Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

  “What’s your game? Money?”

  That was Mr. Hemingway’s game, not mine. “Of course not. I’m merely trying to be helpful. For instance, did you know files were stolen from my desk while I worked here?” Would that divert his suspicions? “Francine had a folder full of them. Receivable accounts that were past due. Was she killed because she found them?”

  Mr. Talbit didn’t hesitate. “We do not carry past-due Receivable Accounts. We send them for collection.”

  “But these were in the files,” I said. “One was overdue by sixteen months.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject with fantasy, Mrs. Durbin. You will now give me that key you found.”

  “Maybe Francine was blackmailing someone. A blackmailer might be killed,” I said, backing further into his office. “Perhaps the police should know that. Would you kill a blackmailer?”

  Sylvie broke in. “Jo, we’re wasting his time. It’s been so nice meeting you, Mr. Talbit. We’ll be going now.”

  Mr. Talbit wasn’t interested in anything Sylvie had to say. His face darkened as he took another step toward me. “You don’t know anything about blackmail.”

  I’d backed my limit, there was nowhere to go. He was in my face.

  What the heck. Try karate. Arms up, I yelled, “Hana.” One chop with, “Dul.” A swing of my bag with, “Set.” And a kick with, “Net.”

  He crumbled with a scream that wasn’t Japanese or Korean for anything. A well aimed kick in the crotch is always useful. Sylvie and I dodged past him, dashed out of the office and into the hall.

  I ran like the devil was after me, and so did Sylvie. “Why?” she wailed, as she trampled my heels. I ignored the elevator and kept running. Sylvie yelled, “Hey!” I bolted through the stairway door and plunged down the stairs.

  How soon would he recover? Too late to follow us? No way. Would he think we’d taken the stairs or the elevator? He’d take the elevator. We were ahead, but he’d pass us by.

  I ran down, past the fifth, past the fourth, past the third, then stopped before I reached the second floor. Sylvie caught up and collapsed on the stair beside me. “Why?” she asked again.

  Gulping more air, I said, “We couldn’t wait for the elevator. He’d catch us.”

  “I mean, why kick him in the first place?”

  Digging in my bag for my cell phone, I said, “He’s a killer.” I’d put it all together. I panted with exhaustion, or was it terror? “That Zip who was severely beaten, the one who’s involved some way with jewelry theft according to Mel—he called Mr. Talbit the first day I worked there. I finally remembered where I’d heard his voice.”

  “Whoa!” Sylvie wheezed as she breathed. “But there’s two of us. Would he kill us both?”

  Trying to calm myself, I turned on my phone and punched 911. “Maybe.”

  “Now what are you doing?”

  My phone had come alive. Between deep breaths, I whispered, “Send police. The killer is in the Fetter Building—probably in the lobby by now.” The operator tried to ask her questions, but I kept talking. “I know he killed Francine Hemingway, so he’s after me. It’s Mr. Talbit. He’s a pudgy man, five ten, wearing a blue sweat suit. Dark hair. I’m hiding now, but he might find me. Help me.”

  I hung up and turned off my phone. They’d have my number. They’d call back to get all their questions answered. I didn’t want a ringing telephone revealing my presence on the stairs, because we had to go down.

  Sylvie whispered, “Do you have a plan, or do we wait here for the police?”

  “There’s more than one door to this building. There’s also an empty office on the fourth floor. We could hole up there, or go down.”

  “We go down,” Sylvie said, which was my choice, too.

  No more thundering footsteps. The rest of the way we tiptoed, passing the first floor, and exiting in the basement.

  Were we free?

  I aimed my flashlight at the walls and into the corners. Junk—overflowing, cobwebby junk crammed every square inch. A table with a broken leg. Several chairs with torn plastic seats. A file cabinet that had once been painted green. Several feet of black plastic hose, coiled loosely. Old rugs, boxes of old papers, plastic bags of trash that had never made it out the door. We walked the perimeter, climbing over and around years of discards until we reached a huge garage-type door. It was locked.

  “Isn’t there a law against locking exit doors?” Sylvie asked. “What if the building were on fire? How would anyone get out? In fact, how do we get out?”

  “The lobby, I guess.”

  It was the only way. Had the police come? Was Mr. Talbit still in the building? Whether he was or not, we had to return to the first floor. And we did.

  I opened the door a crack. I couldn’t see anyone, but then, I couldn’t see much of the lobby, either. I nudged the door open a few more inches. Looked again. Nothing. I stood, half into the lobby. Nothing.

  He was gone. I walked out. Sylvie followed me.

  “Jo Durbin.”

  I froze. It was Mr. Talbit.

  “All I want is that key. I know you have it. It’s my property.”

  He was behind us, between us and the door to the stairs. He held a red fire hatchet over his head, ready to smash my skull.

  “My God,” I said, back peddling toward the front door.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” That was a remarkable statement from someone holding an axe over my head. “You won’t kick me again. Just give me the key.”

  “And then you’ll kill me, right?” I asked. “Like you killed Francine.”

  “You’re crazy, woman. Why would I kill Francine?”

  “Leave her alone!” Sylvie shouted, and darted at him.

  He swung toward her. I yelled, “Keep back!” We had to stay out of his way till the police came.

  Sylvie circled, keeping out of range of that axe, and effectively splitting his attention. I dropped my bag and took an aggressive stance beside a potted tree.

  They always said you could stop a wooden bar. Hold your arm up while rotating your hand so your arm wouldn’t break. They didn’t mention the steel axe head. But who wanted to stand around waiting for the blow? Give him something to think about.

  “Who took the smuggled jewelry from the museum?” I asked. “You or Francine? Or somebody else?” Guessing, I added, “Maybe Asher?”

  “Mrs. Durbin, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Give me that key.”

  Finally, I heard the sirens, but I had to keep talking. “You killed her because she blackmailed you. Isn’t that right? And now her husband is blackmailing you. Are you going to kill him too? How about that gold ring at the museum. Did you know someone stole it? Or was that you?”

  In answer, he lunged, the hatchet held over his head. I dodged around the tree. He swung. Sylvie screamed. The blow glanced off the tree and he dropped to one knee, but caught himself immediately. I had no time to run. I had to divert his attention until the police got there. Swallowing a hysterical squeal, I circled the plant and pounded more questions. “How did you get the stuff inside the packing to start with? Double-walled wood? Molded foam? I know you arranged for the shipment from the English museum.”

  Sylvie was behind him. She yelled, “Hie,” like a TV super hero, just as we heard a second siren.

  Mr. Talbit took one look at Sylvie in a stance mimicking mine, dropped his hatchet, and ran toward the rear door. But it didn’t matter, I’d keep him talking long enough. I heard the police behind me, coming through the door, running.

  Yelling, “Where’s the fire?”

  Firemen? Not policemen?

  Chapter 38

  I’d called 911. I’d definitely said, “Send the police.” But instead of police rushing into the lobby, a fireman stood before me, demanding, “Where’s the fire?”

  “There’s no fire,” I said, shaking my head. At least, I didn’t think so. But the firefighters kept coming, so encased in protective clothing they looked ready for outer space
.

  Sylvie glared at the men and women surrounding us. “You’re supposed to be the police. Do you guys work together?”

  “Somebody turned in the alarm,” a fireman said as he reached for the hatchet on the marble floor.

  “Don’t touch it,” I said in a strident voice I didn’t recognize. “It’s evidence. Mr. Talbit dropped it.”

  “Yes!” detective Sylvie shouted. “Check the handle for fingerprints.”

  “Mr. Talbit’s fingerprints,” I added. “He attacked me with it. Then he ran away.”

  Another fireman arrived, evidently the boss. He yelled, “Looks like a minor one, but we won’t know until we find it.” He waved his arm, directing his crew. They spread out. Several aimed for the stairs, but true to those signs so evident, none stepped into the elevator. He then joined our fireman, and asked, “Where’s the fire?”

  The first fireman shrugged. “Can’t say. Don’t smell smoke, though.”

  Sylvie said, “Obviously Mr. Talbit set off the alarm when he got the axe.”

  “You are referring to this fireman’s hatchet, Ma'am?”

  “He tried to kill me,” I repeated. “He ran when he heard the sirens.”

  “Ladies, is there a fire on the premises?”

  “How should we know? Mr. Talbit is the one who set off the alarm. He even cut that poor tree,” I said, dramatically pointing to the injured plant.

  “And where is Mr. Talbit?”

  Our fireman was certainly obtuse. “I told you,” I said firmly, but not in an adversarial manner. “He ran away when he heard the siren.”

  “And when I did this,” Sylvie said, going into her Kung Fu stance with a loud, “Hai!”

  The second fireman pulled a notepad and pencil from somewhere under his armpit.

  “He ran to the back,” I said, pointing.

  A couple of fire persons returned. “Check for anyone in the rear,” number two told them.

  “There’s a door there. He’ll be gone by now.”

  The boss muttered, “Convenient.”

  He didn’t believe us. “Sylvie,” I said, “let’s wait in front for the police,” and headed for the door.

  “Just a moment, Ma’am,” our fireman said. “Turning in a false alarm is a serious matter.”

  “It certainly is,” Sylvie said. “And Mr. Talbit is the one you want.” She ticked off on her fingers, “One, he confiscated the fire hatchet. Two, he turned in a false alarm. And, most importantly, three, he tried to kill my sister.”

  “And what are your names?” fireman two asked.

  What did they want, a scapegoat to accuse for the false alarm? Fortunately, I heard more sirens. This time it was the police. There were only two.

  “Thank God you’re here,” I said. “Mr. Talbit, tried to kill me with that axe. But the firemen scared him away.”

  “Are you the woman who called?”

  “Yes. Like I told them, Mr. Talbit killed Francine Hemingway, and he was trying to kill me.”

  The fireman spoke up, with an amazing lack of conviction. “The ladies have told me all about this Mr. Talbit, who isn’t on the premises, evidently. However, someone turned in a fire alarm, and there seems to be no fire. There is, however, one fireman’s hatchet that they claim is evidence and must be checked for fingerprints.”

  “Look at that tree,” I said. “I dodged and he hit the tree. See, fresh slices in the bark.”

  That was when the note-taking fireman stopped taking notes. “Looks like your case,” he told the cop.

  It was a no-brainer, but I knew they wouldn’t let Sylvie and me walk away. I was right. They called in another patrol car, this one with a mixed team. The policewoman said, “Are you Mrs. Durbin? Please come with me.” Ah, yes. Caller ID. “And the other lady, too, please. Your name?”

  “Sylvia Wagner. We are sisters. We have solved your murder and have important information for you.”

  “Please step this way,” she said politely.

  I didn’t step that way or any other. I stood and demanded they take the hatchet. “And don’t touch it,” I yelled, as the policeman stooped with outstretched hand.

  “Use one of those evidence collection bags,” Sylvie said. “Or at least this handkerchief,” she added, opening her purse.

  “And send someone after Mr. Talbit.”

  “They’ll take care of it,” the policeman said, nodding toward the first two patrolmen who were talking to a fireman.

  “What’s your badge number?” Sylvie demanded. Our police persons ignored her comment and loaded us into their patrol car without a speck of urgency.

  Okay, I wouldn’t want to run into an alley after a killer, but I’m not the police. Their lack of concern was unreal, considering a suspect had just escaped.

  Our officer came toward me, swinging his handcuffs. “Will you come willingly?” he asked.

  I came.

  “They don’t believe us,” Sylvie muttered.

  Correction. They didn’t believe me. They’d found my name in their local file. Jo Durbin: Homeless woman. Sleeps in parks and public buildings. Broke into a house. Quarrelsome. Possible murder suspect or witness. Maybe they’ve even done a computer search and found that false exposé. Strange Truths—How the White Widow got away with murder. Either way, I was definitely unreliable. And Mr. Talbit was long gone.

  Chapter 39

  Sylvie and I climbed into the back of the second black and white, leaving the original patrolmen to deal with the firemen. The siren screamed, but the policewoman and her partner didn’t even plug their ears. Used to the noise, obviously. I took out my cell phone and dialed little Miss Wilson, my lawyer. Would the speed, blinking lights, and whirring siren break up the connection?

  It didn’t, but the noise made conversation nearly impossible. I believe Miss Wilson said she would meet me at the station. At least the cops couldn’t lock us up and lose us without someone knowing about it.

  When they unloaded us at the precinct office, they indicated a handy bench beside the desk sergeant and said, “Wait here, please.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Sylvie said. “They sit us on a bench under guard while Mr. Talbit gets away.”

  “Get used to it,” I said. One thing about police stations, there’s a lot of waiting around. At least they hadn’t slammed us against a wall or bombarded us with accusations.

  Sylvie didn’t intend getting used to it. She walked to the desk.

  “I wish to see the officer in charge of homicide,” she said. The police person lifted his head momentarily, but said nothing. Sylvie raised her voice. “I demand an audience with someone in charge!”

  She didn’t get any more action than I did, sitting on the bench. I still had my bag, so I filed my fingernails and made mental notes for the chapter on police intervention.

  Sylvie tapped her foot and scowled. She stood, walked in a small circle, then sat down. “Oh, I forgot,” she finally said. “That Miss Wilson called this morning. I should have told you sooner, but when I’d have had the chance, I don’t know.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She didn’t want anything. She called with information.”

  “And?”

  “It was Asher Yost’s cause of death. He was killed by several blows to the head that did all kinds of fatal damage. There was no plastic bag, however, that is not to say there couldn’t have been one.”

  “Is that what she said, the part about the plastic bag, or did you add it?”

  Sylvie snorted. “That’s what she said, and I don’t know why you think I’d add anything to her report.”

  I filed my last fingernail in silence. Without a plastic bag, his M.O. was more like Zip’s attack than Francine’s. And, with a plastic bag, it was more like Lacy’s. His murder had to be connected to Francine’s. Logic demanded it. But how?

  Forty-five minutes later, an officer came for us. He insisted on reading me my rights. “I’m here because someone tried to kill me,” I said, disgusted at his cavalier at
titude. I didn’t mention they’d read me my rights on my last visit, only days before.

  I needn’t have bothered. Carefully, the cop said, “You were recently in our custody, so this is merely a precaution, and standard procedure. We are not charging you with anything, merely trying to ascertain the truth here.”

  “The truth is that Mr. Talbit tried to kill me with an axe,” I said, wondering exactly why reading me my rights was a precaution, and against what.

  “Are you going to read me my rights?” Sylvie demanded. “Fair’s fair.”

  Obviously that was his intent, for he didn’t hesitate. Sylvie listened, nodded, and when he was through, she said, “We will now speak to the person in charge of the recent murders. We have solved their case, and I’m sure they’d like to hear about it instead of allowing us to waste time like this.”

  “First we want to take your statements separately, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  “And if we do mind?” I muttered. Naturally, he didn’t answer. He sent us off with separate cops into separate rooms, even though we’d had nearly an hour to compare stories or even fabricate new ones. I had the urge to yell at Sylvie, “Don’t tell them anything,” which would not have been wise.

  As for myself, I decided, with the killer after me, it was time to tell all.

  After their tape recorder was running, I said, for the umpteenth time, “Mr. Talbit tried to kill me with the fire axe. He wanted a key from Francine Hemingway’s desk. I believe the key opens a bank safe deposit box that contains artifacts or jewelry smuggled into the country, through Waterman’s Museum. Since I suspect him of murder and theft, I would not give him the key. And I might add, I continued to hold out even when he chased me with an axe.

  “When you find him, he may mention that I attacked him. That was a defensive move. A lucky kick to the crotch enabled my sister and me to escape.”

  Was the cop smiling when he took the key I dug out of my body pocket? I couldn’t tell. He gave no indication that he believed a word I said. He asked more questions while another policeman came in, took the key, and left. Moments later, my two cops suddenly stood. “I’ll see about a steno,” one said, and both left. So, there I sat, with my fingernails already filed.