The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Deming, Richard

  Mrs. Worth shook her head. “I left them alone in the parlor. All I can really testify to is that he did talk to her.”

  Gunner turned to the three old people. “None of you saw this meeting?”

  All three shook their heads. Gerard Hawk said, “We all generally nap about that time of the afternoon, but she told us about it afterward.”

  “Just what did she tell you?”

  Anna Stenger said, “He threatened her. He warned her not to identify him when she was brought to headquarters to look at him. Apparently he planned to turn himself in.” Her voice took on a kind of grisly enjoyment. “I guess Olivia told him off good and proper. She wasn’t one to hold her tongue.”

  Gunner said, “She told all of you this same story?”

  The other two old people nodded. Hawk said, “We were all together when she told it.”

  Nick Spoda yawned. “Hearsay. Just think what Mark Fallon will do to that testimony.”

  Hester Lloyd peered over her glasses. “What’s he mean by that?”

  Nick himself answered her. “It ain’t admissible evidence. Long as you didn’t personally hear me say nothing to this Pritchard dame, it don’t count. What somebody else told you I said ain’t allowed in the court record. The most you people can prove is that I stopped off to see the old lady for a couple of minutes. So what? I heard she wanted to buy a dog, and I got one for sale.”

  His arrogant tone constituted a brazen admission that he had committed the crime, and an equally brazen challenge for Sergeant Gunner to prove it. Gerard Hawk studied the swarthy man, his expression curious.

  He said, “You don’t seem very scared, young follow.”

  Nick Spoda laughed.

  The squad room door opened and three men walked in. In the vanguard was a well-dressed man of about forty, sleek and genial and assured. He made an impressive entrance, pausing just inside the door and smiling around generally before coming the rest of the way into the room. Behind him came two men with beefy physiques and sullen faces.

  “Morning, Sergeant,” the lead man said to Gunner. “Got a little piece of paper for you.”

  Gunner took the proffered paper and studied it. When he looked up, he said, “You didn’t need a writ, Fallon. We had every intention of sticking your boy in front of a judge this morning.”

  Mark Fallon cocked an eyebrow. “On what charge, Sergeant?”

  “Suspicion of homicide. I think we have enough to get him remanded.”

  “What homicide is he suspected of?”

  Sergeant Gunner looked irritated. “Don’t cat-and-mouse me, Fallon. What’s on your mind?”

  Fallon smiled a genial smile. “As Nick’s attorney, I’m entitled to know the charge. What homicide?”

  When Gunner failed to answer, Nick said, “Some old dame named Pritchard, Mark. They claim I gunned her down on the street from a blue sedan at three o’clock yesterday afternoon. Down on South Broadway somewhere, a couple of blocks from the Riverview Old Folks Home.”

  “The Riverview Senior Citizens Retirement Home,” Mrs. Worth corrected.

  The lawyer’s expression became one of mock surprise. “Three PM.? It’s lucky I happened to bring these two gentlemen along.” He indicated his two silent companions. “They were with Nick across the river at the dog races from eleven a.m. until five-thirty p.m. Right, gentlemen?”

  Both nodded without changing expression.

  “There are other witnesses, too,” Fallon said. “The boy Nick bought his admission ticket from, a fellow who sold him a hotdog, and a cashier at one of the betting windows. Can’t see how you could establish Nick as anywhere but at the dog track at three yesterday.”

  Sergeant Gunner gazed at Fallon for a long time before saying, “You own stock in that track, don’t you, Fallon?”

  “Totally irrelevant, Sergeant. Shall we go see this judge you mentioned?”

  Gunner said, “Murder isn’t the only change your boy faces. There’s the little matter of flinging a grenade through a plate glass window.”

  “The Sloan Company bombing, you mean? You have a witness tying Nick to that?”

  Sergeant Gunner continued to gaze at Fallon. Then suddenly his expression wearied. He said, “I guess we better go see the captain.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Nick Spoda walked out of Police Headquarters a free man.

  Sergeant Gunner didn’t have much success explaining to Mrs. Worth and her three elderly tenants why the gunman was released, partly because he wasn’t very happy about his own explanation.

  “A writ of habeas corpus requires you either to release a suspect from custody or take him before a judge who has authority to set bond,” he said. “In this case we knew there was no point in taking him before a judge because the judge would have to dismiss the charge.”

  “Even with our testimony?” plump little Mrs. Hester Lloyd asked.

  “He has better testimony on his side,” Gunner said. “All we could prove was that Spoda called on Mrs. Pritchard two days ago. His witnesses prove he was miles away when she was gunned. Even though we know they’re lying, there’s nothing we can do without counter witnesses placing him at the scene of the crime.”

  “But isn’t Spoda the man Olivia identified as throwing that bomb?” Mrs. Lloyd persisted.

  “She only gave us a description that fits Spoda. She never actually identified him, because she was dead when Spoda turned himself in.”

  “It’s still obvious he’s the killer. I mean, people like Olivia don’t go around getting shot by just anyone. It seems to me that, like Mr. Hawk said, any jury would understand when a gangster has a motive to kill someone, he threatens her, and then she gets killed in a gangster way, he must be the killer.”

  “It has to be more than obvious,” Gunner said. “You have to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  The straight-backed Anna Stenger said, “Aren’t you going to do anything at all, young man? Just let him run loose to kill again?”

  Sergeant Gunner said, “There isn’t anything we can do.”

  The old ex-schoolteacher sniffed. “We didn’t have that lack of justice when I was young, Sergeant. Criminals were punished.”

  Gerard Hawk said, “I guess it makes a difference who you are, Anna. I imagine that when ordinary people who haven’t got gangs behind them commit murder, Sergeant Gunner takes them to court.”

  Gunner’s face reddened. “What would you do if you were a cop, Mr. Hawk?”

  The old man looked at him without any particular expression. “I was a cop once, Sergeant. But I guess things have changed since my day.”

  The sergeant became a little angry. “Maybe you didn’t have the problems we have. You’re right when you say I run ordinary people who commit murder into court. But you think I like watching a cheap hood like Nick Spoda walk out of here clean? You think he’s the only killer who has? What’s a cop supposed to do when an organized mob like the Fallon gang is willing to perjure itself down to the last man? I know Spoda killed your friend, but I couldn’t prove it in court in a million years, so why waste my time trying?”

  The old man said to Mrs. Worth, “I guess we’ve done all we can here.”

  Gunner glared at him. “You think I wanted to let that hood go?”

  Hawk looked at him curiously. “Course not, Sergeant. I understand your technical reasons for turning him loose.”

  Courteously, he bent over the aged Anna Stenger and helped her to her feet. Then, as though in idle afterthought, he said, “Doesn’t seem quite right there should be separate rules for gangsters and ordinary people, though. Wasn’t when I wore a badge.”

  “How long ago was that?” Gunner asked.

  The old man smiled. “Before you were born, Sergeant. Been retired over forty years.”

  Sergeant Gunne
r’s primary reaction to the whole incident was frustration. He felt it unfair to be blamed for a situation beyond his control, yet at the same time he had to admit there was justification for old Gerard Hawk’s unconcealed contempt for the modern law enforcement system. Because the sergeant represented that system, the old man’s attitude continued to rankle long after he and his companions had gone.

  * * * *

  He was still feeling frustration when he logged in the following morning and received word that Nick Spoda had been shot dead the previous night. As a homicide cop, Gunner had a natural aversion to murder, but this killing actually gave him a lift.

  “The call just came in,” the captain said. “But the guy who called figures it must have happened last night. Manager of the hotel where Nick lived. Want to take it?”

  “Naturally,” Gunner said. “I want to pin a medal on the killer.”

  Nick Spoda’s home had been the Midland Hotel, a respectable but inexpensive place on upper Grand Avenue. Gunner found a number of people awaiting him in the lobby.

  There was the hotel manager, a nervous man who seemed more concerned about possible bad publicity for the hotel than he was disturbed by the death of a tenant. With him was a sleepy-eyed night clerk whom the manager had dragged from bed on the assumption that the police would want to talk to the man who had been on duty when the crime occurred. There was also a uniformed policeman, Mark Fallon, and the same two men who had accompanied him to headquarters the day before.

  Mark Fallon seemed to be suffering from barely controlled rage. “We already know who did this, Sergeant,” he said. “I would like to go along when you make the arrest.”

  Gunner eyed the lawyer with distaste. Had anyone else present announced that he knew the name of the killer, he would have asked for details before he did anything else. But Fallon aroused in him a desire to be contrary.

  “Hold it until I’m ready for you,” he said. He turned to the patrolman. “Where is it?”

  “Second floor, Sarge. My partner’s guarding the door.”

  Ordering everyone to wait in the lobby, Gunner climbed stairs to the second floor. Halfway along the hall, another uniformed policeman stood in front of a closed door. Several other doors were open, and tenants stood in them, curiously watching the patrolman.

  In the room, Gunner found Nick Spoda sprawled on his back just outside the bathroom door, a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He was dressed, but the collar of his shirt was tucked in all around, and shaving cream had dried on his checks. A safety razor was gripped in his right hand.

  It was apparent that someone had entered the room while Spoda was shaving. The gangster had stepped to the bathroom door to see who it was and had been shot.

  “The manager says nothing’s been touched,” the patrolman said. “A cleaning maid discovered him about an hour ago, around eight. She didn’t disturb anything, and the manager said he didn’t even enter the room, just looked from the doorway.”

  Bending over the body, Gunner lifted the head enough to satisfy himself there was no exit wound. “Still in the head,” he said, ostensibly to the patrolman, but really to himself. “Shouldn’t be too mashed up for comparison purposes.”

  Rising, he went over the room quickly but thoroughly, finding nothing of interest. In the bathroom, he found a can of shaving cream on the washbowl counter and a couple of inches of soap-filmed water in the bowl.

  Noting the sergeant’s scowl, the patrolman said, “Nothing, huh?”

  “The killer didn’t leave any calling cards,” Gunner said.

  Instructing the guard to admit the lab man and photographer when they arrived, and release the body to the morgue as soon as they finished their work, he returned to the lobby. He addressed his first question to Mark Fallon.

  “What are you doing here, counselor?”

  The lawyer said, “I had a golf date with Nick. When I walked in and learned what had happened, I stuck around. That old coot who was in your office yesterday killed him, Sergeant.”

  When Gunner gave his eyebrows an inquiring hike, Fallon said, “I phoned Nick at seven-thirty last night to make our golf date. He told me old Hawk had just called and asked to come see him at eight-thirty. That’s when he was shot.”

  Tabling him, Gunner turned to the hotel manager. “What’s your name?”

  “Thomas Bower.”

  “All right, Mr. Bower, tell me what you know.”

  He didn’t know very much. Aside from having looked into Spoda’s room long enough to assure himself the man was dead, he knew only what he had gotten from the night desk clerk. When he started to relay that, Gunner cut him off in favor of getting it from the source.

  “You tell it,” he said to the clerk.

  The night clerk was a thin man in his twenties named Amuel Card. He said he lived at the hotel. He said he had heard a shot about eight-thirty the previous night, sounding as though it came from the second floor.

  “What did you do about it?” Gunner asked.

  “Went up and looked down the hall. All the doors were closed and I couldn’t see anything, so I figured it must have been a backfire from outdoors, and just sounded like it came from inside.”

  “None of the second-floor tenants heard it?”

  “I don’t think any were in, except Mr. Spoda. Most tenants are out to dinner about then.”

  “You know Gerard Hawk?” Gunner asked.

  The clerk shook his head. “Unless he’s the old guy who came by about six, just after I went on duty.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall and kind of bent over. White hair and a droopy white mustache. He asked for Mr. Spoda’s room number, but he never went up. Just thanked me and left.”

  “He didn’t come back at eight-thirty?”

  Again the clerk shook his head. Then he shrugged. “Maybe by the back stairs, but I didn’t see him.”

  Gunner went to examine the back stairs. They could be seen from the desk, he noted, but were invisible from the left side of the lobby.

  Returning to the clerk, he asked, “Were you behind the desk when you heard the shot?”

  “No, reading a paper over there.” He pointed to a leather easy chair well to the left of the desk. “When things are quiet, I don’t sit at the desk much.”

  Mark Fallon said, “It’s obvious that crazy old man killed him, Sergeant. You have any objection to my going along when you make the arrest?”

  After examining him moodily, Gunner shrugged. “Leave your pet apes behind and you can come.”

  The lawyer told his two henchmen he wouldn’t need them anymore that day.

  Mrs. Worth answered the door at the Riverview Senior Citizens Retirement Home. Showing them into an immaculate but old-fashioned parlor, she invited them to sit.

  Politely declining for both of them, Gunner said, “We’re here on rather unpleasant business, Mrs. Worth. Nick Spoda was murdered last night.”

  The retirement home manager’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  “Mr. Hawk had an appointment with him at eight-thirty. That’s when Spoda was shot.”

  Mrs. Worth’s eyes widened even more. “You can’t possibly be suggesting that Mr. Hawk killed him.”

  “Afraid I am. He was pretty fond of Olivia Pritchard, wasn’t he?”

  “We all were.”

  “He was pretty sore about Nick being turned loose.”

  “We all were that, too, Sergeant. But Mr. Hawk’s a law-abiding man. He used to be a policeman, himself.”

  “He mentioned that. Do you know where?”

  “All over the country. He was a G-Man under the famous Melvin Purvis. Mr. Hawk helped shoot Dillinger, he was at the shootout with the Ma Barker gang, and he once put a bullet in Pretty Boy Floyd.”

 
Mark Fallon said, “There you are, Sergeant. Those FBI men in the 1930s were nothing but legal killers. Old J. Edgar Hoover didn’t believe in arresting bank robbers. His order was to shoot hell out of them.”

  “That was fifty years ago,” Gunner said.

  “Once a killer, always a killer, Sergeant. The old coot was trained to shoot suspects on sight, and obviously that’s still his philosophy.”

  Gunner asked Mrs. Worth where Gerard Hawk was.

  “In Anna Stenger’s room, I imagine. Usually they play bridge there mornings. Three-handed, now that Olivia’s gone.”

  She led them into the hall and across it to the nearest door. When she knocked, Anna Stenger’s voice called an invitation to come in.

  Anna, Hester Lloyd, and Gerard Hawk sat at a card table in the center of the room. It was a large room, airy and well-lighted by French doors on two sides which led to the front and side lawns. The lawn was not more than six inches below the doorsills, Gunner noted, making it convenient for the old people to step outdoors without having to bother going through the building to the front door.

  The three card players greeted the sergeant without any evidence of surprise, ignoring Mark Fallon.

  Gunner got right to the point. “Mr. Hawk, Nick Spoda was shot to death last night.”

  Riffling the cards, the old man began to deal. “Young fellow who shot Olivia, you mean?”

  Mark Fallon said, “He didn’t shoot anyone.”

  Anna Stenger said, “You put down my last score, Hester?”

  “Of course,” the plump woman said. “You made two spades.” She turned a score pad for Hester to see.

  Gunner said, “Mr. Hawk, I’m afraid I have to arrest you on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent, and if you do make a statement, it may be taken down and be used as evidence against you. You also have the right to legal counsel, and if you can’t afford a lawyer, one may be assigned to you at public expense.”