17

  Lowry had his car outside. They drove downtown and stopped in a neighborhood of cheap hotels. Among them was a threestory brick building with a sign outside that read, “Rooms and Housekeeping Rooms.” Lowry and Terry went inside. It was musty and dingy and smelled of bad cooking. Lowry knocked at the door of an apartment marked “Manager.” A short stout woman came to the door.

  “We got no more vacancies,” she said before Lowry could speak, “and anyway we don’t show rooms this time of the night.”

  “Glad to know business is so good,” Lowry said. “But we weren’t looking for a vacancy. I’m Ned Lowry from the Gazette.”

  “Listen, Mister,” the woman said. “I’ve had a bellyful of you reporters in the last few weeks. I’ve got nothin’ more to tell you about that Blair girl than you’ve had in the papers already.”

  “Still, if you don’t mind,” Lowry persisted ingratiatingly. “Just a few questions and could we see her apartment. It’s an assignment I must fill or the boss’ll fire me. He swore he would.”

  The woman looked at Terry. “What’d you need her along for if you’re that busy,” she asked Lowry suspiciously.

  “Couldn’t leave her alone. She’s afraid to be alone.”

  “Oh, your wife, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Lowry grinned. “My wife.”

  “All right, what do you want to know?”

  “The phone is in the hall here, I suppose.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you ever hear Doris Blair talk to a man on the phone whom she called Buzzy?”

  “Once or twice but don’t get the idea I’ve got nothin’ to do but listen in on tenants’ conversations.”

  “Of course not. He called her on those occasions, I imagine.”

  “Sure, I called her to the phone myself. It didn’t happen more than two or three times.”

  “What did he sound like?”

  “Had kind of a smooth voice. The cops said that checked perfectly with this feller McKay they got.”

  “Everything seems to have done that,” Lowry muttered. “You never saw him come here, did you?”

  The woman drew herself up to her full height. “I should say not, mister. This is a respectable house. You don’t catch nothin’ like that goin’ on here.”

  “I didn’t mean that, of course,” Lowry said quickly. “When was the last time he called?”

  “Couple of weeks ago. She didn’t turn up for two days after that.”

  Lowry’s ears perked up. “Do you remember what day it was?”

  “Yes, it was a Friday. I’m pretty sure.”

  “Good for you, my good woman, and thank you. Now could you let us have a look at the apartment she lived in?”

  “It’s rented. The people have been in there a couple of days now. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. The cops took everything the girl had out of there.”

  “I see. Well, thanks again.”

  “Forget it. But don’t come bustin’ in at this hour again for news stories or I won’t care if they do fire you.”

  When they were outside again, Terry said. “Well, what do we know now that we didn’t know before?”

  “We know that Buzzy called her on a Friday for the last time.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Lowry said slowly, “but it may be important later. I have an idea there’s something wrong with the way we’ve been going about this. I guess it’s lucky I have a job. I’d never make a detective.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, I think we ought to go back as far as we can, working on whatever happened to anybody involved, in chronological order. Things might follow through then. For instance, there’s that Filipino, Ramirez. He was the first one to know about the murder. Maybe he can help us. I think I’ll go see him.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “I said I’ll go see him. You’re going home first,” Lowry said.

  “Please, Ned. Stop treating me as though I’m ninety years old. I want to go with you. I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.”

  But he was adamant. Having the girl along would only make it harder to deal with the already frightened and suspicious Ramirez.

  “Sorry, lady. It’s too late for you to be making calls on strange men.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  Lowry drove rapidly back to Hollywood and saw Terry safely into the apartment.

  “If Carrol comes back, slug him,” Lowry told her. “But I don’t think he’ll be back here tonight. He’ll be needing a rest.”

  He drove back downtown. Ramirez’ shack was at the edge of a lot that had somehow escaped being used as an industrial site. It was only a short distance from a maze of factories, railroad sidings, and warehouses.

  At that hour the neighborhood was as quiet and deserted as the remotest cabin of some early pioneer. Lowry walked up to the ramshackle shack and knocked briskly at the door. Through the window, he saw somebody lighting an oil lamp.

  A moment later, the Filipino opened the door a trifle and looked up at Lowry through frightened, sleepy eyes.

  Lowry smiled pleasantly.

  “It’s little late to come calling, I know,” he said. “But I hope you won’t mind. It’s fairly important. I’m Ned Lowry from the Gazette. Do you mind if I come in and talk to you?”

  The Filipino hesitated. For an instant Lowry thought that he was going simply to close the door on him and go back to sleep.

  “It’s all right,” Lowry said persuasively. “I just wanted to talk to you about McKay.”

  He was sorry he said it, almost instantly. Ramirez began to tremble, and his thin, drawn face grew pale and tense.

  “Please. No talking. I have to work in the morning,” he said agitatedly. “I must go back to sleep. We talk some other time.”

  Lowry grew impatient. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “I’m just here to talk to you, not to get you into trouble.”

  He pushed the door open and went past Ramirez into the small room. The place was furnished with a weird assortment of miserable, cast-off odds and ends of chairs and tables. Behind a drawn curtain, frayed and moth-holed, Lowry saw a mattress and blanket on the floor, without linens.

  He sat down on a rickety chair and offered Ramirez a cigarette. The Filipino shook his head nervously. Lowry lit one himself.

  The Filipino broke the silence. “What do you want from me?” he quavered.

  “Some information.”

  “About what? I know nothing.”

  “Why did you say McKay killed that girl?” Lowry demanded harshly.

  “I see him.”

  “Like hell you did,” Lowry blazed. “How could you see him in the dark?”

  Ramirez’ eyes shifted uneasily. He looked very terrified. “It was not dark. It was almost light. I see him then.”

  Lowry got up and waved the Filipino to his feet.

  “Come on. Show me where you saw him.”

  “What you mean?”

  Lowry scowled. “Put a coat on and come on outside and show me where you saw him.”

  Trembling, afraid to speak, the terror-stricken Ramirez drew a heavy, dirty sweater around his shoulders and opened the door.

  “This way,” he grunted.

  Lowry followed him at least fifty feet from the cabin to a patch of high woods.

  “Here,” Ramirez said.

  Lowry looked back to the house and said, “And from that distance you saw the man so that you could identify him?”

  “Yes.”

  Lowry muttered a curse and started back to the house. Ramirez followed him with short, quick steps. Lowry sat down again.

  He stared at the Filipino. “You were afraid, weren’t you, Ramirez?” he said. “You can tell me. I’m not a policeman. You were afraid they would accuse you of the murder, weren’t you?”

  Ramirez shook his head violently. “No, I did not do it.”

  Speaking with care, Lowry said, “I didn’t say you did it. I said you were afraid that they would accuse you, so you said it was McKay.”

  The little man looked up sullenly. “He look like the man I see,” he said weakly.

  “He looked like him. Sure. But a lot of men could have looked like him. You didn’t see him clearly, Ramirez. You could even have said I looked like him, if you had seen me in the lineup, couldn’t you?”

  “No, you are too big.”

  Seeing he was getting no place fast, Lowry steered a different course.

  “Look, Ramirez, do you know what you have done? Unless a miracle happens, an innocent man is going to die before very long because you were afraid they would accuse you of something that they could never ever prove you did.”

  The Filipino began to look genuinely alarmed. “What you mean?”

  “They frightened you down at the police station. They could never have proved you were guilty. There was no evidence, no motive. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

  18

  The door opened suddenly and Brady stood framed in the dim light in the doorway. He looked from Lowry to Ramirez and his jaw jutted out considerably farther than usual.

  “You don’t understand what he’s talking about, Ramirez, because he’s lying to you,” he said. He turned angrily toward Lowry. “You’re getting around a lot tonight, aren’t you, Mr. Lonelyhearts?”

  Lowry glared right back. He was far beyond the pretense of pleasantness.

  “And you seem to be doing a very effective job of tailing me, Brady.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “It’s too bad, you know. I’m not a criminal, friend. You’d have lost me long ago if I were.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that, Lowry. And what’s more. I’m not so sure you’re all as pure and simple as you claim.”

  “No?”

  “What’s McKay know that’s got you so worried, will you tell me that?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning the way you’re tearing around the whole goddam county, trying to get him out of the clink and him guilty as hell. I’m not so sure you ain’t afraid he won’t spill a little piece about you.”

  “Your imagination is improving by leaps and bounds, Brady. This new wrinkle is a really downright interesting idea.”

  “I think so, too. You knew the Blair dame. She was a hot number. Could’ve given even a guy like you a lot of trouble, Lowry.”

  “Really?”

  “I was thinking maybe she had something you thought you’d better get your hands on before we did. That’s why you were smellin’ around the dump she lived in tonight, Lowry.”

  “Brilliant deduction, Brady. I’ll give you the Sherlock Holmes Medal of Honor for that. And maybe you can explain why I took Terry Stafford with me.”

  “Why not? The Stafford girl was the best cover you could think of.”

  Lowry got up. “You know you’re talking a stream of rubbish, Brady, and you know why.” He pointed to the silent, large-eyed Ramirez. “You’ve got this poor guy here scared out of his wits, and you aim to keep him that way. Unless he sticks to his story, no jury in the state would convict McKay. Do you know where he saw this murderer?” Lowry went to the window and waved his hand in the direction of the darkness outside. “At a distance of over fifty feet in little better than complete darkness. You’re going to look very foolish when this is over, Brady.”

  Brady’s face was red with anger. “And you’re going to look a damned sight worse than that in a minute or two, Lowry, if you don’t get your nosy butt right out of here pronto.”

  Lowry smiled levelly. “I thought that was what was worrying you. Well, I’m going, Brady. You have the rest of the night to browbeat this helpless chap. Make sure you do a good job.”

  He started for the door, then turned to Ramirez and said quietly, “So long, Ramirez. And don’t worry. It won’t hurt you to tell the truth.”

  Lowry got into his car and drove rapidly off. Back in his apartment, he poured himself a good stiff shot of rye and sat down to think over what had just happened and what, if anything, he had learned.

  The phone rang. It was Terry.

  “What are you doing up so late?” he asked.

  “I had to call you,” she said urgently. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Nothing definite,” he said. “But I’m sure now that Ramirez identified McKay only because he was just too frightened to do anything else. Brady thrives on bulldozing people. Well, I got in a few licks with Ramirez that will set him thinking. Even if I find nothing else I don’t think the trial will be a pushover. A decent lawyer ought to be able to punch that Filipino’s story full of holes.”

  “What do we do next, Ned?”

  Lowry paused. “Well, I guess the next thing we have to do is account for the identity of this Buzzy. I’ll look around tomorrow.”

  “Let me know if you think I can help.”

  “Will do.”

  “I haven’t done much good so far, I’m afraid,” Terry said.

  “On the contrary,” Lowry assured her. “If that name Buzzy means anything, you’ve done plenty, Terry. Plenty.”

  * * *

  Lowry was in Reynolds’ office early the following morning. He recounted the events of the night before, the lawyer listening carefully and taking an occasional note on his scratch pad.

  When Lowry was through, Reynolds said, “That’s it, huh?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Well, it’ll be a good idea to break down Ramirez that way,” Reynolds said. “All they have are these two witnesses, Ramirez and Dr. Clayton. McKay’s landlady’s evidence that she saw him leave the house at four in the morning is merely circumstantial.”

  “It’s a hell of a way for things to be,” Lowry said sadly. “To pull a fellow in, brand him guilty and then let his friends prove that he isn’t if they can.”

  “This isn’t exactly a Utopia we’re living in, if that’s what you mean to say,” Reynolds remarked drily. “You could try Clayton now. Find out how sure he was that it was McKay. Maybe you could plant some seeds of doubt there. If we can shovel dirt on both of the key witnesses, it’ll mean a lot for McKay.”

  Lowry nodded. “Right. I’ll head straight out to see Clayton now.”

  19

  In the spruce, well-kept and exclusive Westwood district, Lowry found Clayton’s home. It was a big, comfortable-looking house, sparkling with white freshness and surrounded by giant palms and spacious flower gardens.

  Dr. Clayton was still having his morning office hours, a trim nurse with a fixed professional smile informed Lowry.

  “Would you care to wait for him?” she asked.

  “All right.”

  “You’re a new patient, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not a patient at all. I’m here to see the doctor about a personal matter.”

  “Very well, then.”

  The only other occupant of the waiting room was an overfed, overdressed woman who kept moving impatiently from one chair to another. Lowry saw her prepare to speak and then she looked brightly at him.

  “Don’t you think Dr. Clayton is a wonderful doctor?” she asked confidentially.

  “An excellent doctor,” Lowry agreed.

  She grinned delightedly. “All my friends say so, too. He’s done wonders for me. Of course,” she added in a lower tone, “he is a little high, but I think it’s worth it.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  The door opened and the nurse called the woman in. It was fifteen minutes before she came out and then the nurse told Lowry Dr. Clayton would see him.

  Clayton’s inner sanctum was in keeping with the rest of the house and the impression it gave of solid comfort bordered on luxury. Clayton himself, sitting behind a massive desk was a handsome, capable-looking man. He greeted Lowry pleasantly and if he didn’t show any real warmth when Lowry told him who he was, he was mildly cordial.

  “There’s no reason, Dr. Clayton,” Lowry said, “for this McKay affair to really concern you. You did, I am sure, what you thought was your duty in identifying him and I’ve no doubt you were quite certain you had identified the right man. However, I and one or two other of McKay’s friends are quite convinced of his innocence and we are sure some terrible mistakes have been made. Of course, to the police, it is a closed case. They’ve got their man so far as they’re concerned. But we feel there must be some things that have been overlooked, some little thing that might serve to prove he could not have been guilty.”

  “It’s unfortunate,” Clayton said thoughtfully. “As you say, I did what I thought was right in identifying McKay but I’d rather not have done so at all. I will say that he definitely looks like the man who held me up but as I tried to tell the police no man can be absolutely sure considering the circumstances. Still they insisted that if he looked like the man it was my business to say so.”

  “But do you realize that your testimony will be his death warrant?”

  “It couldn’t be only that. Somebody else identified him. You’re his friend, Mr. Lowry. It doesn’t seem possible to you that he could have done it but those things just happen.”

  “Then you believe it was McKay.”

  “I think it was.”

  “Would you mind if I checked over the events of that night with you? There may be something that would shed some light. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Of course not. If there’s any possibility that it wasn’t McKay, I’d be glad if I could help you prove it.”

  “You were called down to a patient that morning and you drove down and left your car outside the house.”

  “Yes, a charity case I encountered in the clinic, a child who gets some pretty violent asthmatic attacks.”

  “When you came out of the patient’s house, the man you think was McKay was in the back of your car and held you up at the point of a gun.”

  “That’s right. He took my wallet, removed the bills and flung the rest back at me, then he made me turn over the car keys to him and forced me out.”

  “Wasn’t it quite dark?”

  “Yes but there was a street lamp a little way off.”

  “And that shed enough light so that you could see this man?”