When both men had finished signing the statement, Adams took charge of the notebook again.

"You can go home," he said to Watson. "Keep your mouth shut about this."

When Watson had gone, Adams lit his fifth cigarette, settled himself more comfortably in his chair and stared at Sweeting thoughtfully.

"We're going to have a little talk, Raphael. Strictly off the record, and you're going to be helpful. I want to crack this case. It's important to me. There's not much you don't see and hear. You may have some ideas. If you play with me, I'll play with you, so keep on the right side of me."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Sweeting said, dabbing his eye. "But I don't know a thing."

"You might," Adams said, stretching out his short legs. "I had an idea Johnny Dorman knocked this girl off. How do you react to that one?"

Sweeting looked startled.

"Johnny? He wouldn't kill anyone!"

"Don't talk through the back of your neck! Of course he would. He's as vicious as they come. You knew him pretty well, didn't you ?"

"I played billiards with him from time to time," Sweeting said. "Yes, I guess I knew him well, but I haven't seen or heard from him since he was put in that home. What makes you think he did it?"

"I don't think he did it now. I said I liked him for the job, but I've changed my mind. He threatened to kill her before he went into the home, and that made me think maybe he'd done it."

"He wouldn't kill her," Sweeting said. "He was through with her. I know. He told me. She meant nothing to him after he had beaten her up."

"Okay. Do you think Holland did it?"

Sweeting hesitated. He wanted to get Ken Holland into trouble if he could, but he decided Adams might not like him to sidetrack him because of his own private hate.

"I guess not. Why have you changed your mind about Johnny, Lieutenant?"

"I don't reckon he could have done it. Holland saw him outside the Blue Rose. He didn't know Carson's address. He couldn't have got there and hid in her bedroom before they returned, could he?"

Sweeting inclined his head.

"Maybe you're right."

"I think I am. Okay, if it wasn't Johnny and it wasn't Holland who was it?"

Sweeting blinked.

"Are you asking me?"

"I'm asking you, Raphael. You spend all your life sticking your snout into other people's affairs. Don't tell me you didn't stick it into Carson's affairs as well."

Sweeting hesitated.

"Well, I'd like to help you, Lieutenant, but I don't know."

"Have a guess," Adams said quietly.

Sweeting again hesitated.

"If I were you," he said slowly, "I'd talk to Maurice Yarde. He might have a few ideas."

"Who's he?"

"He used to be Fay's dancing partner before they quarrelled."

"What did they quarrel about?"

"She and Gilda Dorman used to share an apartment. Yarde fell for Gilda. He broke up the act and Gilda and he went to Los Angeles. She came back after six months alone. Yarde came back a couple of days ago. He came to see Fay. I happened to see him. They had a quarrel. I heard her cursing him. When he left I heard him tell her he would cut her throat."

Adams removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick white hair.

"You're sure Gilda went away with Yarde?"

Sweeting nodded.

"Johnny told me. He hated the idea. Yarde's a bad man, Lieutenant: a bad man with women."

Adams scratched the side of his jaw. This set-up was getting complicated. He would have preferred to tie Johnny to the murder, but if he couldn't do that, Yarde would do nearly as well. In both cases Gilda was hooked up to it, and that meant O'Brien was hooked up in it too.

"Where do I find Yarde ?" he asked.

"He usually hangs out at the Washington Hotel. He could be there, Lieutenant."

Adams got slowly and stiffly to his feet. This was turning out to be a h.e.l.l of a night.

"Okay, Raphael. Keep your mouth shut and your legs crossed. Stick right here and don't try to leave town. I may need you for a witness. Play along with me and you won't get into trouble."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Sweeting said, and for the first time since Adams had been in the apartment, he began to breathe freely.

As Adams moved to the door, Sweeting went on, "Excuse me, Lieutenant, but you wouldn't happen to have a spare buck on you? I have my rent to meet tomorrow and I find myself a little short."

Adams opened the door and went slowly down the stairs as if he hadn't heard his head bent, his brow furrowed in thought.

Sweeting leaned over the banister rail but resisted the temptation of spitting on the Lieutenant's hat. He returned to his room and slammed the door.

He had to raise some money before tomorrow. For a long time he stood thinking, then his face brightened. Of course! Gilda Dorman! He should have thought of her before. She might part with a few bucks if he called on her. She would probably be interested to know her old lover, Maurice Yarde, was in town. She might be still sentimental about him. She might also be interested to know that Lieutenant Adams thought her brother had killed Fay. The possibilities were endless!

Sweeting glanced at the clock on the overmantel. It was a quarter past eleven. These nightclub singers kept late hours. He might catch her if he hurried.

He went over to the pile of directories, flicked through the pages of one of them and found what he wanted.

"45 Maddox Court," he muttered. "That's only five minutes from here."

He took his hat from the cupboard, placed it at an angle on his head so as to hide his bruised eye, picked up Leo, turned off the lights and hurriedly left his apartment.

III.

The Washington Hotel had an unsavoury reputation. It was a-room-by-the-hour-and-no-questions-asked joint, sandwiched between an amus.e.m.e.nt arcade and a beer shop, facing the river. In its bas.e.m.e.nt, hidden away behind a cleverly constructed sliding panel, was a big room where you could enjoy a pipe of opium if you wanted it and if you could pay for it.

On the top floor were a number of well-furnished rooms which were occupied by the hotel's residents: mostly men just out of prison who were feeling their feet, taking a look around and getting used to their new-found freedom.

The hotel was owned by Sean O'Brien, and Police Captain Motley had taken care that his men didn't worry the management or the residents. The manager, Seth Cutler, short, thickset and as hard as granite, was startled when he saw Lieutenant Adams coming across the dimly lit lobby. He leaned his elbows on the desk and waited, his eyes watchful.

"Evening, Lieutenant," he said, when Adams came to rest opposite him. "Long time no see."

"Yeah," Adams said. "Let me take a look at your register."

Cutler raised his eyebrows, poked his little finger into his right ear, wiggled it about and then withdrew it and examined his nail to see what he had found.

"Snap it up!" Adams barked, his voice suddenly harsh.

Cutler said, "Excuse me, Lieutenant, but haven't you come to the wrong joint? This is the Washington. We've got protection."

"Give me the book!" Adams said.

Cutler raised his shoulders, produced a well-worn, leather bound book, blew dust off it and laid it on the desk.

The last entry in the book was dated June 19th, 1941.

"It's a wonder you keep in business," Adams said in disgust. He shoved the book back. "I'm looking for Maurice Yarde."

Cutler shook his head.

"Never heard of him, Lieutenant. Sorry. Help you if I could."

Adams nodded.

"That's too bad. Then I'll have to go from room to room until I find him."

"I wouldn't do that, Lieutenant."

Adams stared steadily at Cutler.

"That's what I'm going to do unless you tell me where I can find him."

"The Captain wouldn't like it."

"You have your lines snarled up," Adams said. "The Captain told me to talk to Yarde. This isn't a pinch. I just want information."

Cutler hesitated.

"I don't like my best clients bothered, Lieutenant. I'd rather get it straight from the Captain."

"Okay, if that's the way you feel about it," Adams said, shrugging. "I'll start in on the ground floor and work up, and I'd like to see you stop me! Don't blame me if your other clients get annoyed with you."

"He's on the top floor, No. 10," Cutler snarled, his face turning red.

"Thanks."

Adams wandered over to the ancient elevator, got in, closed the gate and hauled on the rope that raised the evil smelling cage up the equally evil smelling shaft.

He was thankful when the elevator creaked to a standstill on the top floor. All the way up he had been expecting the rope to snap or the bottom of the cage to drop out.

Facing him was a long pa.s.sage with doors every few yards. He walked to room 10, listened outside, then hearing no sound in the room, he rapped on the door. Nothing happened, and he rapped again.

The door opposite abruptly opened.

A girl in a blue-and-red silk wrap, her auburn hair about her shoulders, leaned against the doorpost and showed him a long white leg and a well-rounded thigh through the opening in her wrap.

"He's out," she said. "If you want to wait, there's a chair in my room."

"You're talking to a police officer," Adams said mildly.

The girl wrinkled her nose, then lifted her shoulders.

"I can't afford to be fussy. The offer still stands."

Adams joined her at the door.

"When did Yarde go out?"

"Last night. Is he in trouble?"

"Not that I know of. What time last night?"

"About eight. Are you coming in or are you just wasting my time?"

"I told you I was a police officer," Adams said patiently. "You are giving me evidence for an arrest."

The girl giggled.

"Funny man! Didn't anyone tell you this joint's got protection?" She made a face at him and closed the door.

Adams scratched his chin thoughtfully, then moved back to room 10, turned the handle of the door and pushed speculatively. To his surprise the door swung open. He put his hand on the inside wall and groped for the light switch, found it and turned it down.

The disorder that met his eyes made him step quickly into the room and close the door.

The room looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. Drawers were pulled out and their contents strewn over the floor. The bedding had been ripped: the mattress stuffing and the pillow feathers were all over the room. The two easy chairs had been ripped to pieces. Pictures had been taken down, and now lay on the floor, their backs torn off. The wardrobe door stood open: suits, shoes, shirts and underwear lay in a disordered heap before the wardrobe.