prints on the safe or on the torch that was left behind. We're tryin' to trace it, but it'll be a miracle if we get anywhere with that angle.”
He nodded to Carrigan. “Come on.”
WHEN the door closed Bacorn again cleared his throat and looked up at Nason through bushy brows without lifting his head.
“Fitz lives and thinks and breathes police work,” Bacorn said thoughtfully. “He's all shot over how it's gonna look—about Donigan.” He hesitated a moment, adding absently: “The sort of personality that makes news.”
Bacorn said something else, but Nason did not catch it, because his brain vortexed around that phrase.
It all went back to the fact that Nason had always played ball with newspapermen. On more than one occasion he had received valuable tips, and he played this source of information just as he played any other—for information—not publicity. He knew that the more contacts a detective has, the more tips he gets. And that more cases are solved on tips than in any other way.
On two occasions, he had been lucky enough to help solve cases that, for the very nature of the crime, had been heavily publicized, even before he was assigned to them. And it was in writing up one of these, that some reporter in describing his work had said: “He has the sort of personality that makes news.”
That phrase cost Nason a lot of good-natured razzing. He continued to play ball with the press; the press played ball with him. They liked him. And now this reputation had boomeranged. A pseudo-photographer had tricked him and murdered the State's witness. He was conscious that Bacorn was talking.
“There's a lot of truth in what Fitzpatrick said.”
“What?” grunted Nason.
“That you'd need more personality this time.” Bacorn's voice was sharp, but not unkind. “I know you played the publicity angle for the tips it would get you. But you've got a reputation—and it's gonna look different tomorrow in black and white.”
Bacorn scowled until his brows drew together. “We find a cop with a pocket full of diamonds, his gun in his holster and a bullet in his back from the man who was guarding the store. Then we let some hoods come in and knock off this witness under police guard. The papers'll ride the D.A. and the Commissioner will ride the Super and me and— well—” Bacorn slid his palms across the desk top. “If you figure on any future in this business, you'd better get started. Because you'll be walking a beat if you don't show something.”
Nason moved to the door. “Okay,” he said grimly. “You've all got Donigan figured a lousy crook. And if somebody doesn't show something it looks like that's the way it's going down in the books.”
In the downstairs hall, Walcott, who had tagged along behind Nason, struggling with his camera and plate case, said:
“Where you goin'?” Nason stopped suddenly, his mind fastening on the one clue that he alone had. He took out the little photograph of Steig and the girl on the beach.
“Know her?” Walcott set down the plate case, took the photograph, finally said: “Sure. Rita Jordan. Works down at the
“The value of publicity,” snorted Nason starting off again.
“But—” sputtered Walcott, “what you gonna do?”
“Try and hang on to my job.”
“You'n me.” Walcott swung up the plate case. “You,” growled Nason. “You've caused enough trouble. G'wan back to your rag and—”
“Go back for what? Unless you get lucky and I get some pictures I've no more job than a rabbit. I stick with you.”
THE hands of the huge electric clock that glared down on Boylston Street, pointed to 1:25. Nason, slouched back on the seat, stared morosely out of the taxi window at the deserted sidewalks and hollow-eyed window fronts; and the reflection of corner streetlights swept a face that was somber and knotted at the corners of his jaws. He had not spoken a word since they had talked with the manager of the
Walcott squirmed on the seat and peered through the semi-darkness at Nason.
“Now we got her address, what're you gonna prove?”
Nason told Walcott where he got the picture, added: “She must've known Steig pretty well. Maybe she knows things about him. What the hell.” The voice was brusk. “I'm grabbin' at straws.”
Nason let the few facts he had on the case parade before his mind's-eye in single file. There was no use thinking much about the robbery or the diamonds in Donigan's pocket now. His only chance was to find the two hoods. Simple as hell. Just find them and there would be some sort of an answer.
The best lead was through the Greek's—where the gunmen had picked up Walcott. But if there was anything there, Fitzpatrick would find it. He might have a nasty tongue, but he was a damn good cop.
So that left Rita Jordan. Aside from her there was just one thing—one vague question in the back of Nason's brain. He did not know what the question was. But it was there, some place.
The cab slowed down in a quiet, darkened street, lined with three and four-story red brick houses which had been remodeled into cheap apartments. In another moment the driver said: “This is it.”
Nason and Walcott got out, and Nason told the driver to wait.
THE house was of three stories, sandwiched in between two slightly taller buildings, all alike architecturally. They climbed narrow stone steps, moved into a darkened vestibule and the wind whipped in behind them, tugging at their coattails. A faint smell of fried food and dusty corners hung in the air as Nason struck a match and studied the row of mail boxes on the wall to learn that Rita Jordan had apartment 3-B.
Nason had to knock three times on the door on the right side of the third floor hall before a thick, contralto voice said: “Who is it?”
Nason nudged Walcott, who blurted: “Tommy Walcott.”
A key scratched in the lock. The door opened a two-inch crack and a slab of light slid out and divided Walcott's face. The voice said: “This is a swell time to come calling.”
Walcott pushed gently on the door. “I want to talk to you a minute.”
Nason studied the girl. With the light behind her, he could not see much of her face. But he saw that she was tall, dark-haired; that she wore filmy pajamas and some sort of a silk robe.
“Who's your friend?” she asked.
“He's from the office,” lied Walcott. Then, his voice growing petulant. “All right. Drag up a chair and we'll talk in the hall.”
The girl laughed abruptly. “You've got plenty of nerve to—”
“You gotta have nerve or they shove you around.”
“All right.” The girl stood back from the door. “But don't think you're going to stay long. I need my sleep.”
Nason followed Walcott into the room. The girl turned on a top-heavy lamp. He saw then that the silk wrapper she wore was red, and spotted with stains. She had apparently gone to bed with her makeup on. It gave a feverish tinge to her skin. At that, she was attractive. She had a nice build and she looked as if she could add up to ten.
Nason dropped on the davenport and Rita Jordan said: “Well, now that you woke me up.”
“You a friend of Sam Steig's?” Nason asked easily.
“Maybe.” The girl's manner was at once skeptical and on the defensive.
“Know him pretty well?” Rita Jordan glanced at Walcott. “What is this?” she asked irritably.
Nason took out his shield, flashed it in his palm. The girl said: “Oh,” and her eyes went as round as her mouth.
Nason said: “Who did Steig pal around with?”
“Why do you want to know?” The girl's eyes narrowed again. “What's he done?” Her voice was anxious now, but she turned again to Walcott and tried to make it matter-of-fact. “A fine pal you turned out to be.”
Nason said: “Who'd he run with? He must have some friends.”
“Certainly he has friends.” The girl stopped, glared at Nason, then turned to the door and grabbed at the knob. “Get out. I don't have to talk to you.”
Nason stood up. Walking slowly up to the girl, he deliberately took her wrist and pulled her hand from the knob. She jerked back.
