same time.”
He had lost her attention. “Johnny, is there-is there going to be an investigation of the fight?”
“Nobody seems to think so now,” he replied. “Nobody-” He stopped. He didn't want to say, “Nobody to testify.”
“Well, I hope there isn't!” Sally said violently. She tossed her head at his look of surprise. “I don't care! It couldn't bring Charlie back. It would just s-smear him forever, and if he th-threw that old fight it was because they m-made him!”
Tears glistened in her eyes, but Johnny realized they were tears of anger. “What a little old fire-eater you are, Ma,” he said fondly, and she ducked her head down on his shoulder.
“I don't care!” she repeated, but less forcefully. Over her shoulder Johnny studied the wall thoughtfully. The whole damn thing didn't make sense. There had to be one hell of a twist in there somewhere. The kid had lost the fight- taken the most arrant dive-and been killed anyway. Gidlow had been killed-part and parcel of the same thing? Or just one of Jake's sub rosa chickens suddenly come home to roost? That bunch of money-it almost had to be Turner's money. Turner had probably had Munson send Carmody over with the shyster to make a fast try at recovering it before he realized the headache that went with it. Munson… Killain, you don't know a damn thing about Munson. And Keith, a guy probably on two payrolls-what do you know about him?
Johnny looked down to find Sally's head up from his shoulder and her eyes studying him intently. “I can feel you just winding yourself up to fly off some place,” she said resentfully. “What is it now?”
His grin was uncomfortable. “Little errand I forgot. Honest.”
Her sniff was pure disbelief. “Be careful, y'hear?”
“Sure.” He flattened the tip of her small nose with a finger. “You be careful, in case I'm wrong about the guy whose money it is bein' afraid to make a move to get it back.” He leaped from the bed, scooped up his clothes and headed for the shower.
The Chronicle building was new, an imposing pile of glass, chrome, tile and marble. Somewhere beneath that elegant facade there must be cement and steel, Johnny thought, but it was visible nowhere. At the ground-level information desk he inquired of the gum-chewing brunette for Ed Keith.
“Sports. Third floor rear, sir. If he's in. Shall I call?”
“I'll take a chance, thanks.”
At the third floor the doors opened upon a tremendous room whose floor space seemed to stretch to infinity. Rows of desks lined the center section in three distinct groups, and a glass-enclosed wire room contained a bank of chattering machines which could be heard every time the door opened. A huge, horseshoe desk-and-work-table had at least sixteen people around it on both sides, and a railinged-off section in a far corner contained one man in shirtsleeves and pince-nez glasses who had the entire room under his eyes whenever he looked up.
Johnny stood undecided. It didn't look like the time of day for a social call; he had just made up his mind to try it again later when a door opened at the rear of the room. Ed Keith came through, ushering a slender man in a gray overcoat ahead of him toward the door through which Johnny had just entered. Ten yards away Keith looked at Johnny casually, looked again, hesitated and walked up to him. “Killain, isn't it?”
“Yeah. Some layout you got here,” Johnny told him.
Ed Keith looked around him critically, as though really seeing the office, his half smile exposing his rabbit teeth. “It's an improvement,” he acknowledged. “You ever see the old building before we moved? Had to strike matches to find your desk.” His eyes swept the office again. “Progress. Everything new and different but the salaries.”
“Damned if you don't sound like a red, red robin,” the sportswriter's companion said cheerfully. He was a thin-featured man with a seamed face, and, under thinning brows that matched the grizzled hair, sharp blue eyes had already inspected Johnny shrewdly.
“Indigestion. Dave Hendricks, Johnny Killain,” Ed Keith said briefly. “Dave's from Seventh Avenue, a cloak- and-suiter. See him for seconds on hand-me-downs. Killain's over at the Duarte. I'll meet you over at the restaurant, Dave.”
“You must anyways owe him money, the way you want to get rid of me,” Hendricks said drily, but turned to the door.
“This isn't the time or place to talk to me, unless you make it quick, Killain,” Ed Keith said when the little man had gone.
“I'll make it quick enough, Keith. I came over to ask you what the Chronicle was gonna do about that fixed fight.”
“What fixed fight?” the newspaperman asked coolly.
Johnny studied him. “That's the Chronicle's position? Or Ed Keith's?” The sportswriter was silent. “You on Lonnie Turner's payroll, Keith?”
“I'm not on Lonnie Turner's payroll.” The statement was made with no particular heat or emphasis. “Of course if I were, it still would be none of your business. What's your angle, nosing around?”
“What's yours, covering up for Turner?” Johnny countered.
“I'm not covering-” The newspaperman paused until he could regain control of his voice, which had risen sharply. “I don't happen to think that fight was fixed, Killain. If you've got anything to say that you can back up, I could always change my mind.”
“The kid was killed,” Johnny said softly. “His manager, Gidlow, was killed. If I put something in your hand, would you use it, Keith?”
He could see the sheen on Ed Keith's forehead. “If you can prove it.” The plump features were bloodless. “Although such information properly belongs with the police.”
“First newspaperman I ever saw,” Johnny said dreamily, “who wouldn't put a double hammer lock on me to get the story before I could get to the police.” He considered the unhappy rabbit face. “What is it with you, Keith? You sold out?”
“Get out of here, damn you!” Ed Keith said harshly. “I don't have to listen to this!”
“But you have to listen to Turner tellin' you it wasn't a fixed fight? When everyone on the Eastern Seaboard knows that it was?” Johnny continued quickly before the sports-writer could renew his order. “You know Rick Manfredi?”
Knocked off-stride, Ed Keith stared blankly. “Manfredi? The gambler? I know who he is-” His speech thickened suddenly as it accelerated. “Is he mixed up in this?”
“Mixed up in what?” Johnny inquired innocently. “Nothin' to be mixed up in, is there, Keith? Tell me somethin'. Whyn't you tell me the kid went accidentally in a tavern stick-up when I said he was killed?”
Ed Keith folded his arms tightly across his chest and gazed at Johnny as though trying to make up his mind about something. Johnny wondered if the slight movement of the big man's shoulders was a shrug or a shiver. “Perhaps, like the insurance actuaries, I've given up the idea that anything could happen so conveniently at so critical a time, Killain.”
“Critical for whom?” Johnny pounced. “Turner?”
Surprisingly, Keith smiled. “You're not going to learn very much interrogating me, Killain, because, frankly, I don't know very much. I know just enough-or think I do-to be able to say that Lonnie Turner didn't have them killed.”
He said it so positively that Johnny looked at him speculatively. “You might not rate as a disinterested witness on Turner,” he suggested, “bein' practically on the payroll, through Al Munson.” He continued on before the newspaperman could reply. “You can't say you're not involved, Keith. An' something's spooked you.”
The full lips twisted. “I'm involved to the extent of finding myself in an ethically indefensible position. I'm not saying that you couldn't cause me trouble by taking your questions- or your story-over my head. You could. It's been some time since I've been able to live on this-” He waved a hand behind him-“and I badly need the extra I get out of Turner's office. It's as simple as that. Granted that I don't want to believe that Turner is the mainspring in all this, as you insist, the fact remains that no one has yet showed me that he is. Self-preservation being the first law of nature, I'm forced to stand pat.” Johnny could see the man regaining his self-confidence as he spoke. “Am I right?”
“Right enough to be dead wrong,” Johnny said firmly. “An' I do mean dead. You don't even know which way you're facin' in the saddle, Keith. The first good buck, an' off you go. Like Gidlow. Like Roketenetz. You think newspapermen are insulated?” He hitched up his coat with his shoulders. “Don't dig your feet too deep into the
