by Kane, Henry
“So?”
“On her trip up to the country, she took only one piece. A brooch. A diamond brooch. A diamond brooch with more karats than a hutch of rabbits can eat in a lifetime.”
“Very expressive, Lieutenant. Worthy of General Generoso.”
“Don’t be flip, Peter. Generoso is a fine cop, despite his college-trained didoes.”
“Didoes? Where’d you pick that up?”
“From Generoso, where else?” He grinned, but unhappy. Parker was troubled.
“Hooray for the generous Generoso. Let’s stay on the brooch.”
He moved to the dresser. “Today, when they came back from the country, she took the brooch off and placed it into this drawer.” He pointed to the upper right-hand drawer. “The maid—Mrs. Monet—witnessed that.”
“Where is the extraordinary Mrs. Monet?”
“Downtown being cross-questioned on her sworn statement.”
“Everybody make their statements?”
“Oh yes, signed and sealed. May I get back to that brooch, please?”
“Please.”
“When, finally, our experts were finished, and we were able to look into that drawer—”
“I get it,” I said. “No brooch.”
“You get it,” he said, “and according to Santee, you’ve got it.”
“I get the whole deal now, including motive. What you’re hot to tell me is that while Arlington was sleeping—”
“Your boy, poking around, opened the drawer, saw the brooch, and copped it.”
“That’s larceny, not murder.”
“According to Sandy Santee—the old dame woke up and squawked and he got scared and stuck her.”
“That’s according to Santee. What about—according to you?”
His sigh came from way down, practically rattling his prostate. “Peter, your boy was found with that knife in his hand. That other guy, that Peabody, we couldn’t even have proved that he was here, except that he himself—by his own admission, mind you—told us. The fingerprints on the knife turn out to be Medford’s, of course, but only Medford’s …”
“And fingerprints—on the drawer of the dresser, the drawer that contained the fabulous brooch …?”
Concern wizened the corners of his eyes. “We’ve got a little trouble there. It’s a trouble that’s been explained …”
“Frankly, pal, you don’t look too happy about it.”
“Frankly, pal, I’m not too happy about it … which is why Peabody and Santee are still here.”
“So let’s hear, pal. First, please, the trouble. Then, please, the explanation. I offer my services as a sounding-board, Lieutenant.”
“Listen, Pete, and listen good. My experts worked out two items on the knob of that drawer.”
“Yeah man,” I said.
“They worked out a smudge which could have been done by a finger. And they worked out a clear fingerprint.”
“Whose?”
“Michael Peabody’s.”
“And it’s my boy that you’re going to book.”
“We’re not yet excluding the other, but for your boy—just listen.” He was not happy, but he was honest, and he was efficient.
“I’m listening,” I said somewhat deferentially.
“One—he was caught red-handed with that knife in his hand. Two—only his prints are on the knife. Three—we now have reason and motive for the murder. Four—the smudge on that dresser drawer could certainly be his print, only it got smudged. Five—Michael Peabody has given a reasonable explanation for his print being on the knob of that drawer—”
“Hold it, please.”
“Yes?”
“Santee is accusing me of being in cahoots with Medford?”
“Yes.”
“That Medford copped the brooch and when I got here, passed it to me?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you please—may I personally hear Michael Peabody’s reasonable explanation for his print being on the knob of that drawer?”
“Sure?”
“This reasonable explanation is now a part of his sworn statement?”
“Of course.”
“May I hear, Lieutenant?”
“You’re entitled.” He went out and came back with Peabody and Santee. “Mr. Peabody,” he said, “tell Mr. Chambers about the flowers and stuff.”
“Why the hell should it be repeated to him? Who the hell is he?”
“Michael,” said Santee. “Cower not at truth. Be good. Cooperate with the esteemed lieutenant. Tit for titty, as the saying goes. Admittedly, we have accused Mr. Chambers of a certain complicity here—purely as a matter of conjecture, I must add—but we have made certain conjectural accusations and, under the law, under the time-tried precepts of our great and hallowed Constitution, the accused has the right of confrontation by his accusers—”
“Sandy kindly cut the bullshit if you please,” said the Pea. “It makes me dizzy.”
“Then don’t be difficult. When I don’t want you to talk, you talk your goddamned head off. When I ask you to talk—”
“Okay okay. What do you want me to talk?”
“What the goddamned lieutenant—pardon me—what the lieutenant has requested.”
“You want to hear about the bit with the fingerprint on the knob of the drawer? Is that it, Lieutenant?”
“If you please,” said the lieutenant.
“Well, like I told you. When I got here, she’s sleeping. She wakes up and we shmooz around, talking. Them flowers there—like all of you can plain see, including the peeper—is all the hell wilted and there’s petals all over the dresser, dropped from them poor wilted flowers. Well, I happen to be a neat guy, always have been a neat guy, it’s part of my make-up, part of my nature. So, while we’re shmoozing around, making with the chop-chop, me, I’m kind of cleaning up them petals which has fell. I’m shoving them into the cup of my hand, you know? Shoveling with one hand into the cup of the other—”
“Pea,” I said, “what in hell does that have to do with your print on the knob of the drawer of the dresser?”
“Peeper,” he said, “why don’t you hold your water?”
“Mr. Chambers,” said Santee, “this recital is at your behest. Common courtesy would dictate that you do not interrupt.”
“My courtesy is uncommon and all forms of dictators—”
“Peter,” said Parker, “shut up.”
I shut. Up.
“Well,” said Peabody, “that drawer wasn’t firm closed, if you know what I mean. It was like pulled open a few inches. Me, I’m cleaning up there, brushing them petals into the cup of my hand, and some of them fall in, into that part-open drawer. So I pull open the drawer—”
“And you discover a great big diamond brooch.”
“I didn’t discover nothing, Mr. Peeper. I wasn’t looking for nothing except some of them loose petals which I brushed in there. Anyway, I take them out, and dump the whole heap into the incinerator. So like that it figures that maybe a print of mine shows up on the knob of that drawer.”
I said, “You have his sworn statement on that, Lieutenant?”
“Of course.”
“What about his prints on the incinerator-handle?”
“No clear prints. Smudges.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Anything else, Mr. Chambers?” said Santee.
“Nothing else, Mr. Santee,” I said.
“Mr. Chambers,” he said, “once again I advise you to make a clean breast, now, while there’s time, before they squeeze it out of Medford, and any confession on your part will be too late—”
“Get them out of here,” I said.
They were got out of there and Parker and I were alone again.
“You don’t think I’m mixed in this, do you, Louie?” I said.
“Of course not.”
“But Medford?”
“He’s admitted that he’s in need of money—”
“So just like that he murders a wom
an who’s befriended him.”
“No. We don’t think it was premeditated. We haven’t begun to pressure him yet, we haven’t pressed for any admissions, we haven’t put on any heat. But our figure is he came in when she was sleeping, mosied around, found that brooch, and she woke up. Even a kid like that can realize the tremendous value of that bauble. If he can get away with it—he’s set. He doesn’t have to depend upon anybody for money. He can take his time about passing it—maybe even getting expert advice—but once he’s passed it—he doesn’t have to worry about money again for a long, long time. Once he’s out of there with that brooch, he can even say he never got there. He puts it away in a safe place and he’s got a hunk of stuff that he can change up for independence. He doesn’t have to beg or borrow any more for his … his artistic independence. But the dame woke up.”
“So he kills her?”
“What else? Suddenly he sees himself free and clear for the first time in his life. He doesn’t have to depend on his father, he doesn’t have to depend on rich old dames, he doesn’t have to depend on egomaniacs who want bronze busts of themselves—he’s free and clear and independent—an artist. So he slashes.”
“Which presupposes he had a knife on him.”
“Why not? Lots of kids carry these knives today. And even you can’t say he was unacquainted with them. By his own admission—and yours—he ran with a pretty bad crew in his time.”
“So what did he do with the brooch?”
“Santee believes he passed it to you. It’s Santee’s theory that that’s why the kid insisted upon your being here before he’d loosen up with a word. Santee believes it was passed to you before we had any idea that it was missing.”
“And what do you believe?”
“That once he had it, he went out with it somewhere and got rid of it quick. Then he came back here to try to clean up on the knifing deal, and the maid showed up. He’s a kid. He’s a sculptor. He’s not a hardened crook. He’s inexperienced in crime. He freezes —and then the best he can do is play it out dumb. And he’s got plenty of time to think up a story while he’s waiting for you. He says he picked the knife up off the floor—”
“But it could be true, damn, can’t it?”
“Only his prints on it, Pete.”
“So? Isn’t it possible the hilt was wiped before it was dropped. Peabody is not inexperienced in crime. And there’s even a reason why he left the knife. As he’s informed us, Miss Arlington told him that Medford was due. If Medford is caught here with that knife …”
“Peter, we don’t have one damned thing against Peabody, plus that shyster is here protecting every flank. We’ve got to tread carefully as all hell. Actually, we don’t have any right to hold him, and Santee has been playing it cool and supposedly cooperative. Just between you and me—I think he’s waiting for us to make a slip. Any statements that we get out of Peabody that are in the least irregular—will not be admissible in a court of law as proper evidence. I’ve been playing it cool right back at Santee. Oh, I haven’t ruled Peabody out, not by a long shot—”
“Then why don’t you get rid of that Santee?”
“What sense? He’d tell Peabody to clam, and then, with his connections, he’d have him out in an hour on a writ.”
“Have you searched Peabody’s room at the Brittany?”
“We don’t have the right. Without a search warrant, it would be illegal entry. Again, any evidence we turn up like that—illegally —would be tainted evidence.”
“Then why don’t you get a search warrant?”
“It takes time, and Santee would get wind. He’s already made a few outgoing calls, and has already received a few calls. He’s got connections deep in the Department. The minute we’d start putting in for a search warrant, he’d get a call on it, light out, and—under power of attorney from his client—go to that room before us and take out, or throw out, anything incriminating.”
“How do you know he hasn’t already done that—through confederates—as part of his phone calls?”
“That stupid, I’m not, Pete. I’ve got a cop standing outside Peabody’s door to report. No one has gone in, or attempted to go in.”
I lit a cigarette. I said, “Can you get in touch with that cop?”
“Of course. I’ve got a radio car sitting right outside the hotel.”
“Fine. You’ll get a call through to that radio car with a message for the cop at the door.”
“Message?” He started as though I had turned a key to his ignition.
“A message that when Peter Chambers shows up that cop is to knock it off, to go away, to get lost.”
“When you show up? Now what the—”
“I take it that both Peabody and Medford have been searched for that brooch?”
“Both volunteered.”
“Natch, and of course there wasn’t anything incriminating on either of them. Now, Pappy, I know that my kid is telling the truth and I’m positive that Peabody is lying.”
“Positive, are you?”
“And I’m going to accentuate that positive, Pappy. Remember when you sent that cop after Mike the Pea? You yourself told me —and Peabody corroborated—that he’d hardly just got there, still had his hat on his head, when that cop came a-calling. Okay. Since I’m positive he’s lying, then I’m certain he had that brooch on him. I’m going to prove that, and I don’t need any search warrants, and I don’t have to worry about some shyster screwing up the works with legalistic firecrackers. Now, please, here’s all I want you to do. Hold them all here—give me a fifteen minute start. Then let Michael Peabody go. Oh, he’ll go—he’ll fly! But hang on to Santee, on any pretext—just for five minutes. Then all of you come down to the Brittany, come visit Michael Peabody, and you won’t need a search warrant, Pappy. It’ll just be a social call.”
“Pete! I don’t—”
“Pappy, I beg of you—trust me. I’ve known you for a hell of a long time. I’ve never put you on a spot yet, have I? I wouldn’t for all the tea in China and all the hash in Mexico and all the pot in Greenwich Village. And I won’t now, I promise you. It’s only that you’re the law and the law has to play it by law or else it gets mangled to uselessness by such mechanics of the law as the likes of Santee. Well, I’m not the law. I’m a private citizen scooting around playing at cops and robbers, and I can play it by ear. Please, I beg you, comply with my simple requests, and then cross your fingers, cross your toes, and cross whatever else you’ve got that you can cross. Bye now, Pappy, Wish me luck.”
And I was off on my scooter, playing at cops and robbers.
TWENTY
I MADE A fast stop at Ye Olde Fleur And Flowery Shoppe where I purchased corroboration for my theory and six red roses to be delivered to Topsy Twits for her apartment and one purple orchid to be delivered to Topsy Twits for her person. I was pushing hard on two fronts, Parker’s and Topsy’s, and Topsy’s front, of course, was far more delectable. On this latter front I was at long last being subtle, at least that was my good intention (although we all know what the road to hell is paved with). I was trying and I hoped against hope that she dug. A masochistic twist of my weird psyche had sundered a sunny relationship and had sent me scampering from a gal whom I was nuts about and I was now attempting to reverse the scamp by laying a beseeching wreath upon her blooming altar. The fragrance of six red roses was foreign to the odor of autobiography—and I hoped she understood that—which was the reason for the orchid. The purple orchid was to serve as symbol: if she wore it when she came to visit at nine o’clock—autobiography or no autobiography—I would have my token. So much for Topsy’s front, God bless it.
On Parker’s front I hastened to The Brittany, self-serviced the creaky elevator to Six, sauntered to the lolling cop near 606 and sideswiped from the side of my mouth in regulation croak-and-digger tradition: “Peter Chambers. Parker sent me. Goodbye.” He saluted as though I too were in uniform, wafted off to the creaking lift, and was whisked away.
I paced tha
t ancient corridor as though I were an anticipant daddy and 606 was the maternity ward. It was hot and unventilated and I worked up an unwanted sweat. There was no chair or bench but there was, at either end of the corridor, a telephone booth, in one of which I sought cramped sanctuary disguised as a hunched-up appurtenance attached to a phone receiver. I sat, spine-curled and eye-cocked, sweating profusely, awaiting the pop of the expected Pea. This was to be the crux of the crud, one way or another. He had invited me to combat often enough and I had resisted it as a waste of time but now it was business and I was looking forward. Could be I would have my head handed to me. Could be—but if I could not handle the likes of the Pea, big as he was, it was time I retired.
The elevator screeched the start of its climb and I came unstuck from my seat—not for the first time—knees tense and thighs taut and waiting, but this time was my time. Mike the Pea, intent upon swift entrance into 606, flew along that corridor as though he had a tail-wind behind him. Tail-wind or no, he had me behind him, tippy-toe but fairly fleet, and just as he opened his door, I took off in a flying tackle. Half in the room, half out, we scuffled. No word was said. He recognized me and his grin denoted his satisfaction. So did mine, mine.
He was strong and he fought dirty, a combination which can be lethal, unless you are strong and you fight dirty: then it is even up. For a while—grunting, panting, punching, biting—that’s the way it was: even up. Once, his knee, sharply accurate, shot to my groin, and I fell back almost helpless, and the tide surged in his favor and almost drowned me, but a last-effort lucky gouge at his eyes set us back to even again; silently, except for the involuntary sounds—grunts, rasps, expostulations of pain—we thrashed about in a vicious bout of no-holds-barred; and then I was down on my back playing it cute and he leaped in one last deadly effort but he forgot to cover, his jaw was exposed, and the heel of my shoe caught the point of his chin, and he toppled, flat, supine, rattling for breath and semi-conscious, his head in the room, his legs in the corridor, and I crawled over him and seized his golden hair in my hands and knocked the semi out of the semi-conscious by a judicious pounding of the back of his head against the hardwood floor. He lay still. For a few moments, I rested upon him. Then I pushed up, straightened out, pulled him in, closed the door, dug deep for breath, and then jollied about the room, seeking, and I did not have to seek long. His dresser was nothing like the ornate ash-wood affair of Penelope Arlington—it was decrepit, stained, and peeling —but it also had a right-hand top drawer, which, when I pulled it, revealed a gleaming outsize diamond brooch smack-dab-centre where in his hurry he had dropped it. I clucked in admiration and he groaned in returning consciousness, and upon this muted duet came a resounding rapping upon the door.
