up the empty wallet, then looked at me. "Where do you fit?" he asked.
"Acquaintance," I said. "Met the guy in a bar on Sixth Street. He left word that he wanted to see me. I came up, he was dead."
"When'd you last see him alive?" Mooney was watching me. He had an eye, this dick did.
"About three days ago." I hesitated then told him how I'd followed him from a bar, and what I'd seen. I didn't mention the diamonds.
"Well," he said, "there wasn't anybody around to help him the second time. Looks like they killed him when he made a fuss."
"I don't think so."
Mooney looked up at me. "Why?"
"Seagram thought the girl was on the level. I think maybe he found her again. If I'm any judge, he was going to try when he left me. Well, he must have found her.
Either he learned something he wasn't supposed to know, or they tracked him home and knocked him off."
"Know his family?" Mooney asked.
"Nuh uh."
"Who are you? Your face looks familiar." Mooney was still studying me. I could see he wasn't sure I was in the clear. He was a tight-mouthed guy.
"I used to be a fighter."
"Yeah, I remember." He studied me. "Every once in a while you hear of a fighter turning crooked."
"Yeah? Every once in a while you hear of a banker turning crooked, too, or a cop."
"It doesn't sound right," he said. "You followed them home because you figured it was a heist job. Why didn't you call the police?"
"What world are you living in? You can't walk up to a cop and tell him you think somebody is going to stick up somebody else just because you feel it in here." I tapped myself on the chest. "I knew the signs, and I tailed along."
"You had a fight with the guy?" Mooney asked.
"Yeah." I nodded. "You might check your hospitals.
The guy had a broken nose when he left me, and he lost a couple of teeth. He had at least three deep cuts, too."
"You work 'em over, huh?" Mooney turned. "Graham, get started on that."
Mooney took my address and I left. Me, I had an idea or two. The girl didn't fit. Somehow she had got mixed up with the wrong crowd, and she might be afraid to ask for help even if she got the chance because of her folks or husband or someone hearing about it; women are funny that way. Seagram might have seen her again, followed her, and tried to learn something. That was when he tried to get hold of me. Then, he went home and they got him.
Yet Blubber Puss didn't fit into the killing. He was a gun man or muscle man. He wouldn't use a shiv. Also, he must have his face well bandaged by now. He would be too easily remembered.
Back in my own place, I dug out a .380 Colt that I had and strapped it into a holster that fit around the inside of my thigh under my pants. This one I carried before, and it was ready to use. There was a zipper in the bottom of my right pants pocket, the gun butt just a little lower. I could take a frisk and it would never be found. On my hip, I stuck the rod I took off Blubber Puss.
By nine o'clock, I had eliminated two of the addresses on the envelope. The third and last one was my best bet. It turned out to be a big stone house in the hills above Hollywood. It was set back in some trees and shrubbery with a high wall all the way around.
The gate was closed and locked tight. I could see the shine of a big black car standing in front of the house, almost concealed by the intervening shrubbery. Turning, I walked along the dark street under the trees. About twenty yards farther along, I found what I sought-a big tree with limbs overhanging the wall.
With a quick glance both ways, I jumped and, catching the limb, pulled myself up. Then, I crawled along the limb until I was across the wall; I dropped to the lawn.
My idea of the thing was this: Seagram had run into the girl again. Maybe he had talked to her, probably not. But, mindful of what I'd told him, he might have been uncertain of her, and so maybe he had tailed her. Then, he had tried to come in here. Perhaps he had convinced himself she was okay, or he was
"Acquaintance," I said. "Met the guy in a bar on Sixth Street. He left word that he wanted to see me. I came up, he was dead."
"When'd you last see him alive?" Mooney was watching me. He had an eye, this dick did.
"About three days ago." I hesitated then told him how I'd followed him from a bar, and what I'd seen. I didn't mention the diamonds.
"Well," he said, "there wasn't anybody around to help him the second time. Looks like they killed him when he made a fuss."
"I don't think so."
Mooney looked up at me. "Why?"
"Seagram thought the girl was on the level. I think maybe he found her again. If I'm any judge, he was going to try when he left me. Well, he must have found her.
Either he learned something he wasn't supposed to know, or they tracked him home and knocked him off."
"Know his family?" Mooney asked.
"Nuh uh."
"Who are you? Your face looks familiar." Mooney was still studying me. I could see he wasn't sure I was in the clear. He was a tight-mouthed guy.
"I used to be a fighter."
"Yeah, I remember." He studied me. "Every once in a while you hear of a fighter turning crooked."
"Yeah? Every once in a while you hear of a banker turning crooked, too, or a cop."
"It doesn't sound right," he said. "You followed them home because you figured it was a heist job. Why didn't you call the police?"
"What world are you living in? You can't walk up to a cop and tell him you think somebody is going to stick up somebody else just because you feel it in here." I tapped myself on the chest. "I knew the signs, and I tailed along."
"You had a fight with the guy?" Mooney asked.
"Yeah." I nodded. "You might check your hospitals.
The guy had a broken nose when he left me, and he lost a couple of teeth. He had at least three deep cuts, too."
"You work 'em over, huh?" Mooney turned. "Graham, get started on that."
Mooney took my address and I left. Me, I had an idea or two. The girl didn't fit. Somehow she had got mixed up with the wrong crowd, and she might be afraid to ask for help even if she got the chance because of her folks or husband or someone hearing about it; women are funny that way. Seagram might have seen her again, followed her, and tried to learn something. That was when he tried to get hold of me. Then, he went home and they got him.
Yet Blubber Puss didn't fit into the killing. He was a gun man or muscle man. He wouldn't use a shiv. Also, he must have his face well bandaged by now. He would be too easily remembered.
Back in my own place, I dug out a .380 Colt that I had and strapped it into a holster that fit around the inside of my thigh under my pants. This one I carried before, and it was ready to use. There was a zipper in the bottom of my right pants pocket, the gun butt just a little lower. I could take a frisk and it would never be found. On my hip, I stuck the rod I took off Blubber Puss.
By nine o'clock, I had eliminated two of the addresses on the envelope. The third and last one was my best bet. It turned out to be a big stone house in the hills above Hollywood. It was set back in some trees and shrubbery with a high wall all the way around.
The gate was closed and locked tight. I could see the shine of a big black car standing in front of the house, almost concealed by the intervening shrubbery. Turning, I walked along the dark street under the trees. About twenty yards farther along, I found what I sought-a big tree with limbs overhanging the wall.
With a quick glance both ways, I jumped and, catching the limb, pulled myself up. Then, I crawled along the limb until I was across the wall; I dropped to the lawn.
My idea of the thing was this: Seagram had run into the girl again. Maybe he had talked to her, probably not. But, mindful of what I'd told him, he might have been uncertain of her, and so maybe he had tailed her. Then, he had tried to come in here. Perhaps he had convinced himself she was okay, or he was
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