Make Room! Make Room!

by Harry Harrison

  “An experiment in home economics—and it was free for the taking on the Welfare cards. You may not have noticed but our food budget is shot to pieces since the last price increase.” He opened a canister and showed Andy the granular brown substance inside. “It is a new miracle ingredient supplied by our benevolent government and called ener-G—and how’s that for a loathsomely cute name? It contains vitamins, minerals, protein, carbohydrates….”

  “Everything except flavor?”

  “That’s about the size of it. I put it in with the oatmeal. I doubt if it can do any harm because at this moment I am beginning to hate oatmeal. This ener-G stuff is the product of the newest wonder of science, the plankton whale.”

  “The what?”

  “I know you never open a book—but don’t you ever watch TV? They had an hour program on the thing. A conversion of an atomic submarine, cruises along just like a whale and sucks in plankton, all the microscopic sea things that you will be very surprised to find out the mighty whales live on. All three whales that’re left. The smallest life forms supporting the biggest, there’s a moral there someplace. Anyway—the plankton gets sucked in and hits a sieve and the water gets spit out and the plankton gets pressed into little dry bricks and stored in the sub until it is full up and can come back and unload. Then they futz around with the bricks of plankton and come up with ener-G.”

  “Oh, Christ, I bet it tastes fishy.”

  “No takers,” Sol sighed, then served up the oatmeal.

  They ate in silence. The ener-G oatmeal wasn’t so bad as they had expected, but it wasn’t very good, either. As soon as he was finished Sol washed the taste of it out of his mouth with the alcohol-and-water mixture.

  “What’s this you said about more work to come?” he asked. “They have you doing a double shift today?”

  Andy went back to the window, there was a bit of air stirring the damp heat now that the sun had set. “Just about, I’m going on special duty for a while. You remember the murder case I told you about?”

  “Big Mike, the gonif? Whoever chopped him did a service to the human race.”

  “My feelings exactly. But he’s got political friends who are more interested in the case than we are. They have some connections, they pulled a few strings and the commissioner himself called the lieutenant and told him to get a man on the investigation full time and find the killer. It was my name on the report so I caught the assignment. And Grassy oh, he is a sweet bastard, he didn’t tell me about it until I was signing out. He gave me the job then and a strong suggestion that I get on to it tonight. Like now,” he said, standing and stretching.

  “It’ll be a good deal, won’t it?” Sol asked, stroking his beard. “An independent position, your own boss, working your own hours, being covered with glory.”

  “That isn’t what I’ll be covered with unless I come up with an answer pretty fast. Everyone is watching and they are putting on the pressure. Grassy told me I had to find the killer soonest or I would be back in uniform on a beat in Shiptown.”

  Andy went into his room and unlocked the padlock on the bottom drawer of the dresser. He had extra rounds of ammunition here, some private papers and equipment, including his issue flashlight. It was the squeeze-generator type and it worked up a good beam when he tested it.

  “Where to now?” Sol asked when he came out. “Going to stake out the joint?”

  “It’s a good thing you’re not a cop, Sol. With your knowledge of criminal investigation crime would run rampant in the city—”

  “It’s not doing so bad, even without my help.”

  “—and we’d all be murdered in our beds. No stake out. I’m going to talk to the girl.”

  “Now the case gets interesting. Am I allowed to ask what girl?”

  “Kid name of Shirl. Really built. She was Big Mike’s girl friend, living with him, but she was out of the apartment when he got bumped.”

  “Do you maybe need an assistant? I’m good at night work.”

  “Cool off, Sol, you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had it. She plays out of our league. Put some cold water on your wrists and get some sleep.”

  Using the flashlight, Andy avoided the refuse and other pitfalls of the dark stairwell. Outside, the crowds and the heat were unchanged, timeless, filling the street by day and by night. He wished for a rain that would clear them both away, but the weather report hadn’t offered any hope. Continued no change.

  Charlie opened the door at Chelsea Park with a polite “Good evening, sir.” Andy started toward the elevator, then changed his mind and walked on past it to the stairs. He wanted to have a look at the window and the cellar after dark, to see it the way it had been when the burglar came in. If he had entered the building that way. Now that he had been assigned to actually try and find the killer he had to go into all the details of the case in greater depth, to try to reconstruct the whole thing. Was it possible to get to the window from outside without being seen? If it wasn’t then it might be an inside job and he would have to go through the staff and the tenants of the building.

  He stopped, silently, and took out his gun. Through the half-open door of the cellar ahead he saw the flickering beam of a flashlight. This was the room where the jimmied window was. He walked forward slowly, putting his feet down on the gritty concrete floor with care so that they made no noise. When he entered he saw that someone was against the far wall, playing flashlight along the row of windows. A dark figure outlined against the yellow blob of light. The light moved to the next window, hesitated and stopped on the heart that had been traced in the dirt there. The man leaned over and examined the window, so intent in his study that he did not hear Andy cross the floor and come up behind him.

  “Just don’t move—that’s a gun in your back,” Andy said as he jabbed the man with his revolver. The flashlight dropped and broke; and Andy cursed and pulled out his own light and squeezed it to life. The beam hit full on an old man’s face, his mouth open in terror, his skin suddenly as pale as his long silvery hair. The man sagged against the wall, gasping for air, and Andy put his gun back into the holster, then held the other’s arm as he slid slowly down the wall to a sitting position on the floor.

  “The shock … suddenly …” he muttered. “You shouldn’t do that … who are you?”

  “I’m a police officer. What’s your name—and what were you doing down here?” Andy frisked him quickly: he wasn’t armed.

  “I’m a … civil officer … my identification is here.” He struggled to produce his wallet and Andy took it from him and opened it.

  “Judge Santini,” he said, flashing the light from the identification card to the man’s face. “Yes, I’ve seen you in court. But isn’t this a funny place for a judge to be?”

  “Please, no impertinence, young man.” The first reaction had passed and Santini was in control again. “I consider myself knowledgeable in the laws of this sovereign state, and I cannot recall any that apply to this particular situation. I suggest that you do not exceed your authority….”

  “This is a murder investigation and you may have been tampering with evidence, Judge. That’s authority enough to run you in.”

  Santini blinked into the glare of the flashlight and could just make out his captor’s legs; they were in tan pants, not a blue uniform. “You are Detective Rusch?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am,” Andy said, surprised. He lowered the light so that it was no longer shining in the judge’s face. “What do you know about this?”

  “I shall be happy to tell you, my boy, if you will allow me off the floor and if we could find a more comfortable spot for our chat. Why don’t we visit Shirl—you must have made Miss Greene’s acquaintance? It will be a bit cooler there, and once arrived I will be happy to tell you all that I know.”

  “Why don’t we do that?” Andy said, helping the old man to his feet. The judge wasn’t going to run away—and he might have some official connection with the case. How else had he known that Andy was the detective
who had been assigned to the investigation? This looked more like political interest than police interest and he knew enough to tread warily here.

  They took the elevator up from the basement and Andy’s scowl wiped the curious look from the operator’s face. The judge seemed to be feeling better, though he leaned on Andy’s arm down the length of the hall.

  Shirl opened the door for them. “Judge—is something wrong?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “Nothing, my dear, just a touch of the heat, fatigue. I’m not getting any younger, not at all.” He straightened up, concealing well the effort this required, and moved away from Andy to lightly take her arm. “I met Detective Rusch outside, he was good enough to come up with me. Now, if I could be allowed a little closer to the cool breath of that air-conditioner and permitted to rest a moment …” They went down the hall and Andy followed.

  The girl was really good to look at, dressed like something out of a TV spectacular. Her dress was made of a fabric that shone like woven silver—yet appeared to be soft at the same time. It was sleeveless, cut low in the front and even lower in the back, all the way down to her waist, Andy saw. Her hair was brushed straight to her shoulders in a shining russet wave. The judge looked at her too, out of the corner of his eye, as she guided him to the sofa.

  “We’re not disturbing you, are we, Shirl?” he asked. “You’re dressed up tonight. Going out?”

  “No,” she said, “I was just staying home by myself. If you want the truth—I’m just building up my own morale. I’ve never worn this dress before, it’s something new, nylon, I think, with little specks of metal in it.” She plumped a pillow and pushed it behind Judge Santini’s head. “Can’t I get something cool for you to drink? And you too, Mr. Rusch?” It was the first time she had appeared to notice him, and he nodded silently.

  “A wonderful suggestion.” The judge sighed and settled back. “Something alcoholic if possible.”

  “Oh, yes—there are all kinds of things in the bar, I don’t drink them.” When she went to the kitchen Andy sat close to Santini and spoke in a quiet voice.

  “You were going to tell me what you were doing in the cellar—and how you know my name.”

  “Simplicity itself—” Santini glanced toward the kitchen, but Shirl was busy and couldn’t hear them. “O’Brien’s death has certain, shall we say, political ramifications and I have been asked to follow the progress being made. Naturally I learned that you had been assigned to the case.” He relaxed and folded his hands over his round belly.

  “That’s an answer to one half of my question,” Andy said. “Now, what were you doing in the cellar?”

  “It’s cool in here, almost chill you might say after being outside. Quite a relief. Did you notice the heart that had been drawn in the dust on the cellar window?”

  “Of course. I was the one who found it.”

  “That is most interesting. Did you ever hear of an individual—you should have, he has a police record—by the name of Cuore?”

  “Nick Cuore? The one who has been muscling into the rackets in Newark?”

  “The very one. Though ‘muscling in’ is not quite correct, ‘in charge’ would be more accurate. He has taken over there, and is such an ambitious man that he is even casting his eyes in the direction of New York.”

  “What is all this supposed to mean?”

  “Cuore is a good Italian word. It means heart,” Santini said as Shirl came into the room carrying a tray.

  Andy took the drink with an automatic thank you, scarely aware of the other’s conversation. He understood now why all the pressure was being brought to bear upon this case. It wasn’t a matter of pity, no one seemed to really care that O’Brien was dead, it was the why of his killing that really counted. Had the murder been a brutal accident as it appeared to be? Or was it a warning from Cuore that he was expanding into New York City? Or was the killing a power move by one of the local people who was trying to put the blame on Cuore in order to cover himself? Once you entered the maze of speculation the possibilities expanded until the only way the truth could be uncovered was by finding the killer. The interested parties had pulled a few strings and his full-time assignment had been the result. A number of people must be reading his reports and waiting impatiently for an answer.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, aware that the girl had spoken to him. “I was thinking of something else and I didn’t hear you.”

  “I just asked you if the drink was all right. I can get you something else if you don’t like that.”

  “No, this is fine,” he said, realizing that he had been holding his glass all this time, just staring at it. He took a sip, and then a second one. “In fact it’s very good. What is it?”

  “Whiskey. Whiskey and soda.”

  “It’s the first time I ever tasted it.” He tried to remember how much a bottle of whiskey cost. There was almost none being made now because of the grain shortage and each year the stored supplies grew smaller and the price increased. At least two hundred D’s a bottle, probably more.

  “That was very refreshing, Shirl,” Santini said, placing his empty glass against the arm of his chair where it remained, “and you have my most heartfelt thanks for your kind hospitality. I’m sorry I must run along now, Rosa is expecting me, but could I ask you something first?”

  “Of course, Judge—what is it?”

  Santini took an envelope from his side pocket and opened it, fanning out the handful of photographs that it contained. From where he sat all Andy could see was that they were pictures of different men. Santini handed it over to Shirl.

  “It was tragic,” he said, “tragic what happened to Mike. All of us want to help the police as much as we can. I know you do too, Shirl, so perhaps you’ll take a look at these pictures, see if you recognize any of these people.”

  She took the first one and looked at it, frowning in concentration. Andy admired the judge’s technique for talking a lot and really saying nothing—yet getting the girl’s cooperation.

  “No, I can’t say I have ever seen him before,” she said.

  “Was he ever a guest here, or did he meet Mike while you were with him?”

  “No, I’m sure of that, he’s never been here. I thought you were asking if I had ever seen him on the street or anything.”

  “What about the other men?”

  “I’ve never seen any of them. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.”

  “Negative intelligence is still intelligence, my dear.”

  He passed the photographs to Andy, who recognized the top one as Nick Cuore. “And the others?” he asked.

  “Associates of his,” Santini said as he rose slowly from the deep chair.

  “I’ll keep these a while,” Andy said.

  “Of course. You may find them valuable.”

  “Must you go already?” Shirl protested. Santini smiled and started for the front door.

  “Indulge an old man, my dear. Much as I enjoy your company, I must keep sensible hours these days. Good night, Mr. Rusch—and good luck.”

  “I’m going to make myself a drink,” Shirl said after she had shown the judge out. “Can I liven up that one for you? If you’re not on duty, that is.”

  “I’m on duty, and I have been for the last fourteen hours, so I think it is about time that duty and drink mixed. If you won’t report me?”

  “I’m no ratfink!” She smiled, and when they sat opposite each other he felt better than he had for weeks. The headache was gone, he was cool and the drink tasted better than anything he remembered.

  “I thought you were through with the investigation,” Shirl said. “That’s what you told me.”

  “I thought so then, but things have changed. There is a lot of interest in getting this case solved. Even people like Judge Santini are concerned.”

  “All the time I knew Mike I never realized he was so important.”

  “Alive, I don’t think he was. It is his death that is important, and the reasons—if any—for it.”r />
  “Did you mean that, what you said this afternoon about the police not wanting anything moved from this apartment?”

  “Yes, for the present. I’ll have to go through everything, particularly the papers. Why do you ask?”

  Shirl kept her eyes on her glass, clutching it tightly with both hands. “Mike’s lawyer was here today, and everything is pretty much like his sister said. My clothes, my personal belongings are mine, nothing else. Not that I expected anything more. But the rent has been paid here until the end of August—” she looked up squarely at Andy, “and if the furniture is left here I can stay on until then.”

  “Do you want to do that?”

  “Yes,” she said, nothing more.

  She’s all right, Andy thought. She’s not asking any favors, no tears or that kind of thing. Just spreading her cards on the table. Well, why not? It doesn’t cost me anything. Why not?

  “Consider it done. I’m a very slow apartment searcher, and an apartment this big will take until exactly midnight on the thirty-first of August to search properly. If there are any complaints refer them to Third Grade Detective Andrew Fremont Rusch, Precinct 12-A. I’ll tell the parties concerned to get lost.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she said, jumping happily to her feet. “And it deserves another drink. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t feel right about, you know, selling anything from the apartment. That would be stealing. But I don’t see anything wrong with finishing off the bottles. That’s better than leaving them for that sister of his.”

  “I agree completely,” Andy said, lying back in the soft embrace of the cushions, watching her delicate and attractive wiggle as she took the glasses into the kitchen. This is the life, he thought, and grinned crookedly to himself, the hell with the investigation. At least for tonight. I’m going to drink Big Mike’s booze and sit back on his couch and forget everything about police business for just one night.

  “No, I come from Lakeland, New Jersey,” she said, “we just moved here to the city when I was a kid. The Strategic Air Command was putting in those extra-long runways for the Mach-3 planes and they bought our house and all the other ones nearby and tore them down. It’s my father’s favorite story, how they ruined his life, and he has never voted for a Republican since and swears he would rather die first.”