The detectives got there before very long and took over. There was Detective Gregorio, whom I mentioned before, and his partner Detective Seidenwall. Gregorio is tall and dark and handsome, and he has one of those twenty-dollar haircuts, and he didn’t like me much. Seidenwall is older, say fifty, and his name is easy to remember because he looks like the side of a wall, and he didn’t like me at all.
They both seemed to despise me, to tell you the truth.
The trouble started with my name. They said they wanted a full name, not a nickname, and I explained that Chip was my legal first name, and eventually I had to show identification to prove it. They wanted to know what I was doing in Melanie’s apartment and I said she was a friend and had invited me to stop in after work.
“Oh, you work, huh?” said Seidenwall.
“I work for Leo Haig. The detective.”
“You mean some kind of a private cop? You on some kind of a case?”
“No. Melanie was my friend.”
“Uh-huh. You a junkie too?”
“Of course not.”
“Roll up your sleeves, punk.”
This struck me as silly, since I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, but I rolled up what little sleeves I had. Gregorio got a little suspicious over a mosquito bite, but turned his attention to other things. He and Seidenwall asked me approximately seven million questions, many of them consisting of the same ones over again. How long had Melanie been a junkie? How long had I been sleeping with her? Had she died right away, or was it gradual?
This last question was a trap, of course. There were a lot of questions like this, designed to trick me into admitting I had been with her when she died. There were other trick questions, geared to establish that I had sold the heroin to her. They seemed to take it for granted that it was heroin, and she had died of an overdose of it.
The questions went on for a while. They probably would have asked me fewer questions if they hadn’t hated me on sight, and they would have gone on hassling me longer except they were bored with the whole thing. It was all pretty obvious to them. Melanie had overdosed herself with heroin and that was why she was dead. When I pointed out that she had never to my knowledge been a drug addict, had never used a needle, they nodded without much enthusiasm and said that made an OD that much more likely. She wouldn’t know about the proper dose, for one thing. And she would have had no time to build up a gradual tolerance to the drug. Finally, some people go into something called anaphylactic shock the first time they try certain substances. Penicillin, for some people. Or a bee sting, or heroin.
Anyway, she was dead, and as far as they were concerned it was an accidental drug-related homicide, and they got too many of them to be terribly interested in each; new one that came along. So they asked me all their questions and took a short statement from me, and then they asked me for permission to accompany me to my own residence and search the premises, and of course I could have refused because they didn’t have a warrant. But they already hated me enough for one day, I figured, and besides I had thrown away not only the illegal marijuana but the legal codeine tablets, so in a way I was almost glad they wanted to search my room. I mean, I’d have felt a little foolish if I had gone through all of that for nothing.
Gregorio and Seidenwall seemed unhappy when they didn’t find anything. They held a whispered conversation by the bathroom door, and I caught enough of it to get an idea what it was about. Seidenwall wanted to plant some drugs so they would have an excuse to arrest me. Gregorio talked him out of it, not out of fondness for me, but because he felt I wasn’t worth the trouble.
“I’ll tell you, Harrison,” he said on his way out. “You’re the only thing in this that doesn’t make sense. Everything else is pretty open and shut. But you don’t figure.”
“Why?”
“You swear it’s not a business thing with the girl. That she’s a friend. And then you tell us you’ve known her for a month and you weren’t balling her.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You a faggot?”
“No.”
“Everybody knows those hippie chicks go like rabbits. It’s what you call common knowledge. But you knew her for a month without getting in her pants. It don’t add up.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Number two. You go to her apartment and find her dead with a needle in her arm.” The needle was not in her arm, but I let it pass. “And what do you do? You call the cops.”
“Isn’t that what a person is supposed to do?”
“Of course it’s what a person is supposed to do. Nobody in this fucking city does what he’s supposed to do. Nobody wants to get involved. Nobody wants to call himself to the attention of the police, especially in a drug-related homicide, especially when the person in question is a hippie punk that probably uses drugs himself.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, you don’t. And you’re not a hippie punk either, are you? You’re some kind of a cop.”
“I work—”
“Yeah, I know. You work for this Haig, who’s some kind of private cop that I never heard of. You’re his assistant. What do you assist him with?”
“Cases.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll tell you one thing, Harrison. I hope this Haig character looks more like a cop than you do. Because you just don’t fit the image of a cop, Harrison. Private or otherwise, you’re not my idea of a cop.”
I pictured Leo Haig and tried to decide which of the two of us looked more like a cop. I gave up thinking about it because it made me feel like giggling and I didn’t want to giggle. I had the feeling that one giggle from me was all Seidenwall would need.
I wasn’t sleeping with Melanie, I had done my civic duty and called the police, and I didn’t look like any kind of a cop. Those were the three things about me that made Gregorio and Seidenwall suspicious. I couldn’t quite follow their reasoning on this, but then again I didn’t have to.
Suspicious or not, they walked out my door and down the stairs without even telling me not to leave town. So: their suspicion was evidently just on general principles, coupled with instinctive dislike.
I suppose they would have given me a much worse time if they’d had the brains to realize Melanie had been: murdered.
Three
“It was definitely murder,” I said. “First of all, Melanie would never give herself a shot of heroin. She told me she tried heroin once, she snorted it, and it made her nauseous without giving her any kind of a high at all.”
“She might try it a second time.”
“She might, but there were too many other things she liked better. And if she did try it again, it wouldn’t be with a needle. She’s terrified of needles. Some nurse had to give her an injection once and botched it, kept stabbing around trying to find the vein, and she still has nightmares about it. Still had nightmares about it. Oh, shit.”
“Settle yourself, Chip.”
I nodded across the desk at him. It’s what they call a partners’ desk, with drawers and stuff on both sides so two people can use it. I was on my side of the desk. I was very flattered to have a whole side of a desk to myself, but I really didn’t have much of anything to keep in the drawers.
Haig took a pipe out of a little wooden rack on his side of the desk. This was during his pipe period. He had trouble keeping them lit, and they kept burning his mouth. He was convinced that he would sooner or later break a pipe in, and sooner or later find a mild enough tobacco, but in the meantime he was doing his best. He thought pipe-smoking might be good for the image. He took the pipe apart and cleaned it while I settled myself. He never did get around to smoking it that night.
I said, “Another thing. Melanie was extremely careful about that air mattress. You had to take your shoes off before you sat on it, and she would make me check to see if I had anything sharp in my pockets. She was very nervous, about puncturing the thing.”
Haig nodded. “The syringe.”
“Right. Even assuming she decides to take he
roin, and even assuming she’s going to shoot it, the last place in that apartment she’d pick to use a hypodermic needle is the air mattress.”
“You didn’t point this out to the police.”
“No. I didn’t point out anything to them, like telling them how she was afraid she was going to die.”
“Perfectly within your rights.” He touched his beard, stroked it with love and affection. “A citizen is under no compulsion to volunteer unrequested information to the police. He is merely obliged to answer their questions honestly and completely, and make no false statements.”
“Well, I fell down there.”
“The lock.”
“Right. They asked how I got in and I told them the lock was wrecked a couple of weeks ago in a burglary and she hadn’t got around to replacing it yet.”
“And of course you didn’t tell them you had been there once before.”
“No. I, uh, more or less gave them the impression I spent the past four hours with you.”
“I think that was wise,” he said. “They should have noticed the syringe and the air mattress. That should have been as obvious as a third nostril.” He closed his eyes for a moment and his hand worked on his beard. “You should have told me of Miss Trelawney’s fear of death.”
“What could you have done?”
“Probably nothing. Hmmm. There were five girls altogether, I understand. Five Misses Trelawney.”
“That’s right. And now three of them are dead.”
“And two alive. Are the survivors living here in New York?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about them.”
“Hmmmm. Perhaps you know more than you think. Melanie must have talked about them.”
“Actually, she didn’t talk too much about anything. She wasn’t very verbal.”
He nodded approvingly. “I’ve never felt loquacity is a mark of excellence in a woman. Nevertheless, she no doubt mentioned something about the girls who died. Their names, if nothing else.”
“Robin and Jessica.”
“One died in an auto wreck and the other fell from a window?”
“Yes. Let me think. Jessica went out the window and Robin died in the car accident.”
He pursed his lips. At least he did something weird with his lips, and I have never quite known what it is that you do when you purse your lips, but this was probably it. “Let’s not call it an accident, Chip,” he said. “Let’s merely call it a wreck, just as we’ll say that Jessica fell from a window, not that she threw herself out.”
“You think they were both murdered?”
“I think we ought to take it as a postulate for the time being. And we have to assume that whoever had a motive for murdering three of five sisters is not going to discontinue his activities before he has done for the remaining two into the bargain. Which of the sisters was the first to die?”
I had to think. “Robin first, then Jessica. I don’t know about the timing, though. All of this happened before I met Melanie. I have the impression that Jessica died two or three months ago, but I really don’t know how long before then Robin died.”
He closed his eyes. “That’s very interesting,” he said.
“What is?”
“First an auto wreck,” he said. “Then a fall, then an overdose of heroin. Assuming that an autopsy reveals that was indeed the cause of death. Which would seem a logical assumption at this stage of things. There were no signs of struggle?”
“None that I could see. Uh, in Melanie’s apartment, you might say there were always signs of struggle. I mean, she wasn’t the world’s most fanatical housekeeper.”
“But nothing out of the ordinary? And no sign of another person’s presence?”
“No. Except the phone off the hook, of course. I hung up myself after I called the police.”
“And neglected to mention to the police that it had been I off the hook when you arrived?”
“I felt they would wonder why I happened to notice it.”
He nodded. “And they’d resent you for it. It’s infinitely simpler for them to process this as an accidental overdose than as a murder, and a loose end like a telephone off the hook would only impress them as a complication. They’d file the case the same way, but they would be annoyed with you for bringing up irrelevancies and inconsistencies. They would have been happiest if you could have told them Melanie had been planning on trying heroin. It’s as well you didn’t, but that’s how any bureaucratic mind works.”
He spun around in his swivel chair and gazed into the fishtank at eye level. The entire room, and it is a large one, is paneled in English oak and lined from floor to ceiling with shelves. Most of the shelf space is devoted to books, the overwhelming majority of them detective stories, but fish tanks are spotted here and there on the shelves. There are a dozen of them. They are all what Haig calls recreational aquariums, as opposed to the breeding tanks and |rearing tanks on the top floor. Actually, to tell you the truth, they’re what Haig calls recreational aquaria. I call them aquariums because I’m not entirely literate yet. This particular tank was very restful to look at. It was a fifteen-gallon tank, which means it was one foot deep by one foot wide by two feet long, and its sole occupants were eleven Rasbora heteramorpha. I have a feeling that you either know what they are or you don’t, and a description won’t help much, but Haig wants me to make an | effort on matters like this. Rasboras are fish about an inch long, a delicate rose pink with a blackish wedge on their sides. They’re pretty, and they swim in schools, and in this particular tank they swam in and around a dwarf amazon sword plant and a piece of crystalline quartz. The tank was top-lighted, and if you watched the fish for a while you got a happy feeling.
At least I did. Haig watched the fish for a while and stroked his beard a lot and turned around in the swivel chair with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“How old was Melanie?”
“I don’t know. A little older than me. I guess about twenty-one.”
“And Jessica?”
“Older, but I don’t know by how much. Wait a minute. Melanie was the second youngest. And Robin was older than she was, so one of the girls still alive is younger than Melanie.”
“Were any of them married?”
“Yes, but I don’t know which ones. Obviously Melanie wasn’t married.” And never would be, I thought, and something vaguely resembling a lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed and it went away.
Haig said, “Hmmmmmm.” He turned and looked at the rasboras some more. I watched him do this for a while and saw that it was going to be an extensive thing, so I got up and went over to the wall and looked at some fish myself. A pair of African gouramis, two very beautiful fish, rendered in shades of chocolate. I’m not putting down the Latin name, because there’s no agreement on it yet; the species was just discovered a couple years ago and ha never been bred in captivity, a state of affairs which Leo Haig regards as a personal challenge. I stared into the tank and decided that I had never seen two living creatures display less interest in each other. We will breed the damned things sooner or later, but we were not going to accomplish it that particular evening.
Nor were we going to accomplish much else. Haig swung around and said as much. “Sitzfleisch,” was how he put it. “We have to let the newspapers do some of our work for us, and then you can go to the public library and do some of the rest. At the moment the library is closed and the newspaper has not yet materialized, so we exercise our sitting flesh. Get the chessboard.”
I got the chessboard. I didn’t much want to get the chessboard, but I could see no way out of it. Leo Haig was about as effective at chess as he was at smoking a pipe. Whenever there was nothing to do he was apt to want to play. I’m not very good myself. When I worked in the whorehouse in South Carolina, most of my job consisted of playing chess with Geraldine. She almost always beat me, and I in turn almost always beat Leo Haig.
We played three quick games, and they went as they usually did. I
exchanged a knight for a rook in the first game and wore him down, and in the second I put a strong queen-side attack together and more or less lucked into a mating combination. In the last game he left his queen en prise, and when I pointed it out to him he tipped his king over and resigned gracefully.
“I’ve a feeling,” he said, “that I shall never be a satisfactory chess player.”
I didn’t want to argue and knew better than to agree. “I don’t think the character tag of being a hopeless chess player will endear me to the reading public,” he continued.
I still didn’t say anything.
“We shall pursue this a bit further,” he went on. “But I think we must ultimately find another sport. In your spare moments, Chip, you might compile a list of sedentary sports requiring a certain degree of mental dexterity.”
We had coffee together, and then he went upstairs to discuss chess openings with the upstairs fish. I wandered into the front room and played a quick game of backgammon with Wong. He said, “Ah, so,” a lot, which I think is why Haig hired him, and he beat the hell out of me. Then I went downstairs and around the corner for a beer.
Leo Haig’s house is on West 20th Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, which puts it just two blocks away from my rooming house. (Which is why I selected the rooming house in the first place; before I went to work for Haig I was living on the Upper West Side, near Columbia University.) I promised I would tell you about Haig’s house, and I guess now is as good a time as any.
The address is 311½ West 20th, and the Vi is because, it does not front on the street. There’s a house out in front, and there’s an alley next to it, and if you buzz the buzzer a door opens and you can walk down the alley to the house in back, which is half Leo Haig’s and half a whorehouse. It started off life as a carriage house. Many years ago, rich people lived in the house on the street and had the one in back for their horses and servants. The horses lived on the bottom and the servants on top. Now the horses have been replaced by Puerto Rican prostitutes and the servants have been replaced by Leo Haig and Wong Fat.
Make Out with Murder Page 3
