by Tom Bradby
He sniffed gently, but could not detect chloroform.
Caprisi went around to the far door where he, too, could get a clean look at the body. ‘Have you seen the driver?’
‘He’s on the floor in the front. A broken neck.’
He pulled back Duncan’s jacket and slipped a hand into the breast pocket. He found a thin leather wallet and a dark comb. There was a clean handkerchief in his overcoat and a collection of nickels and dimes in his pants. Beside his feet was a screwed-up, bloodstained copy of the Evening News. A cigar protruded from an ashtray.
Quinn got out of the Buick and peered in through the front window. The driver had been hit from behind. His head was thrust forward at a grotesque angle.
There was a flash behind them. Quinn and Caprisi turned. ‘Hey!’ one of the uniformed men shouted, but Quinn had already ripped the camera from the photographer’s hand and shoved him back towards the tape.
‘Easy, fella!’ the man yelled, arms raised. He was tiny, with a brown derby and a brand new coat. He had a pinched face and a long nose that sprouted hair.
Quinn was tempted to smash his camera. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Easy, sir. Easy, Detective. I’m just doing my job.’
Reluctantly Quinn handed back the camera.
The guy breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Say, you know what he was doing?’
‘This is a crime scene.’
‘That’s one hell of a mess. You figure that’s—’
‘This is police business.’
The guy raised his camera again, but Quinn stood in his way. ‘That’s Duncan in the back, right?’ the photographer persisted.
‘Get behind the tape.’
‘Aw, come on, Detective. Give me a break. You’ll have half Manhattan here in five minutes. Just a few shots, right?’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Listen, I’ll pay. Twenty each to you and your partner and a ten-dollar bill for the uniform guys.’
Quinn moved closer.
‘Okay, okay …’
Brandon and O’Reilly pulled off Fifth Avenue and turned into the park. Seconds later, the press pack screamed after them. The uniforms tried to hold them back, but they paid no heed until the Bull himself raised a hand, like Moses on the bank of the Red Sea. Quinn saw Caprisi smirk.
Brandon sauntered up to them. He had an overcoat draped around his shoulders and the brim of his hat pulled low to conceal the cut to his right eye. O’Reilly had a vivid bruise across his cheek. Brandon’s gaze was steely. ‘Have you taken a look?’ Without waiting for an answer he moved towards the Buick and made O’Reilly hold his coat while he climbed in. He cast no more than a cursory glance over both victims before emerging to retrieve his coat and present himself to the waiting press. The flashguns popped and the newshounds hollered in unison. It reminded Quinn of the night he’d seen Ronald Colman arrive for a movie première on Broadway.
‘It’s definitely Duncan?’ one journalist asked, louder than the rest.
The Bull nodded gravely.
‘Is it true he’s got his pants down?’
‘What about the mayor?’ shouted a second.
‘Who do you think did it, Johnny?’
The Bull smiled. ‘We’ve got some ideas, but you gentlemen will need to exercise a little patience.’
‘You figure it could have been La Guardia?’
‘No.’
‘There’s no love lost between him and Tammany.’
‘Look for another angle, Jimmy.’
A new figure joined the throng. ‘You told the mayor about this?’ the man asked Brandon.
‘When you gentlemen give us a minute, I’m sure we will.’
‘You figure it was a broad?’
‘It’s too early to say.’
‘But I heard he’s got his pants down.’
‘We’ll put the word out, Sonny. I’m betting you won’t have to wait too long.’
‘Does his wife know?’ The reporter had his hat cocked back and spoke more quietly than the others, who deferred to him. He and Brandon were evidently old acquaintances.
‘Not yet. And don’t you go telling her.’
‘Used to be a showgirl, right?’
‘If you say so, Sonny,’ one of the reporters yelled. The others laughed.
‘The chauffeur’s dead, too?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You got a name for him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You figure it’s a gambling quarrel, like with Rothstein?’
‘Who found him?’
‘A broad walking her dog. We’re not going to give you her name.’
O’Reilly raised his hand. ‘Okay, gents. That’s enough.’
‘You figure they’ll delay the election?’
As Brandon walked forward, the pressmen broke ranks for him.
Moments after Brandon and his travelling circus had swept away down Fifth Avenue, another saloon pulled quietly into the park. The chief of detectives got out and stalked towards them. McCredie’s white hair curled over the collar of his blue overcoat, and his face was grey. The handful of pressmen who’d remained realized that they were witnessing a rare appearance by the legendary Ed McCredie and scrabbled for a photograph.
McCredie put his head through the door of the Buick. He remained motionless for a time, then stepped to the side and peered through the front window. As he did so, one of the press photographers let off a flash. ‘Get these saps out of here,’ he bellowed at the uniforms.
McCredie waited until the photographers had been hustled back behind the tape, scowling at them all the way. ‘Have you told his wife?’ he asked Quinn.
‘I thought it was best not to. Just in case it turned out—’
‘You did the right thing. Any idea why they pulled his pants down?’
‘No.’
‘You got a theory?’
‘No, sir. Not yet.’
‘You figure a woman could have killed him?’
‘No, sir. She wouldn’t have been powerful enough to get the better of both of them.’
McCredie turned back to the Buick. ‘You think he was meeting someone?’
‘It’s possible. Matsell went up to the roof to see somebody before he hit the street.’
‘What’s the connection?’
‘Matsell was pumping Charlie Luciano’s money into a fix. They were getting a bunch of columnists to ramp stocks. Duncan was the guy who persuaded the columnists to sign up.’
‘That sure is an unfortunate coincidence.’
‘They were killed within thirty-six hours of each other. It’s more than a coincidence.’
‘One was a suicide, Detective.’
‘Sir …I understand it’s a sensitive issue, but we can’t hold that line now.’
McCredie moved closer. ‘Can’t we, Detective?’
‘Well … no.’
‘Then let me tell you a few facts of life. We’ve just found the mayor’s chief aide dead with his pants around his knees. Know what that spells?’
‘Trouble, sir.’
‘In the middle of an election, it spells the kind of trouble you can barely imagine. And you can bet your life the lines to City Hall are already burning hot. Make it a double homicide officially and we’ll have a sensation. Schneider will roast the pair of us over a slow fire.’
‘But, sir—’
‘That’s enough, Quinn.’
‘Sir, there are other people connected to this fix. They seem real nervous. This may just be the beginning.’
‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Charlie Matsell’s partners, Moe Diamond and Dick Kelly, tipsters like Jeremy Norton.’
‘I’m not saying we drop it. I’m saying we need to keep it close. We have to box the political shadows. That’s what Headquarters is about. Do you understand me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Let Johnny do what Johnny does. Whatever else we get, we’ll keep to ourselves. Above all, don’t talk to Schneider.’ McCredie looked at the pr
essmen standing in silence at the edge of the cordon. ‘You lads knock off now.’
‘Sir, we can—’
‘Get the fingerprint boys and the doc down here and then go home. We’ll talk after line-up tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir. But if you want us to help tonight, we can—’
McCredie had already turned towards his automobile and his answer was lost in the roar of the Fifth Avenue traffic.
Quinn climbed into the Gardner.
‘He’s right,’ Caprisi said. ‘Schneider will nail us to a cross if we’re not careful.’
‘You mean if we tell the truth.’
‘McCredie has to walk on eggs, Joe. Brandon will do almost anything to get into his chair.’
‘Says who?’
‘Valentine, for one.’
‘But McCredie’s the king. He’s been here for ever. No one can touch him.’
‘Times change. No one’s bulletproof. What happens if Johnny the Bull cuts a deal with Schneider? Maybe he already has …’
‘Do you figure Brandon invites his press pack to watch him take a shit in the morning?’
‘I head he doesn’t shit.’
Quinn rifled through Duncan’s slim leather wallet. He found three hundred dollars, a railroad timetable for Hartford and New Haven and a ticket for a prize-fight between Sandy MacDonald and Harry ‘Kid’ Brown at the Harlem Sporting Club the following evening. He passed it to Caprisi. ‘Who goes to a fight alone?’
‘A man with no friends.’
They watched the uniforms repel a couple of photographers who’d arrived late. ‘It was the chest wound that killed him, right? So why did they cut his throat?’
Caprisi sighed. ‘A struggle, maybe? There’s no similarity in the method. Maybe the boss is right. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.’
‘You figure he is right?’
‘Well, no, but all the same …’
Quinn leant on the steering-wheel. ‘What type of guy talks about using a woman?’
‘What do you mean, Joe?’
‘That’s what Norton says Duncan told him. “We’ve got a broad you can use.” ’
‘Joe, c’mon, they wouldn’t be the first bunch of guys to hire a whore for the night.’
‘No, but it’s a real unusual phrase. If you had to nail a motive tonight, what would you say?’
‘It has to be the Wall Street fix. That’s the connection. There must be guys all over Manhattan sweating big losses.’
‘Big enough for murder?’
Caprisi sneezed, took a moment to wipe his nose, then said, ‘You’re not in with your paycheck, let alone on margin, so what would you know? A guy who’s gone in big on credit on the word of a couple of tipsters could now be staring ruin in the face. That’d be enough to make him sweat. And enough to have him think about murder.’
‘What about the chloroform? What about Duncan’s pants around his knees?’
‘Maybe the guy’s smart enough to want to throw us off the trail.’
Quinn fired up the Gardner. ‘Let’s go home.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BUT QUINN DIDN’T GO HOME. AFTER HE’D DROPPED CAPRISI AT THE subway, he pulled the Gardner into a parking bay outside Centre Street. Their floor was deserted, but Mae was still hunched over her desk, correcting a report. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
Quinn sat on the edge of her desk. ‘You okay?’
‘I guess.’
‘You should be out of here.’
‘I have to check the Murray Street report. Schneider wants it first thing in the morning.’ She stretched and yawned. ‘I got that list for you. Delaware Photographic supplies four stores in town – one around here, the rest out in Brooklyn and beyond.’
‘Where’s the one around here?’
‘List’s on your desk. By the way, I persuaded Mrs Mecklenburg to go home. I got O’Reilly to talk to her and she seemed reassured that they were doing everything they could. She said she’d be back in the morning.’
‘Thanks, Mae.’
‘It was nothing, really. Poor woman. Can you imagine it?’
‘I’d prefer not to.’
‘When I got her downstairs, she started crying and I couldn’t get her to stop. We spent an hour in the ladies’ room and she was shaking like a leaf.’ She glanced over his shoulder. ‘Where’s your partner?’
‘He went home.’
‘He’s got a home? You’d never have guessed it.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh … he keeps himself to himself, doesn’t he? I like him, though. I know the others wouldn’t agree, but I figure you’re lucky to have landed him.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe he’s not so lucky to have landed you, Joe Quinn.’ Mae laughed. ‘You’re the talk of the office. About time someone taught the Bull some manners.’
Quinn grinned at her and went to his desk.
‘Better watch your back, Joe,’ she called after him. ‘Their brains may be pea-sized, but they’ve got long memories.’
He picked up the sheet of paper she’d left for him. The Manhattan store was on the corner of Centre and Franklin. Quinn called a goodnight and headed for the street. A westerly wind blew a few spots of rain into his face as he pounded along the darkened sidewalk. It was the tail end of the commuter hour and shadowy figures still streamed towards the subway lights.
A small fat man peered at him through the drugstore window. ‘I’m closed,’ he shouted.
‘One minute.’ Quinn held up a finger. The owner relented and let him slip through the half-bolted door. Quinn slapped his hands together. ‘Thanks. You won’t regret it.’
The man bustled behind the counter. ‘You’ll have to be quick. I’m late for my daughter’s ballet class. What can I do for you?’
Quinn leant forward with a quietly conspiratorial air. ‘I understand you may be of assistance in the procurement …the production, maybe … of a certain type of photograph.’
‘What kind of photograph did you have in mind, sir?’
‘The intimate kind.’
The man glanced at the door. ‘Did someone give you a personal recommendation?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Real personal. I hear you might be able to arrange a studio shoot involving a group of—’
‘No, sir. Hold on. I can certainly, for a fee, assist in printing a roll of film of a particular nature that you may wish to give me, but I’m afraid I cannot do more than that.’
‘But you have a studio out back?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’
‘Ah, so you’re a printer.’
‘Yes. Now if you’d like …’
Quinn took out some of the pictures he’d found in Matsell’s suitcase and spread them on the desk.
Hurriedly the man turned them face down. ‘Please!’ he said.
Quinn flipped them up again. ‘I need to know if you printed these.’
‘I have no idea.’ He glanced at them. ‘No … no.’
‘You sure about that, sir? They’re printed on the photographic paper you use.’
‘How do you …’ The man frowned. He tugged at the tips of his moustache. His eyes narrowed. ‘There must be some mistake. I didn’t realize this was the kind of thing you had in mind. This is a respectable business, a family business.’
‘Did you print these?’
‘No.’
He took out the photograph of Martha. ‘What about this?’
The pharmacist’s face went pale. He shook his head.
‘Are you absolutely certain?’
‘Yes. I’ve never seen it before in my life.’
Quinn bolted the door, turned the key in the lock and closed the shutters.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing you need to worry about.’
‘Who are you?’
Quinn took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and put them on. ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Nathan – Nathan Gregory.’
‘Well, Nathan, t
hat girl is my brother’s fiancée, and he’s not going to want to see her like that, is he?’
Nathan Gregory’s eyes widened.
‘So I have to find out who took that picture.’
‘Yes – yes, of course.’
‘And since you developed it, Nathan, that means I’m going to have to start by talking to you. And the quicker I get answers, the quicker you can be at your daughter’s ballet class.’
‘No – I didn’t …’ He backed away.
‘It’s printed on your paper.’
‘There must be hundreds of stores that—’
‘Four. Only one in Manhattan.’
‘I’ve never seen it before. I swear it.’
Quinn moved behind the counter.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Who said you’d done anything wrong?’
‘Who are you?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ Quinn closed the gap between them and gripped the printer’s balls. ‘You know what I have in my hand, Nathan?’
‘Yes,’ he squeaked. ‘Yes.’
‘If you don’t tell me what I need to know, I’m going to rip them right off. Have you got that?’
‘Yes.’
Quinn smelt garlic on the man’s breath. ‘Who brought that photograph in?’
‘I don’t know— Aaargh! I don’t! He never gave a name. No one ever does. I wouldn’t have asked your name tonight – that’s why people come here.’
‘What did he look like?’
Tears ran down the pharmacist’s cheeks. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He was tall, Nathan? He was old?’
‘Not tall, mid-forties, maybe … well-dressed. I – it’s so hard to remember—’
‘How long ago?’
‘A week – no, two.’
‘Do you still have the roll of film?’
‘No.’
‘But you remember what was on it, right?’
‘No— Aaargh!’
‘Think, Nathan.’
‘I don’t know. There were more pictures, but they were all the same.’
‘Were there other people in the photographs, men?’
‘No.’
‘Think again, Nathan.’ Quinn pushed the man’s face towards the image. ‘You can see a man’s foot here, and in this corner, a hand. That’s two men within reach of the girl and one behind the camera. So, who was in the other pictures?’
