by Unknown
“I’m so glad you came, Captain.”
The Aubusson muffled the blunt fall of his heels as he went towards her extended hand. His spare-boned head dipped; in his eyes was a candid, straightforward look.
“Got here as quick as I could, Mrs. Rand.”
The maid vanished with a breathless look flung over her shoulder.
Though Halo Rand’s tall, slender body was relaxed, one knee slightly bent, there was an air of repressed excitement in her face. MacBride, holding her hand for a brief instant, felt tension transmitted to his own. He was aware of a vague, well-bred perfume.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Rand?”
She said: “Come.” She led the way across the dropped living-room, up three steps to a mezzanine; opened a door and motioned the skipper into a large room furnished with leathers and hardwoods—a man’s room.
“Dan’s room,” she said. “His den. Sit down, Captain.”
He was strangely moved, puzzled; but he sat down. Halo Rand chose to stand, resting the fingertips of one hand on a mahogany desk. The other hand toyed with a string of pearls suspended from her neck.
“I may be foolish,” she said, “but I’m afraid. I can’t help it. I’m afraid for Dan. It’s ten o’clock and he hasn’t come home yet.”
MacBride said: “Why are you afraid?”
Her violet eyes were luminous in the dim light. “He came home at noon today. I—I hardly recognized him. He looked—well, crushed. Dreamlike. And that isn’t like Dan. You know that. Well, he walked in quietly, kissed me, though I think he barely saw me, and then went to this room. I was disturbed. I came and knocked on the door and asked what was wrong, and he said nothing was wrong and asked to be left alone. So I didn’t bother him.”
“What do you think was wrong?”
She breathed deeply, said in a hushed voice: “I don’t know. But he was worried. That much I do know. For the past two months, every now and then, he would sit and stare absently—and suddenly ask me what I had said. When I appeared curious, he’d rouse up and be his own self.” She shook her head. “He never was the one to bring his business into the home.”
“Think it’s business?”
She shook her head wearily. “I don’t know. I feel so helpless. That’s why I asked you to come over. I knew you two were old friends. He’s been hit hard in the market, you know. And I guess you know he’s had trouble with the Colosseum. He is in debt heavily—but he hoped to pull out of it.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No, he didn’t. He came out of his room after an hour. I don’t think he’d even taken his overcoat off. He came out and stood for a moment at the window. Then he said he was going out. He kissed me good-bye and held my hand for a minute, and then he went out. He said he’d be back at six. Well, he hasn’t come.”
MacBride slapped his knee. “Well, Mrs. Rand, I wouldn’t get all worked up, if I were you. Maybe—”
“Wait,” she said, and opened a desk drawer. “An hour ago I came in here. I don’t know why. I don’t think I expected to find anything. It was just chance. I—I opened this drawer. You remember the gun you gave him two years ago?”
“Yes.”
“It’s gone,” she said. “It’s not in his drawer.”
MacBride stood up, muttered: “H’m.”
“Emma, our maid, straightened this room yesterday. She said she saw the gun in this drawer yesterday. Now it’s gone.” Her eyes stared fixedly across the room. “That’s why I’m afraid,” she said. “That’s why I asked you to come over.”
She slumped a bit where she stood, brushed a hand across her forehead. MacBride’s eyes were thought-fixed on the amber casque of her hair. He remembered the day she had ceased to be the première danseuse of Dubinoff’s Ballet and had become Dan Rand’s wife.
He said: “Just be calm, Mrs. Rand. You’re imagining things. No use taking this thing so hard. I’ll find him. He’ll be okey. I’ll phone you when I find him.” There was a rough note of reassurance in his tone. A smile cracked his lean, spare-boned face. “Just take it easy.”
They went into the living-room and she laughed brokenly. “I suppose I am a little fool. But I kept thinking about his finances. So many men nowadays, when they can’t see their way ahead …” She made a limp, hopeless gesture.
“Not Dan,” MacBride said. “He can take it. He always could take it and come up smiling.”
She nodded. “I know. But lately—he hasn’t been smiling.”
They passed into the foyer and the oldish maid with the gargoyle’s face appeared mysteriously and stood by the door.
The phone rang. The maid left the door and answered it and then said: “It’s for you, Captain.”
He went towards it, saying: “I left word at the office I’d be here.” He picked up the instrument. “Hello … Yeah, Otto.” He listened, and presently his brows bent, a shine appeared in his eyes. His low voice said: “Okey, Otto.” He hung up, put the instrument down, staring hard at it.
Then he raised his bony head and looked at Halo Rand. A corner of his wide mouth twitched.
ennedy, the eyes and ears of the Richmond City Free Press, slammed into the dusty little office at the base of the pier, ricocheted from door to wall to chair to desk, where he finally sprawled with a relieved sigh and calmly placed the telephone receiver to his ear, using the same hand to prop his head.
“Central 1000.”
An astonished watchman stood spellbound against the wall. “Hey,” he said. “Hey!”
“Now, now,” Kennedy said with wrinkle-browed remonstrance. “Shush, shush. Don’t you see I’m on the telephone?” He rolled over languidly on his back, propped his heels on the edge of the desk, his knees in the air, and held the telephone transmitter above his mouth.
The watchman dried his hands on a soiled towel. “This here is a private office and I’d like to know who the hell give you permission to use that phone!”
Kennedy said into the mouthpiece: “City desk, flower.” He looked sidewise at the watchman. “Pardon me. I’m Kennedy of the Free Press. May I use your phone?”
“Sure—go ahead.”
“Thanks … Hello, Abe,” he said into the transmitter. “Kennedy. Dust out your ears and get a load of this. Daniel Cosgrove Rand, sportsman, fight promoter, owner of the Colosseum; dead, by his own hand, at 9:50 tonight, on River Road, near the foot of Pokomoke Street, in an abandoned warehouse. Shot heard, body found, by Patrolman Henry Pflueger. No witnesses. Got that? … Okey. More later.”
He hung up, turned over on his stomach, put the phone down and pushed himself back off the desk to his feet. He was calm again, a little sallow-faced beneath his battered fedora. His roving, world-weary eyes alighted on a pint flask standing on a shelf above the desk.
“Is that,” he said to the watchman, “something to drink?”
“Nah. Nah. That’s rubbing alcohol.” Kennedy reached up, took down the bottle, uncorked it and smelled it. He took two long swallows, corked the bottle, sighed and replaced the bottle on the shelf.
“Somebody’s been kidding you, my good friend. That’s gin.” He buttoned his flimsy topcoat, said cheerfully: “Thanks for the use of your phone,” and went out.
Winter wind, freighted with river damp, smote him and he shivered beneath his inadequate topcoat. He strode, a scarecrow figure, along the edge of the river wall; saw red and green lights of tugboats moving, heard deep-toned whistles. Up ahead, in front of the abandoned warehouse, the red-tinted lights of an ambulance glowed like swollen eyes. Figures moved in the glare of a spotlight, paced by their elongated shadows. Breath spumed whitely and hard heels struck and scraped on cold cobblestones.
Kennedy said: “I thought I recognized your Harvard accent, skipper.”
“Oh, you, huh?” MacBride said. He had just stepped from a police squad car. He blew his nose loudly into white, crisp linen. His cheeks were reddened by the cold; his eyes flashed like dark coals in the beam of the spotlight. “You always go wher
e I go, huh?”
“Only this time I was here first. You’re slipping, Cap.”
A rotund man appeared in the entrance of the old warehouse. He blinked in the glare of the spotlight, then came forward with a bobbing, cheerful walk, a small black bag swinging in his hand.
“Hello, Doc,” MacBride said.
“Dead, Steve—very dead,” the ambulance doctor said. “In fact, he must have died instantly. Shot in the heart … Well, I must get going.”
MacBride nodded. He set his jaw and suddenly started off in a hard-heeled stride. The sound of his footfalls echoed in the large, bare warehouse. Far beyond, near the head of the wharf, he saw a lantern and several hand torches glowing; they made a wan, lonesome aureole of light around the shapes of several men. He walked through chill, damp air that seeped to his marrow; heard, beneath the floor, the lapping of water among pilings.
He saw, as he drew nearer, the narrow chalky face of Eggleson, the Deputy Medical Examiner. Eggleson was standing spread-legged, torchlight spraying upward over his gaunt body to his narrow face; and he was writing absentmindedly in a book. Patrolman Pflueger was in silhouette, arms akimbo, his back to MacBride. Moriarity and Cohen were kneeling, getting two lights from a match.
No one said anything as MacBride came up. He stopped, stood with hands thrust in overcoat pockets, slouching a bit, the torch- and lantern-light picking out sharply the bony irregularity of his face, the slitted eyes.
Then Kennedy’s quiet voice from behind: “You knew him well, huh, skipper?”
“Yeah.”
Patrolman Pflueger pointed: “There’s the gun, Captain—layin’ there.”
“Yeah.” MacBride’s voice had a dull flat sound. “Yeah. I can recognize it from here. I gave it to him. You can see on the barrel: ‘From Steve MacBride to Dan Rand.’ ”
Eggleson, the D.M.E., looked up from his notebook. “Suicide, Steve. Tough.” He shook his head profoundly. “Tough, tough. He got pie-eyed drunk and then did the Dutch.”
“Drunk, huh?”
“Pie-eyed. Can’t you smell it?”
“Yeah.”
Kennedy touched his arm. “Snap out of it, Steve.”
“I liked him, Kennedy. I grew up with him. It’s kind of swell to see a guy you grew up with make a name for himself. It ain’t exactly the nuts when you find him dead.” He wagged his bony head. “I never figured Dan would do the Dutch. He wasn’t that kind. Not him. But …” He sighed, moved his broad shoulders. Then he flexed his hands, his voice picked up: “Moriarity, get the lead out of your pants. Get the Morgue bus down.… Hey, Pflueger, did you touch that gun?”
“Just by the barrel.”
“I trained you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
MacBride looked at Kennedy. “Hear that?” He bent down, caught hold of the gun by the barrel and lifted it. He wrapped the gun in a fresh handkerchief and slipped it carefully into his pocket.
“Who trained you, skipper?” Kennedy said.
“Experience … Hey, Moriarity, I thought I told you—”
“Okey, okey!” Moriarity started off at a fast walk.
Eggleson scoffed: “Suicide! It’s as plain as the nose—”
“On my face.” MacBride nodded. “I know. But I also knew”—he leveled an arm at the dead man—“Dan Rand. I guess if I want to take prints off this gun I have a right to!”
“What a man!” Eggleson sighed; then said: “Okey, Steve. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
Police photographers came and took flashlight pictures of the body on the floor.
MacBride roamed through the warehouse, picking his way with the help of a torch borrowed from Pflueger. He pushed through a small door and stood on the pierhead, in the wind, watching the lights of river traffic. Kennedy came out and huddled in his topcoat, using MacBride’s bulk to break the wind.
“Don’t be a sap, Cap,” he argued. “It was suicide plain and simple. You know Dan was in a bad way financially. Ever since he refused to let the Ricks-Gowanus boxfight take place in his Colosseum Cardiac boycotted him. It’s cost Dan a lot of dough. He couldn’t afford to lose it. Well, he lost it. And what happened?” He shrugged. “A Dutch out. He got drunk as hell and getting drunk either weakened or strengthened him to rub himself out. Depends on how you look at it.”
MacBride remained silent, staring at the river lights.
Kennedy raised a cigarette to his mouth. The wind whipped sparks from its red end. His tone was lazy, ruminative: “He had an expensive wife … his apartment at Tudor Towers set him back $500 a month … a front to keep up.” He shrugged. “A guy like Rand would have hated to take one backward step in the scale of living.”
“Yeah,” said MacBride. “He hated defeat. And he could take it. I’ve seen him take it before.”
“Sure. But a man can take it just so long, skipper, and then the lights go out. A short circuit in the nervous system.”
MacBride turned. “I know, I know, Kennedy. You’re using your head, you’re reasoning things out. Swell! But I can’t reason the same way because I knew Dan, I know he had guts. It’s not like him to pull a stunt like this. It’s all goofy! It’s a cap that don’t fit his head!”
Kennedy leaned back on his heels. “Listen, am I talking to a hard-headed cop or am I talking to a fat-head?”
MacBride growled, swung on his heel, yanked open the door and heaved into the warehouse. The lantern was swinging now in someone’s hand. The Morgue bus had come and they were carrying out the body of Dan Rand.
Kennedy caught up with MacBride and said: “So don’t make a horse’s neck out of yourself just because you happened to play at cowboys and Indians with this guy when you were kids.”
“I’m in the dark right now,” MacBride ground out. “In the dark, get me?” His eyes shimmered between narrowed lids. “In a dark house. But I’ve got a feeling that there’s a lot of doors around me in the darkness—and if I look hard enough, and take your wisecracks as just so much bushwha, I might find a streak of light—you know, at the bottom of a door.”
“Listen to the man!”
“Razz me, sweetheart. I could take the razzberry when you were just a hope in your father’s chest.”
ohen was sitting on the desk, swinging a leg, flipping a coin in the air, when MacBride strode into the office next morning. The skipper removed his conservative blue overcoat, his conservative gray fedora, and hung them on a costumer in the corner. Crossing to the desk, rubbing his chilled hands smartly together, he stared down at the morning edition of the Free Press. Dan Rand Commits Suicide, the headlines said. MacBride looked at Cohen. Cohen continued flipping the coin.
“What’s that, Ike, a new kind of endurance contest? … Come on, come on—with six chairs in this office, do you have to park yourself on my desk?”
Cohen stood up. “So I dusted the town last night, Cap. Rand hit The Panama at 2:30 yesterday afternoon, stayed an hour drinking alone. At 3:40 he walked into Joe Paloma’s place, in Senate Street. Joe says he knocked off three highballs and left there about four o’clock. Plenty looking-glass drinking. At 4:30 he landed in Nick Raitt’s place, on Division Hill. Rye highballs again; three. Nick said he didn’t talk, didn’t say a thing. Just looked at himself in the mirror and took on the liquor. Nick says he bailed out at about 5:30.
“At about a quarter of six he walked into the Old English Grill and got himself a meal and Al says he drank rye there. He was pretty crocked when he came in, but the food kind of straightened him out. He left the Old English at a little past seven and went down to Elmo Street, to Mike Cahill’s place. He threw dice with Mike, but Mike says he kept his trap shut except to open it to pour in rye. He left Mike’s place at 8:30.
“Tony Gatto, down in Jockey Street, says Rand sloped into his joint between eight and nine. He was pretty drunk. He took two highballs fast and left at about 9:15. Tony says Rand said: ‘Well, Tony, I think I’ll go home to my wife. Listen, Tony; never give up ship. Stick to it.’ Tony didn’t know what he
meant. ‘Some of us slide out, Tony,’ Rand said. ‘Some of us stick, hang on. I guess I’m that kind, damn my guts.’ And he went out.” Cohen shrugged. “So I guess Tony Gatto was the last guy to see him alive.”
MacBride said: “Good work, Ike. Did you mark those places and times down?”
Cohen scaled a slip of paper onto the desk.
MacBride studied the memoranda, mused aloud: “What did Dan mean by that speech, Ike?”
“Hell, do drunks mean anything by the speeches they make? I read a book once—”
“Okey, okey. Suppose we don’t go into that. Here”—he pointed to the telephone—“call McGovern and ask him if he got the prints off that gun yet.”
Cohen telephoned the Bureau in the basement. Hanging up, he said: “In about half an hour.”
MacBride took a turn up and down the room; stopped, eyed Cohen darkly. “You’ve got an idea I’m nuts, haven’t you?”
“Well”—Cohen leaned on the desk—“it looks like suicide to me, Cap. Of course, if you want to make a case out of it, okey. I know about seventeen guys I could pick up, frame, box and deliver—”
“Do drunks mean anything by the speeches they make? … You asked me that, Ike. And I’ll tell you. They do! Dan would, anyhow. He was going home to his wife. He might have thought about doing the Dutch. But in the end, tight as he was, he changed his mind.” He leveled an arm. “When Danny Rand walked out of Tony Gatto’s he was going home to his wife. He might have been flat broke, up to his ears in debt—but he was going to stick, kid—he was going to stick.” He struck the desk with his fist. “Danny Rand didn’t commit suicide!”
Cohen was unimpressed. He shrugged. “Okey, skipper, okey. He didn’t commit suicide. Okey. Now tell me who bumped him off and I’ll go out and pinch the guy—”
“Cut it, Ike!” MacBride chopped in savagely. In a quieter voice he said: “Scram. I’ll call you if I want you.”
He crammed a pipe, lighted up. He had fought the Medical Examiner’s office tooth and nail for an autopsy. Halo Rand had sobbed. “An autopsy’s cruel on his poor dead body,” she had said. The Medical Examiner had chided, wheedled, opened a bottle of Napoleon brandy. But MacBride had stood his ground—grim-faced, obstinate, on a single track of thought and purpose.
