The Dead of Winter

by William H Hallahan

  Basche and Tyler entered the lobby and sat down. “He wants to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “The doctor.”

  “Oh.” Lyons sighed, exhaling heavily again, and stood up. He walked back slowly along the corridor and saw the little round man returning. Scurrying. Smacking the back of one hand into the palm of the other. He duckfooted it as though his feet were burning. “Holy Christ. I’m ruined. Holy Jumping Jesus H. Christ.” He smacked the back of his hand again into the waiting palm, bobbing and weaving as he walked in great agitation.

  “Holy Jesus Jumping Christopher on a crutch. Ruined! I’m ruined! I’m dead. D.E.D.” He hobbled rapidly across the lobby. The man with the newspaper moved quickly after him and helped him through the door. They both got into a waiting car.

  Lyons found the doctor holding a cup of coffee at the nurse’s station. He was writing on his clipboard again. “Ah. Look. Your friend said something before he died.”

  “Fleagle,” said Lyons. “And ‘I don’t know.’”

  “No. Just minutes before he died he said plain as day, ‘And, Danny, he has a long red scar on his neck.’”

  Lyons looked at him. “‘And, Danny, he has a long red scar on his neck.’ That’s what he said?”

  The doctor nodded. “You’re Danny, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then his last thoughts were of you.”

  Lyons nodded and walked back to the lobby. “Come on, I’m going to track down a guy named Fleagle.”

  “Then what?” asked Tyler.

  Lyons picked up his overcoat. “When I find him I’m going to kill him.”

  3

  It was a faint bump.

  Dan Lyons sat up in his bed and listened. In the darkness. Unmistakably a bump. Overhead in Vincent Reece’s apartment. Four A.M.

  He stood up, shrugged free of the enfolding blanket and walked silently across the room to the hallway door, feeling the icy chill of the floor on his bare feet. Someone heavy walked across Reece’s floor directly over his head.

  He opened his door and walked softly along the hallway to the inner staircase. As he padded up the carpeted stairs he heard the sharp click of the front-door latch.

  He went up the rest of the stairs two at a time, turned and ran to the front door. He yanked it open and looked out. Empty. Very cold. Cars, sullen and lumpish, lined both sides of the street, and he studied them carefully. Nada.

  He shut the door and went to Reece’s apartment. He’d left it locked when he’d gone to the hospital. He turned the knob and it opened. He pushed it slowly open and snapped on the overhead light.

  His mouth fell open to protest. “Holy God,” he said aloud.

  The room had been destroyed. Literally, completely destroyed. The couch had been gutted. Gouts of batting hung from the wooden frame and springs. The fabric had been sliced off and the batting removed, then carefully plucked apart and flung aside. The day bed had been similarly disembowled. The bureau drawers had been removed, emptied and stacked on top each other. The shirts, socks, ties, shorts, undershirts, sheets, towels, pillowcases, sweaters, sweat shirts, swim trunks had been frisked and flipped in a pile.

  The pullman kitchen had been dismantled, dishes stacked on the floor, pots, pans, too, and groceries. Flour, ground coffee, dry cereal, scouring powder, granules of soap had been poured from their containers into the sink. Ketchup, mustard splashed on top with salt and other granulations and pastes and powders and fluids. The empty containers were all standing in an irregular file along the parquet floor.

  Reece’s shoes lay on the floor of the closet, the heels cut off. His suits and coats had been methodically frisked and dropped into a soft pile.

  Near the front windows Lyons found a metal strong box lying on the floor. Around it were Reece’s personal papers. And next to it the vacuum cleaner had been emptied.

  Hanging in the air, still, was the eye-burning presence of ammonia that the landlady had used to clean up after the stretcher had carried Reece away. He looked around the room. Absolute destruction. Without a sound. How did they do it? He rubbed his sore arm and wondered.

  “I wonder,” said Roger Basche, “what in hell they’re looking for?” He opened the box of pastries and sniffed deeply. “Ah-h-h-h. Hurry up with the coffee, Lyons.”

  “That’s the last straw,” said Tyler, pacing and shaking a finger at Reece’s apartment overhead. “O.K. What’s next? How the hell do you find a guy named Fleagle in a metropolitan area with ten million people in it?”

  Lyons lit the gas under the coffee pot. “You start with a list of Fleagles.”

  “Who’s got a list of Fleagles?”

  “Alexander does.”

  “Who?”

  “Alexander Graham Bell.”

  “Oh, very funny. Funneee. You’re going to go through the phone books of all five boroughs. Then you call up and say, ‘Hello. Are you the hood who beat Vinny Reece to death last night?’”

  Lyons smiled at him. “Sure.”

  “What then? You going to drive to each Fleagle and look him over, feeling his muscles?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Dan! What do we do?”

  “Simple. You do what the credit-reference companies do. Here’s the Brooklyn directory. You pick out a Fleagle. Then you go to the cross-reference street directory put out by the telephone company. And you pick out several neighbors—by the house number—and you ask questions. Neighbors will tell you anything. You’ll find out everything you want.”

  “Except,” said Tyler, “if he’s the Fleagle who beat up Reece.”

  “You get that by elimination. We know the Fleagle we want is strong as a horse, and he knows anatomy. He may be a physical culturist, a health-food nut, a former Army medic … or something.”

  “Ingenious,” said Roger Basche. “You eliminate Fleagles over sixty, or under a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Respectable professional men. Women. Beautiful. Lyons, you are a genius.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t have a phone!” shouted Tyler. “Then what?”

  “Then there’s the automobile registration lists from Albany. And after that there’s the central credit files for New York City. New York State income tax files.”

  “But that’s confidential information!”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh God,” said Tyler. “This could take days.”

  “Maybe,” said Lyons. “But there’s one comforting thought.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got days.”

  Dan Lyons selected the first of the nine Fleagles in the Brooklyn phone directory.

  Fleagle, Albert T. 3507 Avenue V.

  He opened the Brooklyn Telephone Street Guide Directory. To Avenue V. Down the column to 3500, to 3507. Fleagle, Albert T., and 3505, the house next door, Sullivan, Edward P.

  He dialed the Sullivan number. “Mr. Sullivan? This is the Greater New York Insurance Verification Bureau. I’m verifying an automobile insurance application of Albert T. Fleagle … What! A month ago? Is that right? … Yes, it certainly does sound like someone is working an insurance fraud. Oh, don’t worry. In all cases like this we immediately notify the police. Are there any other male Fleagles in the family? … I see. Wife only. Thank you very much. Goodbye.”

  The next Fleagle was Fritz O., Meadow Street, 230. He checked the street directory. Mead, Meade, Meadow 200, 230. Fleagle, Fritz Otto. And at 228, Borden, Elliott N.

  He dialed. “Hello. Is this the Borden residence? … Mrs. Borden. Ah, good. This is the Greater New York Insurance Verification Bureau. We’re trying to verify an automobile insurance policy in the name of Fritz Otto Fleagle … Yes, I know he lives next to you. But we need verification from someone outside the family making the application. Can you tell me the make and model of present car? … O.K. How long has he lived there? … Twenty-three—oh, twenty-two years. O.K. Occupation? … Lawyer? O.K. Age —sixty? Fifty-eight to sixty. O.K. Has he had any accidents lately? … Never? O.K. Anyone else i
n the family of driving age? … His wife. Oh. Sally. Your bridge partner? Oh, I see. No one else? … O.K. That’s fine. Thanks for your help. No, no problem. It’s a bonafide application. Goodbye.”

  At 3:30 in the afternoon he dialed the home of Alphonse Tansy. “Fleagle’s just like a lady’s strapless evening gown. Got me?” said Mr. Tansy.

  “Ah, no.”

  “No visible means of support. Ha-ha-ha! When he works he’s an embalmer.”

  “Embalmer?”

  “Yeah, he fixes dead bodies for burying. Ain’t that a kick in the head? But, hell, he ain’t done that for a long time. He’s away a lot. Trips.”

  “What kind of trips?”

  “Trips. Like I said. Airplane trips. He’ll be gone for a few days, then he’s back again with airplane stickers and string tags all over his suitcase.”

  “I see. What does he do when he’s home?”

  “He runs.”

  “Runs?”

  “Yeah. Like Roger Bannister or Jim Ryun. You know—around a track. And he works out in the gym.”

  “When does he run?”

  “Every day around four-thirty.”

  “How about friends?”

  “Friends! You kidding? Fleagle is a creep. Little beady eyes and a mean mouth. He don’t talk to nobody and nobody talks to him. He’s a night crawler.”

  “You don’t think much of him.”

  “Ah. He’s O.K. Give him the insurance.”

  Mrs. Powell at 434 was slow to thaw. Finally she said, “Mr. Fleagle is Mrs. Busbey’s oldest tenant. He always pays promptly—and no complaints.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re a friend of Mrs. Busbey. Mr. Fleagle lives in one of her apartments?”

  “Yes, a furnished apartment. I think you’ll find he is a good risk.”

  I see.

  “Yes. He takes very good care of himself. He’s a health-food—uh—enthusiast and he exercises regularly.”

  “Any friends?”

  “Uh, no. No. Mr. Fleagle keeps strictly to himself.”

  “One of the other neighbors says that Mr. Fleagle is an embalmer.”

  “Oh. I wouldn’t know. He takes a lot of trips. And he doesn’t seem to have regular working hours.”

  “Sounds like a life of crime.”

  There was a pause. “That,” said Mrs. Powell, “is what my husband says.”

  “Oh yes? Why?”

  “Oh, really. I shouldn’t talk about Mr. Fleagle.”

  “Well, yes, Mrs. Powell. But your husband sounds like an intelligent, observant man—”

  “No. I think I’ve said enough. Goodbye.” She hung up.

  Mrs. Piel at 435 said, “He’s the loneliest-looking man I have ever seen. My heart goes out to him. No one ever talks to him.”

  Roger Basche tapped on his basement window. He followed Lyons back into the apartment with a golf bag.

  “What’s in the bag, Mr. Capone?” asked Lyons.

  “How’d you know?”

  “How’d I know what?”

  “How’d you know what was in the bag?”

  “Do I know what’s in the bag?”

  “No, I guess not. Not yet, anyway.” Roger Basche nodded at the phone. “Any luck?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I found a muscle-bound health-food nut who used to be an embalmer and who lives alone and never works and has money to pay all bills and works out in a gymnasium.”

  “Sounds like he could be it,” said Basche.

  “Maybe it’ll be a big night,” said Lyons.

  “At least a noisy one.” Roger Basche slipped two rifles and a shotgun from the golf bag.

  The house was an old brick building with a large wooden porch across the front. In flower pots on a plank table, stiff stalks of dead geraniums shook in the December wind.

  From their parked car the three watched the front door of the building. The tenants were obviously young—students, primarily—white-garbed medical students mostly, coming and going on the sharp December Saturday with laundry baskets and groceries.

  Joe Tyler sighed from the back seat. He leaned forward. “You know how to fire a rifle, Dan?”

  “Yeah. It’s been a while but I’ve plinked many a bull’s-eye.”

  “Twenty-two?” asked Tyler.

  “Yeah.”

  “You ever fire a Springfield ’03?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Joe Tyler. “All through military school. It’s a World War One rifle, and the kick of it will push your shoulder all the way down to your hip.”

  “We’ll have to identify him by his clothing,” said Roger Basche to Lyons.

  “Where is this guy?” asked Lyons.

  “Patience,” said Basche. “Patience.”

  “You’re sure you can pop his lock?” demander Tyler.

  Dan Lyons shrugged. “If it’s a standard pin and cylinder lock, I can open it in two or three minutes. If I’m very lucky, I can pop it in five seconds with this plastic strip. But if I have trouble, I could be kneeling in front of that lock for an hour trying to turn the tumblers.”

  “Sounds risky as hell to me,” said Tyler. “You sure you want to do it?”

  “Yeah,” said Lyons. “And don’t tell me any more about a breaking-and-entering rap, either.”

  “Dan, if anyone should come down that hallway …”

  “I know. I’ll have to be lucky.”

  Tyler sighed again.

  “O.K. O.K.,” said Lyons. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No.”

  “Then stop scaring the hell out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tyler.

  They watched the porch. “When was the last time you picked a lock?” asked Tyler.

  Basche smirked, then laughed. “Say, Tyler, old poop, you really know how to calm a guy down.”

  Tyler grinned. “Yeah. O.K. I wonder if I’m too nervous for a life of crime.”

  Lyons smiled, still watching the porch. The three sat in silence, watching the various pedestrians on the street. No one spoke for a while.

  “It looks like the front door is unlocked,” said Basche.

  “Yeah,” Lyons agreed. “People seem to walk right in.”

  “Good,” said Tyler. “At least you won’t have to pick that front lock in public.”

  “Joe,” said Basche. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I agree.”

  “With what?”

  “You are. Too nervous for a life of crime, I mean. Stick to professoring philosophy.”

  “Is that your man?”

  They watched the man cross the porch and descend to the street in running shorts and a heavy sweat shirt. He pulled a red-knit cap from his pocket.

  “Boy,” said Tyler. “He’s really put together. If you’re going to get caught picking his lock, get caught by the police.”

  The man turned and jogged lightly away.

  “I go,” said Lyons. He got out of the car and walked the half block quickly. He was shivering. The wind bit deeply. His armpits and hands were soaked with perspiration.

  He mounted the wooden steps, strode across the porch and stepped into a very wide hallway lined with potted ferns. Mail and magazines were scattered around on an old Victorian table.

  He walked over to the stairs and went up.

  Apartment 8 was at the front of the second-floor hallway. He pulled a flat leather case from his coat pocket and selected two tools that resembled dentist’s picks with L-shaped flat-wire tips. He knelt down before the door and examined the lock.

  It was old—as old as the house possibly. Older than any lock he’d ever worked on before. He tried to estimate the number of pins it had. He inserted the first probe into the plug, feeling the spring pins as the probe passed them. The whole plug worked loosely in the tumbler. Five pins. Goddamn! He probed at the most distant one, wobbled the cylinder slightly clockwise, then counterclockwise. He felt it slip into alignment for tu
rning. Pure luck. Four more pins to go. He slipped the next wire probe and played the next pin.

  He heard a footstep on the stair. Up above. Bouncing. Down. He stood up and waited. A young nurse with an armful of soiled men’s shirts shook the old staircase as she bounded down and saw him.

  He rapped on the door with a knuckle. “Fleagle,” he called softly.

  “If he’s not there,” she said, ‘he’s at the hospital.”

  “Hospital!” said Lyons in surprise. He studied her white uniform.

  “Yes. He’s going to help with a dissection this evening.”

  “Dissection?”

  “Yes. Fleagle’s an anatomist. He works for the Department of Pathology whenever they need him. You don’t know him very well, do you?”

  “Well, just to run with.”

  “Oh. Another pulse-taker. Eat lots of carrots.” She stamped down the remaining flight of stairs and slammed the front door.

  Lyons wiped his soaked palms on his pants legs and shoved home the second probe. Gently. Slowly. He felt the second pin just clear the lip of the cylinder. Thank God for all that loose play in the tumbler. He slipped the third thin-wire probe into the lock. Too shallow. Another. Too high. A medium. There. Quickly he worked the last two pins in the front. They were the most worn and probably caused Fleagle frequent jiggling to turn them.

  Something hit his thumb and he looked at it. Water. A drop of water. No. Sweat. His face was covered with drops of sweat. He wiped it with a handkerchief. Now he worked all five probes into a metal collar, dogging down a cap screw to hold them in alignment. Slowly. No go. Jiggle it. It turned. And the door swung open.

  He looked out at the street in the direction of the public track. Then he looked over the other way at the car. Tyler and Basche were silently watching the porch. Waiting. Basche, with the patience of a lifelong hunter. Tyler, with the hand-wringing of a man who can’t stand being a passive spectator.

  The furnishings of the room were castoffs from other rooms of other times. Fleagle obviously wasn’t fussy about what his landlady put in his apartment.

  The bed was a simple affair with no headboard or footboard. And no pillow. There was a small pullman kitchen and a small, tacky bathroom.