Ned Beaumont said: “If you don’t keep your hand away from that catchup-bottle I’m going to shoot a hole in it.”
Jeff said: “You’re a heel.”
The young-middle-aged man with plump lips and round eyes opened the door, came in quickly, and shut it behind him.
Ned Beaumont said: “Jeff’s killed O’Rory. Phone the police. You’ll have time to clear the place before they get here. Better get a doctor, too, in case he’s not dead.”
Jeff laughed scornfully. “If he ain’t dead I’m the Pope.” He stopped laughing and addressed the plump-mouthed man with careless familiarity: “What do you think of this guy thinking you’re going to let him get away with that? Tell him what a fat chance he has of getting away with it, Tim.”
Tim looked at the dead man on the sofa, at Jeff, and at Ned Beaumont. His round eyes were sober. He spoke to Ned Beaumont, slowly: “This is a tough break for the house. Can’t we drag him out in the street and let him be found there?”
Ned Beaumont shook his head. “Get your place cleaned up before the coppers get here and you’ll be all right. I’ll do what I can for you.”
While Tim hesitated Jeff said: “Listen, Tim, you know me. You know–”
Tim said without especial warmth: “For Christ’s sake pipe down.”
Ned Beaumont smiled. “Nobody knows you, Jeff, now Shad’s dead.”
“No?” The apish man sat back more comfortably in his chair and his face cleared. “Well, turn me up. Now I know what kind of sons of bitches you are I’d rather take the fall than ask a God-damned thing of either of you.”
Tim, ignoring Jeff, asked: “Have to play it that way?”
Ned Beaumont nodded.
“I guess I can stand it,” Tim said and put his hand on the door-knob.
“Mind seeing if Jeff’s got a gun on him?” Ned Beaumont asked.
Tim shook his head. “It happened here, but I’ve got nothing to do with it and I’m going to have nothing to do with it,” he said and went out.
Jeff, slouching back comfortably in his chair, his hands idle on the edge of the table before him, talked to Ned Beaumont until the police came. He talked cheerfully, calling Ned Beaumont numerous profane and obscene and merely insulting names, accusing him of a long and varied list of vices.
Ned Beaumont listened with polite interest.
A raw-boned white-haired man in a lieutenant’s uniform was the first policeman to come in. Half a dozen police detectives were behind him.
Ned Beaumont said: “‘Lo, Brett. I think he’s got a gun on him.”
“What’s it all about?” Brett asked, looking at the body on the sofa while two of the detectives, squeezing past him, took hold of Jeff Gardner.
Ned Beaumont told Brett what had happened. His story was truthful except in giving the impression that O’Rory had been killed in the heat of their struggle and not after he had been disarmed.
While Ned Beaumont was talking a doctor came in, turned Shad O’Rory’s body over on the sofa, examined him briefly, and stood up. The Lieutenant looked at the doctor. The doctor said, “Gone,” and went out of the small crowded room.
Jeff was jovially cursing the two detectives who held him. Every time he cursed, one of the detectives struck him in the face with his fist. Jeff laughed and kept on cursing them. His false teeth had been knocked out. His mouth bled.
Ned Beaumont gave the dead man’s pistol to Brett and stood up. “Want me to come along to headquarters now? Or will tomorrow do?”
“Better come along now,” Brett replied.
4
It was long past midnight when Ned Beaumont left police headquarters. He said good-night to the two reporters who had come out with him and got into a taxicab. The address he gave the driver was Paul Madvig’s.
Lights were on in the ground-floor of Madvig’s house and as Ned Beaumont climbed the front steps the door was opened by Mrs. Madvig. She was dressed in black and had a shawl over her shoulders.
He said: “‘Lu, Mom. What are you doing up so late?”