He took a key chain with a tiny screwdriver on it from his pocket and laid it beside the clip. In movement too quick for Johnny to follow, Rogers balanced the automatic between his palms and twisted, and with two loud clacks it came apart in his hands. Swiftly he spread out barrel, slide, grip and recoil action, picked up the barrel, sniffed at it and put it down again.
“You do that like you'd done it before,” Johnny said.
“I fool around with them.” The detective nodded as Paul came back in and handed him a small bottle and clean rag. “Thanks. Exactly what I need.” He looked at Johnny. “If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing right.”
Paul looked down at the dismantled gun in surprise. “Don't you test them first for fingerprints?” he blurted, and almost blushed to find himself the center of attention.
“Metal gives a poor transfer,” Rogers said smiling, “despite what you read. We're not looking for any guns, anyway. We've got the one Dechant killed himself with, and we've got the one that killed Arends.” The slim hands flew over the piecemeal bits of metal, wiping, oiling, wiping again.
A buzzer sounded overhead. “Front desk,” Paul said conversationally, and went out to answer it.
“There was no question about the gun that got Arends?” Johnny asked. “It was the one layin' beside him?”
“No doubt at all, according to Ballistics, and they haven't made a mistake since 1908, if you listen to them.” In what looked like three deft movements, the sandy-haired man slapped the automatic back together in seconds. He wiped his greasy hands on a clean corner of the rag, his eyes appraisingly on Johnny. “Why the question?”
“I don't know,” Johnny said slowly. “It leaves you with a choice of an amateur tryin' to make it look like suicide by leavin' the gun, or an amateur gettin' the lump an' droppin' the gun in a panic when he flew.”
Rogers dropped the reassembled automatic back into the sample case. “One more for the police property officer.” He replaced the top on Paul's bottle of oil. “What's the matter with either of those pictures?”
“Nothin', probably. I just wish-”
The cloakroom door opened for a second, and Paul's head loomed in it. “Emergency, Johnny.” The door started to close as his head disappeared. Moving with a speed his bulk appeared to make impossible, Johnny caught it before it shut and was out into the lobby with Detective Rogers at his heels.
Johnny took one look at the woman being supported between two men just inside the foyer doors, her face a bloody mask in which the only recognizable feature was one eye fixed in staring shock. “Take her up on the mezzanine, Paul!” he said over his shoulder, and continued on to the switchboard without breaking stride. “Ring Doc Randall, ma,” he said to Sally, and picked up a house phone. He heard the click of the connection in the middle of the second ring. “Killain, Doc. Bring your bag down to the mezzanine. Don't wait for your pants.” The connection was gone with an explosive grunt.
“What is it?” Sally wanted to know as he hung up.
“Car accident, looks like. Call the hospital and get an ambulance over here.” His eyes were on the little group of men moving carefully up the mezzanine steps with their burden. “Doc'll probably give me hell for movin' her, but the lounge up there's a damn sight better'n a marble floor.”
He went up the mezzanine stairs three at a time and reached the top as Dr. Randall emerged from the elevator with Paul beside him. In pajamas and dressing gown with trailing cord, and his white hair standing up all over his head, the doctor hurried into the oval, curtained lounge, carrying his little black bag. Johnny could hear his brisk voice. “All right. Let's get half of these people out of here.”
Johnny was halfway to the lounge entrance when Detective Rogers burst through it, heading for the stairs. He pulled up at sight of Johnny. “Recognize her?” he asked grimly.
“You mean I'm supposed-” Johnny looked at the blood-streaked piece of fur in the detective's left hand. He had seen that mink stole before. “Madeleine Winters?” he asked incredulously.
Rogers nodded. “Viciously assaulted twenty feet from the hotel marquee by a man who got out of a car.”
“Christ! I thought it was some woman went through a windshield. What was she doing-”
Detective Rogers was no longer listening. He ran quickly down the stairs. After one indecisive glance at the curtained lounge, Johnny followed him. At the switchboard Rogers passed telephone numbers in to Sally as fast he could copy them down from his notebook. “Call all these people,” he said crisply. “If they come on when I'm on another line, hold them on. Don't let them get off.”
Sally's hands flashed over the board as she set up lines and dialed. “The first one doesn't answer, Mr. Rogers,” she said in seconds. His mouth a thin line, the detective marked an “x” beside the first number of a duplicate list he jotted down. From where he stood slightly to one side, Johnny could see that there were five of the numbers. He strained to get a look at least at the exchanges, but Rogers' body half blocked his view. “Pick up the phone beside you, Mr. Rogers,” Sally said suddenly.
“Hello!” the detective barked. “Who is this?” He cut right back into the sounds emerging from the receiver. “I know perfectly well whom I'm calling at this hour of the morning. This is Detective Rogers.” He must be talking to Stitt, Johnny thought. Only Stitt would give him a growl like that. “Are you alone?” the detective continued. “Is there anyone who can verify how long you've been there?” He listened briefly. “All right. I'll talk to you again in the morning.”
“The third one doesn't answer yet, Mr. Rogers,” Sally said quietly. “The first one still doesn't answer. The- Pick up your phone again, please. Here's the fourth one.”
“Who is this?” Detective Rogers began again. “This is Detective Rogers. Are you alone?” Something indefinable in Rogers' tone made Johnny feel the detective was talking to a woman. Gloria Philips. Had to be. “Is there anyone who can verify-”
Johnny tried to listen and at the same time catch the attention of the intern and the ambulance driver who appeared from the foyer with a folded stretcher. They finally caught his silent hand-signals and went up to the mezzanine.
“I've been holding the fifth one for a minute and a half,” Sally was saying when Johnny could again pay attention. “The first and third numbers still do not answer.”
“Hello,” Rogers said into his phone. “Who is this? This is Detective-”
A sound from the stairs brought Johnny's head around. The stretcher was descending the stairs, Paul and the ambulance driver at its head and two strangers at the rear. Alongside walked the hatless intern and Dr. Randall.
Attracted by the voices, Detective Rogers turned at the phone, into which he was still speaking, until he could see the little procession. ”-in the morning,” he said. “No. No. Damn it, no! I'm busy!” He hung up abruptly. “Oh, Doctor!” he called. Both the intern and the hotel physician stopped and looked. Rogers waited long enough to glance in at Sally and receive a negative headshake before walking over to the two men. “Can I talk to her?” he asked.
“Not a chance,” Dr. Randall said emphatically. “Speaking for myself, of course. She's under heavy sedation, and will remain so for some time.” The interne nodded agreement. “A vindictive assault,” the older man continued. “A superficial examination indicates that every blow was facial. As brutal an attack as I've ever been called in upon.”
“When can I talk to her?” the detective persisted.
Dr. Randall looked at the intern, who shrugged. Looking frustrated, Roger jerked his panama down over his sandy hair and started for the door. Halfway there he turned and came back. In front of Sally's switchboard he swept off the hat and bowed. “That was a damn fine job,” he said sincerely. “Thanks.” Sally flushed with pleasure as the slender man crammed the hat back on and half trotted from the lobby.
There goes a real sharp cutting tool, Johnny thought to himself as Rogers disappeared through the foyer doors. You keep fooling around with that boy, Killain, and some one of these days he's going to nail your ears to the wall. How'd you like that question he slipped in on each of them asking if anyone was present who could verify how long they'd been there? Let one of those jokers come back in the morning now and try to supply an alibi for someone who needs it. Rogers had them already on record. It took something more than a head like a billygoat to come up with that on the spur of the moment.
He roused himself and went to look for Amy to have her clean up the mezzanine lounge.
In his room an hour later Johnny poured himself his third double shot of bourbon. He slipped down his tie, unfastened his collar and, as an afterthought, kicked off his shoes before he returned to his armchair and settled
