Edge of the Law

by Deming, Richard

  “It was me they saw run out,” Sands assured him. “They just imagined the gun. I saw the bomb tossed, and was trying to head off the bomber. Come out front and I’ll show you what happened.”

  He led the sergeant to the alcove behind the bar, explained how the bomb had been rolled beneath the bar from there, and how the bomber had escaped by the street door.

  “There’s a padlock on the outside,” Sands said. “After ducking out, the bomber snapped it shut. By the time I figured out his escape route and backtracked across the barroom to the main entrance, he could have jumped in a car and driven off, or made the next corner on foot. No one was in sight when I got outside.”

  The sergeant said dubiously, “Judging by the crowd of people outside who claim they were in there when it happened, the joint must of been packed. How come nobody but you saw the bomb tossed?”

  “All I saw was the door open about six inches,” Sands told him. “The light in the alcove was off so I didn’t get a glimpse of the bomber. I didn’t even see the bomb, for that matter. I just heard it roll across the floor, and dropped flat.”

  “How’d you know it was a bomb?” the sergeant asked with a return of suspicion.

  “I didn’t,” Sands said shortly. “I’ve just got a suspicious nature.”

  The sergeant examined him moodily. “Guess you better explain all this again to the Homicide boys,” he decided. “They’ll be along soon.”

  Ordering his men outside to hold all the witnesses, he told Sands and Ginny to stand by until Homicide detectives got there.

  CHAPTER XII

  HOMICIDE ARRIVED about fifteen minutes later, along with a medical examiner and a lab crew. The homicide team consisted of two men. The elder, a gray-haired heavy-jowled man with a quiet manner, introducing himself as Lieutenant Sam Orsby. His partner was a tall, gangling sergeant named Nicholas Bluff.

  They listened without comment to the uniformed sergeant’s report and to Sands’ story. After moodily viewing the torn body behind the bar, the lieutenant issued crisp instructions to a police photographer. Flashlight bulbs began to pop.

  Lieutenant Orsby said to another member of the lab crew, “Soon as Dave finishes taking pictures, let the M.E. look at the body. Then I want every bit of that bomb recovered, except what’s in the victim. We’ll get that part from the postmortem boys later. Don’t miss even a splinter, because I want that bomb put back together.”

  He turned to his partner. “Get those witnesses in here who claim they saw the bomb tossed, Nick.”

  “Sure, Sam,” the gangling Sergeant Bluff said, and went outside.

  Orsby went back to the kitchen to talk to Ginny. Sands trailed after him.

  “Where were you when the bomb exploded, Mrs. Thompson?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Back here,” Ginny said in a dead voice.

  “Then you didn’t see anything that happened?”

  She shook her head.

  “You have any idea who did this thing?” The lieutenant glanced at Sands as he asked the question.

  Catching the glance, Ginny said with a frown, “It wasn’t Jud, Lieutenant.”

  “How do you know, if you were back here?”

  “I know why my husband was killed.”

  “Yeah?” Orsby said. “Why?”

  “Because Renzo Amatti ordered it.”

  The lieutenant’s face blanked of all expression. In a cautious voice he said, “That’s a pretty serious accusation, Mrs. Thompson. You sure you know what you’re saying?”

  Ginny looked up at the man. His change of tone at mention of Amatti’s name brought an expression of weary contempt to her eyes. “I couldn’t prove it,” she said. “And I don’t suppose you’d arrest him if I could. You wouldn’t stay a lieutenant very long if you offended Mr. Amatti, would you?”

  Lieutenant Orsby flushed. Doing an abrupt about-face, he stalked from the kitchen. With a slight smile on his face, Sands followed.

  Sergeant Nicholas Bluff had reëntered the tavern with two men. Sands recognized them as the two bar customers who had glanced at him when he first entered the place. The thin, reedy man who had started the stampede by announcing that Sands was the bomber pointed a trembling finger at Sands.

  “That’s the—” he started to say.

  “Hold it till you’re asked something,” Lieutenant Orsby snapped at him. To his partner he said, “I have to make a phone call, Nick. Don’t do anything until I come back.”

  He entered the phone booth at the rear of the tavern and pulled the door shut behind him. Sergeant Bluff gave Sands an inquiring look.

  “Renzo Amatti’s name came up,” Sands said with a touch of sarcasm. “That changes the picture. The lieutenant has to find out whether he’s supposed to make a police investigation or a cover-up.”

  The sergeant frowned at him.

  “Do you suppose he’s phoning Renzo direct for instructions?” Sands asked in a confidential tone. “Or going through channels by just calling the police chief?”

  Sergeant Bluff’s frown deepened. But he seemed unsure of how to react. Sands could almost read his mind. If Amatti had ordered this bombing and Sands was one of Amatti’s men, it was a situation fraught with the danger of losing sergeant’s stripes if it was mishandled. With the fix Amatti had, it was quite possible one of his hired killers would arrogantly wait around for the police after a job, brazenly flaunting his immunity to arrest.

  Bluff decided to await a cue from the lieutenant before reacting at all. He simply ignored Sands.

  Lieutenant Orsby was in the booth nearly ten minutes. When he came out his brow was beaded with perspiration, but it was only from the heat of the booth. His expression was the serene one of a man who knew exactly what he was supposed to do.

  He said to the two men Sergeant Bluff had brought in, “Understand you men think this guy tossed the bomb.” He jerked a thumb toward Sands.

  “He did,” the thin, reedy man said positively. “He tossed it from the door.”

  Lieutenant Orsby looked inquiringly at the other witness.

  “I didn’t see him throw nothing,” the man said. “I just seen him come in. But the bomb went off right after that. I wasn’t looking at him then, so I don’t know whether he threw it or not. But Iggy here says he did.”

  “You actually saw him toss it?” Orsby asked Iggy.

  “Well, I didn’t see it go through the air,” Iggy said reluctantly. “But I heard it land back of the bar. And I saw this guy dive flat before it hit. He wouldn’t of done that unless he tossed it. Nobody else had time to hit the floor.”

  “Maybe nobody else was completely sober,” Sands commented.

  Orsby ignored the remark. “He claims somebody rolled it from there,” he said mildly, pointing to the door behind the bar.

  Iggy snorted. “A couple of dozen people lined up at the bar were facing that door. They’re all still outside and they’ve been yakking about the bombing ever since it happened. I didn’t hear nobody mention seeing that door open.”

  The lieutenant looked at Sands. “Guess we better go downtown for a little more detailed conversation, mister.”

  “Those your instructions?” Sands asked sourly. “To pin it on me?”

  “My instructions are to crack the case,” Orsby said flatly. “Cuff him, Nick.”

  The sergeant had his cue from the lieutenant. Lifting a pair of handcuffs from his belt, he said with relish, “Stick ‘em out, mister. And don’t be slow about it.”

  With a shrug Sands slowly held out his wrists.

  Police Headquarters was a somber brick building of four stories directly across the street from the City Hall. At the booking desk Sands was relieved of his wallet, belt and all pocket items except a handkerchief, his cigarettes and a package of matches. The desk sergeant gave him two one-dollar bills from his wallet.

  “For cigarettes when you run out,” he explained. “Any of the guards will get them for you.”

  Sands looked at Lieutenant Orsby. “I thought we cam
e here for conversation.”

  “It’s past midnight,” the lieutenant told him. “We’ll converse tomorrow.”

  Sands was booked on suspicion of homicide and taken to a cell in the basement. When the door clanged shut behind him, he surveyed his new quarters glumly. The only light came from a small, shaded bulb of about thirty watts over a wash bowl in one corner, but even by that he could see that the place wasn’t very clean. The room was about eight by ten feet, with a concrete floor and a drop-down bunk of wire mesh padded by a rubberized mattress only about two inches thick. There was one dirty army blanket. Next to the wash bowl, which had a ring of grease in it, was a cracked commode. In addition his cell was next to the drunk tank. There was no light on in the tank, but by the reflected glow of the bulb over his wash bowl he could dimly make out a half dozen figures lying on bunks. They were all snoring in different keys.

  The front and two sides of his cell were barred. The rear wall was concrete and had several nails driven into it to act as clothes hangers. Hanging up his coat and tie, he dragged the bunk pad and blanket over under the light and carefully examined them for insect life.

  Finding none, he pulled off his shoes, switched off the light and went to bed. Within minutes he was sleeping as placidly as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  The rasp of a key in a cell lock awakened him. Opening his eyes, he saw a flashlight glowing at the door to the drunk tank next to him. A guard was admitting a new tenant.

  By the luminous dial of his watch he saw it was four A.M.

  A night light in the hall cast only the barest glow into the cells. The flashlight augmented this enough for him to see that the new arrival was tall and thin. But it was too dark to make out his features.

  The tank door clanged shut again and the guard with the flashlight moved away. Dimly Sands could see the new prisoner standing in the center of the tank without moving. He was about to close his eyes and seek sleep again when the man turned his head to glance into the hall. Momentarily his profile was outlined by the hall’s night light. He had a sharp, pointed nose.

  Sands’ heart thumped. He knew that nose. He strained his eyes into the next cell, but the man had turned to face him now, so that his profile was no longer outlined. He was merely a thin, shadowy figure without definite form.

  Was his imagination playing tricks, Sands wondered? Or was that Henny Ault in the next cell? If it was, he tried to imagine how the thin killer had managed to get himself there. Or even how he had learned that Sands was in jail. It would be too incredible a coincidence if Ault had been arrested for drunkenness at this precise time.

  After some furious thinking, he decided coincidence didn’t have to enter into it. He knew Ault was in touch with Renzo Amatti, for the killer could have learned of his rented car from no other source. And Amatti certainly knew of Sand’s arrest—in fact had probably ordered it. It was quite possible that Ault had deliberately gotten himself arrested. Or, more probably, that Amatti had done him the favor of arranging to get him into the drunk tank.

  Sands lay still, every nerve alert and his eyes fixed on the motionless figure. The man stood without moving as minutes ticked by, facing Sands and listening.

  Sands’ drop-down bunk was parallel to the bars between the two cells. The bars, spaced at six-inch intervals, allowed plenty of space for a man’s arm to pass through. If the shadowy figure was Ault, it would be a simple matter for him to reach through with a knife.

  If he had a knife, Sands thought with a touch of reassurance. Presumably he would have been shaken down before being committed to the drunk tank.

  Sands realized he was holding his breath. But above the snoring of the drunks in the next cell, his watcher couldn’t possibly be aware of it.

  When nearly five minutes had passed without movement, either by Sands or the dim figure facing him, apparently the man became satisfied that he was asleep. Quietly he moved to an unoccupied bunk and sat on it. Straining his eyes, Sand could barely make out that he was rolling up one trouser leg.

  The glitter of steel told Sands that the booking desk’s shake-down hadn’t been thorough enough in this case. The man in the drunk tank had strapped a knife to the inside of one calf.

  The shadowy figure rose from the bunk and moved toward him. Light from the hall glinted on the blade in his hand.

  Sands rolled from the bunk, carrying the pad with him and kicking the blanket to the floor. He backed to the far side of the cell, dragging the pad with him.

  The man on the other side of the bars paused. Then he moved close to the bars and stared at Sands. With his back to the dim hall light, Sands still couldn’t see his face. It was merely a blob of darkness. But his eyes suddenly had the luminescence of a cat’s.

  The knife glittered as the man raised it over his shoulder to throwing position. Sands jerked the pad in front of his body as a shield.

  There was a whispering sound and a plunking noise. The pad jerked in Sands’ grip. He looked down to see four inches of steel protruding through it at the level of his heart.

  Grasping the haft of the knife, he drew it from the pad and led the pad fall to the floor. He started toward the man who had thrown it.

  The figure faded backward. Turning, the man quietly moved across the tank cell to a bunk on the far side. He climbed into it with his face to the wall.

  For a long time Sands stood glaring at the motionless back. The arrogance of the hired killer outraged him. If he had succeeded in his mission, presumably he had meant to turn in for a night’s sleep and let the guards try to figure out Sand’s murder in the morning. Having failed, he still wasn’t going to let it disturb his sleep.

  In Henny Ault’s philosophy, there would always be another opportunity.

  Sands hefted the slim knife in his hand. Its balance was perfect for throwing. As expert with a knife as his attacker, he knew it would be easy to sink it into the man’s back at this short range.

  Then he smiled ruefully. Henny Ault probably was quite aware of Sands’ ability with a knife. Yet he had calmly presented his back as an inviting target. It was the safest thing he could have done. For, as much as he wanted to, Sands was absolutely incapable of knifing a man from the rear.

  Snapping shut the blade, he dropped the knife into his pants pocket.

  Sands spent the next two hours seated on the pad on the far side of his cell, facing the drunk tank. The man who had thrown the knife didn’t stir.

  Just before six P.M., nearly dawn but still dark, the guard with the flashlight reappeared to unlock the tank’s door.

  “Joe Berry?” he inquired in a loud tone.

  None of the drunks stirred. The man with his face to the wall rolled off his bunk. When the guard flashed his light on him, the man raised one hand to shield his face from Sands.

  The guard lowered the light again. “Guy out here to post bond for you,” he announced.

  Without answering, the thin man followed the guard up the hall and disappeared. Except for the brief moment when he had allowed his profile to be outlined by the hall light, Sands still had gotten no look at his face.

  It had been a neat plan, Sands thought with grudging respect for Henny Ault’s planning ability. The thin killer had allowed himself two hours in the drunk tank, after which his partner was instructed to appear with bail money. If the murder plan had succeeded, Ault would have been long gone before it was ever discovered.

  Sands rose and threw the pad back on the bunk. Pulling the blanket to his chest, he went back to sleep.

  CHAPTER XIII

  AT EIGHT Sands was awakened by a guard bringing breakfast. Disgustedly he pushed aside a bowl of lukewarm porridge, ate the single slice of bread that accompanied it and drank the mug of bitter, tepid coffee.

  When the guard came back for his tray, he had with him a plump, florid-faced man who carried a briefcase.

  “Lawyer,” the guard announced laconically, locking the man in with Sands and going away again.

  He unlocked the drunk tank d
oor and herded all its occupants down the hall on their way to police court. Sands and the florid-faced man were left alone with no one within hearing distance.

  The man offered a chubby hand and said, “I’m Amos Swert, Mr. Sands. I’ve been engaged in your defense.”

  Sands gave his hand a cautious shake. “By whom?”

  “Mrs. Thompson. She sent some items along, incidentally.”

  From his briefcase he produced a small leather toilet case. It contained a toothbrush and paste, a comb, shaving supplies and a small shaving mirror.

  “They trust me with razor blades?” Sands asked. “They took my belt away so I wouldn’t hang myself.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “They checked over the kit at the desk and okayed it.”

  “Tell Ginny thanks,” Sands said, laying the kit on his bunk. “I’m going to need a lawyer, am I?”

  Amos Swert raised his brows. “You’ve been charged with murder, man.”

  “I thought it was just suspicion of murder. They’re not really going to try to make this thing stick, are they?”

  “They’ve scheduled a preliminary hearing for two o’clock this afternoon. So they must think they have a case. Do they?”

  “Not unless they plan to frame one, counselor. Didn’t Ginny tell you what happened?”

  “Only that you’d been arrested for murdering her husband, and that you didn’t do it. She was still too much in a state of shock from her husband’s death to be very coherent. I got some of the details from this morning’s paper, but that only described the bombing and said an arrest had been made. It didn’t even give your name. Suppose you tell me about it?”

  Sands told the lawyer exactly what had happened, including the anonymous phone call that had brought him to Harry’s Bar and Grill. He omitted any mention of Henny Ault, not wanting to complicate the story with extraneous matter, and he didn’t tell of his difference with Renzo Amatti. He just told the bare story of what had happened from the time of the phone call to his arrest.

  When he finished, the attorney pursed his lips. “Sounds like this was a deliberate frame, Mr. Sands. But it seems like a rather sloppy one. The bomber could hardly bank on witnesses assuming you threw the bomb simply because you were in the place. I understand it was packed. It was pure luck that no one but you saw that door open.”