The fog-swept park stretched for blocks and blocks, westward through the heart of the city and on to the cold, tide-washed, rocky shore of the ocean. The ever-present damp mist gave an eerie opalescence to the occasional streaks of moonlight that filtered through. The serene quietness of pre-daybreak was broken only by the dim throats of timeless foghorns. Behind the beach and all about the park, Bay City slept—or almost all of it.
From out of those places still awake came a car, a fast sedan. Crazily the big, black car pulled off the highway from the park and shuddered to a jerking halt as it lost traction in the sand. The front doors opened on either side and two men got out. The driver laughed loudly, though slightly off key. He was the younger, well dressed in good but casual sports clothes. Of average height and weight, he carried himself with a noticeably peculiar hauteur, and walked with a short mincing step—almost like a dancer or a model. As he moved around the front of the sedan, his bigger and burlier companion snapped at him in a brusque tone.
“Goddamn it, Kay, turn off the lights!”
This man was young too, though older than the other. He was also handsome, in a brutish, appealing sort of way. His attire was also casual, but his manner was nervous. Across his heavy forehead, above beetling, coarse brows, was a fine crop of perspiration. His strong muscular hands clinched and unfolded aimlessly. The driver did not seem to notice this tension. He switched off the car’s lights and joined his companion. His voice, suited to his figure, was peculiarly light and lilting for a man. It came with a giggle: “Well, Buster, want another crack at him? Or would you go for something a little more lively?”
Almost fiercely the bigger man turned on the other.
“Shut up, Kay! Let’s get this done with …”
Turning to the rear of the automobile, the big man opened the door and reached into the back of the car. A moment later he heaved a body out onto the sand.
The head of this inert figure was wrapped with a soiled towel; the body was dressed in a dark suit and black shoes. Both men stood hesitantly over the muffled corpse. After a moment’s silence, the smaller remarked rather plaintively, “My, why isn’t there lots more blood?”
Almost savagely the other replied, “The hell with that! Take his feet. We’ll get it down to the water.”
The smaller of the two stiffened and shuddered, and struck a disdainful pose. His lower lip trembled, and his hands flustered from limp wrists.
“But, Buster—” he began.
“But Hell! You silly bitch, this is murder. We gotta get it down to the water without leaving any tracks, like if we dragged him. If I carried him I’d get all blood—well, messed up. So we both gotta do it. Now, goddamn you, Kay, pick up his feet.”
With this, Buster picked up the shoulders of the body and Kay reluctantly lifted the feet. Down to the water’s edge, they trudged crab-wise with their bulky burden, which they dropped at the break of the surf.
A spent wave came in and washed tiredly up the sloping sand. Kay danced nimbly out of its path. Buster reached down and removed the towel from the head of the corpse. The bloodied, battered features stared up sightlessly, and a few locks of abundant hair flowed gently back with the receding waters. The heavy man turned and strode up the beach to the waiting car, the other swiftly behind him, as if afraid to be left alone with that which they had just discarded. Only once did Kay pause. Turning, and with a backward flip of his expressive wrist, he said in a voice that was gaily affected, but quavering, “Well! She’ll get her bath tonight, hey, Buster?”
As the two reached the car, Buster stopped to turn and glare speculatively at the other. Kay, now seemingly in a different mood, paused beside the bigger man. With his head thrown back, his throat arched coquettishly, and his eyelids fluttering, Kay seemed almost feminine. Putting his hand gently and caressingly on his companion’s muscular arm, he said, petulantly, “You promised, Buster, if I’d help.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the big man replied roughly, “Okay. Why not? But let’s be quick.”
Both men climbed into the spacious rear of the sedan and closed the door. A quarter of an hour later they again got out of the car, resumed their original places in the front, and drove swiftly away.
After many blocks the black sedan again stopped, briefly. The burly man got out and strode over to a convenient sewer drain. He stuffed the very soiled towel down into the drain. Returning to the car, he got in and they quickly sped away once more. Quickly and quietly, the two drove into the city that was just awakening.
Flanagan’s, a small bar near Bay City’s Hall of Justice, would look to the stranger to be just another small bar. With one or two casual customers and a bored, toothpick-munching bartender, there appeared to be little real justification for the place to be open for business.
Captain of Detectives John Starr, striding into the place, nodded only briefly to the man behind the counter, who never paused in the absorption of his toothpick. Also without pause, Captain Starr strode the length of the premises and passed through a door at the rear.
The room the detective entered was another milieu entirely. Graciously spacious and fitted out as the lounge of an exclusive gentleman’s club, this was the famous “Back Room.” With several obscure entrances and exits, and with a small service bar as well as a tiny kitchen presided over by an aged and efficient Chinese, the Back Room had been for almost a century the quiet gathering place of many of Bay City’s finest citizens. These included judges, lawyers, professional men, a few select businessmen, one or two journalists, and, on occasion over the years, one or two gentlemen connected with the local police.
The “Back Room crowd” was never a membered group, nor were there such devices as dues and meetings. Those who were welcomed came and went as they chose. Others found entrance doors locked, or were simply and quietly turned away by the ageless waiter and bartender, Mr. Grimes, who was the sole arbiter. It was, nevertheless, a quiet and companionable place. By several unwritten but understood rules, pending cases of judges, lawyers, police, and the business of others who might be present, were not discussed. Such news personnel as were admitted seldom quoted anything said or overheard here, and then only with express permission.
As Captain Starr entered he was pleasantly greeted by those who sat about the huge central table. This great round board had often caused the place to be referred to as the “Little Algonquin.” Today it was only fairly attended, but by gentlemen all of whom were certainly local personages in their own right.
Next to the detective officer, as he seated himself, was Jay Eberhard, one of the city’s leading attorneys, who was frequently referred to as the “Old Master.” A quiet appearing and genteel man, one would hardly suspect the number of murderers, embezzlers and other criminals whom he had, temporarily at least, freed from the toils of the law. On the Captain’s other hand, and also sitting very quietly and at his ease, holding an ignored drink in his hand, was another figure often seen and read about in the local papers—Senator Martin.
Bruce Martin was a distinguished and cultured gentleman. He had served, very briefly, the remaining part of the term of a deceased state senator. He had likewise taken the bench for a short period upon the demise of a mu nicipal judge. Member, and often chairman, of many private and public committees and bodies, he was surely one of Bay City’s most prominent citizens. The Senator was a bachelor. He was past fifty, and was considered to be a man of means. It was also considered that his means had been inherited. At least he had no immediately obvious source of income. Personally, the Senator was a quiet, even-tempered but reticent old gentleman. He always appeared in the most select civic and social groups. Never a fop, he was definitely a man about town.
Though Captain Starr sat down next to the Senator, the latter seemed hardly to notice his presence,