by McBain, Ed
“Not necessarily,” Hawes said. “Smith and Wesson puts out a Magnum with a short three-and-a-half-inch barrel.”
“In any event, this casing lets out our friend Martino with his Iver Johnson .22.”
“Yeah. What do we do now, Steve?”
“Call Homicide, I guess. With three detectives on the scene, I don’t think we ought to ring the local squad. Or should we?”
“I think we’d better.”
“Jesus, I’d hate like hell to break up the wedding.” He paused. “I don’t think Birnbaum would have wanted that, either.”
“Maybe we won’t have to.”
“How do you figure?”
“This spot is pretty well protected from your father’s lot. Maybe we can bring the photographers and the ME in through the next street, across Birnbaum’s back yard and through the bushes. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said.
“What precinct is this, anyway?”
“The 112th, I think.”
“Know anybody on the squad?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
“So what makes you think they’ll do us a favor?”
“Professional courtesy. What the hell, it won’t hurt asking. You only get married once.”
Carella nodded and looked down at the lifeless body of Joseph Birnbaum, the neighbor. “You only die once, too,” he said. “Come on, Jonesy, back to the house. You, too, Miss Maxwell. Few questions I’d like to ask both of you. Bert, you come back and call the 112th. Cotton, will you stay with the body?” He suspected that Hawes might be better equipped for the diplomacy necessary with the 112th Squad than Kling was. But at the same time, he didn’t want a jealous male bellowing at an obviously frightened suspect while he questioned Jonesy and Christine further.
If Hawes appreciated Carella’s tactic, he showed no sign of it. He simply nodded and went to stand alongside the prostrate Birnbaum as the rest started back for the house.
In the distance, Hawes could hear the sound of the band, the sound of voices raised in laughter, the tiny faraway pops of the champagne corks. Closer, the insects filled the woods with their myriad noises. He swatted at a fly that had settled on his nose, and then lighted a cigarette. The path, he noticed, took a sharp turn several feet beyond where Birnbaum was lying. Idly, Hawes walked to the bend in the path, surprised when the woods around him suddenly ended to become the open lawn of the Birnbaum back yard. He glanced up at the Birnbaum house.
Something glinted in the attic window.
He looked again.
There was a sudden movement, and then the window presented nothing more than a blank open rectangle.
But Hawes was certain he’d seen a man with a rifle in that window a second ago.
A blonde in a red silk dress was sitting at the dressing table in the downstairs bedroom when Christine Maxwell entered the room. Carella had told her he wanted to question Jonesy alone and that he would get back to her shortly. She’d gone downstairs immediately in search of the ladies’ room. She wasn’t feeling at all well, and she wanted to wash her face and put on some fresh lipstick.
If anything, the blonde in the red silk dress made her feel worse.
As Christine put her small blue purse down on the dressing table, the blonde was adjusting her stocking, the red dress pulled back over her nylon, her magnificently turned leg rivaling that in any Hollywood boudoir scene. Standing beside the blonde in the tight, low-cut, over-flowing-in-abundance red silk, standing beside the splendidly outstretched leg, Christine Maxwell felt suddenly skinny and awkward. She knew this was absurd. She’d always thought of herself as rather well-proportioned, capable of provoking a whistle or two on any street corner in the city. But the blonde who smoothed the nylon over her extended leg was so munificently endowed, so regally statuesque, that Christine suddenly imagined she’d been fooling herself all these years. The blonde tightened her garter, her shoulders and breasts bobbing with the movement. Fascinated, Christine watched the rippling flesh.
“You look kind of pale, honey,” the blonde said.
“What? Oh, yes. I guess I do.”
“Go out and have some of that whiskey. Put the color back into your cheeks.” She rose suddenly, looked at herself in the mirror, tucked a stray strand of hair back into place, and then said, “There, it’s all yours. I’ve got to see John.” She walked into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her.
Christine opened her purse, took out a comb, and began combing her hair. She did look pale. She’d better wash her face. God, that poor man lying in the path.
The bathroom door opened. “Well, so long, dear,” the blonde said. She walked to the dressing table, snatched a purse from its top, and breezed out of the bedroom.
Apparently, she had not noticed that the purse she’d taken was Christine’s.
Nor did Christine, in her agitated state, notice the error either.
Peering over the window sill, the man in the attic room of Birnbaum’s empty house saw Hawes glance up at the window and then glance up at it again. Quickly, he ducked below the sill.
He saw me, he thought.
He saw the rifle.
Now what?
Goddamnit, she knows she’s supposed to keep anyone away from this house! Where the hell is she? Why isn’t she doing what she’s supposed to be doing?
He waited, listening.
He could hear the steady crunch of heavy feet across the lawn behind the house. Cautiously, he crawled on his hands and knees to the left of the window, and then stood up. He backed away from the window. From where he stood, he could not be seen from outside, but he had a clear view of the lawn and—yes, that man was heading for the house, walking across the lawn at a brisk clip.
What do I do? he wondered.
He listened.
The man was coming around the side of the house. He heard footsteps on the slate walk there, and then on the steps leading to the front porch, and then clomping across the porch to stop at the front door. There was no knock. Stealthily, the front door eased open, creaking on its hinges.
Silence.
In the attic room, the sniper waited. He could hear the footsteps again, carefully, quietly advancing through the silent house, toward the steps, hesitating on each tread, each creaking step bringing the intruder closer and closer to the attic room. Quickly, the sniper went to the door and stood just inside it. Quickly, he grasped the rifle by its barrel.
There were cautious footsteps in the corridor outside now.
He held his breath and waited.
The doorknob twisted almost imperceptibly.
The sniper swung the rifle back over his shoulder like a ball bat.
Gun in hand, Cotton Hawes kicked open the door to the attic, and the rifle moved in a sudden blurring arc, the butt catching him on the side of his face and knocking him senseless to the floor.
The stench of cordite still hung in the air of the small room across the street from Jody Lewis’s photography shop. Donald Pullen opened the door with his key and then said, “Phew! What’s that stink?”
“Cordite,” Meyer said immediately. The smell was as familiar to him as the scent of his wife, though not nearly so pleasant. “Someone fired a gun in here, Bob.”
“Yeah,” O’Brien said, and immediately began looking for the spent shell casing.
Meyer went to the window. “Nice view of the photography shop,” he said. He bent suddenly. “Here it is, Bob.” He picked up the shell casing.
“Here’s another one,” O’Brien said. He carried the casing to Meyer.
“Same gun,” Meyer said. “A rifle.”
“Somebody fired a rifle in this room?” Pullen asked incredulously.
“It looks that way,” Meyer said.
“Why? Why would anybody fire a rifle in a small room like this?”
“A good guess might be in order to hit somebody going in or coming out of that photography shop across the street. You said Miss Blake spe
cifically requested an apartment near the photography shop, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes! That’s amazing,” Pullen said. “That certainly is amazing deduction.”
“Elementary,” Meyer said grandly, and Bob O’Brien stifled a laugh. “Let’s look around, Bob. A rifle doesn’t particularly strike me as the kind of weapon a woman would choose. What do you think?”
“I never think on Sundays,” O’Brien said, but he began looking over the apartment. The place had a look of impermanence to it. There was a bed with brass bedstead against one wall, a nighttable standing alongside it. A basin and a pitcher of water rested on the table. A floor lamp stood behind a worn easy chair in one corner of the room. A curtained closet was on the wall opposite the window. Beside that was the door leading to a tiny bathroom. O’Brien went into the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. It was empty. He pulled back the curtain on the closet and looked at the empty hangers.
“Whoever was here was traveling light,” he remarked.
“Any signs of a woman?” Meyer said. “Lipstick tissues? Bobby pins? Long hairs?”
“Not even a sign of a human,” O’Brien said. “Wait a minute, here’s something.” He lifted an ash tray from the night table. “A cigar butt. Know any dames who smoke cigars?”
“Anne Baxter and Hermione Gingold,” Meyer said. “Think they also fire rifles?”
“Maybe. But most actresses don’t perform on Sundays. Besides, it would never be my luck to catch a case involving celebrities.”
“I had a celebrity once,” Meyer said. “A singer. It’s a shame I was a married man at the time.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Meyer said, and he shrugged eloquently.
“It certainly is fascinating to watch you fellows at work,” Pullen said.
“It beats television six ways from the middle,” O’Brien said. “Most people think of cops as everyday workingmen who go to a musty office and type up reports in triplicate and do a lot of legwork all over the city. Just ordinary guys, you understand? Guys with wives and families. Guys like you and me, Mr. Pullen.”
“Yes?” Pullen said.
“Sure. That’s the influence of television. Actually, a detective is a pretty glamorous character. Ain’t that right, Meyer?”
“Absolutely,” Meyer said, sniffing the cigar butt.
“He’s all the time getting involved with gorgeous blondes in slinky negligees. Ain’t that right, Meyer?”
“Absolutely,” Meyer said. The cigar was a White Owl. He made a mental note of it.
“He leads a life of gay adventurous excitement,” O’Brien said. “When he ain’t drinking in some very swank bar, he is out driving in a Cadillac convertible with the top down and the blonde’s knees up on the seat. Boy, what a life! I’m telling you, Mr. Pullen, detective work ain’t all routine.”
“It sounds much more interesting than real estate,” Pullen said.
“Oh, it is, it is. And the salary is fantastic.” He winked. “Not to mention the graft. Mr. Pullen, don’t believe what you see on television. Cops, Mr. Pullen, are not dull boobs.”
“I never thought they were,” Pullen said. “It certainly is fascinating the way you men work.”
“You’d imagine somebody in the building would have heard a rifle going off twice, don’t you think, Bob?” Meyer said.
“I would imagine so. Unless this is a home for the deaf.”
“Any other apartments on this floor, Mr. Pullen?”
“There’s one right across the hall,” Pullen said. “I rented it myself.”
“Let’s try it, Bob.”
They crossed the hall and knocked on the door. A young man in a short beard and a terry-cloth bathrobe opened it.
“Yo?” he said.
“Police,” Meyer said. He flashed the tin.
“Man, dig the badge,” the man in the bathrobe said.
“What’s your name?” Meyer asked.
“Real or professional?”
“Both.”
“Sid Lefkowitz is the square handle. When I’m on the stand, I use Sid Leff. Shorter, sweeter, and with a good beat.”
“What stand?”
“The bandstand, man.”
“You’re a musician?”
“I blow guitar.”
“Which name do you prefer?”
“Whichever one you like. I’m not choosy, man. Just blow your own ad lib chorus.”
“Mr. Leff, did you hear any shots coming from the room across the hall?”
“Shots? Oh, is that what they were?”
“You heard them?”
“I heard something. But it didn’t bother me. I was working on Strings.”
“On what?”
“Symphony for Twelve Strings. Don’t get the wrong idea. It ain’t from Bananasville. It’s a jazz symphony. I’m writing it for three guitars, six violins, two bass fiddles, and a piano. The piano gets in by poetic license. What the hell, without the strings on the sounding board, there wouldn’t be no piano, right?”
“Did you investigate the shots?”
“No. I figured them for backfires. Trucks go by here all the time. They take a short cut to the parkway through this street. A very noisy pad, this one. I’m thinking of busting out. How can a man concentrate in the midst of din, man, huh?”
“Did you happen to notice who was in that apartment?”
“The guy with the slush pump, you mean?”
“What?”
“The slush pump. The trombone. A guy came out of there with a trombone case under his arm.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Just the horn.”
“You saw the horn?”
“I saw the case. A guy wouldn’t be carrying an empty trombone case would he? That’s like carrying a guitar without strings. That would be a little too far out, man.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Exchanged a bit,” Lefkowitz said. “The door was open when he passed by, and I spotted the horn case, and struck up a parley. He was going out on an afternoon wedding gig.”
“A what?”
“A gig. A job. I told you, didn’t I? The guy played trombone.”
“What did he look like?”
“A big fellow with a busted nose. He had dark hair and dark eyes. He was smoking a cigar.”
“Do you make him, Meyer?” O’Brien asked.
“Judging from the description on his record, it sounds like our man.” He turned back to Lefkowitz. “Did he have a scar near his right eye?”
“I didn’t get a good glim,” Lefkowitz said. “He could have. I don’t know.”
“How do you know he was going to a wedding?”
“He said so. Said he was going on a wedding gig.”
“He said he was going to play trombone at a wedding? Did he say that exactly?”
“No. He said he was going to a wedding. But why else would a guy take a horn to a wedding, if not to blow it?”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know. Close to five, I guess.”
“All right. Thank you very much, Mr. Lefkowitz.”
“Mine,” Lefkowitz said.
“Huh?”
“The pleasure.” He closed the door.
“What do you think?” O’Brien asked.
“Did you see a rifle in that first room?”
“No.”
“And Lefkowitz said our boy was carrying nothing but a trombone case. Want a guess?”
“I outguess you already,” O’Brien said. “There ain’t a trombone in that case. There’s a rifle.”
“Yeah.”
“And since there ain’t no trombone, it’s a cinch he ain’t going to play at a wedding.”
“Right.”
“And if he’s taking a rifle to a wedding, chances are—since he’s already fired it twice—he plans to shoot it again.”
“Right.”
“And the only wedding I’m sure of today is Carella’s sister’s.”
�
�Right.”
“So let’s head there.”
“Does a guy walk into the middle of a reception with a rifle under his arm? A rifle isn’t exactly a weapon you can conceal. Not after you take it out of that trombone case,” Meyer said.
“So?”
“So I don’t think he’s heading for the wedding itself. I think maybe he’s heading for someplace near the wedding. The same way he came to a place near the photography shop.”
“And where might that be?” O’Brien asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Meyer said. “But how many men on the street are carrying trombone cases, would you suppose?”
“It certainly is fascinating the way you fellows work,” Pullen said.
Christine Maxwell sat on the back porch of the Carella house, her hands moving nervously in her lap. Teddy Carella sat beside her, watching the dancers on the makeshift floor. The dancing was more frenetic now than it had been. Drinking had begun in earnest once the last course of the meal had been served. This was a wedding, a time for high celebration, and relatives from the far corners of the earth were out there on the floor whooping it up. The whooping up was causing consternation among many of the wives at the reception, but the consternation was tempered by the knowledge that this was a once-a-year day and that hasty kisses stolen from very distant cousins would hardly be remembered the next day. The only thing likely to be remembered the next day—when the gongs and hammers began to reverberate inside the skull—would be the fact that far too much liquor had been consumed the night before.
The children at the wedding reception had no problems at all, unless an overconsumption of soda pop could be considered a problem. This was better than an outing in the city park! This was better than a day at the circus! This was better than getting Captain Video’s in-person autograph. For here was a dance floor to run around with gay abandon, slickly waxed, perfect for sliding and spilling. Here were grownups’ legs to dodge between, here—in the case of the more precocious eleven-year-olds—were corseted behinds to pinch, a magnificent lawn to tear up. Oh, this was surely Heaven.
Christine Maxwell had no such illusions of Paradise. Sitting beside Teddy, she dreaded the moment when Steve Carella would begin questioning her. He didn’t think she’d had anything to do with the old man’s death, did he? No, he couldn’t. Then why did he want to question her? The thought frightened her.
