James Chase: Tiger by the Tail

Gilda screamed, “Get it out of here! Get it out!”

“Gilda!” O’Brien exclaimed, shaken by her terror. “What is it?”

Adams left his chair, crossed the room with two strides, turned the door handle and threw the door open.

The dog darted into the kitchen.

Adams watched it run to where Sweeting lay face down on the floor. There was a puddle of blood at his side; an ice-pick was embedded

between his fat shoulder-blades.

The dog paused beside him, sniffed at his face, then backed away, whimpering, and crept under the kitchen table.

Adams looked swiftly at Ken, then towards the door leading into the hall. His eyes were expressive.

Ken got up, went over to the door and set his back against it. He was watching Gilda, who abruptly sat down, her face ashen.

“You might like to take a look,” Adams said to O’Brien.

O’Brien walked into the kitchen, kicked Sweeting over on his back and stared down at the dead face.

“Who’s this?” he asked, and Adams could see he was badly shaken.

“Raphael Sweeting, a blackmailer,” Adams said. He was watching the Pekinese, which had come out from under the table and was now sniffing excitedly at the refrigerator. It stood up, whined and scratched at the door. “It can’t be that easy,” Adams went on, under his breath. “He can’t be here too.”

“What the hell are you muttering about?” O’Brien snapped.

Adams took hold of the handle of the refrigerator, lifted it and let the door swing open.

O’Brien caught his breath sharply when he saw the crumpled body of Maurice Yarde in the refrigerator.

“For God’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Who’s this?”

“Her husband — Maurice Yarde. I wondered where she had hidden him,” Adams said.

O’Brien pulled himself together with an effort. He walked into the sitting-room.

Gilda stared at him.

“I didn’t do it, Sean! You’ve got to believe me!” she gasped, “I found him there. I swear I did!”

He touched her shoulder lightly.

“Take it easy, kid. I’m on your side,” he said, then, looking at Adams who was leaning against the kitchen door-post, he said, a rasp in his voice, “Let’s get this thing straightened out.”

“I’m charging Miss Dorman with the murders of Fay Carson, Yarde and Sweeting,” Adams said. “We’ll sort it out at head-quarters.”

“We’ll sort it out right here!” O’Brien said curtly. “Miss. Dorman denies the charge. You have no evidence that she did it, or have you?”

“I’ve got enough evidence to make Carson’s killing stick,” Adams said.

“What is the evidence?”

“It’s a matter of motive. The key to Carson’s murder was something I nearly missed. At first I liked Dorman for the job. He was unbalanced and he had threatened to kill her, but I found out he couldn’t have done it. He was seen outside the Blue Rose club when Carson and Holland left the club. He didn’t know where she lived. He couldn’t have gone ahead and got into her apartment, so I had to rule him out. I got a tip that Maurice Yarde had quarrelled with Carson. I thought maybe he had done it. I went to his hotel. He was missing, but his room had been ransacked. From the way the search had been conducted, it looked like the searcher was after a document of some land. I had a hunch. That’s why I’m a good cop. I get these hunches. Was the searcher a woman, and could the paper be a marriage certificate? I didn’t think it was likely. It was a blind guess, but I called Los Angeles and checked up on Yarde. I found he married Miss Dorman thirteen months ago.” Adams pushed himself away from the doorpost and came into the room. He began to pace slowly up and down, his hands in his pockets, while O’Brien watched him, a hard glitter in his eyes. “I had heard Miss Dorman was going to marry you. So far as she was concerned it was a pretty good match. I wondered if Fay Carson had found out from Yarde that he was married to Miss Dorman. Carson had a score to settle with Miss Dorman. She was in a position to blackmail her if she knew Miss Dorman was married to Yarde. Just ideas, you see, but ideas that established a motive. So I started checking on Miss Dorman. I found out she was at the Blue Rose club last night, and left half an hour before Carson and Holland did. That would give her time to get to Carson’s apartment. She had once shared an apartment with Carson, and knew of Carson’s habit of leaving a key under the mat. Whoever was hiding in the bedroom had to have a key as the door was undamaged. I began to like Miss Dorman for the job. The night clerk downstairs tells me she came home last night at two o’clock. The killer left Carson’s apartment at twenty minutes to two. It is a twenty-minute drive from Carson’s apartment to here. Work it out for yourself. I learned, too, from the night clerk that Maurice Yarde called on her last night after nine o’clock, and the night clerk didn’t see him leave. Yarde probably tried to get money out of Miss Dorman. He probably told her Carson knew, too. She killed him, put him in the refrigerator until the opportunity came for her to get rid of his body. She went to his hotel, searched for the marriage certificate, found and destroyed it. She then went to the Blue Rose, spotted Carson with Holland. She went to Carson’s apartment, sure that Carson would bring Holland back, and he’d make a fine fall guy. She killed her, fused the lights and got back here.”

O’Brien got to his feet, took a cigarette from his case, and wandered over to the sideboard for the cigarette lighter.

“You haven’t told me anything that a good attorney can’t blow to hell,” he said, as he lit a cigarette. “Now, I’ll tell you something: Johnny told me he killed her.”

Adams shook his head.

“He told you because he wasn’t going to marry you,” he said quietly. “You might have hesitated to marry Miss Dorman if you knew she had a murder on her hands. Dorman was financially interested in your marriage, wasn’t he?”

“You can’t make this charge stick,” O’Brien said, his face tightening. “You’re going to drop it!”

“In a week I’ll have a case no attorney can upset, and I’m not dropping it.”

O’Brien set the lighter down. His hand jumped to the gun, whipped it up, and, turning, he covered Adams.

“Don’t make a move unless you want a slug in you!” he rasped. He looked at Ken, who still stood against the door. “Get over there with him!”

Ken obeyed.

Adams appeared completely unruffled.

“This won’t get you anywhere, O’Brien,” he said. “She can’t beat the rap: not with those two stiffs in her kitchen. Maybe she might have wriggled out of the Carson killing, but those two in there fixes it.”

“That’s what you think,” O’Brien said. “But you haven’t my talent for organization. You may be a smart cop, but you’ve still got a hell of a lot to learn.”

Gilda had got unsteadily to her feet.

“Get Whitey here,” O’Brien said to her, without taking his eyes off Adams. “Speedwell 56778. Tell him to bring four of the mob with him, and to step on it.”

She crossed to the telephone.

“I wouldn’t do it,” Adams said softly. “It won’t get you anywhere.”

“Won’t it? Let me explain what’s going to happen,” O’Brien said, his eyes gleaming. “You and Holland are going to get knocked off. The night clerk is also going to get knocked off. The boys will walk those two stiffs out of here and plant them somewhere safe. You will be found in the lobby downstairs, shot by Holland’s gun. He’ll be found on the stairs, shot by your gun. The clerk got shot accidentally, getting in the way. That’ll take care of it, won’t it?”

“It could do,” Adams said.

“It will. Carson’s killing will be blamed on Holland. That’s what I call organizing, Adams,” O’Brien said, showing his teeth in a fixed grin.