“Earn your money, copper,” the man said in a sullen tone.
So we tore the room apart. We didn’t bother to use the finesse I had used on the Arden apartment. When we finished, you could tell this room had been searched, because we upended all the bureau drawers on the floor.
We didn’t have any trouble finding the rig. The tin box containing a hypodermic syringe, spoon, and alcohol lamp was in the top drawer of his dresser. His horse supply was tougher.
I was the one who finally found it. It was taped to the inside of the front lip of the washbowl in a corner of the room. It was an ordinary legal-size envelope containing forty-eight folded papers such as sleeping powders used to come in. Each one contained a single pop of cut heroin which would have retailed at the going price of three dollars and fifty cents a pop.
Grimaldi didn’t even look very concerned when we found the cache. It wasn’t cut horse he was riding on, but a full-strength pop. Apparently he treated himself better than he did his clients. He was still riding high enough not to care about much of anything at the moment.
But that would change when he had been sitting cold in a cell for a while.
“Get your clothes on,” Lieutenant Wynn ordered him. “We’re taking a ride.”
Back at headquarters we booked Grimaldi at the felony desk and had him stuck in a cell. There wasn’t any point in trying to question him at the moment, because he was too high. By the next morning, when he’d gone twenty-four hours without a pop and the withdrawal pains started, he’d be in a more cooperative mood.
It was noon before we finished booking the man, marking the evidence, and bringing the case record up to date. We broke for lunch in the headquarters cafeteria.
After lunch Wynn decided we might as well help Carter and Lincoln complete their chore. Neither had phoned in, so we drove over to Clarkson Boulevard, parked, and waited. After a time we saw Carl Lincoln come from an apartment building up the street and start for the next house.
We both got out of the car, and I waved him over.
“Anything, Corporal?” Wynn asked as Carl neared us.
“Not yet, sir. Carter hadn’t turned up anything either, at the time we broke for lunch. I haven’t talked to him since. He’s working the other side of the street. I’d judge we’ve covered about half the people.”
“Which end of the block did you start from?”
Carl pointed to the north end.
“Then Rudowski and I will start at the south end and work toward you and Carter. Let’s go, Rudowski.”
The lieutenant took the west side of the street and I took the east, which was the side opposite from where Benny Polacek had lived. It was dull work. The whole block was apartment houses, all at least three stories high and some towering to six. You simply walked along hallways, from one door to another, punching bells, showing your badge, and asking questions.
I learned about a lot of things that had happened along the street the night Benny Polacek died. The tough O’Leary kid, whom I gathered was eight years old, had dropped a paper bag full of water from his parents’ fifth-floor apartment and just missed an old lady. Izzy Swartz, who lived on the second floor of the house directly across the street from Benny’s, had come home at eight smelling of whisky and was locked out of the house by his mother. The Callagees, just above the Swartzes, had a fight at nine P.M. Nearly everywhere I asked, something of similar interest had happened.
But no one had seen any strangers enter the building at 427 Clarkson Boulevard that evening, and no one had noticed a green Cadillac driving around the neighborhood.
I finally did run into someone with a small item of information. An old maid on the fourth floor of the building across from Benny’s said that some time around ten or ten-thirty—she wasn’t sure of the time, except she thought it must have been at least ten—she had glanced out the window to see a young man come from 427 Clarkson, walk to the curb, and glance up and down the street. There was a street light in front of the building, so she had seen him clearly. From her description, it could have been Dr. Norman Arden.
It didn’t strike me as a very important clue. If it had been Arden, I guessed it probably had been after he phoned the police, and that probably he had merely gone out to see if they were in sight yet.
“How long did he stand there?” I asked the woman.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just looked out for a minute, then went about my business. He was still there when I left the window.”
Hank Carter and I finished our side of the street at a quarter of five. Wynn and Lincoln had already finished their side and were waiting for us under the shade of a tree near the center of the block.
When we crossed to them, Wynn said, “We both drew total blanks. Either of you get anything?”
Hank Carter said, “I didn’t, sir.”
“I got something that doesn’t seem very important,” I said. “A woman on the fourth floor across the street glanced out around ten or ten-thirty that night. She saw somebody answering Doc Arden’s description come out of the building, go down to the curb, and look up and down the street. If it was Arden, he had probably already called the cops and was looking for them.”
Wynn frowned. “You had a man posted out front that night. How come he didn’t mention this?”
I had forgotten Howard Graves, the stakeout who left his post at just the wrong time.
I said, “I don’t know, sir. If it was Doc Arden, and he was just waiting for the police to arrive, Graves probably figured it wasn’t important.”
“It probably isn’t, but he should have mentioned it to you. We may as well ask Arden about it. And since we’re right here, we may as well do it now. Carter, you and Lincoln can return to headquarters and log out. Rudowski and I can handle this.”
As Lincoln and Carter moved toward the car they had brought, Wynn and I started toward the building where Beverly and Norman Arden lived. We didn’t have to go in, because Norman Arden pulled up in a car just as we got there. Beverly was with him.
Both got out of the car. Beverly gave me a bright smile and said, “Hello, Matt. You haven’t met my brother, have you?”
“I saw him the night of the murder,” I said. “We weren’t introduced.” I held out my hand. “How are you, Doctor?”
Shaking my hand, he said cordially, “So you’re the Matt Rudd Beverly keeps talking about. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, because I hardly hear of anything else.”
“Be quiet, Norman,” Beverly said with a frown. “I didn’t want him to know I’m after him.”
Then she looked curiously at Robert Wynn, and I realized she had never met the lieutenant. The night of the murder her brother hadn’t allowed Wynn to see her, and I had done the subsequent interviewing.
“This is Lieutenant Wynn, Beverly,” I said. “Miss Beverly Arden, Lieutenant.”
They exchanged polite greetings, then the lieutenant said, “We’ve been checking the neighbors along the street, Doctor. One says that about ten or ten-thirty the night of the shooting, you came outside and looked up and down the street. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is,” Arden admitted easily. “It must have been about twenty after ten. I had called the police about ten minutes before, and I thought they ought to be arriving. I went out front to wait and direct them to the proper apartment. I was still there when the patrol car arrived. You could have learned that from your own men.”
Wynn flushed slightly. “O.K., Doctor. Just checking it out. Let’s go, Sergeant.”
Beverly said, “How late do you work today, Matt?”
“We’re going in to log out now.”
“Oh. Do you have any plans for this evening?”
I shook my head. “Not a single plan.”
“Then why don’t you come find out what a nice cook I am?” She turned to Wynn. “You’re welcome to come too, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks,” he said politely. “But my wife’s expecting me home.”
“What time?” I asked.
&
nbsp; “Can you make it by six-thirty?”
“I’ll be here,” I said.
I drove the F car back to headquarters, and we logged out at five-ten. I was home by five-thirty. I took a shower, changed clothes, and made it back to the Ardens’ by six-thirty on the nose.
CHAPTER 22
Apparently it was only when she received men at home alone, or when she visited their apartments in the middle of the night, that Beverly dispensed with underclothing. Tonight, probably because her brother was present, she was wearing a brassiere. It was obvious. She was dressed very simply in a long-sleeved tan blouse and a cotton skirt of the same color.
When she opened the door to my ring she said breathlessly, “Matt, why didn’t you mention that you’d captured those payroll robbers?”
“I assumed you knew about it,” I said. “It was in the morning paper.”
“We just got around to reading the paper. We’ve been driving in the country all day.”
By then I was inside, and she had closed the door. Norman Arden came from the direction of the kitchen with a tray containing three martinis.
“The modest hero,” he said. “Now Bev has really flipped.” He handed me a martini and another to his sister.
Beverly wanted me to repeat the whole story, though it had all been in the paper. I explained that there was nothing to add to the news account. This wasn’t wholly because of modesty. The paper had made it sound like a brilliant piece of police work, and I hated to disillusion her by letting it be known that I had merely accidentally blundered into the bandits’ hideout.
She accepted it as modesty, though. She gazed at me starry-eyed over the top of her martini glass.
Beverly proved to be a much better cook than April. We had broiled lamb chops, and the meal was excellent. Afterward Norman and I sipped brandy in the front room while Beverly did the dishes.
“Making any progress on our neighbor’s shooting?” Arden asked.
“Not much,” I said. “It’s still pretty much up in the air.”
“I suppose, with a man such as that, the suspects are practically limitless. Do you think it was an underworld killing?”
I shrugged. “The percentages are that it was. It would help if we could locate someone who saw the killer enter or leave the building. We’ve talked to everyone along the street, but the only person who saw anything at all was the woman who happened to glance out her window when you were waiting for the police.”
“The killer probably used the back door,” Arden said. “There’s a parking lot back there, you know.”
“Yeah,” I said glumly. “I looked at it. Beyond the parking lot is an alley, and beyond that the backs of a row of stores, all closed at that time of night. There aren’t any neighbors to question in that direction.”
“Well, here’s luck in your investigation,” he said, raising his glass. Then he made a wry face and said, “Cancel that. I’m not sure I care about your catching the man. My opinion of our ex-neighbor has dropped since I learned he was a dope peddler. It bothers me a little that I used to actually like the man.”
“Your sister made a similar remark,” I said. “We didn’t like him much either, but you can’t let people take the law into their own hands. We’ll continue to go after the killer as hot and heavy as though he had killed some respectable gray-haired old lady.”
The young doctor nodded. “One of our democratic principles is equal protection for all. I suppose if you started to make exceptions, you would end up with anarchy.”
It was about seven-thirty when Beverly rejoined us. When her brother asked if she would like a little brandy, she said, “It’s too nice a night to sit around here. I thought maybe I could talk Matt into taking me for a ride.”
I could hardly refuse. Politely I asked if Norman would like to come along, and he as politely declined. Three minutes later I was helping Beverly into my car.
As I slid under the wheel, I asked, “Where would you like to go?”
“Why, to your place,” she said in a voice indicating surprise at the question.
So we went to my place.
When I pushed the key into the lock of my apartment door, the door opened without my turning it.
Beverly raised her eyebrows. “Do you often leave your door unlocked?”
“The spring lock doesn’t always catch,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to get it fixed for a couple of years. I guess I’ll have to soon, because it’s getting worse. The door’s unlocked half the time.”
As I closed the door behind us, the phone began to ring. I walked into the bedroom to answer, Beverly following me as far as the bedroom door.
When I said, “Hello,” April French’s voice said, “Hi, honey. Just get home?”
I wasn’t pleased to hear from her, because I don’t like phoning women. Beverly had a habit of phoning at odd hours, and even of showing up unexpectedly. If I was going to have two women phoning, eventually I was going to find myself in the middle of a cat fight.
“Yeah,” I said a trifle shortly.
Apparently she was not only an understanding woman, but a perceptive one, for she instantly got the point from that one short word.
“I don’t make a habit of phoning men,” she said quickly. “I just called because of that story in the paper. I thought you were kidding last night.”
Her tone of near apology made me a little ashamed of my shortness. I said in a friendlier tone, “I never kid. I’m a very serious fellow.”
My change of tone seemed to encourage her. “I’m just getting ready to go to work. Were you planning to pick me up at closing time?”
I glanced at Beverly in the doorway. It seemed unlikely that I would be in the mood for another woman at two A.M.
“I don’t think so, tonight,” I said.
“All right, honey,” she said cheerfully. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there. Except tomorrow night, of course. There’s no show on Mondays, so you’ll find me at home.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Maybe I’ll drop by.”
When I hung up, Beverly asked, “The cleaning maid?”
I merely looked at her. With a little smile she moved across to the bathroom, disappeared inside, and pulled the door closed.
By now I was enough used to her to know what to expect. I undressed and lay on the bed.
I had expected correctly. When the bathroom door reopened five minutes later, she wore nothing but the tan blouse, and that hung wide open. She stood looking at me with a curious glitter in her eyes for a few moments, her body erect and her back arched to make her firm breasts jut outward. Then she glided across to the bed and threw herself into my arms.
I took her home at midnight, which was earlier than she had left last time. But then we had gotten an earlier start than last time.
Monday morning it seemed apparent that Lieutenant Wynn had run out of ideas. The area that could be covered in this particular investigation was too limited to keep four officers busy, at least until we were able to get some information out of Harry Grimaldi which might give us something to work on. But Wynn was the type of officer who couldn’t stand to see subordinates sitting around idle, even when there was nothing for them to do. He could have given Lincoln and Carter the day off, inasmuch as they had both worked Sunday and had a day coming. Instead, he dreamed up a useless task for them.
He ordered them to shadow Goodie White.
Since the city council was meeting that morning, this struck me as pretty silly. You could almost bank on it that White would spend the morning in the council room, and probably spend the rest of the day at his bowling alley. But, as an underling, I had learned my lesson about trying to give the lieutenant advice. I kept my mouth shut.
Carter and Lincoln trooped off to waste the day.
While the lieutenant was reporting our progress to Captain Spangler, I went down to the basement to the felony section to see if our prisoner was ripe to talk yet.
Checking my gun and penknife at the desk, I waited for
the desk sergeant to buzz open the first door to the cell blocks, then waited again until he buzzed open the second. Through the plexiglass walls of the first row of cells, I could see Grimaldi in the second bank.
“I see the guy I want,” I said to the inside guard as he approached me. “I won’t need you.”
Stopping in front of Harry Grimaldi’s cell, I looked in at him. He gazed back at me sullenly. He was seated on the drop-down bunk, his bony shoulders hunched and his hands working together between his knees. His eyes were red and watery, and his shoulders occasionally twitched.
“How you feeling?” I asked.
“I’m sick,” he said. “I need medical attention. I want a transfer to the prison ward.” He meant the prison ward at the City Hospital.
“Sure,” I said. “We’re going to move you over there, where the doctors can ease the withdrawal pains by giving you a little morphine now and then.”
He looked up hopefully. “Now?”
“As soon as you tell us who your supplier is.”
He tried to look puzzled. “Supplier of what?”
“I guess you’re not ready to talk yet,” I said. “See you again about noon.”
“Wait!” he called as I started to walk away. “You got to transfer me to the prison ward. I’m real sick.”
“You’ll get sicker,” I informed him cheerfully, and continued on my way.
He suddenly went into a fit of sneezing.
I stopped to talk to the inside guard.
“Grimaldi may get noisy after a while,” I said. “As a matter of fact, he may fracture your eardrums screaming. Don’t pay any attention to him, and above all, don’t bring in a doctor. I’ll be back about noon.”
“Sure, Sarge,” he said. “I’ve seen junkies before. I won’t get excited.”
When I got back upstairs, Wynn testily asked where I’d been.
“I looked in at Grimaldi for a minute, sir. He’s not quite ripe yet. By noon he’ll be begging to tell us everything we want to know.”
For once he didn’t object to my expression of an opinion, seeming to realize that in this particular field I was the expert and he the novice.
Death of a Pusher Page 14
