"It's the Harry Duggin case," Frey said.
The mob crowded around. This little deal was taking place in the living room of the apartment. The dick was saying, "Carven is in the bedroom. He's talking to Duggin's valet." He frowned at Frey and said, "What have you got?"
"Enough," Frey said. He pointed to Lasseroe. "Here's your baby. I'm going in and talk to Carven."
As he started for the bedroom door he heard Lasseroe saying, "You're making a big mistake—"
Frey smiled.
He went into the bedroom and he saw Carven, the big shot detective. He saw the two cops in there and he saw the valet, and then the corpse of Harry Duggin. Carven had the valet by the back of the neck. Carven was a big man and he was forcing the valet to look down at Harry Duggin's dead face.
Carven was saying, "Look at him. He's dead. Do you get that? He's dead. You called us in here and you figured that would automatically put you out of the picture. And you told us that a guy by the name of Frey came in here this morning and killed him. But Frey's an old pal of mine. Frey's a private dick—a lousy one, reckless and careless, but still he's a dick and your story didn't go. You killed Duggin—why—why—?"
Not only was Carven big, he was plenty tough. He gave the valet a short left and a mean right to the ribs. The valet broke.
"I—I killed him," he said, and it turned into a sob. "I—I wanted something that he owned—"
"What was it?" Carven said. He raised his head, clipped to one of the cops, "Take this down."