Part 11 (1/2)

Motley watched him and concealed a grin.

Donovan was Motley's special pet. Howard and Motley had clashed over him before, and Adams knew it. He knew also that Gloria had been used to save Donovan from returning to a beat, and Howard wasn't likely to start trouble for Donovan again, unless he was forced to.

”Donovan's a good guy,” Motley said, patting his heavy paunch. Although he was only thirty-eight, lack of exercise, heavy drinking and gross feeding had thickened his figure, making him look a lot older than he was. ”We don't often get a murder case, and this could be Donovan's chance. I want him to reestablish himself. The press has been picking on him for months. It's time he had a chance to show what he can do.”

”This isn't a one-man police force,” Howard said, controlling his temper with difficulty. ”I want every man working on it. We've got to nab this killer, Joe.”

”Sure, sure,” Motley said indifferently. He got slowly to his feet. ”Well, I've got to run along. I'm going to the club tonight and I've got to get a haircut. Gloria said she'd be at the dance. You coming?”

”We have a murder on our hands, Joe.”

Motley stared at him.

”So what? That doesn't mean you and I can't go to the dance does it? What the h.e.l.l have we got Adams for? He'll take care of it.”

”You go. I have things to do,” Howard said curtly.

”Gloria won't like it. She's relying on you.”

Howard started to say something, then stopped. To cover his embarra.s.sment, he stubbed out his cigar which was only half burned.

”It's up to you, of course,” Motley went on.

”Well, I'll see how things work out. Maybe I'll look in later.”

”Suit yourself,” Motley said. ”But there's no point in letting all the young punks fight over her. You know what it's like when she goes to a dance on her own. I have my own dish to look after.”

Adams, watching and listening, saw Howard's face tighten, and he knew Motley had hit him where it hurt.

The fool! Adams thought contemptuously. What a sucker he is for a woman! He's scared stiff some young husky will make a pa.s.s when he's not looking. If I were a slave like he is to that little b.i.t.c.h I'd shoot myself!

When Motley had gone, Howard turned his attention to Adams. He realized Adams had heard a lot more than he cared for him to know, and he glared at Adams angrily.

But the Lieutenant looked as if he was either asleep or miles away somewhere with his thoughts and his complete lack of interest somewhat rea.s.sured Howard.

”What are you doing about this killing, Adams?”

Adams gave an elaborate start, blinked at the Commissioner and his face became alert.

”I'm following the usual procedure sir. You have my report on the desk. There are no clues. We have a description of a man whom we believe went to her apartment about the time she died. Donovan is working on that angle. The killing of a prost.i.tute is always a tricky nut to crack. There seems to have been no motive. Nothing was taken.”

”What are the chances of cracking this case in a hurry?” Howard asked, leaning forward across his desk and staring at Adams.

Adams shook his head.

”I wouldn't count on it, sir. The guy may be a nut. If he doesn't do it again, the chance aren't good. She may have tried to blackmail him and he killed her to shut her mouth. We have checked through her apartment: there was nothing in it to tell us she did collect material for blackmail, but she may have a deposit box somewhere.”

”Do you think it was a nut?” Howard asked. Adams shook his head.

”I guess not. A nut invariably strangles and then rips them. She was stabbed. Doc thinks she may have known the guy because she was stabbed from the front. She must have seen him, and yet she didn't cry out. At least, no one heard anything.”

Howard selected another cigar, bit off the end and spat angrily into his trash basket.

”We've got to get this killer fast. Donovan's okay on the routine stuff, but fast work isn't his strong point. I'm relying on you to crack this case, Adams. Hold your own investigation. Never mind what Motley and Donovan are doing. Get after this killer and nab him. There could be a shake-up here before long, and if you crack this one, you might do yourself a lot of good.”

The two men looked at each other.

Adams' thin, pinched face was expressionless, but inside he was experiencing a surge of triumph.

”The Captain will know what I'm up to sir,” he said. ”He could block me off.”

”I'll tell him you are working for me,” Howard said. ”You have orders from me to investigate and produce a report on the vice set-up in this town. I'll need the report, anyway. Get someone to do the' legwork; you concentrate on this killing. I'll let you have duplicates of all reports sent in by Donovan. Now get moving: I want some action.”

”You'll get it, sir,” Adams said, and went out of the room.

For some moments Howard sat staring at his blotter, then he got up, went to the door and half opened it.

”I'm going over to City Hall,” he told his secretary. ”I'll be back in an hour.”

He shut the door, put on his hat, crossed the room to the door leading to his private stairs, and hurried down to the street.

chapter six.

I.

For the past three years, Sean O'Brien had been the secret political boss behind the present Administration. He had taken over at a time when the party was in very low water, and, by his enormous financial resources, had infused new life into it.

Ed Fabian, a fat, jovial, uninspired politician, had been the party's leader when O'Brien and his millions appeared on the scene. He had accepted O'Brien's offer of financial help without questioning where the money had come from or when would be the ultimate repayment.

The fact that O'Brien had insisted on complete anonymity should have aroused Fabian's suspicions, but Fabian had to have money to keep his party alive, and he couldn't afford to be curious.

Fabian now found himself a mere figurehead, but he was growing old, and had lost what fighting qualities he may have had. So long as he had the credit for running the party, he was content to take orders from O'Brien.

It would have severely jolted him if he had known that O'Brien had made his millions from large-scale, international drug trafficking. The drug traffic organization he had built up had eventually been smashed. He had always believed in being the unseen, unknown leader, and although the men who worked for him were now serving long sentences in French jails, he had managed to escape from France, taking his millions with him.

He had come to Flint City, California, to rest on his labours and enjoy his money. Pretty soon he became bored with an inactive life, and had decided to go into politics. He examined the political set-up in the town, picked on Fabian's party as the weakest reed, moved in and bought control.

In spite of his great care to remain anonymous during his drug trafficking dealings, he hadn't been able to avoid contact with a few of the traffickers, and one of them, now serving a twenty years' sentence, had talked.

The police had from him only a vague description of O'Brien, but O'Brien knew they were still hunting for him. Publicity of any kind was dangerous. A chance photograph in the local press might be seen by an alert officer of the Division of Narcotic Enforcement, and O'Brien would find himself with a twenty-year rap hanging around his neck.

But after three years of security he wasn't unduly worried by his position. He had always avoided the limelight, always preferred to live quietly and not mix with people.

It amused him to control the activities of this prosperous town, and to know the voters had no idea he was the man who pulled the strings and to some extent directed their lives.