The Dark Mirror (A Mike Faraday Mystery Book 1)

by Basil Copper

  I shook my head.

  “Hilton Hotel,” the drunk grunted emotionlessly from out of the back of his head, half buried in a blanket. The turnkey went off unblinkingly, soullessly efficient, wishing us a pleasant evening. I loosened my tie and got ready for bed. The daylight died and soon it was dark outside. The noise of the traffic went on. Just before ten a stout cop with a black moustache looked in through the grille, nodded with a touch of condescension like he had a good supper in the next room and was free to wander about. He went off presently, singing “Sweet Adeline” to himself in a tuneless voice. There was a lot of thin whistling in the distance, metal doors opening and closing, footsteps, the clatter of tin slop bowls.

  “Chrissake buddy, wrap it up,” yelled the drunk to nobody in particular. “More like Bethlehem Steel in here.”

  Soon after, the noise died away and the dim bulb in the ceiling went out. Outside, in the corridor, a tiny red lamp cast a garish glow. The draught sucked in heavily through the grille, over the concrete floor, stale with cigarette smoke, carbolic soap and yesterday’s stew. Great. The day’s entertainment was over. I rolled myself in the blankets and fell asleep. As an evening out I preferred the night before.

  *

  It was dawn. My mouth tasted full of potato peelings and old string vests. The time was just after six but already the sound of buckets and brooms came along the antiseptic concrete corridor. I got up and sat on the edge of the bunk. My friend was still asleep. Beams of sunlight came in at the window and knocked hell out of the dust. My head felt a whole lot better.

  I went to the washbasin and to my surprise hot water came out. I sponged my face. The swelling was going down and the inside of my mouth felt as though it was attached to the outside. I couldn’t do much about the stubble on my chin, but I managed to comb my hair so as to hide most of the damage. Then I finished my cigarette, put my jacket back on, knotted up my tie and got ready for the day. I felt I might live with a little food and kindness.

  It was now just coming up to seven. The original flunkey was back, making with the bright aphorisms. His tray even smelt good. The drunk slept on but I managed some toast, some bacon and a couple of cups of coffee. I could have done with more, but I left half in the chipped tin jug for the old guy. The breakfast even began to taste good. Jeeze, Mike, I told myself; better watch it. You’re getting used to the penal system.

  I sat on the bunk, smoked another cigarette and read the day-old paper. Around eight there was a lot of coming and going and presently a rumpus in the corridor. Outside, cars backed and snarled and exhaust smoke curled in at the window. The old drunk coughed and then sat up. He drank his coffee without opening his eyes, feeling for the pot and his mug like a blind man. Then he lay down again and went to sleep.

  I went over near the door and amused myself by trying to see across the corridor into the main office; the door was half ajar. Presently someone left it open all the way. A familiar figure in a dark suit went across. It was the big cop, the one I’d laid out. He didn’t look in my direction but went on out. I heard his car gun into the distance. Then Jacoby went by, walking on the balls of his feet, hunched to one side, his head turned away at an angle.

  “Good morning, Captain,” I called cheerily. He didn’t answer or cease his measured pace, but his arms, straight at the side, tensed, and his fists balled. He went on out, still walking like that. Impressive stuff, mighty tough. Real Warner Brothers. I was laughing as I turned back and set my cigarette-end spinning through the window into the yard. There was a clang at the door and Dan Tucker was standing in the entrance. His huge bulk seemed to fill the cell. His pink face looked worried and his jaw was set. There was a curious carmine flush all around his neck and I guessed he had just been with Jacoby.

  “Outside, mister,” said the turnkey. “Hope we made you comfortable.”

  “No hard feelings,” I said. I went over to the old guy and pushed a packet of Camels under the rolled blanket that served him as a pillow.

  In the general office I checked my wallet and papers; my P.I. licence among them. Nothing missing. I signed a chit for their receipt and put my stuff away.

  “We’ll go get a bite,” said Dan. We went out and down the front steps. The sun hit me like a baseball bat. It felt antiseptic on my face. We stopped on the pavement to let the traffic go by. Tucker grabbed my arm and his eyes looked angry.

  “Sorry I was away,” he said heavily.

  “Not your fault,” I said. “How was the fishing?”

  “Never mind that,” he said. “Christ! Faraday, I thought you had more sense. I’ve had quite an hour in there. Did you have to hit him?” He almost yelled the last words.

  “Sorry, Dan,” I said. “I didn’t have much choice. It was either that or get my physique re-arranged by him and his S.S. pal. I appreciate what you did and, believe me, I’m grateful.”

  He looked at me soberly and the anger had died out of his eyes.

  “You know you could have lost your licence?”

  I nodded. “I had McGiver go to bat for me. He’s the only one in step in that Keystone set-up.”

  Tucker’s face seemed to be going through a number of emotions, and finally he grinned. “What in hell did you do to him?” he asked. “He was sitting like someone tried to give his ass the hot foot.”

  “Fair exchange,” I said. I showed him the side of my face. He whistled and dodged round a passer-by with an agility that belied his size.

  “See what you mean,” he said, “but take it easy in future.”

  We crossed over the road to a lunch counter almost opposite. The place was fairly full but in back the crowd thinned out and we found a spot in a corner and pulled up two stools.

  “What’s the set-up, Dan?” I asked. “What were those two clowns after?”

  Tucker shrugged. “It’s a cock-eyed army,” he said. He studied the menu the hash-slinger brought us. He was a consumptive-looking youth with a prominent neck structure. Tucker ordered hamburgers, coffee, a flapjack with syrup and cream.

  “Want the same?” he asked.

  “For God’s sake,” I said. “For breakfast?”

  “Breakfast, dinner, lunch, suppertime, any old time,” he said. “What the hell does it matter so long as you got a good gut.”

  “What about the apples?” I said.

  “Bought some on the way down,” he answered. “Got ‘em out in the car.”

  I gave up and ordered black coffee and toast. The youth brought back two chunks of bread. Sandwiched in between was something which looked like old motor tyres. A nauseous miasma came up from the plate.

  “Have you got a licence for those?” I asked the youth. He looked bewildered.

  “Something wrong?” He havered on one foot.

  “Delicious!” bellowed Dan Tucker as he smeared the abortion with a half-gallon bucket of mustard. I shut up and drank my coffee. “We’re doing well,” he said between mouthfuls.

  “You’ve arrested someone, then,” I said.

  “Don’t be funny,” he snapped. “We’re making progress — for this case.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll buy it. You found out Adrian Horvis takes size eight and a half in hats. The Filipino houseboy —”

  “Look,” said Tucker, his voice indistinct through tortured beef. “If you don’t want to hear …”

  I opened up my ears.

  “We came up with something,” he said. “The whole set-up begins to fit. The riflings on the bullets taken from the Johnson lad in Detroit and from Braganza and Horvis in L.A. match up perfectly in every characteristic. There’s no doubt about it. The same gun was used in each case.”

  He wrinkled his brows. “In the transcript of inquiries a woman in Detroit said she saw a man hanging about the lot where the Johnson boy was killed. Curious. This woman said he was a young man — only he had white hair. Leastways, she said he had a young face. But nothing ever came of it.”

  “Big lead,” I said.

  “Can you do any bette
r?” he said.

  “You got me there,” I said. “Any more news on the P.M.?”

  “Nothing that could help,” said Tucker. “Horvis wasn’t in exactly A.1. condition but he couldn’t have lived, even after one shot. Whoever killed him knew his job. The bullet had been cut to spread out and make a big hole.”

  “Nice,” I said. The sun was spilling in at the door of the lunch counter and making patterns on the tiled floor. I finished off my coffee. It knocked all hell out of the inside of my mouth where it was raw around my cracked tooth, but I felt better. The wheels of my brain were moving now, slowly for sure, but they were moving, nevertheless.

  “You were going to drive me home, of course?” I said.

  “Why not?” he said. “It’s a legitimate public expense. And it’s not every day a P.I. takes a poke at a cop and gets away with it.”

  I grinned. Tucker called for the check, paid it with a grimace and we went out. The sun was hotting up. Tucker climbed into the driving seat of a black prowl car. He waved away an attendant cop, and I slid in beside him on the front seat. Dan Tucker pulled out quietly; he drove unostentatiously and well. He didn’t use the siren. I felt tired again and my head began to ache. Tucker took an apple out of a package in the dash cubby and began to crunch it. I closed my eyes then, but the sharp sound still irritated.

  “I presume we’re still working together?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, crossing a light junction at the red. A cop blew a whistle and then tore off a belated salute as he recognized the car.

  “By law you’re supposed to tell me everything you know,” he said. “That’s a citizen’s duty. And I might, if I’m feeling in the right mood, feed you a little information now and then.”

  “Sounds fair,” I said. “I’d better invest in a couple of pounds of apples to keep your digestion sweet.”

  He chuckled and tooled the big car up into Park West. “You live well for a P.I.,” he said. “I thought all you boys earned hamburger money looking through wardrobe keyholes in motels.”

  “That was in the twenties,” I said. “All the crooks are in the police these days. The victimized citizen rushes straight up to the muscular, clean-limbed P.I. and starts shedding greenbacks. It’s a form of insurance.”

  “Is that what it is?” said Tucker. He laughed softly as he changed the gear and looked inquiringly at me. We slid up the driveway. The Buick was still in the car-port, collecting dew and dust from the street on the upholstery. The front door of the house was standing ajar. Tucker and I exchanged a glance. We walked up to the porch. Inside the living-room furniture was thrown down, pictures smashed, furniture covers ripped. Documents and papers were strewn over the floors. Dan Tucker went and leaned against a wall and pushed his hat on to the back of his head.

  “I didn’t hear no hurricane report,” he said.

  I went into the kitchen and the other rooms. Everywhere it was the same. I went back into the living-room.

  “They left the roof,” Tucker grunted.

  “They’re coming back for that tomorrow,” I told him.

  He moved over to the phone. “You want to make this official?”

  “I’m a citizen aren’t I?”

  While he was on the phone I went on upstairs. The damage was less here; nevertheless, a crude old job. The table had been moved from its place but not turned over. I pushed it back and felt under with my fingers. The key was still there. A bunch of amateurs. I went down the stairs with almost a light step. In the kitchen I found a bottle of bourbon and some glasses. I got some ice cubes out of the Frigidaire and carried the lot into the living-room. I righted the coffee table and put down the bottle and glasses. Tucker was still on the phone. He was reversing the charges. I found some soda and made two long drinks with plenty of ice. Dan Tucker came off the phone and sat down heavily in a chair opposite me. He picked up his glass.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “I bet you’re a riot at the police smoker,” I said.

  “The boys are on their way,” he said. He put down his glass again. “I should have staked out someone here to keep an eye on the place.”

  “You didn’t know,” I reminded him. “You’d gone fishing.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Any idea what they might be after?”

  I shrugged. “You don’t think Jacoby …” I started to say.

  He almost exploded. He waved a thick finger at me. “Good God, no. He’s only got another five years to go for a pension. Why in hell would he risk that?”

  “All right,” I said. “Just an idea. It was something funny Mrs. Standish said. Something about bad cops and things being lost in pigeon holes.”

  “Don’t mean to say he took an axe to your sideboard,” he said.

  “‘Sides, whoever came here was looking for something. They wouldn’t re-arrange the house just for a few bruised ribs. Don’t make sense. It may be Keystone down in that precinct but that don’t make it Huey Long country.”

  He sighed heavily and picked up his drink again.

  “You proved your point,” I said.

  We sat and looked silently at the wreckage. It looked only slightly better than the San Francisco earthquake. Except that the decor was more up to date.

  The thin wail of sirens began to split the air along Park West. They sounded very loud in the bright sunlight.

  6 - Mandy Mellow

  I sat in the kitchen and talked to McGiver. In the rest of the house there was the tramping of heavy feet. Fingerprint men went round dusting, flashbulbs popped. Dan Tucker sat in the living room and decimated the apple population. I grinned at McGiver.

  “You keep in the centre of things,” he said.

  “I try,” I said. “Any news from Stella?”

  “Sorry,” he said, “I forgot. She wasn’t at all surprised that she hadn’t heard from you. But she seemed anxious.” He hesitated. “She’s a nice girl.”

  I said nothing. He shifted his feet on the tiled floor and fooled with his coffee cup.

  “She asked you to give her a ring this evening if possible. Appears she’s got some messages.”

  I nodded. McGiver cast a glance over his shoulder towards the open door. Shadowy figures passed, bearing one of my bureaus. It was a real circus.

  “What’s all this about?” he asked. “Dan doesn’t usually go to town on a thing like this. Why the three-star treatment?”

  I shrugged. “Hadn’t you better ask Tucker? I’m still a number one suspect, according to Jacoby.”

  He grinned. “O.K. Call me nosy.”

  He finished his cup and stood up. We both strolled to the door. Dan Tucker sat in the middle of chaos, his teeth wrapping round the remains of another apple. A group of detectives surrounded him, like acolytes with a high priest. He looked contented; this was his work. At the door there were two uniformed men and outside, a gaggle of police cars in the drive. It looked like Saturday Night Crime Club on T.V. Tucker beckoned me.

  “Show over?” I asked.

  “Nearly,” he grunted. “Don’t look as though we shall get much farther here.”

  “Prints?”

  “Nary a useable one. Looks like whoever did this used thin rubber gloves.”

  “Careful fellas,” I said.

  “Like the rest of this case,” he said. “I should start getting suspicious if we got leads. I’m not used to them.”

  “You’d be spoiled on an open-and-shut murder,” I told him.

  “If you don’t mind I’ll go and get some shut-eye,” I said. “I’ll clean up later.”

  “Right,” he said. “We’re all finished here anyway. I’ll leave a couple of men on day and night, just in case. Give me a call tomorrow morning and we’ll go over everything. See what the next move will be. And you’d better get back and report to the Johnson woman. Otherwise she may get impatient and pull out.”

  I nodded. I went upstairs and got a spare key for the kitchen door and gave it to Tucker for the men, so that they could brew themselves some c
offee. A locksmith Tucker had called up from L.A. came in with a boy and started getting out his tools. He looked at the wreck of the front door and scratched his head. Then he went over and looked in the living-room.

  “You got cops like some people got mice,” he said.

  I thanked him and went on upstairs. I set the alarm for mid-afternoon and then hit the sack. I heard the sirens when the prowl cars went away, but after that I was dead to the world.

  *

  When the alarm rang it took me a long time to come around. It was like struggling up through layers of cream cheese. But I surfaced and looked at the clock. It was around four in the afternoon. Great slabs of sun came in the window and spread over the floor. The window was open and the sound of a mower came up. Outside, on a tree branch a blackbird came and sang Schubert. It sure was peaceful. I rolled over and incinerated a cigarette. My mouth and head felt a whole lot better; I lay on my back, smoked and looked at the ceiling. I could use a wodge of peace right now.

  From below came the comforting sound of two large men talking, and the shifting of furniture. There seemed to be some controversy over baseball scores. I got up and went to the window. The street was quiet and the man with the mower was going indoors, carrying the grass box under his arm. A solitary black police car stood in my drive. All was right with the world.

  I went in the bathroom and took a shower. I decided that I might live another twenty years, with care. I came back into the bedroom, tidied the mussed sheets and struggled into a clean shirt and my trousers. Then I got the office on the bedroom phone.

  After a moment the receiver was lifted. It was a man’s voice. For a moment I had a dry throat and it wasn’t the cigarette. It was Bert Dexter.

  “Oh, hullo Mike,” he said. “Stella? She just stepped out for a couple of minutes. I’m taking the calls. Just a moment, she left some names on a pad. Someone called Snagge, a man named McGiver, a Miss Johnson.”