Chapter 4 #2
“My papers are in my pocket,” said Lambert eagerly. He lowered one hand, but it shot up again when the Sergeant waved his gun.
“I’ll get ’em,” Rosenblatt offered.
“O.K., but don’t get between me and him.”
The D.A. retrieved the papers and studied them. “U.S.
Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation. All in order,” he sighed.
Lambert’s sigh was considerably more heartfelt. “Can I put my hands down, please?”
Reluctantly Gilligan nodded, but he did not put away his gun. “Who’s to say he wasn’t hired on as an agent just to croak Carmody?” he demanded.
“Mr. Hoover, my boss, isn’t one of the people Carmody had an interest in. He’s working to get things running on the level again, after the mess Burns made of the Bureau.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” Lambert assured him. “See, Burns used federal agents to run his own detective agency. I wasn’t one of them, I’ve only just joined.”
“Just outta college and still wet behind the ears,” Gilligan muttered, returning his gun to its holster at last. Then he noticed that Pascoli, all ears, was scribbling in a notebook. “Hey, you!”
“Me?” Pascoli said innocently.
“Yeah, you. Whaddaya think you’re doing? You’re not a reporter.”
“No,” said Rosenblatt, “but he’s editor of a news weekly, which isn’t that different. I guess it’s useless to ask you to hand over your notes.”
“Damn right!”
“But we have no more questions for you at present, Mr. Pascoli, and I’m certain you’re anxious to get back to your work.”
Pascoli grinned. “If you say so.” He waved his notebook in a jaunty farewell, which made Gilligan bite through his dead cigar to grit his teeth audibly.
Rosenblatt turned back to Lambert. “All the same,” he said, “I get notified whenever a new federal agent is stationed here, as a courtesy and to prevent mix-ups, and you’re not on the list. If you weren’t after Carmody, what brought you to the ‘Big Apple,’ and to the Flatiron Building just when he was killed? ”
Lambert threw an apologetic look at Daisy. “I was tailing Mrs. Fletcher here.”
Rosenblatt and Gilligan swung round to stare at her. The sergeant’s hand hovered over his chest as if he wasn’t sure whether to draw again. “Her?” he asked, incredulous. “The dame’s ‘wanted’? Geez, she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
“No, no,” Lambert sputtered, “just to protect her. Mr. Hoover was told by an English cop, a Superintendent Stork, that Mrs. Fletcher has a habit of landing herself in trouble.”
“Superintendent Crane,” corrected Daisy. “The rotter! How beastly of him!”
“You know this superintendent bird, ma’am?” said Rosenblatt dryly.
“He’s my husband’s superior in the Metropolitan Police,” Daisy admitted, hoping they would not have heard of the Met.
“Metropolitan … Isn’t that Scotland Yard?” The Deputy D.A. blinked. “Your husband’s a Scotland Yard man?”
“Yes, actually. He’s a Detective Chief Inspector.”
“Geez, Chief Inspector? Whassat in our ranks?” demanded Sergeant Gilligan.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m sure the system is quite different, and in any case he has no official standing here,” Daisy said tactfully.
“Chief Inspector Fletcher is in Washington in his official capacity,” Lambert contradicted her with a certain relish. “He is advising our government.”
“Aw, rats!” said Gilligan.
“In Washington,” Rosenblatt pointed out. “Not here. Mrs. Fletcher, ma’am, I’d be grateful if you could see your way to giving us your evidence now, so that we need not keep you any longer.”
Daisy decided to exploit her newfound advantage. “Would you mind awfully if I finish my sandwich first, Mr. Rosenblatt? I really am frightfully hungry.”
Gilligan turned an interesting shade of purple, and Rosenblatt looked as if he was biting his tongue. Fortunately, a large, stolid uniformed policeman—patrolman?—came in to report, so Daisy didn’t discover the limits of her power. She listened as she munched.
“Whole building’s been combed, sir, roof to basement. Ain’t nobody that don’t have a good reason to be here.”
“Whassa doorman say?” asked Gilligan.
“Doormen, Sergeant. There’s two main entrances, on the Avenue and Broadway.
They say nobody’s been let to leave since the first patrolman got here after the homicide was phoned in.
But gen‘rally they don’t make a note of everyone that comes in and don’t take no notice of them going out, ’specially at lunchtime.
It’s a commercial building, see, not like one of them fancy apartment buildings that no stranger gets in without they buzz the residents. ”
“I know it’s a commercial building,” Gilligan snapped.
“And then there’s the doors from the lobby to the shops on the street level. They got outside doors, too. We talked to all the shop clerks, but there’s people going in and out alia time, specially in the lunch hour. They don’t notice
’em ’less they looks like they’re gonna buy sumpin or pinch sumpin.”
The sergeant groaned. “What about the elevator attendants? Someone gotta of seen sumpin!”
“Seems three of ‘em goes unofficially off duty between the lunch rush out and the lunch rush in. Poker in the basement, I reckon. They ain’t none of ’em noticed nuttin outta the way, ’cepting the old buzzard what the stiff fell on toppa his elevator.”
“And what did he see?” asked Rosenblatt.
“The stiff on toppa his elevator, sir.”
The D.A.’s mouth twitched, whether in amusement or irritation Daisy couldn’t tell. “The stairs start at the second-floor level,” he said. “So our fugitive must’ve taken the elevator down to the ground, so one of the men must’ve seen him.”
“There’s service and emergency stairs from first to second, sir. I guess he musta took ’em. The doors ain’t locked.”
“They wouldn’t be,” Rosenblatt sighed. “You took the name and address of everyone in the building that doesn’t work here? And where they claim to have been when Carmody was shot?”
“Yessir. Detective O’Rourke’s got the dope.”
“O.K., we’ll try to get a decent description of the guy that was seen running off, then we’ll need—lessee—make it four men to go round again. The rest of you can go for now.”
“Figure we’ll need more’n four, sir,” grunted Gilligan. “Or it’ll take all day.”
It was the first unmistakable sign Daisy had seen that the detective was not happy to have the District Attorney’s Office
supervising his investigation. She wondered just what Rosenblatt’s duties were in such a case. There was no equivalent in England to his position.
Rosenblatt conceded. “O.K., O.K., Sergeant, however many you need. Now, Mrs. Fletcher, if you’ve quite finished your sandwich, let’s hear what you have to tell us about Carmody’s death.”
Daisy swallowed the last bite and followed it with a draught of strong black, lukewarm coffee. Other than Alec’s presence, the one thing in the world she wanted was a hot cup of tea to fortify her for the interrogation.