of fifty, short, inclined to fat, with a lot of thick hair as white as a fresh fall of snow, and eyes that were as hard and as friendly and as expressionless as beer-stoppers.
We made an interesting quartet. There was Paula, looking cool and unruffled, seated in the background. There was Tim Mifflin, leaning against the wall, motionless, thoughtful, and as quiet as a centenarian taking a nap. There was me in the guest of honour’s chair before the desk, and, of course, there was Captain of the Police Brandon.
The room was big and airy and well furnished. There was a nice Turkey carpet on the floor, several easy chairs and one or two reproductions of Van Gogh’s country scenes on the walls.
The big desk stood in the corner of the room between two windows that overlooked the business section of the city.
I had been in this room before, and I had still memories of the little unpleasantness that had occurred then. Brandon liked me as much as Hiroshima liked the atomic bomb, and I was expecting unpleasantness again.
The interview hadn’t begun well, and it wasn’t improving. Already Brandon was fiddling with a cigar: a trick that denoted his displeasure.
“All right,” he said in a thin, exasperated voice, “let’s start from the beginning again. You had this letter…” He leaned forward to peer at Janet Crosby’s letter as if it had been infected with tetanus. He was careful not to touch it. “Dated May 15th, 1948.”
Well, at least that showed he could read. I didn’t say anything.
“With this letter were five onehundred-dollar bills. Right?”
“Check,” I said.
“You received the letter on May 16th, but put it unopened in a coat pocket and forgot about it. It was only when you gave the coat away the letter was found. Right?”
“Check.”
He scowled down at the cigar, then rested his broad fat nose on it.
“A pretty smart way to run a business.”
“These things happen,” I said shortly. “I remember during the Tetzi trial, the police mislaid…”
“Never mind the Tetzi trial,” Brandon said in a voice you could have sliced ham on.
“We’re talking about this letter. You went up to the Crosby’s estate with the idea of seeing Miss Maureen Crosby. Right?”
“Yeah,” I said, getting a little tired of this.
“But you didn’t see her because she isn’t well, so you had to stick your nose still further into this business by calling on Miss Janet Crosby’s personal maid. Right?”
“If you like to put it like that I don’t mind.”
“Is it right or isn’t it?”
“Oh, sure.”
“This woman Drew said she wanted five hundred dollars before she talked. That’s your story, and I’m not sold on it. You watched the house, and after a while an olive-green Dodge arrived and a big fella went in. He remained in there for about ten minutes, then came away. Then you went in and found her dead. Right?”
I nodded.
He removed the band from the cigar, groped for a match. All the while his beer-stopper eyes stared moodily at me.
“You claim the Dodge belongs to Dr. Salzer,” he said, and scraped the match on the sole of his shoe.
“Mifflin says it does. I asked him to check the registration number.”
Brandon looked over at Mifflin who stared with empty eyes at the opposite wall.
“A half an hour after Malloy telephoned you, asking you who owned this car, you received a report from Dr. Salzer that the car had been stolen. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Mifflin said stonily.
Brandon’s eyes swivelled in my direction.
“Did you hear that?”
“Sure.”
“All right.” Brandon applied the burning match to his cigar and sucked in smoke. “Just so long as you understand, and just so long as you don’t get any fancy ideas into your head about Dr. Salzer. You may not know it, but Dr. Salzer is a very respectable and eminent citizen of this city, and I’m not going to have him bothered by you or anyone like you. Do you understand that?”
I pulled thoughtfully at my nose. This was unexpected.
“Sure,” I said.
He blew smoke across the desk into my face.
“I don’t like you, Malloy, and I don’t like your itsy-bitsy organization. Maybe it has its uses, but I doubt it. I’m damned sure you are a trouble maker. You stirred up enough trouble with that Cerf case some months ago, and if you hadn’t been so damned smooth, you would have been in a lot of trouble yourself. Miss Janet Crosby’s dead.” He leaned forward to peer at the letter again. “The Crosbys were and still are a very wealthy and influential family, and I’m not standing for you stirring up trouble for them. You have no legal right to the five hundred dollars Miss Crosby sent you. That is to be paid back to her estate—immediately.
You are to leave Miss Maureen Crosby alone. If she is in trouble with a blackmailer—which I doubt—she will come to me if she needs help. This business has nothing to do with you, and if I find you are making a nuisance of yourself I’ll take steps to put you where you won’t trouble anyone for a very long time. Do you understand?”
I grinned at him.
“I’m beginning to,” I said, and leaned forward to ask, “How much does Salzer pay into your Sports Fund, Brandon?”
The fat pink and white face turned a dusky-mauve colour. The beer-stopper eyes sparked like chipped flint.
“I’m warning you, Malloy,” he said, a snarl in his voice. “My boys know how to take care of a punk like you. One of these nights you’ll get taken up a dark alley for a beating. Lay off the Crosbys and lay off Salzer. Now get out!”
I stood up.
“And how much does the Crosby estate pay into your welfare fund, Brandon?” I asked.
“How much did old man Crosby slip you for hushing up that auto-killing Maureen performed two years ago? Respectable and eminent? Don’t make me laugh. Salzer’s as respectable and eminent as Delmonico’s chucker-out. How come he signed Macdonald Crosby’s death certificate when he isn’t even qualified?”
“Get out!” Brandon said very quietly.
We stared at each other for perhaps the best part of four seconds, then I shrugged, turned my back on him and made for the door.
“Come on, Paula, let’s get out of here before we suffocate,” I said, and jerked open the door. “Remember that little crack about taking me up a dark alley. It’s just as much fun sueing the Captain of Police for assault as it is anyone else.”
I stamped down the long passage behind Paula. Mifflin came after us walking like a man in hob-nailed boots treading on eggs.
He caught up with us at the end of the passage.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Come in here,” and he opened his office door.
We went in because both Paula and I liked Mifflin, and besides, he was too useful to fall out with. He shut the door and leaned against it. His red rubbery face was worried.
“That was a sweet way to talk to Brandon,” he said bitterly. “You’re crazy, Vic. You know as well as I do that kind of stuff won’t get you anywhere.”
“I know,” I said, “but the rat got me mad.”
“I would have tipped you off, only I hadn’t time. But you ought to know Brandon hates your guts.”
“I know that, too. But what could I do? I had to tell him the story. What’s Salzer to him?”
Mifflin shrugged.
“Salzer’s a good friend to the police. Sure, I know he runs a racket up at that sanatorium. But there’s nothing illegal in it.” He lowered his voice, went on, “Where the hell do you think Brandon got his Cadillac from? A Captain of
