A car had pulled up outside the bungalow. The car door opened and a massive figure of a man got out.
Ken stood transfixed, his breath coming through his clenched teeth in a little hiss.
Another burly man climbed out of the car, and together the two men moved across the sidewalk towards the gate.
The man who opened the gate wore a brown suit and a brown hat.
Ken recognized him.
It was Sergeant Donovan.
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
I
At five minutes past nine a.m., seven hours after Ken Holland had furtively left 25 Lessington Avenue, a police car pulled up outside the tall, brown-stone building and parked behind two other police cars that had been there for the past fifteen minutes.
A patrolman stiffened to attention as Lieutenant Harry Adams of the Homicide Department got out of the car and came slowly up the steps.
'Top floor, Lieutenant,' he said saluting. 'Sergeant Donovan's up there.'
'Where else would he be - in the basement ?' Adams said softly, and without looking at the patrolman he walked into the hall.
He paused to read the names on the mail boxes, then he gave a snorting grunt.
'A cat house,' he said under his breath. 'The first murder in two years, and it's got to be in a cat house.'
Adams was short, thin and dapper. The wings of his thick chalk-white hair looked dazzling against the black of his hat. His face was long and pinched, with deep hollows in his cheeks. His nose was sharp-pointed and long. When he was in a rage, which was often, his slate-grey eyes lit up as if an electric bulb inside his head had been switched on. His face never gave away what he was thinking. He was known to be a hard, ruthless, bitter man who was as heartily hated by his men as he was by the criminals who were unfortunate enough to cross his path.
But he was a first-rate police officer. His brain was four times as sharp as Donovan's and Donovan knew it. The big man lived in perpetual fear of Adams, knowing that if he gave Adams the slightest excuse, Adams had enough influence to have Donovan thrown back on a beat.
Walking slowly, Adams commenced the long climb to the top floor.
The house was silent. He met no one. It was as if the occupant of each apartment as he passed knew he was in the house and was crouching behind the shut door, breathless and frightened.
Jackson, a red-faced cop, was standing on the top-floor landing as Adams came slowly up. He saluted and waited. He knew Adams well enough not to speak to him unless he was spoken to.
Adams walked into the big, airy sitting-room where Fletcher, the fingerprint expert, was already at work.
Donovan was prowling around the room, his set, heavy face dark with concentration.
Adams walked across the room and into the bedroom as if he knew instinctively that was where the body was. He went over to the bed and stared down at Fay's body. For several minutes he looked at her; then, still keeping his eyes on her, he took out a cigarette, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke down his thin nostrils.
Donovan stood in the doorway, tense and silent, watching him.
'Doc coming?' Adams asked, without turning.
'On his way now, Lieutenant,' Donovan said.
Adams leaned forward and put his hand on Fay's arm.
'Been dead about six hours at a guess.'
'That ice-pick, Lieutenant ...'
Adams looked at the ice-pick lying on the floor and then turned to stare at Donovan.
'What about it?'
The big man flushed.
'I guess it's the murder weapon,' he said, wishing he hadn't spoken.
Adams raised his thin, white eyebrows.
'That's smart of you. I was thinking it was something she took to bed with her to pare her nails. So you think it's the murder weapon?' His eyes lit up. 'What else could it be, you fool? Keep your goddamn mouth shut!'
He turned away and began to move about the room while Donovan watched him, his eyes dark with hate.
'What have you found out about her?' Adams snapped.
'She's only been on the game for a year,' Donovan told him. 'She used to dance at the Blue Rose. She had no record, and she didn't work the streets.'
