Five and six were on the same floor with Dawson’s apartment, but at the back of the house. Stan dismissed them with a shrug. Nobody in either of them could have overheard Farraday’s offer of the reward. Number twelve, on the third floor, was directly over Dawson’s and looked more promising. Prompted by a feeling of uneasiness, engendered by recent thoughts of Fowler’s fate, Stan shifted his gun from armpit holster to side pocket before ringing the bell.
The soft whirr of a buzzer sounded inside. He waited a few seconds and was about to try the door when it was opened by the Negro who had served cocktails at Dawson’s party. The boy was holding a damp rag, and had evidently been cleaning windows.
“You cum up one flo’ too many, boss,” he said with a grin, recognizing Stan. “Commandah Dawson lives in numbah eight, but he ain’t in. He’s gone fishin’.”
“He picked a good day.”
“’Twarn’t so bad early this mornin’—’long ’bout five. He leaves mighty early when he goes. Ain’ nuthin’ going to stop him gettin’ them fish. Nossah!”
Stan sighed, feeling that the boy might have refrained from rubbing it in. He produced a quarter. “You look after this house, don’t you?”
“Yessah.”
Stan peered over the boy’s shoulder into the apartment. “These are right nice apartments. Is this one for rent?”
“I hardly knows, boss.” The boy was genuinely puzzled. “Mistuh Knowles, the agent, tol’ me yestiddy that a Mistuh Black had tuk this fo’ a month, but I ain’ seen hair nor hide of him. I spek you bettah talk to Mistuh Knowles. He’s got an office at Fust Avenue and Fust Street.”
Stan walked past the boy into the apartment and looked around. There was nothing to indicate a recent occupancy, nor that anyone contemplated moving in. He made a quick tour of the windows, and pushed open a couple of the screens as he had at the Sunset, verifying the fact that the windows of Dawson’s apartment were directly below.
In the bedroom he met with better success. Close by the bed on the floor, he spotted a few strands of black thread interspersed with tiny spots of red. He pounced on them exultantly, picking them free from the nap of the rug. When he got to his feet, the Negro was watching him round-eyed from the door.
“Is you a policeman, boss?” the boy asked.
“You guessed it, boy,” Stan admitted briskly. “And you can get another quarter by letting me in Commander Dawson’s apartment.” He took his shield from his side pocket and opened the soft leather case to the Negro’s awed gaze.
The Negro opened the door with a passkey. For a strenuous hour Stan moved furniture, lifted rugs, and looked behind books and pictures, ornaments and bureau drawers. The Negro stood in one spot, fascinated with the procedure. Finally, when every possible hiding place had been exhausted, Stan wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to the boy.
“There’s twenty-five dollars coming to you if you call me as soon as anybody enters that apartment upstairs. Understand?”
“I understands mighty quick fo’ any sech money!”
“Good,” said Stan, and returned to the Buick whistling softly. The threads in his pocket had started a rope for the neck of Fowler’s slayer.
Chapter XIX
After a second of Millie’s cocktails Stan threw caution to the winds, or wherever caution is thrown to after a second cocktail, and seated himself beside her on the low divan. He had never suspected a streak of artistry in Millie LaFrance until tasting the chilled nectar of rum and fresh mint which trickled temptingly from her silver shaker.
She had donned a black evening gown, knowing that few men could keep their mind on anything else when her blonde loveliness had the proper setting. She was wary of Stan’s invitation, but unwillingly found she was enjoying the novelty of dining with a representative of law and order. He accepted a cigarette from the box she tendered, and she laughed softly at his difficulty in disposing of his long legs.
“It’s going to be a change—having dinner with you,” she remarked. “I’ll rather miss the feeling that my escort may be shot before the evening is over.”
Stan grinned. “If it will add to your comfort—LeRoy thinks I’m a second Legs Diamond. Legs carried around a pound and a half of bullets in him, I believe, before the boys finally killed him. Sunday night I was hit on the head and knocked off a boat, and yesterday somebody locked me out on the porch roof of the Sunset and opened fire from the grove in back of the house. Do you want to cancel the date?”
“Maybe I’m not such good company myself.” She poured the last of the cocktails from the shaker with a steady hand, but her remark carried a trace of fear.
“Caprilli?”
She shook her head. “Little Millie knows too much for her health to be good.” She gulped her drink. “I think we both better rent a cell on the top floor of the court house. The man who stabbed Fowler and Ben was in this room night before last.”
Stan was jarred roughly out of his usual calm. He turned toward her fiercely: “You knew this killer and let Eckhardt go to his death!”
“I thought you had more sense,” she said flatly. “Ben came up here late Sunday night and slipped in the back door—right past your efficient police guard stationed in front. He had seen you knocked off the Four Leaf Clover and thought you were dead. He said the same man that killed Ed Fowler knocked you off the barge—”
“He didn’t say who it was?”
“My God! Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew. I’m walking around in a trance now—scared to go around a corner. Look at this!” She picked up a white evening bag from the floor beside her and opened it before him. Her pearl handled automatic was inside.
