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Inspector Harriet Luncardy stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray I habitually keep conveniently close to the apartment door, convenient for stubbing out an early morning smoke on the way out in search of a late breakfast. She straightened her lanky form with sudden air of determination, then strode over to where her sergeant was directing another of her crew to assist the team from the coroners office. She stopped the junior officer who was doing the actual lifting - he was looking very green about the face as he shuffled Hosh's feet onto the gurney - and took one long last look at the battered face of Monzie Hosh. She nodded to her officer, an expression of sympathy flitting across her face before being suppressed by the mask of stern professionalism. Then the body bag was rapidly zipped up and wheeled away to the morgue, the youngster looking distinctly pleased to be getting outside into the more open air. The Inspector crossed the living area of my apartment and conferred quietly with the leader of the forensics team whose members had been padding and dabbing their way around the place for the last hour or so. They were speaking so softly that I could not overhear, even though they were just across the room. She stood ram-rod straight, her chin held held high. If only she could be pursuaded to unbend a little, I thought, to let go of her professionally distant persona, she might be an interesting person to know. Maybe I should buy her a stiff off-duty whiskey sometime. Luncardy returned to me, still at my post in the doorway. "Somebody really wanted him dead," she said with carefully controlled evenness. "Any clues as to how, or when?" I asked, with what I hoped was just the right amount of casualness. She looked grim. "It will all need to be confirmed by a post-mortem examination," Luncardy answered carefully, "But he must have been surprised by his attacker. There was no damage to his hands or arms; he had made no attempt to defend himself from the blows." So it was somebody he knew, somebody he was expecting. I nodded. "We think he was knocked down by a first blow to the back of the head," she continued, "Quite low down, which suggests that the attacker was a short person - and fell unconscious to the floor. Then he was struck repeatedly. Somebody wanted to make sure he never got up again." Any further questions I might have had were forestalled by the return of the flat-foots who had been undertaking door-to-door enquiries. Luncardy stepped into the corridor to take their report. Again, I could overhear nothing but, from the shaking of the heads, the results were exactly as I had anticipated: they had completely failed to turn up any report of a disturbance or strangers with large bundles in the corridors, despite having knocked on every door in the joint. The Inspector walked back into the flat, brushing past me again, then stopped and looked around. "Okay, then," Luncardy said, raising her voice only slightly, "Pay attention everybody." Every officer in the room reacted immediately. She had that kind of commanding voice. No need to shout. "Gentlemen," she said clearly, "It's time to pay a visit to the Starfield Club." here were mutterings of understanding. Her Sergeant picked up the phone - my phone – and dialled a number from memory. The call was answered almost immediately and the officer issued a long series of exactly the kind of instructions you would expect when planning a raid on a sleazy nightclub.b. The Inspector turned to face me. "You're coming with me," she said sternly, ticking me off in front of everybody, "You'd better show me exactly where this secret entrance is."
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Part 67