Part 36 (1/2)
Jack Harris revealed nothing new, merely reinforced what I had managed to pick up elsewhere along the line. I talked to him for fifteen minutes or so. He left, and Joe Conn came into the room.
He wasn't happy. ”They said you wanted to see me,” he muttered. ”We'll have to make it short, London. I've got a pile of work this afternoon and my nerves are jumping all over the place as it is.”
The part about the nerves was something he didn't have to tell me. He didn't sit still, just paced back and forth like a lion in a cage before chow time.
I could play it slow and easy or fast and hard, looking to shock and jar. If he was the one who killed her, his nervousness now gave me an edge. I decided to press it.
I got up, walked over to Conn. A short stocky man, crew cut, no tie. ”When did you start sleeping with Karen?” I snapped.
He spun around wide-eyed. ”You're crazy!”
”Don't play games,” I told him. ”The whole office knows you were bedding her.”
I watched him. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
”What is this, London?”
”Your wife doesn't know about Karen, does she?”
”d.a.m.n you.” He moved toward me. ”How much, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d? A private detective.” He snickered. ”Sure you are. You're a d.a.m.n blackmailer, London. How much?”
”Just how much did Karen ask for?” I said. ”Enough to make you kill her?”
He answered with a left hook that managed to find the point of my chin and send me cras.h.i.+ng back against the wall. There was a split second of blackness. Then he was coming at me again, fists ready, and I spun aside, ducked, and planted a fist of my own in his gut. He grunted and threw a right at me. I took it on the shoulder and tried his belly again. It was softer this time. He wheezed and folded up. I hit him in the face and just managed to pull the punch at the last minute. It didn't knock him out-only spilled him on the seat of his tweed pants.
”You've got a good punch, London.”
”So do you,” I said. My jaw still ached.
”You ever do any boxing?”
”No.”
”I did,” he said. ”In the Navy. I still try to keep in shape. If I hadn't been so angry I'd have taken you.”
”Maybe.”
”But I got mad,” he said. ”Irish temper, I guess. Are you trying to shake me down?”
”No.”
”You don't honestly think I killed Karen, do you?”
”Did you?”
”G.o.d, no.”
I didn't say anything.
”You think I killed her,” he said hollowly. ”You must be insane. I'm no killer, London.”
”Of course. You're a meek little man.”
”You mean just now? I lost my temper.”
”Sure.”
”Oh, h.e.l.l,” he said. ”I never killed her. You got me mad. I don't like shakedowns and I don't like being called a murderer. That's all, d.a.m.n you.”
I called Jerry Gunther from a pay phone in the lobby. ”Two things,” I told the lieutenant. ”First, I think I've got a hotter prospect for you than Donahue. A man named Joe Conn, one of the boys at the stag. I tried shaking him up a little and he cracked wide open, tried to beat my brains in. He's got a good motive, too.”
”Ed, listen-”
”That's the first thing,” I said. ”The other is that I've been trying to get in touch with my client for the past too-many hours and can't reach him. Did you have him picked up again?”
There was a long pause. All at once the air in the phone booth felt much too close. Something was wrong.
”I saw Donahue half an hour ago,” Jerry said. ”I'm afraid he killed that girl, Ed.”
”He confessed?” I couldn't believe it.
”He confessed...in a way.”
”I don't get it.”
A short sigh. ”It happened yesterday,” Jerry said. ”I can't give you the time until we get the medical examiner's report, but the guess is that it was just after we let him go. He sat down at his typewriter and dashed off a three-line confession. Then he stuck a gun in his mouth and made a mess. The lab boys are still there trying to sc.r.a.pe his brains off the ceiling. Ed?”
”What?”
”You didn't say anything...I didn't know if you were still on the line. Look, everybody guesses wrong some of the time.”
”This was more than a guess. I was sure.”
”Well, listen, I'm on my way to Donahue's place again. If you want to take a run over there you can have a look for yourself. I don't know what good it's going to do-”
”I'll meet you there,” I said.
EIGHT.
The lab crew left shortly after we arrived. ”Just a formality for the inquest,” Jerry Gunther said. ”That's all.”
”You're sure it's a suicide, then?”
”Stop dreaming, Ed. What else?”
What else? All that was left in the world of Mark Donahue was sprawled in a chair at a desk. There was a typewriter in front of him and a gun on the floor beside him. The gun was just where it would have dropped after a suicide shot of that nature. There were no little inconsistencies.