I looked from him to Captain Corson. He was still prowling the living room, touching this, handling that, listening with one ear. As I watched, he picked something small and white from one of the twists of a loop throw rug. He looked at it thoughtfully a moment, then dropped it in his vest pocket.
For a moment no one spoke. Olson broke the silence. His voice was thin and hurt like he’d been put upon. “Well, there certainly are no bodies and no disorder here. And after the wild and unsubstantial charges that the sergeant has made, he can’t be completely normal.”
I said, “Heifer dust to that,” and started for the hall door. The framed picture of Mona stopped me. There was something wrong about it. Then I thought I knew what it was.
Olson asked, “You’re willing to swear that the sergeant has never been in this apartment before?”
“I swear,” LaFanti swore. “You heard the elevator boy. You heard what Gloria said.”
“And Tommy and Gordon —?”
“Are down at my place in the Dunes.” LaFanti nodded at the bedroom door. “After all, when a man has company —”
Captain Corson figured my move just as I reached for the knob of the hall door. “Hold it, fellow,” he said.
I slipped the gun I’d taken away from Tommy out from under my coat. “In an old-fashioned campaign hat,” I told him. “I’m not nuts and no one is going to make me play with blocks and try to put square pegs in round holes. All I want from you is the answer to one question.”
Corson asked flatly, “What?”
“If a lad is committed to the psycho ward in this man’s town, how long does it take to put him through the mill?”
“Four or five days.”
“And there you have it,” I told him. “By the time the sicky-ackys give me a clean bill of health, the little doll in the death house will be dead.”
None of the men in the room moved, with the exception of one of the camera men. He took a flash of me holding the gun on Corson.
I opened the door and slammed it behind me. I’d reached the elevator by the time LaFanti tugged it open. He shouted, “Stop him. The man is crazy.”
I shot off the lobe of his left ear and he closed the door a lot faster than he’d opened it.
The elevator punk was afraid I was going to kill him. “So help me, Sergeant —” he whimpered.
I pushed the gun in his ribs. “All the way down — fast.” Passing the fourth floor I asked him, “How much did LaFanti pay you to cover for him?”
He was afraid of me, but more afraid of LaFanti. Sweat beaded on his cheeks and dripped from the bulb of his nose. “I — I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I didn’t have time to argue with him. I walked past the cordon of detectives and uniformed cops that Captain Corson had posted and whistled down a Loop-bound cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Just drive,” I told him. “I don’t know just where I want to go.”
I didn’t. I had a lot to do and not much time in which to do it. From now on, both LaFanti and his boys would be looking for me. After pulling a gun the way I had and shooting off part of Joe LaFanti’s ear, even Captain Corson would think I was crazy.
Chapter Eight
W ITH THE exception of the night clubs and bars and hotels, and here and there a hock shop, most of the store fronts along North Clark Street were dark.
I got out of the cab at Chicago Avenue and walked south slowly, through a blare of slip-horns and saxophones and the tinkle of pianos. Sin, it would seem, was popular in Chicago. North Clark Street was lined with bars and night clubs, most of them featuring strippers, all of them doing business.
I stopped and looked in the window of a lighted hock shop with the name North Star Loan on the window. Up near the door there was a showcase filled with shirts and three revolving racks of ties. Back of the show case I could see a display of straw hats. I wanted to contact Mona’s lawyer, but the first thing I had to do was get out of uniform.
For a moment no one spoke. Olson broke the silence. His voice was thin and hurt like he’d been put upon. “Well, there certainly are no bodies and no disorder here. And after the wild and unsubstantial charges that the sergeant has made, he can’t be completely normal.”
I said, “Heifer dust to that,” and started for the hall door. The framed picture of Mona stopped me. There was something wrong about it. Then I thought I knew what it was.
Olson asked, “You’re willing to swear that the sergeant has never been in this apartment before?”
“I swear,” LaFanti swore. “You heard the elevator boy. You heard what Gloria said.”
“And Tommy and Gordon —?”
“Are down at my place in the Dunes.” LaFanti nodded at the bedroom door. “After all, when a man has company —”
Captain Corson figured my move just as I reached for the knob of the hall door. “Hold it, fellow,” he said.
I slipped the gun I’d taken away from Tommy out from under my coat. “In an old-fashioned campaign hat,” I told him. “I’m not nuts and no one is going to make me play with blocks and try to put square pegs in round holes. All I want from you is the answer to one question.”
Corson asked flatly, “What?”
“If a lad is committed to the psycho ward in this man’s town, how long does it take to put him through the mill?”
“Four or five days.”
“And there you have it,” I told him. “By the time the sicky-ackys give me a clean bill of health, the little doll in the death house will be dead.”
None of the men in the room moved, with the exception of one of the camera men. He took a flash of me holding the gun on Corson.
I opened the door and slammed it behind me. I’d reached the elevator by the time LaFanti tugged it open. He shouted, “Stop him. The man is crazy.”
I shot off the lobe of his left ear and he closed the door a lot faster than he’d opened it.
The elevator punk was afraid I was going to kill him. “So help me, Sergeant —” he whimpered.
I pushed the gun in his ribs. “All the way down — fast.” Passing the fourth floor I asked him, “How much did LaFanti pay you to cover for him?”
He was afraid of me, but more afraid of LaFanti. Sweat beaded on his cheeks and dripped from the bulb of his nose. “I — I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I didn’t have time to argue with him. I walked past the cordon of detectives and uniformed cops that Captain Corson had posted and whistled down a Loop-bound cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Just drive,” I told him. “I don’t know just where I want to go.”
I didn’t. I had a lot to do and not much time in which to do it. From now on, both LaFanti and his boys would be looking for me. After pulling a gun the way I had and shooting off part of Joe LaFanti’s ear, even Captain Corson would think I was crazy.
Chapter Eight
W ITH THE exception of the night clubs and bars and hotels, and here and there a hock shop, most of the store fronts along North Clark Street were dark.
I got out of the cab at Chicago Avenue and walked south slowly, through a blare of slip-horns and saxophones and the tinkle of pianos. Sin, it would seem, was popular in Chicago. North Clark Street was lined with bars and night clubs, most of them featuring strippers, all of them doing business.
I stopped and looked in the window of a lighted hock shop with the name North Star Loan on the window. Up near the door there was a showcase filled with shirts and three revolving racks of ties. Back of the show case I could see a display of straw hats. I wanted to contact Mona’s lawyer, but the first thing I had to do was get out of uniform.
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