“Don’t waste your breath.”
“A guy’s life may depend on it.”
“I’m all broken up.”
I retrieved my hat and moved to the door. “I thought you would be. Thanks a lot, baby.”
I went down and crawled into my car and sat there wondering what Perry Mason would do. After a while, I thought to hell with Perry Mason and drove a couple of miles downtown to an apartment house that had more floors than Richert’s and an elevator to get you up and down. At a desk in the lobby, I asked a young clerk if he would please call Mr. Austin Stark and state that Mr. Solomon Burr humbly requested five minutes worth of precious, unofficial time. I expected a bounce and was surprised when I didn’t get it. The clerk pulled a plug and told me I could go right up.
On the tenth floor, a blond oak door was opened by Austin Stark himself, and I walked into an apartment that indicated a source of income considerably bigger than a district attorney’s salary. Not that I suspected anything illegal, for Stark was an honest man in matters concerning the root of evil. He was also a ruthless man. The ruthlessness was apparent in the gray eyes, the strong, sharp jaw and the cruel, pale lips. A man of concentrated purpose and driving ambition…a man who, in the final judgment, could do no wrong…a man whose final judgment would always be his own…above all, a dangerous man.
In the rich living room, we measured each other. His shallow eyes took in my marred face without a flicker of discernible reaction. He didn’t ask me to sit down. He didn’t offer me a drink. He just stood and waited.
“I’m representing Hal Decker in the Devore murder case,” I said.
He nodded shortly. “I’m aware of that.”
“You’re also aware that I have a witness who will swear that Decker spent the entire night of Devore’s murder with her.”
“True. She told me the story. She’s lying, of course.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because, as you know, I have a completely reliable witness who saw Decker leave Devore’s house.”
“Yes. Wash Richert. One of your investigators.”
He could have drawn an inference, but he chose not to. He merely waited for me to continue.
“I’ve been out to Richert’s apartment. His wife told me he isn’t home. She said he probably won’t be back for a long time.”
His face was bland. “So?”
“So I thought you might tell me where he is.”
“Why should I know where he is?”
“He’s your witness. I assume you have him under wraps.”
“You’re wrong. I don’t have Richert under raps.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
He was lying coldly and methodically, perfectly certain that any lie he might tell was justified.
“When he reports in, will you let me talk with him?” I said.
“No. Why should I let you influence my witness?”
“I don’t want to influence him. I just want to talk with him.”
“It’s unthinkable.”
I turned and started for the door. “Okay. Thanks very much.”
I had taken three steps, maybe, when the door opened and a woman stepped in. She stopped abruptly, staring at me, color seeping to the surface of her cheeks, her lips falling slightly apart. She was wearing a long, white gown that seemed to be made of multiple layers of diaphanous material. Her hair was black, loose on her shoulders, gleaming with highlights. Her eyes were blanked out by dark glasses. Under the rim of one lens, I could see the outer edge of an ugly, yellow bruise, and I thought, Why, this doll has a plain, old-fashioned shiner.
She said, “I’m sorry, Austin. I didn’t know you were engaged.”
His voice behind me was measured icily. “It’s all right, my dear. We’ve just finished. My wife Alma—Mr. Solomon Burr.”
“How do you do,” I said.
She nodded and stepped aside, and I went on into the hall and let myself out.
In my car, I sat for a while and tried to think, but it seemed that my brain wouldn’t consider anything but dames—three of them. The only one I really wanted to think about was Kitty Troop; but the other three—black, red, and platinum—kept barging in to spoil the fun.
Finally, I gave it up and decided to go home, because I was very tired. I had done everything I could possibly do tonight.
Even Perry Mason couldn’t have done more…
CHAPTER THREE
Homicide Chimes In
When I hit the office next morning, after seven hours in the sack, Kitty was sitting behind her desk with her knees crossed. Her chair was pushed back far enough to give anyone at the side an unobstructed view of her long legs.
The show was good, but the audience was composed of exactly one short, fat guy with popped eyes and a sour, twisted mouth. His fat was saggy, lapping over his collar and belt, and he looked as if he might reach five-six in his socks. Leaning against the jamb of my private door, hands thrust into the pockets of his pants, he divided his attention about equally between the scuffed toe of a shoe and Kitty. As far as I could see, he showed about as much enthusiasm for one view as the other. His popped eyes, the color of skimmed milk, took no notice of me.
“You’re wasting it,” I said pleasantly.
Kitty sighed philosophically. “You never can tell about these reserved guys, they’re deep. Sometimes they crack all of a sudden. This one’s Wiley Shivers. Detective Lieutenant Wiley Shivers, to you. He represents homicide.”
“Smart,” Wiley Shivers said. “You’re a smart pair.”
“We’re really not so bad,” I said. “It’s just that we’re leery of visitors. We’ve had bad luck with some recently.”
His eyes dropped again to the toe of his shoe.
“Joker,” he said. “Some people always reaching for a fast line. You got no call to be funny, counselor. Maybe you better start worrying a little. Maybe you got some more bad luck coming up.”
Already I was sick of him. “Is that a guess or a threat?”
He straightened, rocking forward from the
