“Now just a minute-” Johnny began, and the sandy-haired man waggled a reproving finger.
“Let me finish. You get the picture in the kitchen that night? Dumas had killed young Rieder, after trying to get him to talk, and he had a body to dispose of in a hurry. He dragooned his man, Frederick, into using his keys to get them down into the kitchen on the room service elevator and into the meat locker. Then the old man interrupted them, and Dumas killed him, too, but got himself half-killed in the process. Frederick must have stood there with the world coming down around his ears. He couldn't leave Dumas around alive to talk, so he finished him off. I'd say he graduated from the amateurs to the pros right there, and
He swung back to the lieutenant at the desk. “He had already had the foresight-or had followed Dumas' instructions-to have his room wired up, so that when he knew that Johnny was suspicious of him and was listening in, he was able to sidetrack him. Do you realize that if I'm right this Muller doesn't know Frederick and that Frederick doesn't know him? That Frenchy Dumas was the intermediate contact and possibly the only one?”
“You're goin' too fast,” Johnny complained. “You lose me when you say Freddie wouldn't know this Muller. If he doesn't know Muller, what's the point in the boy-stood-on-the-burnin'-deck act he's puttin' on down there?”
“Does he need to know that Muller doesn't know him?” Jimmy Rogers demanded earnestly. His hazel eyes popped with excitement. “Frederick is waiting to be contacted, not to do the contacting. He doesn't realize that he's killed off probably the only contact there ever was. He'll be there till the wreckers move in. What else can he do?”
“He can blow,” Johnny said flatly.
“Don't say that,” Lieutenant Dameron winced. “I've been lying awake nights sweating out his giving us the slip ever since we found out he's not the real Frederick. Do you realize we don't even know who he is, legitimately? I've got to pick him up. Fifteen yards start and he'd melt out on us like an ice cube on a summer day.”
“If you haven't got him staked out like a uranium field you ought to lose him,” Johnny said.
“So he's staked out. Accidents happen. Look at that orange-headed female I'm plowing up the streets for now. I've got to pick this Frederick up. I want his prints.”
“That's a little different tune than you were singin' last night. Last night you needed a little help.”
The big man nodded. “I could use some, but I can't wait. I've got a boy upstairs has forgotten more law than most judges ever learn, and he's given me a couple of angles. I've got a chance to make it stick.”
“He'll spit in your eye,” Johnny predicted. “Besides, there's a better way, Joe.” He grinned into the wary glance behind the desk. “Let's introduce 'em to each other over there.”
An exhaled breath sounded gustily in the room's quiet. “Impossible!” Lieutenant Dameron exploded the word.
“What the hell's impossible about it? Outside of you sayin' so like God Almighty?”
“Just a minute, Johnny,” Detective Rogers thrust in soothingly. “Suppose we did what you suggest. What would happen?”
“Who the hell knows? Let nature take its course. It ought to flush a little of this mess out into the daylight.”
The sandyhaired man shook his head patiently. “I wouldn't try to convince you that we always go by the book, but a police action has to be a little more integrated than what you have in mind.” He glanced at the lieutenant who was tipped back in his chair with his eyes closed, the red face thoughtful. The little silence was broken when the chair tipped forward with a bang and the face set itself in stern lines.
“No. We can't do it. It's extra-legal. It's dangerous.”
“Ahhhh, let me call him, Joe. I can probably convince him he should give himself up.”
“You needn't put any extra effort into being a wise guy, Johnny. I'm telling you: don't do it. I can't stand wrong guesses and further complications. Don't even think of it.”
“You think you can stop me?”
“I can make you wish you'd never thought of the idea, and by God, I will. I'll take you off the street if I have to make a law. Don't you cross me.”
“Blow it outta your barracks bag, Joe. You think you're scarin' anyone?”
“Johnny, this is important to me!”
“So you sit here an'-ahhh, forget it!” He lurched to his feet and started for the door.
“Johnny-!”
He slammed the door heavily behind him.
In his own room he stared at himself in the bureau mirror over the rim of the double shot-glass of bourbon in his hand. He threw back his head and tossed down the contents, shivered, and solemnly inspected himself again in the glass.
“Well, Killain? You figure it out. Man told you not to do something. Did he mean it, or did he say it figurin' you'd do it anyway to spite him? An' if that's what he figured, you sure you want to do it? Go ahead, Killain. Figure it out.”
He refilled the shot-glass and sat down in his easy chair.
He lifted the glass to the light, studied its amber contents, and drank deeply. After a moment he put down the glass and got to his feet again; he walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He groped for a towel, dried himself off, threw the towel aside, and walked back into the living room.
The telephone rang as he walked to the door; he ignored it. In the corridor he turned right and walked steadily on past the service elevator to the end suite in the hallway.
At the door he knocked sharply three times, folded his arms, and waited.
Chapter XI
The man who was not Ronald Frederick opened the door.
“You owe me a drink, Freddie,” Johnny informed him.
The little manager was neatly dressed in a light gray suit with the ever-present breast pocket handkerchief prominent as usual. For the count of ten the mild eyes behind the steel rimmed spectacles studied his visitor, and then he nodded, and stepped back. “I… ah… recall that I do. Come in.”
Johnny preceded him into the sitting room which was fitted out with a desk in its center, and his host scrutinized him carefully as he followed. “Are you sure that you-ah- need it now?”
“Right now.”
“Have a chair, then.” He stood beside his desk as Johnny seated himself in the armchair to one side. “Scotch?”
“Naah.”
“Bourbon, then?”-*
“Okay.”
Johnny watched as bottles were removed from a wall cabinet and two liberal drinks poured. Ronald Frederick looked at his guest. “Chaser?”
“Some other time.”
The little man handed Johnny his glass and put his own down on the desk. He walked unhurriedly to the door, turned the bolt, and slipped on the chain latch. His manner as he returned to his desk was politely courteous. “I'm assuming that we wish no interruptions?”
“You're assumin' well today.” Johnny lifted the drink in his hand. “To your beautiful blue eyes, Freddie.”
The manager smiled faintly as he seated himself and picked up his own drink. He leaned back comfortably in his desk chair. “Since my eyes don't happen to be blue-”
“Got to be,” Johnny said flatly over the rim of his glass. “San Francisco says Ronald Frederick's eyes are blue.”
The slender face behind the desk seemed to tighten up feature by feature. “San Francisco?”
“Yeah. Let's cut out the horsin' around, Freddie. I want a piece of your action here.”
The little man pursed his lips, seemed to consider for a moment, then leaned forward smoothly, slid open a desk drawer, and emerged with his right hand gripping a revolver from which the long snout of a silence projected. He sat back again with it lying casually across his lap. “You're so impetuous at times, Johnny,” he said
