He walked back to the lift and inspected the roof. The woodwork was smeared with blood.
“Get me a wet towel,” he said.
She went into the apartment, carefully walking round Cattley. He stood by the lift watching her. She’d got a good nerve, he told himself. She came back again with a wet hand-towel. He took it from her and carefully mopped off the bloodstains. Then he wiped his hands on the towel and folded it neatly. He walked into her apartment and put the towel on Cattley’s chest. She followed him in, again skirting Cattley, drawing her green wrap close to her.
“Will you see if he’s got the money on him still?” she said.
Duffy looked at her hard.
“What makes you think the money ain’t there?”
“It’s the way I said it. I meant will you get the money from him.”
Duffy grimaced. “I hate handling this bird. He’s brittle.”
She came and stood close to him, looking down at Cattley. “Isn’t he going to get stiff soon?” she said. “Hadn’t you better straighten him out a little before he gets that way?”
Duffy said, “For God’s sake,” but he knelt down and cautiously pulled on Cattley’s legs. One of his shin-bones poked up through his trousers leg. Duffy got up and looked round the hall. He went over to the coat-rack and selected a walking-stick. Then he came back to Cattley and put the ferrel of the stick on the shin-bone and pressed. The leg straightened, and he did the same with the other one.
His face was a little yellow, and sweat glistened on his top lip. Cattley was making him feel a little sick. He hooked the handle of the stick round Cattley’s arm and put his toot against Cattley’s body, then he pulled gently. The arm came out from under Cattley like a limp draught-preventer.
Cattley’s head lay on his right shoulder. The skin round the neck had split a little. Duffy straightened the head too with the stick.
“Want me to cross his hands?” he said, for something to say. All the time he was fixing Cattley, she stood at his elbow and watched. Then she said, “Get the money!”
Duffy looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “Leave the money where it is,” he said shortly, “get me a drink.”
She went into the sitting-room and he followed her. He suddenly found that he was still holding the walking- stick. It had blood-smears on it. He went and put it beside Cattley. Then he walked back into the sitting-room again.
She stood by the table, fixing a Scotch. He took the glass from her before she could add a Seltzer and tossed the liquor down his throat. It was good Scotch. Silky and full of body, with no raw bite in it. He felt it in his belly, a round little knot of warmth. He took the bottle from the table and poured himself another glass.
“Did you kill him?” he said, looking at her over the top of the glass.
She spread her hands across her breasts, standing very quiet for a moment, then she said, “Was he killed?”
Duffy took another pull at his glass. “Use your head,” he said shortly, “how could he have fallen down the shaft? He wasn’t drunk, was he? Think a moment. He goes out of your apartment. The elevator is standing on the ground floor. He opens the grille to look at it, then he feels giddy and falls down. They wouldn’t pass it in a nut factory.”
She was going white again and she sat on the edge of the table. Her wrap fell open, showing her knees, but neither of them bothered with that.
“This is the way it went. Cattley goes out to the elevator and is smacked on the dome, then he is tossed down the shaft. That makes sense.” Duffy put the glass down on the table and lit a cigarette. “You ain’t answered my question Did you kill him?”
“No,” she said.
“There’s only one person who’s going to believe that,” Duffy said, “and that’s you.”
She raised her head. Her big eyes were frightened now. “You don’t think I killed him?” she said; her words ran into each other.
“Can’t you see what a spot you’re in?” he asked patiently. “Look, let me wise you up. Cattley calls on you to sell you something. You say it’s material for a book; okay, it’s material for a book. You show him the door and then, there he is on the elevator roof smashed to bits.”
“That doesn’t prove that I killed him,” she said breathlessly.
Duffy shrugged. “It helps,” he said; “let me have a look at that material he sold you.”
She slid off the table and walked into her bedroom. Duffy sat down in an arm-chair. He gave her a few minutes, then he called, “I guess the killer pinched it.”
She came out of the bedroom, her face white. She stood in the doorway, one hand at her throat, the other gripping the door-handle.
“I… I can’t find it,” she whispered.
Duffy pursed his lips. “I bet you can’t,” he said. Then he got to his feet. He walked over to her and took both her elbows in his hands, he drew her towards him. “You’re a goddam silly little loon,” he said evenly, “you think you can play this out on your own. Well, you can’t. You’ve put on the thinnest act I’ve ever struck. That writing a book on the underworld went out with the Ark. Get wise to yourself, redhead.”
She drew away from him. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice a little flat and toneless.
Duffy scratched his head. “This is a hell of a night,” he said, then he stood very still, his fingers spread through his hair. “I wonder…” he broke off, looking at Annabel. “It looks to me that Morgan wants you to take the rap for Cattley’s murder,” he said, speaking rapidly, “it fits, by God!” He was getting quite excited. “Listen, baby, how’s this for a theory? Morgan gets me to photograph you and Cattley. Cattley gets smacked down by one of Morgan’s mob just outside your door and tossed down the shaft. I get my camera pinched containing the photos. All Morgan has to do is to threaten to turn the pictures over to the cops for you to dive into your deposit account and fork out plenty.”
Annabel was scarcely breathing. “Will you help me?”
Duffy said, “I can’t help myself, can I?”
“You’re being nice, aren’t you?”
“Nice, hell! I took the photos, didn’t I? I’ve got to do something to square that.”
She dropped into the arm-chair, and held her hand over her eyes. Duffy looked at her and then fetched another glass from the wagon. He poured in three fingers of Scotch and then filled his own glass. He came over to her. “Can you drink this stuff?” he said.
She took the glass from him. “I don’t want it,” she said.
“You’d better get a little drunk,” he said, “you’ve got a nasty job on your hands.”
She looked at him and he jerked his head at the door. “J guess we’ve got to get rid of Cattley.”
She said, “Can’t you do it?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “You’re in on this, too, sister,” he said. “I’m helping you, but I ain’t taking any rap.”
She drank the whisky neat and he gave her a cigarette.
“In a couple of hours that bird’s going to get as stiff as a board. I guess he won’t be too nice to handle like that. Now, we could pack him in a bag without much fuss.”
She shuddered.
“It beats me where the hell we’re going to plant him.” Duffy began to pace the floor. “He’s got to remain planted and he ain’t going to be found. As soon as they turn him up, then those photos will come into the market. It’s the only way we can beat their game ”
He looked at her. “Go and get dressed,” he said.
She got out of the chair and moved over to the bedroom. “Give me a trunk, if you’ve got one,” he said.
She paused. “There’s one in here,” she said.
He followed her into the bedroom. She pointed to a large wall cupboard and he opened the door. In the corner was a small black cabin trunk. It was covered with labels. There seemed to be every hotel under the sun advertised on its black shiny sides. He looked at it and then he said, “You’ve got about.” She didn’t say anything. He hauled the trunk out and dragged it into the sitting-room.
“You got a sheet of mackintosh that I could wrap him in?” he called.
