by Ed McBain
I drove back to the brownstone. Walt Nelson, my partner, hadn't found out a thing. He'd talked to the rest of the tenants, but no one had even seen the girl, let alone known anything about her. Or so they said. Walt had had to call a few people in from their jobs, and the hard time they'd given him had left him a little bitter.
"Funny thing,” he said, “but the very ones that yell the loudest when you ask them for help are the same jokers that yell the loudest for help when their own toes get stepped on. I never saw it fail."
We left a patrolman staked out in the murder room, and started back to the precinct. Neither of us said much on the way. I knew Walt was probably thinking the same thing I was—that we'd shot an entire day on the case, without turning up anything whatever. The first hours after a murder are the most important ones for a detective, and a lot of them had already gone by. You can usually tell, in those first few hours, just how the case will go. And this one was going nowhere. Our score was exactly zero, and it was beginning to look as if it might stay that way for a long time.
And then, when we walked into the squad room, the picture changed completely. We hadn't been there more than a minute when I got a phone call from the morgue. It was from Johnny Morton, who had been on his job a long time.
"Listen, Dave,” he said. “I'm calling from a pay phone in the hall. There's a kid in my office, see, and he wants to look at that girl you guys are working on. He hasn't got a permit, and he's acting funnier than hell. He isn't drunk, but he kind of acts that way; I mean, like maybe he isn't sure just what's going on. He won't say who he is, or why he wants to see the body. I stalled him by saying I had to leave the office to check with somebody else on letting him in without a permit. But he isn't going to stay put long, Dave. You'd better get a move on."
We got a move on. The boy was still in Johnny's office. He was a nice looking kid, tall, and very thin. We took him out to the cruiser to talk to him. I could see what Johnny had meant about his acting funny. The kid was so scared he couldn't think straight.
I climbed into the back seat with him while Walt got into the front, and then I said, “All right, son. What's your name?"
"I knew this would happen,” he said. His voice was shaky, as if it wouldn't take much to get him bawling.
"What's your name?” I asked again.
"Ted,” he said. “Ted Wimmer."
"Why'd you want to look at that girl, Ted?"
"I—I read about it in the newspapers, and I—I just had to see her again, that's all."
"Did you kill her, Ted?"
"No! God, no, mister!"
"What was your interest in her?"
"She—well, we were going together. I—"
"What's her name?"
"Grace Knight.” He seemed to be pulling himself together. “But she didn't like Grace. She made me call her Judy."
"How long did you know her?"
He frowned thoughtfully; then, “From the first part of February. I met her right after she got to New York."
"Where was she from? Atlanta?"
"Atlanta?” he repeated. “No. She was from Nebraska. From Omaha."
"You sure about that?"
He nodded. “That's about all she ever talked about. She liked it here in New York, but she kept talking about Omaha. She was pretty homesick, I guess."
"She ever mention being in Atlanta?"
"No. This was the first time she ever left her home town."
I studied his face a moment. “When was the last time you saw her, Ted?"
"Yesterday afternoon. We went to a movie."
"You didn't see her last night?"
"No."
"Where were you around midnight last night?"
He hesitated. “I—I was just walking around the streets."
I didn't say anything.
"I don't know where I walked, exactly. I just felt like walking. I guess I must have walked nine or ten miles altogether."
"What time did you get home?"
"About one."
"Just walking around, eh, Ted?"
"I know how it looks, officer, but—"
"We'll take that up a little later,” I said. “Now here's the way it is, Ted. If you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to fear from us. Understand? You tell the truth, and tell all of it, and you'll be okay."
He nodded, swallowing hard a couple of times.
"All right,” I said. “Now tell us this. Who do you think might have killed her?"
"That bastard she started running around with,” he said.
"What's his name?"
"I don't know. Honest to God, I don't. I just know she started fooling around with somebody else. She wouldn't tell me his name or anything else about him. I guess maybe she was afraid I'd beat him up.” He reflected a moment. “And I would have, too."
"She must have dropped something about him, Ted. Think again."
"Well ... she did say once that he really knew his way around. She said he was always getting things for her at half price; things like that."
"Like what, for instance?"
"Oh, you know ... clothes and stuff."
"You ever in her room, Ted?"
"Her room? Not a chance. That hotel she lived in won't let men past the front door."
"Hotel?"
"Yeah. That girl's hotel over on the east side."
"She wasn't killed at any hotel, Ted."
"I know that. The paper said where she was killed. The way I figure it, this guy and Judy rented that room just so they could use it once in a while.” His voice was starting to break again.
He could be right, I knew. And if the rest of his story was true, then he probably was right. It would explain why we hadn't found anything in the furnished room but the girl herself. If she and this other guy were using it for a trysting place, she wouldn't be likely to keep anything there.
We talked to Ted for another twenty minutes, but we didn't get anything more. When he started getting rattled and panicky again, we took him down to the precinct. We left him in a material witness room, with a police matron to keep him company, and went down to the corner for a cup of coffee.
We sat there, drinking coffee and mulling things over, and suddenly I got a flash. I pushed the coffee cup back and stood up.
"What goes?” Walt asked.
"We do,” I said. “Out to Long Island."
"What's out there?"
"The Jules Courtney shoe factory. I've got an idea that'll bug me to death till I check it."
"All right, so let me in on it. I work for the same people you do, you know."
I told him about it on the way out to the factory. I'd been thinking about the dead girl's expensive shoes off and on ever since we'd come on the case, and talking with Ted Wimmer had triggered something in my mind.
"It was those shoes that threw us,” I told Walt. “They were stamped with the name of a store in Atlanta, Georgia, and so we naturally assumed they'd been bought there. That's where we were wrong."
"Yeah? How so?"
"Because those shoes could have been bought right at the factory. It should have hit us before, damn it."
Give."
"All right. When a shoe company with a reputation like Jules Courtney's makes up an order for a retailer, they stamp his name and address on their product, but before those shoes are shipped, they're checked and double-checked for the tiniest flaw. If a knife slipped a fraction of an inch somewhere, or there's a stitch out of place, they put those shoes aside."
"So?"
"They won't ship shoes with flaws, but they're still perfectly good shoes, so they mark the price down to the actual cost of manufacturer and put them up for sale to their employees."
Walt grinned and pressed down on the gas pedal a little harder.
We got to the Jules Courtney factory about ten minutes before closing time. We talked to the office manager, and then to a records clerk. The clerk was very efficient. Five minutes after we'd given her the size, style and other data i
n connection with the dead girl's shoes, she was back with a signed receipt. They had been sold to one Ernest Coleman, an employee on the fourth floor.
It was past closing time when we got to the right floor and the right department. Everyone had left except one of the floor foremen.
"It wouldn't have done you any good if you had come earlier,” he told us. “Ernie Coleman didn't come to work today."
We went back to the office, got Coleman's home address from the office manager, and left the building.
Coleman lived in a railroad apartment just off Third Avenue. He was about twenty-five, about average height, and very muscular. He was wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of overall pants. When he stood back to let us in, I caught the smell of whiskey. But he didn't look drunk; he just looked sick. He didn't seem surprised to see us. I got the impression he was even relieved.
He told us his mother and father were out for a while, and then he sat down on the old-fashioned davenport and stared at us. Walt and I sat down in chairs facing him. For a long time none of us said anything.
Then I said, “There'll be finger prints, Walt."
"Yes,” Walt said. “There'll be finger prints. And of course Ernie here wasn't home last night, Dave."
"That's right,” I said. “And then there's the blue fibers under her nails, Walt."
Walt got up and moved through the apartment, trying all the closet doors. Ernest Coleman and I sat there and stared at each other. After a while Walt came back with a blue sleeveless sweater. He sat down again and ran his finger tips across the material. “Yes,” he said. “There were blue fibers under her nails. The boys in the lab can put them under the comparison microscope with some of these fibers, and know right away, eh, Dave?"
A full minute went by, and then another.
Finally Ernest Coleman took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and gently rubbed the knuckles of his right fist with the palm of his left hand.
"She fell for me,” he said softly. “She was as dumb as they come. I—I thought she'd get round heels for me ... but she didn't.” He was silent a moment. “I got her to rent that room for us, and when she did I thought I had a good setup. But she ... she was crazy ... “
Walt started to say something, but I caught his eye and shook my head. He frowned and compressed his lips.
"She—she just wasn't right somehow,” Ernest Coleman said. “She'd let me kiss her, and that's all. I know she was burning up half the time, but she'd never ... she'd never ... “
I nodded. “Exactly what happened, Ernie?"
The sound of my voice seemed to startle him. He moistened his lips. “Last night it got so bad I couldn't stand it any more. I tried to, but she wouldn't—and all at once I just saw red and I hit her. She started to scream, and all I could think of was that she was going to get me in trouble. I don't know—I didn't mean to kill her. I just wanted to stop her from screaming. I just meant to knock her out."
I glanced at Walt. He shrugged and shook his head.
"And then, Ernie ... ?” I asked. “When I found out she was dead, I lost my head. I thought I'd have to get away. I took all the stuff that might identify her and beat it. I thought the longer it took the cops to find out who she was, the more time I'd have to get away. But after a while I knew I'd have a better chance if I didn't run away. I—I didn't think you could tie me to her."
I got up and walked to the telephone to call the precinct and tell them to let the other boy go.
When I'd finished my call, Ernie Coleman said, “Can we wait just a few minutes, till my folks get here? I—I want to tell them what happened.” He looked down at his right hand, with the faintly bruised knuckles. “It'll be easier for them, if they hear it from me."
I nodded. “All right, Ernie.” I went back to my chair and sat down to wait.
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE GIRL BEHIND THE HEDGE by MICKEY SPILLANE
The stocky man handed his coat and hat to the attendant and went through the foyer to the main lounge of the club. He stood in the doorway for a scant second, but in that time his eyes had seen all that was to be seen; the chess game beside the windows, the foursome at cards and the lone man at the rear of the room sipping a drink.
He crossed between the tables, nodding briefly to the card players, and went directly to the back of the room. The other man looked up from his drink with a smile. “Afternoon, Inspector. Sit down. Drink?"
"Hello, Dunc. Same as you're drinking."
Almost languidly, the fellow made a motion with his hand. The waiter nodded and left. The inspector settled himself in his chair with a sigh. He was a big man, heavy without being given to fat. Only his high shoes proclaimed him for what he was. When he looked at Chester Duncan he grimaced inwardly, envying him his poise and manner, yet not willing to trade him for anything.
Here, he thought smugly, is a man who should have everything yet has nothing. True, he has money and position, but the finest of all things, a family life, was denied him. And with a brood of five in all stages of growth at home, the inspector felt that he had achieved his purpose in life.
The drink came and the inspector took his, sipping it gratefully. When he put it down he said, “I came to thank you for that, er ... tip. You know, that was the first time I've ever played the market."
"Glad to do it,” Duncan said. His hands played with the glass, rolling it around in his palms. He eyebrows shot up suddenly, as though he was amused at something. “I suppose you heard all the ugly rumors."
A flush reddened the inspector's face. “In an offhand way, yes. Some of them were downright ugly.” He sipped his drink again and tapped a cigarette on the side table. “You know,” he said. “If Walter Harrison's death hadn't been so definitely a suicide, you might be standing an investigation right now."
Duncan smiled slowly. “Come now, Inspector. The market didn't budge until after his death, you know."
"True enough. But rumor has it that you engineered it in some manner.” He paused long enough to study Duncan's face. “Tell me, did you?"
"Why should I incriminate myself?"
"It's over and done with. Harrison leaped to his death from the window of a hotel room. The door was locked and there was no possible way anyone could have gotten in that room to give him a push. No, we're quite satisfied that it was suicide, and everybody that ever came in contact with Harrison agrees that he did the world a favor when he died. However, there's still some speculation about you having a hand in things."
"Tell me, Inspector, do you really think I had the courage or the brains to oppose a man like Harrison, and force him to kill himself?"
The inspector frowned, then nodded. “As a matter of fact, yes. You did profit by his death."
"So did you,” Duncan laughed.
"Ummmm."
"Though it's nothing to be ashamed about,” Duncan added. “When Harrison died the financial world naturally expected that the stocks he financed were no good and tried to unload. It so happened that I was one of the few who knew they were as good as gold and bought while I could. And, of course, I passed the word on to my friends. Somebody had might as well profit by the death of a ... a rat."
Through the haze of the smoke Inspector Early saw his face tighten around the mouth. He scowled again, leaning forward in his chair. “Duncan, we've been friends quite a while. I'm just cop enough to be curious and I'm thinking that our late Walter Harrison was cursing you just before he died."
Duncan twirled his glass around. “I've no doubt of it,” he said. His eyes met the inspector's. “Would you really like to hear about it?"
"Not if it means your confessing to murder. If that has to happen I'd much rather you spoke directly to the DA."
"Oh, it's nothing like that at all. No, not a bit, Inspector. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't do a thing that would impair either my honor or reputation. You see, Walter Harrison went to his death through his own greediness."
The inspector settled back in his chair.
The waiter came with drinks to replace the empties and the two men toasted each other silently.
"Some of this you probably know already, Inspector,” Duncan said....
"Nevertheless, I'll start at the beginning and tell you everything that happened. Walter Harrison and I met in law school. We were both young and not too studious. We had one thing in common and only one. Both of us were the products of wealthy parents who tried their best to spoil their children. Since we were the only ones who could afford certain—er—pleasures, we naturally gravitated to each other, though when I think back, even at that time, there was little true friendship involved.
It so happened that I had a flair for my studies whereas Walter didn't give a damn. At examination time, I had to carry him. It seemed like a big joke at the time, but actually I was doing all the work while he was having his fling around town. Nor was I the only one he imposed upon in such a way. Many students, impressed with having his friendship, gladly took over his papers. Walter could charm the devil himself if he had to.
And quite often he had to. Many's the time he's talked his way out of spending a week end in jail for some minor offense—and I've even seen him twist the dean around his little finger, so to speak. Oh, but I remained his loyal friend. I shared everything I had with him, including my women, and even thought it amusing when I went out on a date and met him, only to have him take my girl home.
In the last year of school the crash came. It meant little to me because my father had seen it coming and got out with his fortune increased. Walter's father tried to stick it out and went under. He was one of the ones who killed himself that day.
Walter was quite stricken, of course. He was in a blue funk and got stinking drunk. We had quite a talk and he was for quitting school at once, but I talked him into accepting the money from me and graduating. Come to think of it, he never did pay me back that money. However, it really doesn't matter.
