and one from a man named Jelkson who wanted me to ring him back.