Mr. Engleman's narrow mouth was still formed into a perfect circle as Gerald breezed out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Miss Goode, Mr. Engleman's secretary, was leaning over the water cooler just outside as Gerald passed. He hesitated a moment and then playfully patted her.
"Go," he said. "Go at once. He needs you. The master…"
He looked down into her indignant, startled eyes as she swung around and faced him and then smiled at her sweetly and shrugged his shoulders.
In another minute he was back in his own small cubbyhole of an office. His one-fifth secretary had finished whatever she had been doing at his desk and he slammed the door and fell into his hard, straight-backed chair. He reached for the telephone.
"Kitty," he said, "bring me the telephone book." He waited a moment and then spoke again. "All of them, my sweet," he said. "All of them. Brooklyn, Staten Island, Manhattan, Queens, Kings and anything else you might lay your lovely little hands on. At once."
He replaced the receiver, coughed and looked at the cigar in his hand then casually tossed it out of the opened window at his side.
"A poor thing at best," he said.
***
The Commissioner finished reading the editorial, his face purple and his voice edged with scorn. Carefully he folded the newspaper and laid it down at the side of his desk and then he looked up at the group of men standing in front of the desk.
"Well, you all heard it," he said. "I guess I don't have to tell you what the reaction is going to be. Like the rest of you, I'm a career man myself; I guess some of you can remember back to the time I was wearing a patrolman's uniform. I'm a career man, but I'm also a politician. Otherwise you can bet I wouldn't be sitting here as Commissioner."
He hesitated to let the words sink in, looking down at his wrist watch and noticing that it was just after ten o'clock. He still had fifteen minutes before he had to meet the county chairman and he'd have to make it short and snappy.
"I'm not blaming any of you," he said, "but this sort of publicity, coming before a November election, certainly isn't doing us any good. Two policemen murdered in cold blood, a quarter of a million in jewels taken from under our noses, and nothing being done about it. I don't expect miracles, but if they are necessary, then miracles we will have. I want those jewels found. I want someone, someone who is still alive, for the district attorney."
Lieutenant Hooper was pretty tired, having been up for more than forty hours without sleep, and his temper was anything but complacent.
"Who doesn't?" he asked. "Who doesn't? Nobody wants to crack this one more than I do-or any of the other boys downstairs."
The Commissioner half turned and stared at him. "I don't doubt it," he said. "That's just why we are having this little meeting; why I want to find out what's going on before I see the big boss this morning. And so far, it seems nothing is going on. Why, you've even managed to lose the one possible lead you had. I am referring, as you know, to the Dunne girl."
"There was nothing we could hold her on," Hopper said.
"You couldn't hold her perhaps," the Commissioner answered him, "but by God you could have at least kept track of her. I think we all agreed that there was a good chance she might lead us to something or another. And so what has happened? Well, she has disappeared. We haven't the faintest idea where she is or why."
"We know that she saw that Hanna fellow," Hopper said. "We know that there is some sort of connection there. It was a case of the man tailing one or the other. He chose Hanna. Perhaps he guessed wrong, but there is no telling about that."
The Commissioner shook his head.
"You boys are barking up the wrong tree," he said. "I've gone over the reports. Gone over them very carefully. This man Hanna just doesn't fit. Doesn't fit at all."
"If we brought him in and took him down to the basement for a workout, I'd make him fit. all right," Finn said. "What he needs is a touch of the…"
The Commissioner raised his hand. "He's not the sort of person you can take down to the basement-you know that, Finn. Not that sort of person at all."
"We're keeping a man on him twenty-four hours a day." Lieutenant Hopper said. "We're watching every move he makes. If he is involved, it's a lot better letting him have his freedom and giving him enough rope to hang himself."
"I quite agree," the Commissioner said. "Well, that's the story. The newspapers are on our backs and we have to do something about it. And damned soon. Those funerals are today and I get sick every time I think of the way the papers will bleed with sensationalism. So let's get moving on this thing. I want to be able to issue a statement for the morning papers that we are definitely solving the thing-and I want to have something in back of that statement."
He stood up, a gesture of dismissal.
"Lieutenant." he said, addressing Hopper, "you look dead on your feet. I think you better get a little rest before you get back to it."
"After the funeral," Hopper said. "I have a cot down in my office and I'll take a few hours out and get some sleep. But I want to be close by just in case anything should break. And we'll turn up the Dunne girl all right, don't worry about that. I've arranged to have her brother's body released and she's bound to show up and claim it."
***
There were two Fred Slaughters listed in the Manhattan directory, none in Queens, or the other boroughs. One of the Manhattan Slaughters was listed as a CPA and Gerald passed his number up for the second one, whose address was up on Central Park West.
Dialing the number, Gerald thought; another one, another one-card draw to an inside straight. That would be what the odds were, one in a thousand or so. He smiled wryly. Things had certainly changed ail right. This business of taking outside chances, playing the long odds, was becoming a habit.
As the sound of the bell at the other end hit to his ear, his mind went back to the scene in Engleman's office. Yes, he was certainly playing the long ones all right, only that hadn't been any gamble. That was a straight and simple matter of burning his bridges behind himself. At the moment he felt fine about it, exhilarated and all keyed up. He wondered if and when the reaction would set in. It isn't every day that a man callously and offhandedly ends a seven-year career as a mere gesture.
But then, of course, it wasn't every day that a man decides to completely change the course of his life, change the very essential pattern of his thinking and planning and living. The job, after all, was a minor thing in comparison to the other factors involved.
The ringing ended suddenly as someone lifted a receiver in the apartment on Central Park West.
"Hello?"
"Is Mr. Slaughter in?"
"Who's this?" It was a hard, uncompromising voice and Gerald detected a slightly Brooklynese accent.
"A business associate," Gerald said. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Slaughter. It is quite important!"
The voice at the other end didn't hesitate.
"You got no name, you ain't important," it said.
"It's important to Mr. Slaughter," Gerald said. "Very important. Mr. Slaughter lost something, lost something very valuable last Friday night. If he is interested, and he should be, you'd better get him to the phone."
There was a long pause and then finally, "Hang on." Two minutes later the second man came on the wire.
"Hello, are you there?"
"I'm here," Gerald said, feeling a sudden sense of excitement. There was an odd quality in that hard, gravelly voice, a quality which at once convinced him that he had the right person.
"What's this about my losing something? Who are…"
"I'll be in the lobby of the Walden at exactly one o'clock, this afternoon," Gerald said, ignoring the other man's question. "The Walden at one. Be there. Have Mr. Courtland paged-William Courtland. Come alone. Do it just as I say if you are interested in that little bundle that got away from your friends."
"Say, what the hell…"
Gerald hung up as the other man stuttered into the telephone.
The trick was going to be in getting out of the building. Gerald didn't know a great deal about police work or procedure, but he knew enough to realize that they would be watching him. They would be watching every move, never letting him out of their sight. As long as he was in the office he was safe. They wouldn't bother him here, not unless they picked him up, and so far they hadn't done that. But what he had to do. he couldn't do from his desk. He had to get out and had to insure that he'd have freedom of movement. He couldn't have a detective on his tail.
There would be the detective who had followed him that morning. The man would either be in the lobby of the building, waiting for him to leave, or he would be out by the bank of elevators on this particular floor. But there was one thing the man wouldn't know about. He wouldn't know about the private staircase between the two floors occupied by the insurance firm.
The upper floor was used entirely by clerical workers and when he reached it, Gerald walked out into the general room, filled by dozens of girls working at filing systems and IBM business machines. He advanced at once to an unoccupied desk. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs. Wilberton, the office supervisor, approaching. He turned to her.
"Mr. Engleman," he said, "down in the executive offices. His secretary's typewriter went on the bum. Wants to borrow a machine for an hour or so."
Mrs. Wilberton nodded, smiling.
"Why certainly," she said. "I dare say that one will fill the bill." She indicated the typewriter at the unoccupied desk. "Helen, she's one of our girls, is off today. If you will just wait a moment I'll have one of our boys take it down for you."
"Oh, that's all right," Gerald said. "I guess I can handle it all right."
"It's mighty heavy," Mrs. Wilberton said. "I think Johnny…"
"I can handle it fine," Gerald said, leaning down and picking up the machine. "I'll just use the freight elevator. If you would be good enough to come over with me and push the button…"
He waited until the operator had closed the door and then spoke.
"All the way to the basement," he said. "This damned thing weighs a ton."
The operator nodded sympathetically. "What are you goin' do, junk it?"
Gerald shook his head.
"Broken," he said. "Taking it over to get it fixed up. I left my car in the alley in back of the building. They told me there's a door from the basement leading into the alley."
"That's right," the elevator man said. "You know," he added, "my kid is learning to use one of them things. I'm sending her to business school. She wanted to go to art school but her mother and me, we think it's a lot smarter she should learn something where she can make a living."
"You're absolutely right," Gerald said.
"Yep, she didn't want to, but she's learning business. I get a little ahead of the game, or if one of my numbers comes in, I'm going to get her one of them machines to practice on at home."
They reached the basement and he brought the elevator to a stop.
"I'll show you the door," he said.
Gerald, carrying the typewriter, followed him to the rear of the building. The man opened the door and Gerald stepped out, noticing at once that there was no one in sight. He sighed and laid the typewriter down at his feet.
"Thanks," he said, starting to walk away.
"Hey. Hey, what about the typewriter? You left the typewriter…" The man was staring at his retiring back in bewilderment.
"Give it to your daughter," Gerald said over his shoulder. "Consider it a gift from the Seaboard Insurance Company for your loyal and devoted work over the years. She deserves it."
The man stared at him open-mouthed as he turned the corner of the building.
He was in luck. There was a cab at the curb.
***
They sat side by side on a deep couch at the back end of the lobby, speaking in low whispers. They didn't look at each other as they talked.
He'd been very careful in his selection of the spot, seeking out a secluded area, but one from which he could see most of the open space in the large public room. He wanted to be out of the main current of traffic, a place where no one would be able to overhear what they had to say. At the same time, he was careful to select a location that would keep the two of them within sight of other persons. He had no idea of what sort of man this Slaughter would turn out to be and he was taking no chances.
Now, sitting here talking with him, he wondered why he had worried. With the exception of that odd, gravelly voice, Fred Slaughter was merely another run of the mill, middle-aged, businessman. He could have been a salesman or an executive, a contractor or a dress manufacturer. There was nothing either sinister or dangerous in his manner or in his attitude.
They'd been talking now for a good half hour.
"Yes," Slaughter said, "you could be telling me the truth. And then again, maybe not. Maybe, instead of being just an innocent passer-by-an insurance man you said your racket was, didn't you-well maybe instead of that you are a cop. How do I know? You don't look like a cop, but today, nobody does. What with these college graduates and all."
"I have identification…" Gerald began, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
Slaughter put out a hand.
"Don't bother," he said. "Don't bother about showing me anything. Identification would be the very first thing a cop would have." He stopped speaking for a moment and then looked up.