Jackson ran down the stairs and turned east, away from the water front, walking at his usual pace, a rolling, long-gaited stride. After two blocks he turned under the el, walking south, his eyes sharp for familiar faces or prowl cars. Headquarters dicks didn’t worry him, but he knew that if he ran into one of the precinct men he would be picked up on sight. It was a chance he had to take. Several blocks south he turned again toward the water front along a quiet street fronted with warehouses, machine shops, and garages. Halfway down the block a narrow driveway ran between two warehouses to the rear entrance of a garage facing the next street.
Dawn was just breaking on a gray day, and a chill mist swirled in off the river. The street lights had been turned off, and the driveway lay deep in shadow. With a quick look back along the deserted street Jackson ducked into the shadows close to the wall and walked rapidly to a point directly beneath the upswung lower flight of a fire escape. A glance told him that the free end of the last flight of iron steps was high beyond his reach. Continuing on to the yard at the rear of the building, he found an empty tar barrel and carried it back. By standing on the barrel and jumping up he was able to catch the end of the iron stairs and swing with them to the ground. The rusty iron squeaked protestingly as it came down, and he waited there patiently for several minutes before he rolled the barrel across the alley with his foot and climbed carefully up to the first-floor landing of the fire escape, easing his weight off the steps so that the iron counterbalance swung them slowly and comparatively silently up behind him. He went up three more flights of iron steps and paused with his head just at the level of the roof. There was a penthouse and garden on the roof, looking particularly dejected and out of place in the gray water-front dawn.
Satisfied that the garden was deserted and that here were no overlooking roofs from which he might be observed, Jackson swung himself over the top rung of the fire escape. Walking noiselessly on the balls of his feet, he went toward the penthouse. He found an open window protected by a screen on a separate frame held shut by a hook. The sharp blade of his knife slashed a hole in the weather-beaten screening, with only a slight grating noise, and in a moment more the screen was unhooked, and he had slid through into the dim room beyond.
Moving against the wall away from the window, he stood still, accustoming his eyes to the half light. He had no sure way of knowing whether the penthouse was occupied or not and, if it was occupied, whether the occupants might have a gun. He squared his shoulders with a slight shrug, pulled his hat down firmly on his head, and stepped away from the wall.
The bedroom door was unlocked and swung open noiselessly. Half-closed Venetian blinds made the room darker than the rest of the house, but there was still light enough to see the big double bed jutting out from the wall at his left. Jackson had expected a man or perhaps a man and a woman. His eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw that the bed contained only one occupant—unmistakably female. He closed the door and moved forward cautiously until he stood beside the bed. The girl stirred uneasily, turning her head so that a shaft of light from the Venetian blinds fell upon her face.
Jackson grinned. He reached forward and switched on a reading lamp over the bed head.
“Hello, Mayme,” he said.
The girl’s eyes popped open, and she sat up immediately. She was a redhead, and her hair, even under the confines of a hair net, looked decidedly attractive. Her eyes were queer-shaped and black, now, in the sudden light, and her wide mouth needed no lipstick to accentuate its fullness. The face was a trifle too square, a trifle too prominent of jaw and chin line for beauty, but it was a handsome face with a challenge that men turned to stare at. Under blue silk pajamas her breasts were high and firm, and the curves of her figure, ineffectively hidden by the silken bed covering, were excitingly seductive.
She put up a hand with long magenta nails to shield her eyes from the light. “John,” she said, “you——”
Without warning, her hand darted toward the drawer of a small table on the other side of the bed. Jackson threw himself across the bed and grasped her wrist, but only after she had got the drawer open. Still holding the wrist, he took the gun from the drawer and righted himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, releasing his hold only when out of reach of the long nails.
“Easy does it, Mayme,” he said softly, slipping the gun into his pocket. “Sorry to rough you up that way.”
The girl straightened herself in the bed, breathing heavily, her eyes flaming. She cursed him deliberately and with exhaustive emphasis. Her language exceeded even Jackson’s water-front experience. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and cupped a knee in one hand, letting her cuss herself out, grinning appreciatively both at her eloquence and at the strip of very white flesh showing through the front of her pajama top that had become unbuttoned in their brief struggle.
“Not bad, Mayme,” he said. “Not bad at all for so early in the morning.”
Her eyes followed his, and she halted her tirade abruptly to jerk savagely at the blue silk. The action served to quiet her, and when she looked up again there was speculation and a hint of fear in the black eyes.
“You’re Jackson.” She appraised him. “I’ve heard plenty about you. I don’t know how you got in here or what you want and I don’t give a damn but if you don’t get out in one hell of a hurry I’m going to call the cops.”
Jackson’s grin broadened to a laugh. “Now, baby, how would that look? The cops finding you in Mr. Murdock’s bed. You know better than that.”
The fear in the girl’s eyes grew, and her belligerence collapsed suddenly. “Did Tommy——?”
Jackson shook his head. “No, Tommy didn’t tip me. My guess is, he doesn’t know.”
“Then how——?” She paused and bit her lip. “What do you want? Why did you come here?”
“And how did I know where to come?” Jackson mimicked her. “Look, sweetheart, I’ve had this layout spotted for months. Not that I like to play this way. This is a free country, and what you do and what Murdock does that doesn’t concern the water front is your own business. But I’m not particular when I’m fighting a murder frame.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, murder!” Jackson’s voice hardened, and the grin left his face. “Look, Mayme, let’s cut the horseplay and get down to cases. Where’s the boy friend?”
“Boy friend?” Mayme began, but Jackson interrupted harshly.
“Cut it, Mayme. You’re too smart to play games. Where’s John Murdock?”
Again the girl’s expression changed. Her eyes narrowed speculatively, and she was silent and thoughtful for a moment.
“Okay,” she said finally. “This is Murdock’s place, but what does that prove? It’s only your word against mine that I was here at all, and any one of twenty girl friends will swear I wasn’t. So what have you got, you——“ She cursed him again.
Jackson shook his head sadly. “So you’re not smart after all. Do you think I’d let you out of here? Look, baby, I mentioned murder. I came up here expecting to find Murdock and maybe you or some other twist and I came prepared to get what I want if I had to beat hell out of whoever asked for it. If you want to play that way say so, but I’m warning you, you won’t be pretty when they find you....Think of the scandal and the publicity. Murdock wouldn’t like that. ‘NIGHT-CLUB SINGER FOUND BEATEN IN SHIPOWNER’S LOVE NEST.’ See the headlines, Mayme? And think of what would happen to Tommy! He knows you have been playing around but doesn’t know how far you’ve gone. He probably thinks you still do it for love. My guess is he’d kill you.”
He watched the fear grow in Mayme’s eyes. “You know I’m right,” he finished. “You’re in a spot.”
A little crease of concentration appeared between the girl’s carefully plucked brows, and white teeth caught her upper lip and worried it. She reached out to a small blue box on the table, offered it to Jackson, and, when he shook his head, took a cigarette and lit it with a chromium-and-gold lighter. During the process her eyes never left his face.
She blew out smoke with a little sigh and nodded slowly.
“You’d do it, wouldn’t you,” she said. It was not a question but a statement of fact. Then suddenly her brow cleared, and she held out her hand with a dazzling smile. “Okay. You win. No hard feelings.”
Jackson ignored the hand. “No hard feelings,” he repeated. “Where’s Murdock?”
“I don’t know. He was here early last evening but he went out about eleven and didn’t come back. What do you want him for?”
Jackson laughed mirthlessly. “Blackmail. Just a little nice, quiet blackmail. He’s going to call off that frame on me and turn up the snake who killed old man Riorden and maybe sign a contract with the union while he’s in the mood, and I’m going to promise to be a gentleman and not tell his wife about little Mayme.”
“You’re crazy,” said Mayme scornfully. “He’d throw you out of the house.”
“That’s not my guess. He’s too smart.”
“But suppose”—Mayme’s dark eyes widened as she considered—“suppose John—Mr. Murdock—doesn’t know who did it or, suppose he does and can’t turn the guy up without being dragged into it himself.” She reached out a hand toward the phone. Her wide eyes were innocent.
“Look—let me try to reach him. Perhaps——”
Jackson caught her wrist and slapped the hand playfully. “Baby makes another move like that,” he said, “and I’ll black both her pretty eyes.”
The pretty eyes glared hate at him. “You’ll pay for this, you water-front bum. John Murdock’ll——”
“Can the chatter. John Murdock’ll play ball like a good little guy.”
His jaw thrust out, and his tone became cold as ice. “I’m not fooling, Mayme. I’m desperate. The man doesn’t live that can frame me and get away with it.”
He reached across the girl’s thighs and picked up the phone. “What’s that number you were going to call?”
Mayme hesitated, then said sullenly, “Clearfield 3793.”
A suave voice spoke from the other end of the line. “Mr. Murdock? I’m sorry, sir. He worked very late last night and left orders not to be disturbed before ten o’clock. Is there any message?”
“Yes,” said Jackson. “Tell him I’m coming out there and to wait for me. Tell him Jackson of the I.L.C. He knows who I am. And tell him I’m calling from his city apartment and that I said it was vital that I see him before I talk to the police. You understand?”
“Yes sir,” the voice said blandly. “I’ll tell him, sir, as soon as he’s awake. Thank you, sir.”
Jackson replaced the phone. He reached over and took Mayme’s left wrist, turning it so that he could see the small diamond-studded watch. It said seven-thirty. He stood up.
“Where’s your car, Mayme?”
“Well, of all the nerve,” said Mayme. “Take the ferry and the bus, you big lug.”
Jackson hesitated, pondering the idea of taking the girl with him. He decided against it. He didn’t trust her, and she’d be more bother than she was worth anyway.
He shook his head. “Nope, no ferry and bus for me, sweetheart. You’re gonna be a pal and lend me your car. You’ll get it back okay if I’m lucky.”
Mayme argued, pleaded, and lied, but Jackson was obdurate. Finally she gave in and said disgustedly,
“All right, you stubborn maniac, take it, and I hope you drive it off a dock.”
She gave him the keys and directed him to the parking lot around the corner. “Tell the guy I said it was okay. And now get the hell out of here, will you?”
“Thanks,” said Jackson, pocketing the keys. He glanced about him. The door of a closet across the room stood open, and he went to it and collected an armload of feminine apparel. There was a small overnight bag on the shelf, and he took that also. Mayme sat up in bed. “What the hell are you doing?” she screamed.
“Just making sure you don’t run out on me.”
He returned to the bed with Mayme’s clothes over one arm and gave the telephone a sharp yank, breaking the wire.
“Okay, now.” He grinned down into the girl’s furious face. “You’ll stay put, sweetheart, unless you want to go parading in your pajamas. They’re swell-looking pajamas, but there’s a law against indecent exposure—and, sister, are you indecent!”
He left Mayme sitting up in bed, gasping and making incoherent noises. He closed the bedroom door but found no means of locking it. He shrugged, stuffed the clothes into the overnight bag, and stepped through the door into the foyer that contained the automatic elevator.