Tiger By The Tail

Adams was short, thin and dapper. The wings of his thick chalk-white hair looked dazzling against the black of his hat. His face was long and pinched, with deep hollows in his cheeks. His nose was sharp-pointed and long. When he was in a rage, which was often, his slate-grey eyes lit up as if an electric bulb inside his head had been switched on. His face never gave away what he was thinking. He was known to be a hard, ruthless, bitter man who was as heartily hated by his men as he was by the criminals who were unfortunate enough to cross his path.

But he was a first-rate police officer. His brain was four times as sharp as Donovan's and Donovan knew it. The big man lived in perpetual fear of Adams, knowing that if he gave Adams the slightest excuse, Adams had enough influence to have Donovan thrown back on a beat.

Walking slowly, Adams commenced the long climb to the top floor.

The house was silent. He met no one. It was as if the occupant of each apartment as he passed knew he was in the house and was crouching behind the shut door, breathless and frightened.

Jackson, a red-faced cop, was standing on the top-floor landing as Adams came slowly up. He saluted and waited. He knew Adams well enough not to speak to him unless he was spoken to.

Adams walked into the big, airy sitting-room where Fletcher, the fingerprint expert, was already at work.

Donovan was prowling around the room, his set, heavy face dark with concentration.

Adams walked across the room and into the bedroom as if he knew instinctively that was where the body was. He went over to the bed and stared down at Fay's body. For several minutes he looked at her; then, still keeping his eyes on her, he took out a cigarette, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke down his thin nostrils.

Donovan stood in the doorway, tense and silent, watching him.

"Doc coming?" Adams asked, without turning.

"On his way now, Lieutenant," Donovan said.

Adams leaned forward and put his hand on Fay's arm.

"Been dead about six hours at a guess."

"That ice-pick, Lieutenant ..."

Adams looked at the ice-pick lying on the floor and then turned to stare at Donovan.

"What about it?"

The big man flushed.

"I guess it's the murder weapon," he said, wishing he hadn't spoken.

Adams raised his thin, white eyebrows.

"That's smart of you. I was thinking it was something she took to bed with her to pare her nails. So you think it's the murder weapon?" His eyes lit up. "What else could it be, you fool? Keep your goddamn mouth shut!"

He turned away and began to move about the room while Donovan watched him, his eyes dark with hate.

"What have you found out about her?" Adams snapped.

"She's only been on the game for a year," Donovan told him. "She used to dance at the Blue Rose. She had no record, and she didn't work the streets."

Adams turned.

"Come in and shut the door."

Donovan did as he was told. He knew from past experience, and by Adams' quiet stillness, that something unpleasant was coming, and inwardly he braced himself.

"The press haven't got on to this yet, have they?" Adams asked mildly. He sat on the edge of the bed, moving Fay's foot to give himself more room. The body so close to him might not have been there for all the feeling he showed.

"No, Lieutenant." Donovan had a horror of the press. In the past he had had a lot of adverse criticism in the two local papers. They were always calling for better police action, and had singled him out for their more caustic remarks.