by Kane, Henry
“And ask her to dig up the thirty gees in a hurry so you could square up with Vinnie?”
“No. She wouldn’t dig no thirty gees for me.”
“Not even after you did her the favor with the old lady?”
“What old lady?”
“Lund.”
“You still cooking on that gas? I didn’t do her no favor with no old lady. I had nothing to do with that old lady. Get off that kick, will you?”
“Then why would you call Astrid?”
“To tell her to come here. Two heads is better than one. We’d figure the angles. I’d stay holed here. I’d tell her the whole story. Maybe Friday night I’d call Beverly, and if Beverly had the loot like she promised, I’d send Astrid after it, and then have her deliver to Vinnie, and have her do a talk-job for me on Vinnie. She had a good tongue, that one. She could talk. Sure, he’d fire me off the job, and maybe mark me lousy in this town, but if he got his thirty gees back, and fast, maybe he wouldn’t put no heat on me.”
“So?”
“So when I come here, she was already here. You think I got some poison in me? That bum was so full of horse, you could have put her out to pasture. She had this gun in her hand, and she was gassed up crazy on the junk, and she was screaming blue murder.”
“About what?”
“About me. About me and that broad of yours, that Marilyn. She was screaming about how I give her the double-cross with quiff after quiff. She was screaming that this was the last time, the last straw, now that I raped this broad, this Marilyn. She was screaming that I had made a laughingstock out of her all over town, but no more. She was screaming that I was dirt, that I was filth, that I wasn’t fit to live. And now she starts coming at me with the gun and I can see that she ain’t kidding. She says she’s going to let me have it and claim that I tried to rape her too. She says that after I’m dead, she’s going to get rid of all my clothes, and then call the cops, and claim I tried to rape her too, and bring in your chick to show that I did the same thing earlier in the day. She gets close enough, I grab the gun, and belt her. She goes down but she comes up, flying at me. The gun is in my hand and before I know it, I let her have a couple.” He pointed to her. “There you are.” He shrugged, unhappily. “Self-defense, no?”
“In a way, yes, I think so. I imagine the police will think so, too.”
He shrugged again, more assertively. “Police? Who’s going to tell the police?”
“You are; who else? And I advise you to tell your story exactly as you told it to me.”
“You do, huh?”
The eyes squinted, studying me. A smile came to the mouth, dreadfully. He giggled suddenly, piercingly. Premonitory prickles brushed at my spine. I wished I had that doorknob to lean upon again.
“You tell the story,” he said. “I give it to you. It’s all yours.”
He raised the gun.
“Mickey-boy, easy, boy, easy does it,” I sang in a voice that was meant to be soothing but that came out falsetto. “Don’t do anything rash, kid. You’ve got troubles enough.”
“You said a mouthful, pal. I got troubles enough without cops. I’ll try to work it out with Vinnie. You try to work it out with the cops. Turn around, baby.”
I turned. I said, “Don’t be crazy, kid.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m smart. I’m glad you came, baby. I’m going to fix it up nice and sweet, but real nice and sweet, baby….”
And that was all I heard. There was a crack on the back of my head and the lights went out … and there was blackness … interminable blackness … and then there were voices soundless as in a dream … and I struggled to come out of my dream and I could not … and then I opened my eyes and my entire field of vision took in one face, like a close-up that fills the screen of a movie, and the face was the grim, concerned face of Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker.
EIGHTEEN
“Jeez,” said Parker. “About time. That was a long sleep.”
His face receded and I could see more. I could see uniformed policemen and plainclothesmen. I could see the small man with the stethoscope who was poking around me. I was lying on my right side with my right hand under my right thigh. The small man poked a bit at the back of my head, used a small flashlight at my ears and my eyes. Then he rose up from the floor and stated, “Concussion, that’s all, but he stayed out for so long a time, he had me scared. Some of them do, and when they do, I kind of worry about the heart, although this guy’s breathing wasn’t bad. Concussion without abrasion. There’ll be a bit of edema but that’s all. Of course, if there’s any dizziness, or extreme pain, or bleeding from nose, mouth, or ears, there should be a further check, but that’s his business. My prognosis, it won’t be necessary. You can have him now, Lieutenant. Give him a couple of drinks and he’ll straighten out.”
“That’s medicine that he won’t dislike.”
“You know the guy?”
“Yeah. All right, boys. Help him up.”
Hands lifted me under the arms and pulled me to a couch where I reclined like an eastern potentate. Parker brought me a shot of Scotch but when I reached out my right hand for it, the hand was clenched about a black automatic. I sat upright, swayingly, and glared at it. Parker’s grin was solemn as he took the gun from me, fingertips at the muzzle, placed it upon a table, and returned with the drink. I gulped it, said, “Thanks.”
“More?” he said.
“Yes, please.”
“Lean back. Rest,” he said.
I did not lean back and I did not rest. Aside from a fragment of pain at the back of my head and a slight buzzing about my ears, I did not feel bad, and the jolt of whiskey was already an antidote against the buzzing. The second jolt of whiskey had me smiling and looking around as I touched a tentative palm to the back of my head. There was a lump that was sensitive to the touch, but it was not much.
Looking around developed men at work. Experts were putting finishing touches all about the room, and two experts were concentrating their efforts on the automatic. One of them snapped pictures, the other fiddled for fingerprints; then the clip was out and they were both examining. But there was something wrong, there was something out of place—and then it came to me.
There was no body on the floor.
There was no Astrid Lund.
I jumped to my feet, got dizzy, almost fell, but remained standing. I pointed a finger. I said, “There was a body there!”
“Now just take it easy, son,” said Parker and pushed at my chest and I fell back on to the couch. “There was a body and it’s been taken away. You were out of the box for a long time, sonny—you gave us a scare—you were out for at least twenty minutes.”
One of the experts approached the lieutenant. “The only print on the gun that can do us any good matches the print we took off this guy’s fingers.”
“Well, naturally; he was holding the gun, wasn’t he?”
“I’m only giving you my report, lieutenant. Nothing else on it, except smudges. Two slugs out of the clip. There’s no doubt those two slugs were in the dame. Ballistics will verify that, I’m sure. You want us to leave the gun? We don’t need it any more.”
“Yeah, leave it,” said Parker. He turned, looked about. Men, in groups, stood chatting. “Okay, you guys,” said Parker. “Thanks. If you’re finished, clear out.”
And then the lieutenant and the eye were alone.
“So what?” said the lieutenant.
“Yeah, man,” said the eye.
“How do you feel?”
“Rocky.”
“What happened here?”
“You tell me.”
“Well,” said Parker. “The precinct gets a call there’s been the sound of shooting in this apartment. A couple of cops come around, find the door locked, no answer to the bell. They get the caretaker to open the door and they find the body on the floor and you out like a light with a gun in your hand. The caretaker identifies the body as Astrid Lund, and the cops call it in to Homicide. Actually, it doesn’t figure for my ca
se; it figures for Lieutenant Cassidy. But when I hear it’s Astrid Lund, which may possibly tie in with the Barbara Lund, which is my case, I take over on this one. I come here with my people and the doc, and it’s you on the floor. Because it’s you, I don’t have the gun removed. I want you to wake up with it in your hand, so you’ll feel just like I felt when I saw it. So … we do our job, the doc does his, and that’s my story. What’s yours?”
I told him my story; that is, all the particulars of the story which were of his concern. He listened, thoughtfully. He said, “Why did you come here in the first place?”
“I told you. The guy had attempted rape on a girl friend of mine.”
“What girl? What name?”
“Louie, that has no pertinence to any of this. I don’t want her mixed up in any of it.”
“How did you know about this pad?”
“Hell, I’ve known Astrid Lund for a long, long time. She was a client. I knew all about her.”
“Peter,” he said, “you were found here alone with a dead woman, the presumed murder gun in your hand. The door was locked and there was a key to this place in your pocket. You say she was practically living with this guy, this Bokino, yet there’s no sign of him, no clothes, not even shaving stuff in the bathroom or soiled clothing in the hamper.”
“He packed up kit and kaboodle when he blew the joint. Look,” I said, “you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”
“I don’t, but I have superiors, remember? If I don’t hold you, I have to justify my not holding you. So I’ve got to keep making with the questions. For instance—how come you had a key?”
He was a smart cop. He pitched that one without windup. It was a low curve. It was not a pitch that I could knock out of the park. I bunted. I said, “She was a client. Let’s say I preceded this Mickey Bokino in her affections. Let’s say the key was part of the residue.”
Perhaps he believed me. Perhaps he did not. If he did not, he knew—because he knew me—that my prevarication did not go to the heart of the matter. He knew—because he knew me—that I was on his side, no matter my means or my methods. He sighed. “All right. Let me have your theory, and then we’ll go downtown and put it on paper, signed, sworn, and sealed.”
I smiled my thanks at him. I said, “Autopsy will show that she was full of heroin. They were both dope users. He killed her, he was packing to blow, when I showed up. And then he got his big idea. For a guy flying in the euphoria of junk, he must have thought it was a great idea. He had me turn around and belted me.”
“Lucky for you, with the flat of the butt; otherwise he’d have laid your head open, hard as it is.”
“He wiped the gun, put it into my hand. He finished his packing. Then he made his call to the cops and left, locking the door behind him. He must have thought he was a real genius. There I was in a locked room with a dead body, a key in my pocket, and the murder gun in my hand. The onus was all off him and all on me. If any of his fingerprints were in the room; well, why not? He was a friend, he had been in the apartment many times—so they fit. For a guy flying on junk, he had schemed up a pretty good plot line. Of course, there were two big holes in it. One he just didn’t think of—how much can you expect from a dope-happy idiot? The other he may not have known about. But those two items ought to fix me up real pretty with your superiors, and you know both of them, so whom are you kidding, Lieutenant?”
He grinned. “Yes, I know both of them, and I’m surprised it took you so long to get around to them.”
“I got a hit in the head, pal, remember? You get a hit in the head, you get woozy. I’m not woozy any more.”
The grin grew wider. “Let me hear how not woozy.”
“Well,” I said, “first off—that very hit on the head. There’s the dead dame, there’s the locked room, there’s the key in my pocket, and there’s the gun in my hand. Only I’m unconscious and I’m not pretending, as your doctor can testify, and I’ve got a lump on the back of my head. So—whodunit? The corpse couldn’t get up and belt me. There had to be a third person in the room; the deal, obviously, had to be a plant. That’s one.”
“And two?”
“Paraffin,” I said. “The gun was in my naked hand. I deny having shot it and the paraffin test will prove that I didn’t.”
“Let’s go do that test,” said Parker.
First, because he was a friend, he took me to the infirmary. There they did X-rays on my noggin and the plates showed that my skull was intact. “No breaks,” said the police surgeon. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said.
“A rugged guy,” said the police surgeon.
“Hard,” said Parker. “Mostly in the head.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “Let’s do the paraffin and let me get out of here. I’ve got a date for tonight.”
Generally, when a small firearm is discharged, microscopic particles of nitrate from the gunpowder kick back and lodge in the palm and wrist of the gun hand of the individual who discharged such firearm. A positive reaction to the paraffin test indicates that such individual did recently discharge a small firearm. The test involves melted paraffin being sprayed upon the hand and wrist of the suspected gun user. The heat of the melted paraffin causes the pores of the skin to dilate and exude any particles which may be lodged therein. The melted paraffin is sprayed over the hand of the suspect and then permitted to cool until it has become solidfied. Then the gauntlet is peeled off and a chemical reagent, diphenylamine, is applied to the interior surface. The nitrate particles serve as an oxidizing agent on the diphenylamine and dark blue specks appear. In such case, the test is deemed positive. If no dark blue specks appear, the test is deemed negative. A period of at least half an hour is allocated as the time for the telltale specks to appear, so that the entire procedure, from the melting of the paraffin to the final judgment on the test, is a lengthy one. The police surgeon had kindly provided an ice pack, and I held that to the back of my head with my left hand while the boys monkeyed with my right hand. In between, I dictated my statement to a stenographer. We were having a right busy time, weren’t we?
Paraffin test was negative. Edema was reduced by ice pack. Pain was negligible. Statement was signed and sworn to. And police-business finally ground to standstill.
“Discharged,” said Parker.
“Thanks a large hunk,” I said.
“Son,” said Parker, “nobody in the whole world, not even a lawyer with a fat fee, would blame us if we held you. We’re not holding you. So don’t be sarcastic. Be appreciative.”
“I’m appreciative,” I said.
“Get the hell out of here.”
“Thank you.”
A plainclothesman entered the room, took Parker aside, and talked with him. The plainclothesman went away and I was practically on his heels when Parker called, “Peter!”
“You discharged me, lieutenant, remember?”
“Just a word.”
“Any word you like, lieutenant, except that I’m being held on a charge of murder or something equally trivial.”
“About your friend Bokino.”
“Not my friend. Yours?”
“Friend of the world, then.”
“Let’s settle on that, lieutenant.”
“Well, then, about this friend of the world—the alarm is out for him, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Also the dig is in. Dig?”
“I dig.”
“The deep-down dig discloses he’s General Manager for one of those Gotham Loan offices. You know what it means to be General Manager?”
“I do,” I said.
There was reluctant respect in his voice. “You know a goddamned lot, don’t you?”
“We’re kind of in the same business, lieutenant.”
“But we have better facilities.”
“Admitted. But my kind of guy isn’t hampered by your kind of rules.”
“Admitted. Okay. General Manager means he w
orks for Vinnie Veneto and I take it for granted, without asking, that you know what that means.”
“Thank you for taking something for granted—in my favor.”
Cop-gravel came into his voice: after all he was a cop. “All right,” he said, “from here I talk fast if not especially furious. We have what guys like you don’t have—stoolies; and some of our prime stoolies have been prodded and they’ve responded. Gotham Loan on Fifth Avenue had auditors this morning. When the auditors came, Bokino powdered. From higher-up stoolies, we’ve got the word. Bokino is in trouble with Veneto and Veneto is looking for Bokino. Which means—and I take it that you understand without my drawing diagrams—that unless we catch up with Bokino first, Bokino is a very dead duck. Now here’s what I want from you. After all, you’re in the middle.”
“Meaning?”
“On one side there’s cops. On the other side there’s Veneto. In between—there’s you.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“A promise.”
“Like what?”
“Like if you—the man in the middle—happen to catch up with Bokino first, you’ll deliver him to us, and not to Veneto.”
“I promise,” I said.
It was dark by the time I got home. My head was in great shape, or in as great a shape as it ever had been, except for the minor flaw of an additional lump in back which bothered me only when I touched it or combed my hair. I took a warm long leisurely tub, shaved, dressed, and showed up at Sally’s promptly at ten. Marilyn was palliative for all my misadventures of the day. Sally had her togged in a simple violet dress (although nothing was simple upon the complex structure of Marilyn Windsor). The violet dress was low-necked, short-skirted, and ingeniously-bulged, with a wide black patent leather belt hugged about its middle. Black patent leather spike-heeled pumps, champagne hose, and dangling black earrings completed the outfit—topped by a new coiffure (oh, that Sally!). The golden hair was pulled over one side of the head and hung like a tassel, encircled by a gleaming black barrette, in front of one shoulder. Her make-up, once again, was vivid, with a new touch, gleam of violet on the eyelids, and the faint sweet-musk odor of the perfume was unsubtle—a direct and uninhibited invitation.
