“Does it matter to us what he thinks?” Gollowitz demanded, moving irritably. “Does it matter to us?”
“I guess so,” McCann said. “Conrad’s a trouble-maker, and he’s smart, make no mistake about that. He’s got one set idea on his mind: to make trouble for you, Mr. Maurer.”
Maurer glanced up; his thick, almost negroid lips twisted into an amused smile.
“Sure he’s a smart guy,” he said, “but there’s enough room in this town for both of us.”
“There may not be,” McCann said ominously. “He thinks Jordan was murdered.”
Maurer’s smile widened.
“And of course he thinks I’m behind the murder. A cat can’t get run over without him thinking I’m responsible. So what? It happens every day.”
McCann pulled on his cigar. His eyes went from Maurer to Gollowitz, who was watching him with an alert expression in his black eyes.
“This is different. He’s got hold of a rumour that you and Miss Arnot were special friends,” he said, shifting his eyes back to Maurer. “This is the way he figures it: you found out Miss Arnot and Jordan were lovers. You went up there with Paretti. You killed her while Paretti took care of the staff. Then Paretti went around to Jordan’s apartment, cut his throat, left a razor in his hand, planted the murder weapon, took Jordan’s car out of the garage and crashed it against the garage door as evidence Jordan was full of dope. Then Paretti reported back to you and you knocked him off to shut his mouth.”
Maurer burst out laughing. His white plump hand came down on his knee with a loud smacking sound.