The Dark Mirror (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 1)

by Basil Copper

  “Sure,” I said. “Had a bath and a sandwich on the way down.”

  The bigger one said nothing but his eyes smouldered. He started to get out a badge in a leather billfold. I stopped him.

  “All right,” I said. “Don’t let’s play games. What’s the trouble?”

  I had recognized the younger one as a junior detective called McGiver. He looked embarrassed.

  “Mind if we come in?” said the big cop. His voice was deceptively mild but I recognized the type. As a beat man he had probably worked his old mother over with a night stick during the evenings just to keep his hand in.

  “You got a warrant?” I asked. A red spot came and went on his cheek.

  “No,” he said slowly. “But we can get one if you feel that way about it.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “Come on in. I hate lying around the sack in the morning, anyway.”

  He let that ride. The younger one went first and he waited to follow me into the living-room. “Just a friendly visit,” he said unconvincingly.

  I went over to the table and lit a cigarette. “What can I do for you boys?” I asked.

  “We ask the questions, shamus,” said the big cop. He looked round the room like the furnishings offended his eyes.

  “Nice layout you got here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You get some ritzy gifts from cigarette coupons these days.”

  The young cop said nothing but went and stood near the door. His eyes flashed a warning at me.

  The big cop snorted. “Captain Jacoby wants a word with you.”

  “Horvis?” I said.

  “That, and some other,” he said.

  “I already spoke my piece,” I said.

  “I don’t hear you so well,” said the big cop. “Captain Jacoby ain’t seen you. We’re City Force.”

  “Nice for you,” I said.

  The big cop cleared his throat. Then he spat. The gob went on to my white Persian carpet and lay here. The big cop grinned.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  I went round the coffee table fast but stopped. The young cop moved over from the door and his eyes spelt a clear signal. I looked the big cop in the face.

  “Any more of that, fatso, and you go out of the door on your ear, badge or no badge,” I said evenly.

  He smiled a dead smile in his pasty face. “Why do they always have to be so tough?” he asked McGiver. I caught the flash of a brass knuckle as he put it back in his pocket. He went around the table and ground the carpet with his heel.

  “That better, shamus?” he asked. I didn’t answer but went on upstairs and dressed. McGiver came up after me and sat outside the door. When I had finished I put some coffee on and took my time over breakfast. When I went back into the living-room the big cop had his mouth set like a rat trap.

  “We ain’t got all day,” he said sullenly.

  “No hurry,” I told him. We went out. I got in the front seat of the black prowl car next to the fat boy. McGiver sat in back. The big man gave her the gun. He drove flat out all the way, with the siren going full blast. We pulled up in front of a dirty brownstone building that housed the downtown police headquarters. The big boy took about half a pound of rubber off the tyres as he put the brake on.

  “Out,” he grunted. I got out and walked between the two of them up a flight of dirty steps and into a drab reception office that looked like a set out of an Algerian movie. A B picture at that.

  A cop in a shabby-looking uniform sat at a table littered with peanut shucks; he had his elbows on the desk and was reading a magazine. He wore no tie and looked as if he hadn’t shaved; he never got up nor shifted the gum in his mouth as we went by. Some force.

  “Smart lay-out,” I said.

  “Can’t afford polish on our money, shamus,” said the big guy.

  Someone snickered. We went along a corridor, just as shabby and dirty as the first room. The big cop went through a glass-topped door which had DETECTIVES stencilled on it. The young one followed me in. We were in a small room painted in cream and brown. A water fountain with a tray of paper cups stood in one corner; some dusty filing cabinets, brown regulation benches, a table or two, a few chairs. The ceiling fan wasn’t working. On the walls a few fly-blown notices stared back. The paint was flaking. Underfoot the linoleum was cracked and split; there were cigarette ends and the shucks of peanuts.

  “You wouldn’t get a seal from Good Housekeeping,” I said.

  The big cop scowled and McGiver cracked me a smile. He looked friendly.

  “Wait here,” the big guy said and went out through a door labelled CAPTAIN OF DETECTIVES. I took the weight off my feet.

  I blinked at a police notice.

  “Nice friends you got,” I told McGiver. He shifted uneasily.

  “You know what these big men are.”

  “The only thing big about him is his belly,” I told him.

  We sat for about fifteen minutes and then the door opened again. The big cop beckoned me. I went on over and McGiver followed. We were in a smaller room. It was still the same crummy decor but with a bit more opulence if you know what I mean. There were some bright lights hanging from the ceiling, green-shaded desk lamps more files and office furniture. Behind an acre of desk stuck down in the middle of a grey rug sat Captain Jacoby. He was a short man with enormously broad shoulders.

  His head was almost bald and from either side his rocky skull projected two jug-like ears. He had hands like boulders and they sparkled with cheap rings. He wore a quiet-looking blue suit and under the desk I could see he wore black shoes with built-up heels. Some bozo.

  He was a remarkable sight. He said nothing but motioned me to a swivel chair in front of him. McGiver stood near the door and the big officer sat on a corner of the desk. Captain Jacoby’s face was bisected by a thin black moustache which ran mathematically straight between his nose and upper lip. He had two gold teeth too, but that was the only gilded thing about him.

  “Guess we’ll have to wipe this guy’s ass for him,” he said to the wallpaper.

  “I don’t think we’re going to get on, Captain,” I said.

  He looked at me sharply and the big man’s jaw sagged a couple of millimetres; he shifted on the corner of the desk.

  “Like I said,” he said hoarsely. “He’s sassy.”

  “Shut up,” Jacoby almost screamed at him. He turned unnaturally brilliant eyes towards me and eyed me for a long minute.

  “Carry a gun,” he said, without looking up.

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  “What does that mean?” he said, still in the same deceptively mild voice. His hands were folded primly on the desk. I saw hands like that once on a Polish coal-miner who was convicted of killing his wife by manual strangulation. Jacoby’s hands looked like two piles of rock sitting on the blotter.

  “Like I said,” I told him. “I left it home today.”

  The big man moved in behind me and went over my inner pockets. He made a poor job of it. He would have missed a tommy gun with that technique.

  “You got a gun licence?” said Jacoby. He sat immobile, his eyes unblinking. This was the big deal. The S.S. stuff that was supposed to crack the suspect’s morale. I put down my gun licence and sat back trading him glance for glance. After a bit he got tired of the Pelmanism and looked away.

  “Let’s quit pooping around,” I told him. “What do you want, Captain?”

  The fat cop sucked in his breath. Jacoby sat bolt upright and if he had any hair it would have bristled. His scalp seemed to ripple.

  “I want a complete rundown, shamus,” he said. “Everything you know about the Horvis killing …”

  “We’ve been all over that,” I said. “Get Captain Tucker in.”

  “It’s Tucker’s day off, shamus,” he said with a sneer. “He’s gone fishing. You’re talking to me.”

  “Get the file out and stop wasting my time,” I told him.

  “This is a different department,” Jacoby said and the big cop
sniggered.

  “You know my legal rights as well as I do,” I said. “Save all this corny Gestapo stuff for the teenage junkies. Rubber truncheons went out with silent films.”

  I hit home there. The room went quiet and Jacoby a shade of yellow white. He tortured his face into a smile.

  “Want to call your lawyer?” He held out his hand to the telephone.

  “No thanks,” I said. “It wouldn’t get any farther than the switchboard. What are you after, Captain? Someone put the finger on you?”

  He got up then and came round the desk. He was only a little man but he seemed as broad as a motor boat. I sat where I was. He pushed his face up against mine and I could catch the stench of stale breath and garlic. It was pretty strong.

  “You’ll never keep friends unless you use the right toothpaste,” I told him. “To preserve your P.R. image you should mug up on the sanitary angle.”

  His cold eyes never left mine. “For the last time, shamus,” he breathed. “Are you going to open up?”

  I opened my mouth to make with the verbiage when his big hand came up, fist clenched and heavy with rings, and caught me a solid thump on the side of the head. Pain lanced way up to the top of my skull and the room rocked. I tasted blood and the big detective tittered.

  “Why is it you little men always have to try throwing your weight about?” I said and stood up quickly. His second blow caught me on the shoulder and momentarily spun me off balance. Nobody moved and the air in the office was heavy with expectation. I spat blood out on Jacoby’s carpet.

  I looked at him steadily. “Try that once more and I’ll rip your nostrils out, whether it affects my licence or not,” I told him. For the first time I saw fear in his face, quickly overlaid with rage. I had overstepped the mark this time. From now on I had to play by ear.

  Jacoby grunted and swung at me, his fist balled for a knockout blow. I moved in behind, caught him and then found the right arm lock. He grunted again, this time in pain as I put on the pressure and his revolver fell down with a loud clatter on the floor. McGiver hadn’t moved but then I felt a burning pain in the back. The big cop was standing behind me, his boot poised for another kick. I twisted Jacoby round and heeled fat belly once, twice and again in the groin. He moaned and fell forward, his head striking the desk. I had been fond of that carpet.

  I must have got a bit mad then, for I felt Jacoby’s arm bones begin to crack. He turned white and a low moaning noise came out from between his teeth. Saliva started running down his shirt front.

  “Now, Captain,” I gritted, “you were saying …”

  Then, and only then, did McGiver move over from his place by the door.

  “All right, Faraday,” he said sharply. “That’s enough.”

  “Sure,” I said, all my rage dissipated. “I was only showing the captain one or two elementary holds.”

  Jacoby half fell into his swivel chair and rested his head on the desk.

  “Just for the record, Captain,” McGiver told Jacoby in a loud, clear voice, “I saw you and Mullins hit the detainee first. This is clearly a breach of regulations. I think it would be best if the whole question of charges was dropped for the good of the force.”

  Jacoby looked up; his face was a mask of hatred.

  “Go on, McGiver,” he said at last in a thick voice.

  “I just wanted to make my own position clear, Captain,” McGiver said. “In the event of any public proceedings I should have to make my views clear and they would support Mr. Faraday one hundred percent as to what happened here today.”

  Jacoby nodded slowly. Sweat shone on his bald head.

  Mullins started to stir on the floor. Presently he sat up and began to retch quietly.

  “For Christ’s sake get him out of here,” said Jacoby in disgust. “I’m not due a new carpet until next year’s appropriations.”

  “Well, Captain,” said McGiver after a long minute. “No charges?”

  Jacoby looked at Mullins with contempt. “No charges,” he said at last and turned away. McGiver helped Mullins to a chair. As he straightened up he looked at me and his right eye quivered a fraction.

  “Where were we?” I said.

  Jacoby choked. “Get him out of here,” he gritted. “A night in the tank will cool him down.”

  I went past Mullins and stood in front of Jacoby. I picked up my documents and slowly put them back in my pocket. He made no move to stop me.

  “Thank you, Captain,” I said. “I think we understand one another now.”

  “Get out,” he said thickly.

  “Certainly, Captain,” I said. “The air is a little oppressive in here. I’ll be seeing you.”

  He gave me a long look that was like acid. “That’s one thing you can be sure of, shamus,” he said, with something like his old manner. I stepped over Mullins’s feet and went on out with McGiver. In the corridor the air seemed fresher, though the heat had started again.

  “Thanks,” I told McGiver.

  “Forget it,” he said. “He had it coming for a long time.”

  We walked on down the corridor to the desk in the outer office.

  “Sorry, I’ll have to book you,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do in the morning. You want a lawyer?”

  I shook my head. We went over to the desk. The cop put down his magazine and fished for a piece of popcorn in a tooth cavity.

  “Meet Michael Faraday,” said McGiver. “He just bopped Captain Jacoby.”

  The cop sat up. He looked at me with respect. “The hell he did. Put it there,” he said and held out his hand.

  “A police officer is always loyal to his colleagues,” said McGiver dryly.

  I put down all my documents and private papers on the desk and the cop entered them in a book and put them away in an old green safe. McGiver let me keep my matches and then handed me over to the turnkey, a morose cop of about fifty with sandy hair. He took me to a little concrete cell enclosed with heavy iron grilles. There were two bunks, a toilet which stank and a tiled washbasin. A grey-haired drunk sprawled on one of the bunks sleeping it off.

  The air was stifling hot. The first thing I did was flush the latrine which cleared the atmosphere a bit. There was a small piece of mirror screwed to the wall by the washbasin. I looked a mess. One side of my head was caked with blood, my clothes were rumpled. Blood was still filling my mouth, I had a splitting headache and my back was beginning to give out Morse signals where Mullins had kicked me. I had a wash and took some of the blood off my face.

  Then I rinsed my mouth and felt better. I felt something move against my tongue and found a small piece of tooth was breaking off. I washed the fragment, found an old envelope in an inner pocket of my jacket, carefully wrapped the sliver in it and put it back in my pocket. I took off my jacket and sat down on a bunk as far away from the drunk’s snores as possible. Pretty soon my eyelids closed in the stifling heat and despite the throbbing in my jaws I dozed.

  *

  When I woke it was around noon. The drunk was still asleep and whistling Beethoven’s Ninth through his nostrils. It was hotter than ever and I went over to the washbasin and sluiced myself. That made me feel worse. The hum of traffic came up from the boulevard. There was a clank in the corridor and the turnkey appeared. He put down a tray on my bunk.

  “Special today,” he said. “Irish stew and mash. Okay?”

  “Swell,” I said insincerely. “How about R.V.W.?”

  “Solids are murder to him,” he said. “We don’t want to spoil his digestion.”

  He moved off down the corridor. I viewed the mess on the plate with distaste. The heat and the stench in the cells made up my mind; I took the platter over near the door but three or four mouthfuls was enough. I saved the bread for later, but the coffee was welcome. Presently there was another clatter at the door and McGiver came in. He whistled when he saw my face.

  “Jeezechrise,” he said. I gave him Stella’s name and number and he promised to call her in the afternoon. He went on out, the door
shut behind him and the station settled down to its afternoon torpor. I sat back on my bunk and leaned against the wall. I must have slept again. The next thing I remember was the toilet being used and then something that looked like an old bundle of clothes standing in front of me. It was the occupant of the other bunk.

  “My name’s Jarvis,” he said, holding out a claw-like hand. I tried to shake it but with his D.T.s and all, it was quite a job. “Horse Jarvis,” he added, making unsteadily for his bunk. He sat down clumsily, almost falling off the edge of the iron framing. His eyes were yellow and his long, sad face had all the typical signs of the far-gone alcoholic. He rambled on for a minute or two and then his blurred eyes seemed to clear. “God a’ Heaven,” he said. “Whaddya done to your face?” I told him. He clapped his hands and chuckled. “That Jacoby’s a mean bastard. Real mean. I had a cousin in this tank once. He run up against that Jacoby. For nothin’ at all! Lost most of his teeth all acrost one side of his face.”

  He seriously examined the cement wall of the cell. “For nothin’ at all,” he breathed quietly, more to himself than to me. I patted the pocket where the fragment of my tooth was resting. Horse Jarvis got down slowly on his bunk again; he put his hands under his head, which he cradled like a child and was soon sleeping the blissful dreams of the alcoholic.

  The sun sank, a fiery ball over L.A. and I kept getting the petrol fumes and flowers and the swish of the home-going traffic. I looked at my watch. It was already around seven. That is, if it hadn’t stopped. I re-wound it absently and went over to look at myself again. I felt a little better and the head looked better too, though it was still a symphony in blue and red. I bathed my face again.

  When I came away from the washbasin a bulb in the ceiling suddenly came alight. It was so dim it made the cell seem darker. I sat down. There was nothing else to do and I couldn’t see to read my paper, even if I had felt like it. About eight the turnkey came around. He brought minced beef, some watery cabbage, a thin slice of blueberry pie and more institutional coffee.

  This time the drunk took some coffee. It made him cough and seemed to start up something in his stomach. At any rate he seemed to be awake half the night. The turnkey went off, rattling his keys. At the door he turned and said in a brisk, breezy voice, “Anything else room service can do for you gentlemen, before we close down for the night?”