Tiger By The Tail Part 17

O'Brien glanced at Tux, nodded, and opened the cabin door.

Tux shuffled forward, gave Johnny a light tap to turn him and then drove his fist into Johnny's face.

Johnny's head slammed against the wall and he slid down on his hands and knees.

O'Brien watched from the doorway.

"Soften him up a little," he said. "Don't do too much damage."

As he went out into the pa.s.sage, Tux stepped back and kicked Johnny in the ribs, sending him over on his back.

O'Brien closed the door. He went up on deck to the motorboat, showing his teeth in a fixed, mirthless grin.

II.

Raphael Sweeting stood on the edge of the kerb, waiting for a break in the traffic before crossing to the far side. He carried his Pekinese under his arm, and the dog watched the traffic with the same impatience as its master.

The rain that had been falling had stopped, and the humid heat made Sweeting sweat. He watched the onrush of traffic as it flowed past him, and thought how pleasant it would be if he had enough money to buy a car.

At the moment Sweeting was worth exactly two dollars and sixty cents, and in spite of his inflexible optimism, he saw no possibilities of increasing his a.s.sets during the present week.

That morning, in spite of interruptions, the excitement of the police visit and the removal of Fay's body which he had watched with morbid interest from behind his window curtain, he had prepared and mailed his usual quota of fifty carefully written begging letters. He knew from experience it would take at least ten days before he had any returns, and he wasn't sure if the returns would amount to much when he did receive them.

For years now, Sweeting had relied on people's charity and gullibility for an income. It gave him tremendous satisfaction to be his own master. His beautifully written letters to anyone who happened to be in the news, especially those who had inherited money or who had had a spectacular success, explaining his distressed circ.u.mstances and asking them to send him a few dollars, thereby casting their bread upon the waters, brought him in enough to keep him in mild comfort. When the returns were bad, he resorted to blackmail or picking pockets, and in this sideline he had been unfortunate to come up against the police. He had already served, over a period of twenty years, eight years in jail, and he had no wish to go inside again.

As he stood on the edge of the kerb, he was thinking that he would have to pick a pocket if he was to pay his rent, due at the end of the week.

The events of the morning and the visit from Sergeant Donovan had badly shaken his nerve, and he tried to think of a less risky method to raise the money.

Then as he was about to step off the kerb, he saw a tall man come striding out of the side entrance of the Eastern National Bank.

Sweeting recognized him immediately. Here was the man who had brought Fay Carson home last night!

His mind in a flutter of excitement, Sweeting bolted across the road and set off after him.

Sweeting had long ago learned that it was fatal to his own interests to give information to the police. So when Donovan had asked him if he had seen anyone with Fay, he had kept his mouth shut.

If he had liked, Sweeting could have given Donovan a lot of useful information. He had seen Ken leave Fay's apartment; but some twenty minutes before Ken had left, Sweeting had heard someone bolt down the stairs from Fay's apartment.

He had rushed to his half-open door, but whoever it was who had come down the stairs had moved too fast for him, and he didn't catch a glimpse of the retreating person. He had at first a.s.sumed that it had been Ken leaving, but when he had heard Ken creep down the stairs later, and when he had gone to his door and had seen Ken, he realized that someone had been up in Fay's apartment besides Fay and Ken. When he had learned from Donovan that Fay had been murdered, he realized the person who had come down the stairs so quickly might easily have been the killer, and he was furious with himself for missing the chance of seeing who it was.

However, he wasn't going to lose by his mistake. This young fellow striding ahead of him must have also been in the apartment at the time of Fay's death. He must be worried sick that the police would a.s.sume he had killed Fay. Anyone with a guilty conscience was a potential source of income to Sweeting, and he happily stretched his short, fat legs to keep the young fellow in sight.

This was obviously his lucky day, Sweeting thought. The business would have to be handled carefully, but he had no doubt that he would be able to persuade this guy to part with a handsome sum in return for a promise of silence.

He had come from the side entrance of the Eastern National Bank, Sweeting thought, as he scurried along the sidewalk, clutching on to Leo; that must mean he worked at the bank. He wouldn't be a rich man, but he would have a good, steady income. Perhaps it would be better to ask for thirty dollars a month rather than put the bite on him for a large sum. But a guy in his position, Sweeting argued, was certain to have some savings. The best thing would be to ask for a lump sum; say a couple of hundred dollars, and then a regular payment of thirty dollars a month.

He followed Ken on to a bus, and, concealing himself behind a newspaper, he gave himself up to the excitement of the hunt.

Leo seemed to know what was taking place. He curled up on his master's ample lap and remained motionless, panting a little, his goggle eyes alert and interested.

After a twenty-minute ride, Ken got off the bus, brushing past Sweeting without noticing him.

Sweeting followed him, watched him buy a newspaper at the corner and pause to read the Stop Press while he struggled to hold two parcels under one arm.

Sweeting had already read the Stop Press announcement, and knew what it contained. He watched Ken's white, scared face with interest.

No wonder he looked scared, Sweeting thought, stroking Leo's silky head with the tip of a grubby finger. This should be easy: nothing more simple when they have had a good fright. This could be the most profitable job he had ever pulled off.

He watched Ken walk up the path to a small bungalow and pause to speak to a fat old woman who bobbed up from behind the next door hedge. Then when he had gone into the bungalow, Sweeting crossed the road to a bench seat under the trees from where he had a good view of the bungalow and sat down.

There was no hurry, he told himself, setting Leo on the seat at his side. He removed his hat and wiped his glistening forehead. The next move was to find out who the young fellow was, and more important still, if he was married and had children.

A wife and children were very useful levers in the game Sweeting played.

He crossed one fat leg over the other, and sighed contentedly. He would watch the bungalow for an hour or so. It was a pleasant evening now, and with any luck the wife, if there was a wife, might come out into the garden.

Sweeting had infinite patience. All his life he had been content to wait for things to come to him, never attempting to make an effort himself, and he sat in the evening sunshine, his mind cloudy, his fat, dirty fingers gently stroking Leo's silky coat while he waited.

Then, after perhaps a quarter of an hour, he saw a car swing around the corner and come down the road fast.

Immediately he stiffened to attention when he recognized the driver.

The police!

He hurriedly opened his newspaper and concealed himself behind it.

His dream of a steady income exploded as he watched Sergeant Donovan climb out of the car.

Of all the filthy luck! he thought bitterly. How could they have got on to this guy so fast? What a bit of luck that he had waited instead of tackling him at once. He would have been in plenty of trouble if Donovan had found him inside the bungalow.

He watched the two detectives walk up the path and ring on the bell. He saw the door open and the young fellow come out on the step. The three men stood talking for some minutes, then to Sweeting's surprise, the two detectives turned abruptly away and walked back to their car.

What did it mean? he asked himself, peering around the edge of his newspaper. Why hadn't they arrested him ?

He watched the police car disappear around the corner, and, getting to his feet, he picked up Leo and walked hurriedly to the corner of the street to make sure the police car had left the district.

He saw the car slow down and pull up outside a house, and the two detectives get out. He watched them speak to a fat, heavily built man who was in the garden.

After some minutes Donovan went on to the house while the fat man and the other detective remained in the garden.

All this intrigued Sweeting. He leaned against a tree, watching, but being careful to keep out of sight.

Some time pa.s.sed, the Donovan came out and beckoned to the fat man. They all went into the house and shut the door.

Sweeting continued to wait. An hour dragged by, then the front door opened and the two detectives came out, walked down the path to their car and drove away.

Completely baffled as to why they hadn't made an arrest, Sweeting returned to the bench seat opposite Ken's bungalow and sat down again.

Who was the fat guy? he wondered, and why had the cops called on him? Why hadn't they arrested the young fellow ? Even from this distance you could see how scared he had been. Had he satisfied them he hadn't been in Fay's apartment? Were they likely to return?

Sweeting decided to wait a little longer.

It was beginning to grow dusk when he saw the fat guy coming down the street.

Sweeting eyed him with interest.

My word! he thought, he looks as if he's had a shock.

He watched him pause outside the bungalow's gate, open it and walk up the path. The young fellow came to the door and let the fat guy in.

Sweeting waited.

Perhaps half an hour went by, then suddenly the front door opened and the fat guy came down the path. He walked hurriedly and unsteadily, his face was white and twitching.

Sweeting could contain himself no longer. He got to his feet, picked Leo up and crossed the road. At the gate, he looked to right and left. He was a little nervous in case the cops should suddenly appear. If it hadn't been for the urgent need to raise the rent money, he would have postponed his visit until the following day, but he couldn't afford to delay.

He lifted the latch and walked softly up the path to the front door. Setting Leo down on the step, he reached forward and pressed the bell with a dirty thumb.

III.

Raphael Sweeting wasn't the only man in Flint City who had a nose for a fast buck. Paradise Louie, or to give him his correct name, Louis Manchini, also had talents in that direction.

He had read the Stop Press announcement in the Herald, and had instantly realized that Johnny had killed Fay.

He remembered that Johnny had come to him last night to ask for Fay's address. If Fay hadn't recently repulsed Louie's attentions, and no woman turned Louie down without regretting it, he wouldn't have told Johnny where he could find her, but it seemed to him poetic justice to give this wild-eyed nut the information he wanted.

Louie had hoped Johnny would beat Fay up as he had beaten her up before going to the home. He certainly hadn't imagined Johnny would kill her, and the news came as a shock to him.

He dropped the newspaper on his dusty desk, pushed back his chair and groped for a cigarette.

Louie was thirty-seven, thin, swarthy, with greasy black hair, a black pencil-line moustache and jowls that turned blue towards evening.

He realized that if he informed the cops that Johnny had been enquiring for Fay, even the cops dumb as they were, would jump to the conclusion that Johnny had killed her. The information he had was therefore valuable, and it was up to him to find the highest bidder.

He thought it unlikely that Johnny would stay around in town, and besides, Johnny never had any money. But his sister had.

Louie smiled.

This could be turned into something if handled right. Gilda was some dish. She was earning good money making gramophone discs and singing in the smart nightclubs. She might be persuaded not only to part with a sack of dough but she might, with a little pressure, become Louie's girlfriend.

Louie lived for women. He had a lot of success, but he was sharply aware that so far his women weren't cla.s.s. Now Gilda was cla.s.s. The set-up could definitely be turned into something outstanding.

He got up and walked over to the fly-blown mirror and surveyed his blue chin. A shave perhaps and a clean collar, he thought. She was appearing at the Casino tonight. He would drop in and have a little talk with her. He had no doubt he could persuade her to invite him back to her apartment. He had heard she was very fond of Johnny. He was confident she wouldn't be difficult. He might even pa.s.s up the money if he could come to a satisfactory arrangement with her. This would make a refreshing change after mixing with the tough floosies who haunted the Paradise Club. After all, he could always make money, whereas to have a girlfriend like Gilda was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

A couple of hours later he entered the lush hall of the Casino. He followed the Captain of waiters along the gangway to a badly placed table behind a pillar. The Casino management wasn't wasting valuable s.p.a.ce on a heel like Louie, but that didn't worry him. He had no wish to be seen. He offended the Captain of waiters by ordering a straight whisky and a plate of ham. Then he settled down to wait for Gilda's act.

She came on some twenty minutes later, dressed in a tight-fitting, strapless evening gown of gold lam, and he watched her hungrily.

Some dish! he thought. Brother! What I would do for that dame is n.o.body's business.

Her singing left him cold. He preferred his own crooners who worked at his club: girls who screeched their lungs out and who got their songs through even to the drunks at the back of the restaurant. This smooth, velvety voice with its colour and range didn't appeal to him.

When she had taken her encores and had disappeared behind a curtain, Louie pushed back his chair and went around to the dressing rooms.

The star on a door at the end of the corridor told him where she was, and he tapped with a long, glossy fingernail.

Gilda opened the door.

She had on a pale-green wrap that enhanced her colouring, and it was as much as he could do not to make a grab at her.

She looked him over; her great green eyes cold and steady.

"Yes?"

Louie remembered she had given him that look before. Before she had become an established singer she had once sung at his club and he had tried to proposition her without success. His leering little smile stiffened.

This wren would have to be taught a lesson, he told himself. He would take a lot of pleasure knocking the starch out of her when he got her where he wanted her.

"I saw Johnny last night," he said, leaning against the doorpost. "Want to talk about it?"

That cracked her veneer, he noticed. She lost the high-hat look and the anxious expression that came into her eyes gave him confidence.

"What's there to talk about?" she asked sharply.

"Plenty, baby, plenty," he said, and moving forward, rode her back into the room. He closed the door and set his back against it. "Sit down and let's be pally."

"I don't want you in here. Get out!"

"You'll get to like it," he said, wandering across the room and sitting in the only armchair. "Most wrens find me an acquired taste. I grow on them."

She studied him, then moved over to the couch and sat down. "What is it?"