The big man came forward with a rasping gasp, then straightened up and went straight back down the long flight of stairs to land on the back of his head and neck with a crash that shook the building.
Conrad stood for a second looking down at the big man as he lay, his arms and legs thrown wide, on the lower landing. He didn’t bother to go down. No one of that weight could fall as the big man had fallen without breaking his neck.
As Conrad turned to Flo’s apartment he heard the wail of approaching police sirens.
He walked into a long, narrow room, gaudily furnished as a sitting-room.
Across the divan bed, wearing only a pair of black nylon stockings held up by a pair of pink, rose-decorated garters, lay Flo.
An ice-pick had been driven with tremendous force into the side of her neck. He didn’t have to touch her to know she was dead. The job had been done expertly; a professional job. The point of the ice-pick had punctured her spinal cord.
He swore softly under his breath, rubbed his sore shoulder, then groped for a cigarette.
He was still looking down at Flo when two prowl boys, guns in hand, burst into the room.