was no black mark against his name, and for the past five years he had made money in this jewelry store which specialized in installment selling; made money, friends, and lived the life of a man who likes bright lights and entertainment.
“You got any insurance?” Fitzpatrick was saying.
“No—no. Most of my stuff is cheap—for the fifty cents a week buyer.” Alpert took off his derby and nervously wiped sweat from his glistening forehead and the bald spot at his crown. “But some things I have are worth money. Diamonds that—”
“Then how come you didn't insure 'em?”
“Too expensive,” groaned Alpert. “Until these jewel breaks started six months ago, I didn't need insurance. Then”—his shrewd eyes narrowed as he surveyed Fitzpatrick—“all the time I think you fellows will get the crooks. So I hire Steig—until you do get 'em.”
“Nuts!” rapped Fitzpatrick. He glared around the dim confines of the room and continued as though talking to himself. “Three jewel breaks in six months. Each one as clean as a whistle. And now this.”
He took the packet of diamonds Nason had turned over to him from his breast pocket, held them up for Alpert to see.
“These yours?” he growled. Alpert blinked, extended a trembling hand. “I don't know. I'll see.” He started for the safe, but the lieutenant grabbed his arm.
“Never mind—now. They're yours all right.” He swore once, then told the story he and Nason had pieced together in short, clipped sentences.
Alpert said: “Oh—” which was all he could manage for the moment.
“Check up and see if anything else is missing,” Fitzpatrick ordered. “And keep your mouth shut till we find out where we are.”
He started to curse again, broke off suddenly, said: “What a smell this'll make if it's what I'm thinking it might be. Diamonds in his pocket, his gun in his holster and the nightwatchman's bullet in his back.”
CHAPTER II. CAMERA FOR DEATH
THEY stood around the bed in that bare hospital room, Alpert, Fitzpatrick, Carrigan and Nason, and watched the house surgeon turn away from the still form of Sam Steig.
“I've done all I dare do now.”
“But”—Fitzpatrick scowled and his voice was arbitrary—“can't you give him a shot in the arm or something, so maybe he can talk?”
“It would be fatal.” The surgeon moved towards the door. “As it is, he has a chance. In a few hours”—the man spread his hands—“he may be able to talk—safely.”
The surgeon shut the door gently as he went out. Alpert rubbed his hands and shook his head sadly. “I guess I'll go home now. Is there anything more I can do to—”
“It'd be a break for the force,” Fitzpatrick said, “if you didn't tell the reporters all you knew. Tell 'em to come to me till we find out where we are.”
Alpert said: “Sure,” and went out. Nason leaned against the wall beside the door and watched Steig, his mind busy with the details that had come to light since they had left the jewelry store. Alpert had stated that aside from the diamonds found on Donigan, there was another package of stones missing, worth about forty thousand dollars.
Nason's thoughts checked when a nurse entered the room and said there was a telephone call for Fitzpatrick. The lieutenant was gone but a minute, and when he re-entered the room he said: “That does it,” bitterly.
“The slug we got from Donigan was fired from Steig's gun.” He began to pace the floor. “Donigan was hard up, and he wasn't in such good standing. Drunk in uniform a while back, and for that he got twenty days suspension and one hundred and twenty hours of punishment duty. I wish to hell they'd kicked him off the force.”
Nason's face flushed and he checked an angry reply. He did not speak until he had his emotions under control. Then he said, stubbornly: “Donigan was no crook. I knew him.”
Fitzpatrick gave him a scornful glance. “Nobody could've broken in that store if Steig didn't want to open up. But he knew Donigan, and he'd open up for him. And then Donigan must've held him up and let the gang in with the torch. One of the hoods shot Steig. They probably thought he was dead.
“They went to work on the safe, got the diamonds and gave Donigan his cut. They probably beat it and left Donigan behind to
“There'll be another way to figure it,” Nason said grimly.
“If there is, we'd better find it. Because if we don't the press'll play it as it looks. Three slick jewel breaks. It'll be tough enough without smearing a crooked cop over the front page. But—” He threw up his hands, let them slap against his thighs.
“You two”—he nodded to Nason and Carrigan—“stay here. Steig's our best chance. One of you stick in the room all the time.”
NASON paced the floor for several minutes after Fitzpatrick left. Carrigan was in the corridor outside the door, ready to answer any telephone calls, or witness anything Steig might say if he recovered consciousness. After a while, Nason stepped over to the chair on the other side of the bed and stared down at Steig's clothing which had been draped over the chair back. With no particular motive in mind, he began to search the pockets.
He found a knife, some loose keys, two dollar bills and a handful of change. There was a dirty handkerchief, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a folder of matches, a bill from a dry-cleaning establishment. There was just one piece of jewelry—a watch.
Nason inspected it idly. It was of the thick, elaborately engraved style in vogue some years ago. He pressed on the stem to open the front lid; then, prompted by idle curiosity, he wedged his thumbnail in the back and pried open the case.
Stuck there loosely was a photograph which was cut to fit the case, a photograph of Steig and a tall girl who stood close together on some beach, an arm around each other's waist. The girl's face was vaguely familiar, but Nason could not place it at the moment, so he grunted softly, replaced the watch, keeping the picture. Walking around the bed, he pulled up the other chair and sat down.
He watched Steig, but his thoughts were of Donigan. He was still young enough, Nason was, to have a few illusions; and he found it hard to make himself believe the story as Fitzpatrick saw it. There were crooked cops; there would always be crooked cops. Nason knew that. In any body of men the size of the city force, there was bound to be some chiselers, men of little honor or scruples. These, in the course of events, were generally weeded out; were dismissed, or left of their own accord.
But Donigan— The drunkenness episode was different. Nason had talked with him afterward, had thought it was just what Donigan needed to teach him a lesson. He was an orphan. But there was a younger sister Donigan was putting through school. He was young, a bit wild, and full of the joy of living.
Voices in the hall checked his reverie. He moved to the door as a knock sounded and Carrigan said:
“Hey, Jack. There's a button-pusher from the
Nason put his hand on the knob, hesitated, his lean face cracked in a scowl.
He had long since learned that the press was both an asset and a liability—depending on whether the representative was for you, or against you. Even when he could not give out information he knew enough to kid the reporters and cameramen along.
Right now, irritation gripped him. He did not want to be bothered; he did not intend to allow any pictures taken. But these photographers had a job to do, and it paid to be decent. He opened the door.
Nason did not recognize the man who stood in the opening. He was a tall, well-dressed youth with a pimply face and a tiny mustache. His voice, when he spoke, was thin, feminine.
“How about a picture?”
“No.”
“Just one shot. What the hell. Give a guy a break.”
“No.” Nason's dark eyes flashed from the youth's face to the camera in his hand, to the bulky plate case slung over one shoulder. “No pictures. If anything breaks you'll get it along with the rest of the boys.”
Nason hesitated, instinct flashing a vague warning. His brows drew down and his voice got hard, skeptical. “You must be new at the
Got a card?”
