Fallen Sparrow by Dorothy B. Hughes

He’d been that wise, broken as he was. He’d sailed on the neutral freighter, the long way home, more months of hell. Safe at last, he’d collapsed on Louie’s doorstep. But he’d never mentioned the hotel, not even to Louie.
    He should have known they would never give up. They had been dormant, waiting these additional months, waiting for him to grow strong again, strong and careless and make the false move, the move to obtain the treasure.
    They would never win. They’d killed Louie. He knew it now. Whatever the hand, he knew the agency behind it. The little man who would amuse himself with beauty. Never.
    A gun could be used for other purpose than to defend. A gun could be used to kill. While the little man existed, only the laws of violence were valid. With need for no emotion save hate, he could deal out the violence they had taught him. For what had been done to him and to Louie, they should answer. He too could kill.
    Why had Louie been marked for death? He had aided them to carry out their release of Kit. It must have been because he’d caught on, because he’d identified someone with Kit’s horrors. That someone was at Det’s refugee musicale. Someone in that outfit was working for the Wobblefoot. José knew the Wobblefoot. Kit’s shoulders hardened. He’d eliminate them one by one until he came to the top, to the deformed man. If he but knew from whom that billfold had come. It should have been on Louie’s body when he fell. Whoever had put it in Kit’s pocket, he, she, was either the murderer or knew the murderer. Only the murderer could have taken it from Louie, taken it before the killing. Was Louie already dead when he was thrown from the window? Kit hadn’t considered that. His stomach quailed. A twelve-story fall could conceal the cause of death.
    “What goes on, Rollo?”
    He looked up at the bland voice. Tobin stood in front of him. His hat was pushed back on his head and he had a cheap stogie in his teeth.
    Kit shoved the letters into his overcoat pocket. He didn’t have to worry about a gun being drawn on him here. He said, “I’ve been waiting for you. I want to ask you some more questions.”
    “What about? How to climb fire escapes at three A.M. and stay out of the jug?”
    Kit’s mouth opened like a window. Tobin dropped down on the bench. “‘Just a boyish prank,’ he said.”
    “How’d you know I was the one?”
    “Even an old man can have some tricks up his sleeve.”
    Kit said, “You’re not so old.”
    “My mistake. From the way you lisped the other afternoon, I thought the hair dye had rubbed off.” He flipped open his penknife, clicked it together. “Well, do you want to tell me what you were up to or shall I have the boys take you down where you’ll talk?”
    Kit pushed back his hat. “I’ll trade. You first. How did you get on to me?”
    “Elemental, Watso. What name stuck out on Patrolman Peter’s first list? Kit McKittrick. What name was missing on the second alarm? Kit McKittrick. Your turn.”
    “Not yet. Circumstantial evidence all wrong again. I wasn’t the only one who’d left the apartment.”
    Tobin jutted out his chin, stogie and all.
    “One visitor wasn’t on the list. And he went before I did.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know his name.” Kit spoke slowly. Even speaking of it here made those icy inner hands grip at him. “I’ve never seen his face. I’ve heard him—walk.”
    Tobin didn’t take his eyes away. He probably knew about Kit’s adventure; everyone in New York seemed to. And Louie had worked for Tobin.
    “Where was he hid out?”
    Kit let go a breath. “My guess is that he was visiting a fellow called José Andalusian.”
    Tobin snapped, “Fergus, bring me that report from East Fifty-sixth Street last night.” He said to Kit, “Come on.”
    Kit followed to the back office. Moore was playing mumblety-peg solitaire on the nicked bench. Tobin sat on the edge of his desk. He waved Kit to Moore’s playground.