‘That’s sweet, isn’t it? The only guy in the world who knows where the Chittabad collection is, and he has to croak. Think he told Baird where it was cached before he handed in his pail?’
Olin shrugged.
‘Looks like Baird’s badly hurt. Someone who’s been in that car’s got gangrene. He couldn’t have got far.’
Dallas looked thoughtfully down the street at the gaping crowd. Then he frowned, peered forward, stared, and turning, caught hold of Olin’s arm.
‘I think I can guess where Baird is,’ he said. ‘See that girl in the front row? The one with a scarf over her head.’
Olin looked in the direction.
‘What of her?’
‘She’s Baird’s girl. She lives across the way. No. 30, on the top floor. It’s my bet Baird’s up there right now.’
‘How the hel do you know all this?’ Olin snarled. ‘If you’ve been holding out on me…!’
‘Burns found out about her,’ Dal as explained. ‘I didn’t know until tonight.’
‘There are a lot of things you didn’t know until tonight,’ Olin said angrily. ‘You’re sure that’s Baird’s girl?’
‘Yeah.’
Olin turned to O’Brien.
‘That girl with the scarf on her head. Bring her over here.’
‘Miss Jackson?’ O’Brien looked startled. ‘Excuse me, Lieutenant, you’re sure you want her?’
Olin glared at him.
‘That’s what I said! What is she – untouchable or something?’
‘Sorry, Lieutenant,’ O’Brien said uncomfortably. ‘I know most people on my beat, and she’s a good girl. She works hard and keeps to herself. She’s never been in any trouble, and that’s saying something in this street.’
‘Wel , she’s in trouble now,’ Olin snapped. ‘Bring her here.’
O’Brien saluted and walked stiffly down the street. He went up to Anita, said something, took her elbow and brought her back to Olin.
Anita’s dark eyes were scared, but she didn’t flinch from Olin’s hard gaze.
‘You know Verne Baird?’ he snapped.
‘I’ve met him,’ Anita said.
‘Yeah? Didn’t he hole up in your room about a month ago?’ Olin demanded aggressively. ‘You’d better not lie. I’ve got a witness.’
She looked quickly away from him, and her eyes took in the stretcher. The intern was dropping a blanket across Hater’s dead face. She had a glimpse of the swollen, grotesque mask before the blanket hid it.
Her hands went to her breasts, and the colour drained out of her face. She looked appealingly at O’Brien, claiming his at ention because he was a familiar stranger among unfamiliar ones.
‘Who – who is it?’ she asked.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Olin barked. ‘I asked you…’
‘Who is that, please?’ she repeated, looking at O’Brien, and pointed at the still figure on the stretcher.
‘A guy named Hater,’ O’Brien told her. ‘But answer the Lieutenant’s question.’
‘Hater? Is he dead?’
There was something about the way she was holding herself and the sudden horror in her eyes that stopped Olin from grabbing and shaking her. He glanced at O’Brien and nodded.
‘Yes, he’s dead. You don’t have to worry about him,’ O’Brien said. ‘Tel the Lieutenant about Baird.’
Slowly, as if she was sleep-walking, Anita walked over to the stretcher.
The intern, a young, red-faced fellow, looked up impatiently.
‘Can I see him, please?’ she asked.
Surprised, he looked across at Olin, who signalled to him.
‘He’s not pretty,’ the intern said grudgingly, as if he were jealous of sharing his world of horrors with any outsider.
He lifted the blanket.
Anita looked for a long moment at the dead, swollen face. She seemed to go suddenly limp, and O’Brien went quickly to her side, taking her arm. He turned her away, so her back was to the body on the stretcher.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked, her fingers digging into O’Brien’s wrist. ‘He had only two more years to serve. He wouldn’t have run away.’
‘What is this?’ Olin said, exasperated.
As he made a move to go to her, Dallas pulled him back.
