Tiger By The Tail Part 34

O'Brien gave her a crooked little smile.

"Forget it. We all make mistakes." He patted her arm. "It's okay, kid." Then he turned to Adams. "You've poked your G.o.dd.a.m.n nose into too much of this. Take that guy out of here, charge him with the murder of Fay Carson and make it stick! If I have any more bleating from you, I'll have you thrown off the force!"

Adams stroked the tip of his thin nose as he met O'Brien's furious eyes.

"It can't be done. He didn't kill her."

"Then who did?" O'Brien snarled.

Adams nodded at Gilda.

"She did, of course."

"My G.o.d!" O'Brien exploded. "I'll make you pay for that! I'll . . ." He broke off as he caught sight of Gilda's face.

She was now as white as a fresh fall of snow. Her eyes stared past O'Brien, her hand at her throat. He followed the direction of her staring eyes.

In her bedroom doorway, looking up at her, was a fawn Pekinese dog.

III.

Deliberately, the dog crossed the room and stopped outside the door leading to the kitchen. It scratched at the paintwork, whined, then scratched at the door again.

Gilda screamed, "Get it out of here! Get it out!"

"Gilda!" O'Brien exclaimed, shaken by her terror. "What is it?"

Adams left his chair, crossed the room with two strides, turned the door handle and threw the door open.

The dog darted into the kitchen.

Adams watched it run to where Sweeting lay face down on the floor. There was a puddle of blood at his side; an icepick was embedded between his fat shoulderblades.

The dog paused beside him, sniffed at his face, then backed away, whimpering, and crept under the kitchen table.

Adams looked swiftly at Ken, then towards the door leading into the hall. His eyes were expressive.

Ken got up, went over to the door and set his back against it. He was watching Gilda, who abruptly sat down, her face ashen.

"You might like to take a look," Adams said to O'Brien.

O'Brien walked into the kitchen, kicked Sweeting over on his back and stared down at the dead face.

"Who's this?" he asked, and Adams could see he was badly shaken.

"Raphael Sweeting, a blackmailer," Adams said. He was watching the Pekinese, which had come out from under the table and was now sniffing excitedly at the refrigerator. It stood up, whined and scratched at the door. "It can't be that easy," Adams went on, under his breath. "He can't be here too."

"What the h.e.l.l are you muttering about?" O'Brien snapped.

Adams took hold of the handle of the refrigerator, lifted it and let the door swing open.

O'Brien caught his breath sharply when he saw the crumpled body of Maurice Yarde in the refrigerator.

"For G.o.d's sake!" he exclaimed. "Who's this?"

"Her husband - Maurice Yarde. I wondered where she had hidden him," Adams said.

O'Brien pulled himself together with an effort. He walked into the sitting room.

Gilda stared at him.

"I didn't do it, Sean! You've got to believe me!" she gasped, "I found him there. I swear I did!"

He touched her shoulder lightly.

"Take it easy, kid. I'm on your side," he said, then, looking at Adams who was leaning against the kitchen doorpost, he said, a rasp in his voice, "Let's get this thing straightened out."

"I'm charging Miss Dorman with the murders of Fay Carson, Yarde and Sweeting," Adams said. "We'll sort it out at headquarters."

"We'll sort it out right here!" O'Brien said curtly. "Miss. Dorman denies the charge. You have no evidence that she did it, or have you?"

"I've got enough evidence to make Carson's killing stick," Adams said.

"What is the evidence?"

"It's a matter of motive. The key to Carson's murder was something I nearly missed. At first I liked Dorman for the job. He was unbalanced and he had threatened to kill her, but I found out he couldn't have done it. He was seen outside the Blue Rose club when Carson and Holland left the club. He didn't know where she lived. He couldn't have gone ahead and got into her apartment, so I had to rule him out. I got a tip that Maurice Yarde had quarrelled with Carson. I thought maybe he had done it. I went to his hotel. He was missing, but his room had been ransacked. From the way the search had been conducted, it looked like the searcher was after a doc.u.ment of some land. I had a hunch. That's why I'm a good cop. I get these hunches. Was the searcher a woman, and could the paper be a marriage certificate? I didn't think it was likely. It was a blind guess, but I called Los Angeles and checked up on Yarde. I found he married Miss Dorman thirteen months ago." Adams pushed himself away from the doorpost and came into the room. He began to pace slowly up and down, his hands in his pockets, while O'Brien watched him, a hard glitter in his eyes. "I had heard Miss Dorman was going to marry you. So far as she was concerned it was a pretty good match. I wondered if Fay Carson had found out from Yarde that he was married to Miss Dorman. Carson had a score to settle with Miss Dorman. She was in a position to blackmail her if she knew Miss Dorman was married to Yarde. Just ideas, you see, but ideas that established a motive. So I started checking on Miss Dorman. I found out she was at the Blue Rose club last night, and left half an hour before Carson and Holland did. That would give her time to get to Carson's apartment. She had once shared an apartment with Carson, and knew of Carson's habit of leaving a key under the mat. Whoever was hiding in the bedroom had to have a key as the door was undamaged. I began to like Miss Dorman for the job. The night clerk downstairs tells me she came home last night at two o'clock. The killer left Carson's apartment at twenty minutes to two. It is a twenty-minute drive from Carson's apartment to here. Work it out for yourself. I learned, too, from the night clerk that Maurice Yarde called on her last night after nine o'clock, and the night clerk didn't see him leave. Yarde probably tried to get money out of Miss Dorman. He probably told her Carson knew, too. She killed him, put him in the refrigerator until the opportunity came for her to get rid of his body. She went to his hotel, searched for the marriage certificate, found and destroyed it. She then went to the Blue Rose, spotted Carson with Holland. She went to Carson's apartment, sure that Carson would bring Holland back, and he'd make a fine fall guy. She killed her, fused the lights and got back here."

O'Brien got to his feet, took a cigarette from his case, and wandered over to the sideboard for the cigarette lighter.

"You haven't told me anything that a good attorney can't blow to h.e.l.l," he said, as he lit a cigarette. "Now, I'll tell you something: Johnny told me he killed her."

Adams shook his head.

"He told you because he wasn't going to marry you," he said quietly. "You might have hesitated to marry Miss Dorman if you knew she had a murder on her hands. Dorman was financially interested in your marriage, wasn't he?"

"You can't make this charge stick," O'Brien said, his face tightening. "You're going to drop it!"

"In a week I'll have a case no attorney can upset, and I'm not dropping it."

O'Brien set the lighter down. His hand jumped to the gun, whipped it up, and, turning, he covered Adams.

"Don't make a move unless you want a slug in you!" he rasped. He looked at Ken, who still stood against the door. "Get over there with him!"

Ken obeyed.

Adams appeared completely unruffled.

"This won't get you anywhere, O'Brien," he said. "She can't beat the rap: not with those two stiffs in her kitchen. Maybe she might have wriggled out of the Carson killing, but those two in there fixes it."

"That's what you think," O'Brien said. "But you haven't my talent for organization. You may be a smart cop, but you've still got a h.e.l.l of a lot to learn."

Gilda had got unsteadily to her feet.

"Get Whitey here," O'Brien said to her, without taking his eyes off Adams. "Speedwell 56778. Tell him to bring four of the mob with him, and to step on it."

She crossed to the telephone.

"I wouldn't do it," Adams said softly. "It won't get you anywhere."

"Won't it? Let me explain what's going to happen," O'Brien said, his eyes gleaming. "You and Holland are going to get knocked off. The night clerk is also going to get knocked off. The boys will walk those two stiffs out of here and plant them somewhere safe. You will be found in the lobby downstairs, shot by Holland's gun. He'll be found on the stairs, shot by your gun. The clerk got shot accidentally, getting in the way. That'll take care of it, won't it?"

"It could do," Adams said.

"It will. Carson's killing will be blamed on Holland. That's what I call organizing, Adams," O'Brien said, showing his teeth in a fixed grin.

Gilda was shaking so badly she couldn't hold the receiver.

"I can't do it, Sean," she moaned.

"Leave it!" he said sharply. "I'll handle it. Go into your bedroom. Don't worry, kid. You're in the clear."

Gilda turned, stumbled across the room, opened her bedroom door, went inside and shut the door.

O'Brien looked at Adams.

"So long, smart cop," he said.

He didn't see Leo come out of the kitchen. The dog trotted up to him and stood up, its paws against O'Brien's knee.

Startled, O'Brien, looked down, then kicked the dog away.

Adams' hand flew inside his coat, yanked out his gun.

O'Brien fired a shade late.

Adams' gun barked and a red splash of blood appeared under O'Brien's right eye. He dropped his gun, staggered back as Adams fired again.

O'Brien slammed against the wall, heeled over and spread out on his face.

"The punk had me sweating," Adams said softly. He blew out his cheeks, wriggled his shoulders inside his coat, and grinned at Ken. "Did he make you sweat, too?"

Ken didn't say anything. He went unsteadily to a chair, sat down, holding his head in his hands.

Adams looked at him, shrugged, and went quietly to the bedroom door, turned the handle and pushed open the door.

Gilda was standing in the middle of the room, her hands to her ears, her face drawn. When she saw him, she gave a sharp scream.

"It didn't work," Adams said. "You're right out on your own now, sister. Come on. We'll go down to headquarters and talk this thing out."

Gilda backed away.

"The dog foxed him," Adams went on, moving slowly towards her. "He hadn't got the dog organized. I got him before he got me. Come on, sister, don't play it the hard way."

"Keep away from me!"

Her voice was a croak. Her face was ugly with terror.

"The jury will love your legs," Adams said comfortingly. "You'll only get twenty years. You'll be out of all the misery that's coming when they drop the H-bomb. You don't know it yet, but you're a lucky girl."

Gilda turned and ran. She took five swift steps before she reached the big, curtained window. She didn't stop. She went through the curtains, through the gla.s.s and out of the window.

Adams heard her thin wailing scream as she went down into the darkness, and the thud of her body as it struck the sidewalk, sixteen stories below.

He lifted his shoulders, walked quickly back into the sitting room, ignoring Ken, who still sat with his head in his hands, and called headquarters on the telephone.

"Get an ambulance and a squad to 45 Maddox Court, fast," he said into the mouthpiece, "and when I say fast, I mean fast!"

He dropped the receiver back on to its cradle, went over to Ken and jerked him to his feet.

"Get the h.e.l.l out of here! Don't you want to go home?"

Ken stared blankly at him.

"Go on, beat it!" Adams said. "You're in the clear. Keep your mouth shut and you won't hear anything more about it. Go on, get the h.e.l.l out of it!"

Too shocked to speak, Ken went unsteadily to the door.

"Hey!" Adams said, pointing to the Pekinese who had taken refuge under the sideboard. "How about this dog? Wouldn't you like to give it a home?"

Ken looked at the dog in horror.

"No!" he said, his voice shaking. "It's all right with me if I never see another Pekinese again in my life."

He went down the stairs at a stumbling run.

IV.