the beam of the spotlight like an animal in the headlights of a car, looked frantically at Tracy. And then the hoodlum hung his head. “Awrytawrytawrytalredyahltawk.”
“Hold that thought,” Tracy said, and he called in the plainclothes policewoman stenographer, Mrs. Green, from the hall.
Mumbles was giving his statement when Catchem returned.
“BigBoydidit,” Mumbles said.
“Did what, Mumbles?” Tracy asked, handing him a glass of ice water.
Mumbles gulped it. Then he exploded: “BigBoydiditltelyuhedidit! HekildLpsMlis!”
“Where? When?”
“Warehousetonighcementoverct. Isawtall.”
“Okay, Mrs. Green,” Tracy said to the stenographer, “you heard him. That’s his testimony.”
“ What did he say?” the stenog asked.
“He said he was at the warehouse tonight,” Tracy said. “They gave Manlis a cement overcoat. Mumbles said he saw it all.” Tracy nodded to the stenographer. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Green. You may go now.”
The confused woman did, and Catchem nodded for Tracy to step out in the hall. Tracy found Pat Patton waiting there, looking eager but apprehensive.
“That was cement on his shoe, all right,” Patton said.
“Good,” Tracy said. “See if the lab boys can match it to the cement in the back of that truck at the warehouse.”
“And to the dirty water in those mop buckets,” Patton added.
“Right,” Tracy said, nodding. “Good man, Pat.”
Catchem pointed toward the interrogation booth. “What do we do with Mumbles now?”
Tracy shrugged. “Give him his pants and shake him loose with his pals. We’ll keep that statement of his tucked in our back pocket, for now.”
“That was coercion, Tracy,” Catchem said, “and you know it. Inadmissible. And illegal.”
Tracy bristled. “As illegal as killing Manlis? As illegal as killing Officer Moriarty? As illegal as shooting my girl’s father ?”
Catchem smiled soothingly, cigarette drooping from his lips. He put a hand on Tracy’s shoulder. “Hey—Dick. Pal of mine. I’m on your side. But if we keep playin’ fast and loose with the law, the bad guys are gonna walk on a technicality.”
“Not if we shoot first,” Tracy said, “and investigate afterward.”
“Good point,” Catchem admitted. “Unfortunately, right now Pat has some more news—bad news, in this case.”
“Oh?”
Patton nodded glumly. “We checked that cement truck for prints; wiped clean.”
Tracy frowned. “What about the walnuts?”
Patton said, “Lab boys are still working on those.”
Tracy sighed. “Well, we got enough to make the arrest. The fingerprints on the walnuts’ll clinch it, tomorrow.”
Catchem’s eyes tightened with doubt. “We’re picking up Big Boy already? Shouldn’t we have a little more before—”
“Sam, we’re picking him up now. Tonight.”
“It’s a gamble,” Patton said.
“Worth taking,” Tracy said.
“And here I thought gambling was illegal,” Catchem said.
88 Keys was handsome in an insolent, almost pretty manner: his eyes were slanted, dark hair slicked back, cigarette drooping seductively down like an extension of his upper lip.
Skilled fingers glided over the ivories with an effortlessness that belied years of practice. Classical training as a youth, before his father’s business went under; playing honky-tonks and bordello parlors as a kid and a young man. He’d played recitals, and he’d played jam sessions, and spent a season with the Spike Dyke Orchestra.
There’d been an agent, not so long ago, who had him marked for stardom; was getting ready to put a stage band together for 88 to lead. That went south when the agent caught his best girl in 88’s arms.
Dames had always been 88’s blessing and his curse. He couldn’t resist them, and they couldn’t resist him; the only difference was, his attraction was strictly physical, and eventually wore off—the girls always took it more seriously. Saw something in him they wanted to tame. He was a bad boy and good
“Hold that thought,” Tracy said, and he called in the plainclothes policewoman stenographer, Mrs. Green, from the hall.
Mumbles was giving his statement when Catchem returned.
“BigBoydidit,” Mumbles said.
“Did what, Mumbles?” Tracy asked, handing him a glass of ice water.
Mumbles gulped it. Then he exploded: “BigBoydiditltelyuhedidit! HekildLpsMlis!”
“Where? When?”
“Warehousetonighcementoverct. Isawtall.”
“Okay, Mrs. Green,” Tracy said to the stenographer, “you heard him. That’s his testimony.”
“ What did he say?” the stenog asked.
“He said he was at the warehouse tonight,” Tracy said. “They gave Manlis a cement overcoat. Mumbles said he saw it all.” Tracy nodded to the stenographer. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Green. You may go now.”
The confused woman did, and Catchem nodded for Tracy to step out in the hall. Tracy found Pat Patton waiting there, looking eager but apprehensive.
“That was cement on his shoe, all right,” Patton said.
“Good,” Tracy said. “See if the lab boys can match it to the cement in the back of that truck at the warehouse.”
“And to the dirty water in those mop buckets,” Patton added.
“Right,” Tracy said, nodding. “Good man, Pat.”
Catchem pointed toward the interrogation booth. “What do we do with Mumbles now?”
Tracy shrugged. “Give him his pants and shake him loose with his pals. We’ll keep that statement of his tucked in our back pocket, for now.”
“That was coercion, Tracy,” Catchem said, “and you know it. Inadmissible. And illegal.”
Tracy bristled. “As illegal as killing Manlis? As illegal as killing Officer Moriarty? As illegal as shooting my girl’s father ?”
Catchem smiled soothingly, cigarette drooping from his lips. He put a hand on Tracy’s shoulder. “Hey—Dick. Pal of mine. I’m on your side. But if we keep playin’ fast and loose with the law, the bad guys are gonna walk on a technicality.”
“Not if we shoot first,” Tracy said, “and investigate afterward.”
“Good point,” Catchem admitted. “Unfortunately, right now Pat has some more news—bad news, in this case.”
“Oh?”
Patton nodded glumly. “We checked that cement truck for prints; wiped clean.”
Tracy frowned. “What about the walnuts?”
Patton said, “Lab boys are still working on those.”
Tracy sighed. “Well, we got enough to make the arrest. The fingerprints on the walnuts’ll clinch it, tomorrow.”
Catchem’s eyes tightened with doubt. “We’re picking up Big Boy already? Shouldn’t we have a little more before—”
“Sam, we’re picking him up now. Tonight.”
“It’s a gamble,” Patton said.
“Worth taking,” Tracy said.
“And here I thought gambling was illegal,” Catchem said.
88 Keys was handsome in an insolent, almost pretty manner: his eyes were slanted, dark hair slicked back, cigarette drooping seductively down like an extension of his upper lip.
Skilled fingers glided over the ivories with an effortlessness that belied years of practice. Classical training as a youth, before his father’s business went under; playing honky-tonks and bordello parlors as a kid and a young man. He’d played recitals, and he’d played jam sessions, and spent a season with the Spike Dyke Orchestra.
There’d been an agent, not so long ago, who had him marked for stardom; was getting ready to put a stage band together for 88 to lead. That went south when the agent caught his best girl in 88’s arms.
Dames had always been 88’s blessing and his curse. He couldn’t resist them, and they couldn’t resist him; the only difference was, his attraction was strictly physical, and eventually wore off—the girls always took it more seriously. Saw something in him they wanted to tame. He was a bad boy and good
Similar Books
