The Body Looks Familiar by Richard Wormser Page A

Latson, who was the big shots’ hatchetman in the department.
    Captain Martin did not permit himself to curse Jim Latson. There had been hatchetmen before; there would be others if Latson quit, died, or moved on to higher glories.
    But Jim Latson was a smart hatchetman as well as a ruthless one. So long as Latson held the hatchet, it was necessary for Captain Martin to do what he had to do now, not leave it overnight.
    If the protected witness was big enough, rich enough and scared enough, it would not be unbelievable for him, Latson, to burn all the departmental files overnight.
    Or the department itself.
    Captain Martin did not want to do his work in the open air. He was used to his office; he would hate to see it burn down.

 
Chapter 13
     
    DAVE CORDAY was enjoying a sensation he had never felt before. It was as though his nerves had been cleaned with something refreshing and cooling—perhaps cologne or pure alcohol. Everything that came to him—sight, sound, smell—made more of an impact on him than it ever had before.
    This is success, he told himself. This is what it feels like to be a successful man. The world, the air, the very pavement is made to comfort a successful man.
    The difference between being a district attorney, he thought, and being one of the deputies—even the chief deputy—is the difference between being a prison guard and being one of the trusties, even the chief trusty, if there is such a thing.
    After I take office, I will look back at my jealousy of Latson and wonder at it. Because he will be nothing compared to me; he’ll be a cop among cops and I will be the only one of my kind in the whole city.
    He regretted for just a moment the killing of Hogan DeLisle, and then put the thought firmly away from him. He had not killed Hogan DeLisle. He had not! Nor had Jim Latson. A man named Ralph Guild, alias a couple of unpronounceable strings of Czech syllables, had shot the girl. The only thing unusual about it was Frederick Van Lear’s offer to defend Guild. And that could be explained by Van Lear’s need for publicity, the rumor strong around town that the corporation lawyer wanted to be governor. Losing a popular case was as good as winning one for that purpose; the point was to get known by the public.
    He had arrived at the Zebra House. The doorman opened the door snappily; the maitre d’ hurried forward to greet him. “Your party’s waiting for you in the Turf Club Room, Mr. Corday. Just this way, sir.”
    The man was helping him off with his coat, handing his hat to the checkgirl. “You won’t need a check, Mr. Corday. Freda could hardly forget you, could you, Freda?”
    The girl was pert in velvet toreador pants and a white blouse, open far enough down. She shook dark hair at him, blinked dark eyes. “Certainly not, Mr. District Attorney.” Hugging his coat to her expensive looking bosom, she danced to hang it up, deposit his hat on a high shelf.
    He straightened his cuffs and followed the maitre d’. Long before the padded, brass-studded door was opened for him he could hear the happy hum of the party; his party, the one gotten up to welcome him to the big leagues.
    Then the door was opened; a cloud of expensive cigar smoke and alcohol fumes and lemon juice came pouring out. He went in, and the maitre d’ followed him and murmured, “Your drink, Mr. Corday? I’ll get it myself.”
    “Bourbon and branch water.”
    “Tout de suite.”
    A hand was grabbing his elbow. Dan Dryce, the State Commissioner of Motor Vehicles. “Dave, ol’ boy.”
    “Didn’t know you were in the city, Dan.”
    “Drove down with the governor. We made it in an hour and twelve minutes, from the Mansion to the State Office Building here.”
    Dave whistled politely. It was ninety-two miles, exactly; he’d turned it in on mileage reports often enough, before he had a county-owned car check issued to him. “Who was driving?”
    “The governor. You know how he is on martinis.”
    There was a surge,