The shot sounded close. As far as he could judge it came from a building a little way up the alley.
As he broke into a run, he knew he was too late to save Zoe, and he groped for his .38 police special.
He reached the end of the alley, paused to listen again, but heard nothing. It had been somewhere near here, he thought, looking up at the row of high buildings. Their doors were boarded up, and he guessed there must be an entrance somewhere at the back. He ran down the next alley he came to and reached an intersection that he calculated would bring him to the rear of the buildings he had just passed. Then he heard a car start up. He increased his speed and raced down the alley to another intersection. As he rounded the corner he was in time to see a big car moving swiftly away from him. Its parking lights lit up its bright yellow fenders.
It was moving too fast for him to hope to overtake it. He stopped, raised the .38 and fired. The smash of glass told him he had scored a hit. The car increased speed, and before he could fire again, it had whipped around a bend and had disappeared.
He stood there for a moment, trying to think what to do next. It would be hopeless to try to find Zoe’s body. They were certain to have dumped her into the river, but if he acted fast it might be possible to get the body before the currents took it away.
He raced back to his car, scrambled in, and drove as fast as he dared back along the causeway. There was no sign of the Buick. The delay in getting back to his car, finding his way to the causeway, had given Rico too big a lead to hope to overtake him.
Dallas spotted an all-night café at the corner of West and Union. He crammed on his brakes, swung the car to the kerb and ran across the sidewalk into the café.
The place was full of steamy moisture, the smell of frying onions and hot, strong Java. A dozen dockers sat around a big table playing dominoes and drinking beer. The red-headed street walker who had identified Rico’s car, was sitting on a high stool at the bar, showing off her legs in the hope of drumming up some trade. None of the dockers seemed interested. She smiled archly at Dallas when he came in, but he went past her like a miniature hurricane and dived into a phone booth at the end of the room.
He caught Olin as he was leaving for the night.
‘I can hand you Baird on a plate,’ he said urgently. ‘Listen: it’s a safe bet Baird’s just knocked off one of Rico’s taxi-dancers. Rico’s in it, too. They’ve slung her in the river. I spot ed their car leaving and took a shot at them. I think I smashed a window. If you get moving fast there’s a chance of recovering the body before the tide gets it.’