“I’m going down to the bank,” Donovan said. “I want to find out if anyone spotted that caller.”
“What the hell for?”
“This girl didn’t work the streets. She had regulars. Guys who recommended her. I want to talk to as many of them as I can find. One of them might be this guy in the grey suit.”
Adams shrugged.
“Okay: you might do worse.”
Donovan hurried out of the room. As he ran down the stairs, be was thinking at last he was getting a break. That’s all he asked for. Given a little luck, he might crack this case, and men he would spit in Adams’ right eye.
III
Police Commissioner Paul Howard sat behind his big mahogany desk, a cigar between his strong white teeth, his hard weather-beaten face worried.
Howard was fifty-one. He was an ambitious man, climbing laboriously up the political ladder, hoping soon to be made a judge and later a senator. He was well in with the political machine, willing to do as he was told, providing the rewards were adequate. He was in a good position to grant favours, and had acquired considerable wealth from the financial tips he had received for turning a blind eye to the corruption and racketeering running rife through the present Administration.
In an armchair by the window, Captain of Police Joe Motley sat with his legs outstretched, a cigar between his fingers, and his flabby, purplebloomed face expressionless.