own pockets.”
“So what?” I asked.
“So this. He was in on things in the beginning. He might have been holding back something on us. Or he might have gotten something from Myrna we didn’t know about. Either he spoke up at the wrong moment or he didn’t. But somebody was afraid of what he knew and bumped him.” I yawned. I hated to disillusion Pat but he was wrong. “Fellow, you are really mixed up. Let me show you where. First, classify all murders. There are only a few. War, Passion, Self-Protection, Insanity, Profit and Mercy Killings.
There are some others, but these are enough. To me it looks like Jack was killed either for profit or self- protection. I don’t doubt but what he had something on someone. It must have been something he had known all along, and suddenly realized its importance, or it was something he recently found out. You know how active he was in police work even though he was disabled and attached to the job with the insurance company.
“Whatever it was, he apparently wanted to make a choice. That’s why you heard nothing about it. The killer had to have something he had, and killed to get it. But you searched the place, didn’t you?” Pat agreed with a movement of the eyes. “And there was nothing removed, was there?” He shook his head. “Then,” I went on, “unless it was something Jack had outside, which I doubt, it wasn’t a killing for profit. The killer knew that Jack had some poop which would mean exposure or worse. To protect himself, the killer knocked Jack off. Self- protection.”
I picked up my battered hat from the desk and stretched. “Got to blow, pal. Since I’m not on an expense account or a salary, this is one job I can’t afford to lose time on. Thanks for the try, anyway. If I turn anything up I’ll let you know,”
“How long after?” Pat said with a smile.
“Just long enough to keep the jump on you,” I shot back at him. I fished for a smoke and pulled a wreck of a butt from my pocket, waved so long to Pat and walked out. My tail was waiting for me, trying to look inconspicuous in a crowd of cigar-smoking detectives in the anteroom. As I stepped outside I flattened myself into a niche in the brick wall. The guy came out, stopped and looked frantically both ways up and down the street. I stepped out and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Got a light?” I asked, flipping the ancient butt between my lips. He turned beet-red and lit me. “Instead of playing cops and robbers,” I told him, “why not just walk along with me?”
He didn’t quite know what to say, but got out an “Okay.” It sounded more like a growl. The two of us ambled over to my car. He got in and I slid under the wheel. There was no use trying to talk to the guy. I couldn’t get a word out of him. When I hit the main stem, I went down a side street past a little hotel. After I pulled up in front of it, I got out with my tail right behind me, went through the revolving door, kept right on going until I was outside where I went in. That left my tail still in the door. I bent down and stuck a rubber wedge I had taken from my car window under the door and walked back to the car. Inside the door, the cop was pounding on the glass and calling me dirty names. If he wanted me, he had to go out the back door and around the street. I saw the clerk grinning. That wasn’t the first time I had used his hotel for that gag. All the way downtown my window shook like it would fall out, which reminded me that I had better get some more wedges in case I was tailed again.
The anteroom was ultramodern, but well appointed. Chairs that looked angular were really very comfortable. Whoever decorated the interior had a patient’s mental comfort well in mind. The walls were an indescribable shade of olive, cleverly matched with a dull-finished set of drapes. The windows admitted no light, instead, the soft glow came from hidden bulbs installed directly into the wall. On the floor an ankle-thick carpet muffled any sound of footsteps. From somewhere came the muted tones of a string quartet. I could have fallen asleep right there if the secretary who had given me the telephone brushoff didn’t motion me over to the desk. From her tone it was evident that she knew that I was no patient. With a full day’s growth of beard and the wrinkled rum of a suit I had on, I was lower than the janitor in her estimation.
She inclined her head toward the door behind her and said, “Miss Manning will see you now. Please go in.” With special emphasis on the please. When I went past her she drew back slightly.
“Don’t worry, honey,” I told her out of the corner of my mouth, “I won’t bite. This is just a disguise.” I yanked open the door and went in.
She was better than her picture. She was delicious. There was a lot about her that couldn’t be put into words. Charlotte Manning was sitting at her desk, hands folded in front of her as if she were listening for something. Beautiful was a poor description. She was what you would expect to find in a painting if each of the world’s greatest artists added their own special technique to produce a masterpiece.
Her hair was almost white as I thought. It fell in such soft curls you wanted to bury your face in it. Each of her features was modeled exquisitely. A smooth forehead melted into alive, hazel eyes, framed in the symmetrical curves of naturally brown eyebrows, studded with long, moist lashes.
The dress she wore was not at all revealing, being a long-sleeved black business garb, but what it attempted to conceal was pure loveliness. Her breasts fought the dress as valiantly as they had the bathing suit. I could only imagine how the rest of her looked since the desk blocked my vision.
All this I saw in the three seconds it took to walk across the room. I doubt if she saw any change in my expression, but she could have sued me if she knew what went on in my mind.
“Good morning, Mr. Hammer. Please sit down.” Her voice was like liquid. I wondered what she could do if she put a little passion in it. Plenty, I bet. It wasn’t hard to see why she was a successful psychiatrist. Here was a woman anyone could tell their troubles to.
I sat down in the chair beside her and she swung around to meet my eyes with a steady, direct gaze. “I presume you are here on police business?”
“Not exactly. I’m a private detective.”
“Oh.” When she said that her voice held none of the usual contempt or curiosity I find when I tell that to someone. Instead, it was as if I had given her a pertinent piece of information.
“Is it about the death of Mr. Williams?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. He was a close buddy of mine. I’m conducting a sort of personal investigation of my own.”
She looked at me quizzically at first, then, “Oh, yes. I read your statement in the papers. As a matter of fact, I attempted to analyze your reasoning. I’ve always been interested in things of that sort.”
“And what conclusion did you reach?”
Charlotte surprised me. “I’m afraid I justify you, although several of my former professors would condemn me if I made that statement public.” I saw what she meant. There’s a school of thought that believes anyone who kills is the victim of a moment’s insanity, no matter what the reason for the killing.
“How can I help you?” she went on.
“By answering a few questions. First, what time did you get to the party that night?”
“Roughly, about eleven. I was held up by a visit to a patient.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Around one. We left together.”
“Then where did you go?”
“I had my car downstairs. Esther and Mary Bellemy drove with me. We went to the Chicken Bar and had a sandwich. We left there at one forty-five. I remember the time because we were the only ones there and they were getting ready to close at two. I dropped the twins off at their hotel, then went straight to my apartment. I reached there about a quarter after two. I remember the time there, too, since I had to reset my alarm clock.”
“Anybody see you come into the apartment?”
Charlotte gave me the cutest little laugh. “Yes, Mr. District Attorney. My maid. She even tucked me into bed as usual. She would have heard me go out, too, for the only door to my apartment has a chime on it that rings whenever the door opens, and Kathy is a very light sleeper.”
I couldn’t help but grin at that. “Has Pat Chambers been here to see you already?”
“This morning, but much earlier.” She laughed again. Shivers went through me when she did that. She radiated sex in every manner and gesture. “What is more,” she continued, “he came, he saw, and he suspected. By now he must be checking my story.”
“Pat’s not letting any grass grow under his feet,” I mused. “Did he mention me at all?”
“Not a word. A very thorough man. He represents efficiency. I like him.”
