“Flo was stabbed to death a couple of hours after she had seen Conrad,” McCann said, his eyes going to Seigel. He saw Seigel grimace uneasily.
“Who killed her?”
“Ted Pascal, one of the Brooklyn boys.”
Maurer shrugged.
“I don’t know him. What’s the excitement about? Can I help it if some whore gets knocked off?”
McCann’s little eyes began to turn red. It had been a severe shock to him when he had listened to Conrad’s report at the D.A.’s meeting, and Maurer’s careless, indifferent attitude and his unconcern flicked his anger into life.
“Where’s Paretti, Mr. Maurer?” he barked.
“Toni’s in New York,” Maurer said smoothly. “I sent him to collect a gambling debt. That was the job he had to do. He caught the seven o’clock plane.”
“Then you’d better get him back quick,” McCann said grimly. “Conrad wants to see him. A sketch-plan of Jordan’s apartment was found in Paretti’s apartment.”
Gollowitz stiffened and shot a hard, searching look at Maurer, who waved his hand airily.