that with women like that don’t usually take them for granted.
They shower them with presents, try to keep them happy with diamonds, mink coats. And the kind of money Grand was taking in
over the last six months, there’s no way he could do that.”
“So then you think Grand did it!” Gray exclaimed, silently clapping his hands, and then rubbing them together with quiet glee
and anticipation.
“I think it’s a possibility, that’s all,” Lockwood said, enjoying the look of frustration and disappointment the words worked
on his employer.
“All right,” Gray sighed. “Who else?”
“Grand’s wife.”
“She did it for him, you think?”
“Possible. But it could also be she thought he was in the club, and tried to kill two birds with one stone, making herself
rich and a merry widow at the same time.”
“Does she seem the type?”
“No, but when did that ever stop anybody?” Lockwood asked, remembering all those in the past who’d fooled him—for a time.
Gray was obviously remembering, too.
“All right, who else?” the pallid-skinned man asked.
“Vinnie Griese.”
“The—ah—mobster?” Gray asked, a little nervously. Lockwood had once stashed a gangster with him for a few days, and the experience
had left him with nerves that since then had never quite stopped jangling.
“The same. Since I came on the case, he’s tried to have me killed. It may have been only because he caught me with his girl,
but I’d be inclined to think he wanted me out of the way for more serious reasons.”
Gray was distracted again. “His girl. Ah, I hope—ah, trust—that she was worth taking whatever risks were finally entailed?”
Lockwood considered bringing Tawny Tourette, naked, up to the office. His guess was that there was no way Gray could take
the shock. He was a man of dreams, lurid, sickening dreams, but when confronted with reality… the detective felt sorely tempted.
Instead, he said, merely, “That’s unimportant. More to the point, she’s also suspect. Grand fired her and she hates him. So
does another employee, a fellow named Len Claypool. He’s embittered enough as it is, a frustrated actor, an invalid wife,
an all-out crush on Grand’s wife…”
“My God, Bill,” Gray protested, “it sounds as if everyone you’ve come across looks like a suspect to you.”
“Including the cop who discovered the fire,” Lockwood admitted.
Gray’s fingers, which had been darting birdlike over his pince-nez, stopped in midflight. “Why?”
“I don’t know. There’s just something…” Lockwood mused. “Something about the whole thing that doesn’t quite add up…”
Mr. Gray looked disheartened. “I was counting on you, Bill…”
Lockwood stubbed out his cigarette in Gray’s pristine ashtray, rather than in the tray on the table near his own chair. He
enjoyed watching the older man flinch. Germs. Lockwood’s germs. The disinfectant would be out the minute he left the office.
“You can still count on me,” he said. “For the time being, you can count on me finding out about the bartender and waiter
who never got out that locked front entrance.”
Chapter Eight
The family of the waiter, Charlie Papadapolous, was able to tell him nothing. The wife, the three kids stood there, sad-eyed,
and made him regret he’d ever gone into the business. He could see that every word he asked was a knife in them, a reminder
of the husband and father they’d lost.
It was the same with the bartender’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. McMahon. They sat there politely, offering him tea, a drink, answering
every one of his questions fully and with utter politeness, doing all they could to conceal the abject misery his visit was
putting them through.
McMahon had had a girl, they said, and he was grateful for the information, rushing through the final questions, eager to
get out of there and leave them alone.
She lived in a crumbling apartment house in Brooklyn on
They shower them with presents, try to keep them happy with diamonds, mink coats. And the kind of money Grand was taking in
over the last six months, there’s no way he could do that.”
“So then you think Grand did it!” Gray exclaimed, silently clapping his hands, and then rubbing them together with quiet glee
and anticipation.
“I think it’s a possibility, that’s all,” Lockwood said, enjoying the look of frustration and disappointment the words worked
on his employer.
“All right,” Gray sighed. “Who else?”
“Grand’s wife.”
“She did it for him, you think?”
“Possible. But it could also be she thought he was in the club, and tried to kill two birds with one stone, making herself
rich and a merry widow at the same time.”
“Does she seem the type?”
“No, but when did that ever stop anybody?” Lockwood asked, remembering all those in the past who’d fooled him—for a time.
Gray was obviously remembering, too.
“All right, who else?” the pallid-skinned man asked.
“Vinnie Griese.”
“The—ah—mobster?” Gray asked, a little nervously. Lockwood had once stashed a gangster with him for a few days, and the experience
had left him with nerves that since then had never quite stopped jangling.
“The same. Since I came on the case, he’s tried to have me killed. It may have been only because he caught me with his girl,
but I’d be inclined to think he wanted me out of the way for more serious reasons.”
Gray was distracted again. “His girl. Ah, I hope—ah, trust—that she was worth taking whatever risks were finally entailed?”
Lockwood considered bringing Tawny Tourette, naked, up to the office. His guess was that there was no way Gray could take
the shock. He was a man of dreams, lurid, sickening dreams, but when confronted with reality… the detective felt sorely tempted.
Instead, he said, merely, “That’s unimportant. More to the point, she’s also suspect. Grand fired her and she hates him. So
does another employee, a fellow named Len Claypool. He’s embittered enough as it is, a frustrated actor, an invalid wife,
an all-out crush on Grand’s wife…”
“My God, Bill,” Gray protested, “it sounds as if everyone you’ve come across looks like a suspect to you.”
“Including the cop who discovered the fire,” Lockwood admitted.
Gray’s fingers, which had been darting birdlike over his pince-nez, stopped in midflight. “Why?”
“I don’t know. There’s just something…” Lockwood mused. “Something about the whole thing that doesn’t quite add up…”
Mr. Gray looked disheartened. “I was counting on you, Bill…”
Lockwood stubbed out his cigarette in Gray’s pristine ashtray, rather than in the tray on the table near his own chair. He
enjoyed watching the older man flinch. Germs. Lockwood’s germs. The disinfectant would be out the minute he left the office.
“You can still count on me,” he said. “For the time being, you can count on me finding out about the bartender and waiter
who never got out that locked front entrance.”
Chapter Eight
The family of the waiter, Charlie Papadapolous, was able to tell him nothing. The wife, the three kids stood there, sad-eyed,
and made him regret he’d ever gone into the business. He could see that every word he asked was a knife in them, a reminder
of the husband and father they’d lost.
It was the same with the bartender’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. McMahon. They sat there politely, offering him tea, a drink, answering
every one of his questions fully and with utter politeness, doing all they could to conceal the abject misery his visit was
putting them through.
McMahon had had a girl, they said, and he was grateful for the information, rushing through the final questions, eager to
get out of there and leave them alone.
She lived in a crumbling apartment house in Brooklyn on
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