“No, no.” Her voice was a low, tortured moan. “Not Donny. He was the gentlest, tenderest, most—”
“Listen, Angie. I’ve gotten it from others how gentle and sweet you are. Yet, yesterday afternoon, I find you on the edge of a roof, within exactly one inch of maybe dropping—or throwing—a baby over the edge. A little, tiny, defenceless baby. Apparently, according to some of your friends we interviewed, you thought you were saving the baby from some kind of threat. And all the while, downstairs, the kid’s mother was going crazy. She couldn’t’ve screamed more—she couldn’t’ve hurt more—if you’d been carving her with a knife. So don’t tell me about how sweet Donny Robertson was. Don’t tell me how—”
With a small, strangled cry she stiffened, convulsed, and then sharply doubled up, as if I’d suddenly hit her. She twisted away, hiding her face deep in the pillow. Her voice was muffled as she said, over and over, “I want my mother. My mother will talk to you. She’ll tell you. I want my mother.”
Silently I picked up my hat and left the room, without looking back. I pushed open the door and walked slowly across the parking lot. The sky was grey; the air was damp and cold.
THIRTEEN
FRIEDMAN GESTURED TO THE inch-thick folder on his desk. “Look at that. We find Robertson Wednesday morning. Approximately thirty-six hours ago. And already we got enough material for a T.V. series. Is that the overnight bag Markham found?” he asked, gesturing.
“Right.”
He emptied the contents on the desktop. Quickly he rifled through the clothing, then opened the salmon envelope. After a moment’s study he said, “I teletyped New York last night, and asked them to go through Robertson’s apartment, then phone me.” He glanced at his watch. “I should be hearing, before long. What else’ve you got? What’s this about a tip that Cecile Franks killed Karen Forest?” He glanced at me with his deceptively sleepy, bullfrog’s eyes.
“What d’you mean?” As I said it, I realised that I was shifting in my chair.
“The squad room gossip has it that you were interviewing Cecile Franks in North Beach last night. Over drinks.”
“I was cruising around last night, and saw her waiting for a cab. It looked like a good chance to talk to her.”
“Hmmm. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with her looks, I understand. Ah—” He sighed, dolefully mock-regretful. “You hard-muscled athletes. What lives you must lead. Just remember, though, the lesson we all learned from our friend MacLean.”
“But it wasn’t like—”
“You don’t seem the type, somehow, to be buying murder suspects drinks at a sidewalk café, Frank. I’m surprised.” He was plainly waiting for an answer—a good answer. “Besides, you were off duty last night.”
“She’s not a murder suspect, Pete, and you know it. Just because some jerk picks up a phone and dials police headquarters, that doesn’t mean—”
“Sergeant, you’re protesting too much. Why don’t you simply admit that your head was turned by that pretty Jewish girl?”
I chuckled, then shrugged with a fair imitation of innocent indifference. Friedman’s explanation, after all, was more comfortable than the whole truth.
“All right, Lieutenant, my head was turned. I admit it. But don’t think I seduced that nice Jewish girl. It wasn’t like that, Lieutenant.”
“Good. I’d hate to see you involved with her. Besides—” He sighed, and now his voice seemed genuinely touched with a faint regret as he said, “Besides, I had Schrager check up on Cecile Franks’ father.”
“I know. She told me.” It was a relief to be telling the truth, unquestioned. “Why’d you do it?”
“Just a hunch. Cecile Franks made a big deal about her father being such a high-powered businessman. Come to find out, though, he’s one of these guys who’s always two payments behind on his new Cadillac.”
“What about her financial condition?”
“Schrager’s working on it. How’d you come out with this Sawyer girl?”
Again, this time in more detail, I reported. When I’d finished he sat for a moment looking out the window.
“Do you really think,” he asked slowly, “that Robertson could’ve murdered Karen Forest?”
“In his normal state of mind, he was apparently a mouse. On the other hand, he was usually out of his skull on drugs. Let’s say he got high on methedrine. Suddenly he’s Dr. Jekyll. Suddenly he’s looking down at the body, trying to remember how it happened.”
“What about our blond Caucasian male theory? Robertson was a brunette.”
“You know yourself, Pete: that whole thing’s based on one doubtful witness.”
“Our only witness, though. And we’ve got to start somewhere. We’ve—” His buzzer sounded. Frowning, he picked up the phone. “Friedman. Yeah; what’ve you got?” He listened for a moment, then said, “All right, stay with it for a while; there’s nothing much doing right now. See what else you can find. Call me back in an hour, why don’t you?” He hung up, thoughtfully turning to face me. “That was Schrager.”
“And?”
“Cecile Franks apparently isn’t exactly making a million dollars down in Haight Ashbury. According to Schrager, she’s got maybe three hundred dollars in the bank. About half the time, though, she’s overdrawn. Not only that, but there’s a high turnover in her account, for large amounts. So three hundred dollars is nothing. She’s in trouble, in other words.”
“Maybe she’s got some of her assets hidden.”
“Maybe.” He frowned. “Dammit, I wish I’d asked Schrager to check on her financial situation a month or two ago. It’s possible, I suppose, that she could’ve decided to rob Karen Forest purely for the money.”
“If she did it, though, she wouldn’t’ve deposited the money in her bank account. She’s too smart for that.”
“Yeah,” he answered absently. “Maybe we should get an accountant, and subpoena her books. I’ll have to check with the D.A. Christ, It’ll probably take a week, at least.” He sighed. “Just when I was enjoying the prestige of being Captain. I find out that we might have a Jewish murderess.” He shook his head. “Okay. What about this Harper? What’d he have to say?”
I reported on that interview, too. Then, almost reluctantly, I added Tomilson’s testimony, contradicting Harper’s.
“Who’s this Tomilson, anyhow?” Friedman asked.
“Just a hippie. I found out that he was in the Crushed Chrysanthemum that night, and that he’s already been questioned.”
“Do you think he’s got the facts straight?”
“Yes,” I answered slowly. “Yes, I think Tomilson probably does have his facts straight.”
“We’ve got a contradiction, then. We’ve got—” Again his buzzer sounded. He answered, then said: “All right, I’ll take it. I want the call recorded, do you understand?” He listened, then nodded. “Right. When you’re hooked in, put the call through.” To me he said, “It’s New York. They’ve—Yeah? Hello? Right. Lieutenant Friedman. No Captain Kreiger’s got the flu. We’re having some kind of an epidemic. Yeah, I know. In San Francisco, though, it’s miserable in August. Last weekend I put up a new T.V. aerial, and I almost froze. It’s—what?” He listened, then said, “No, I’m not fooling. It’s the fog. Every evening about five or so, the fog comes in. And it doesn’t burn off ’till about eleven A.M. the next morning. Then it’s back at five. Promptly. What’ve you got?” he asked finally. “I’m having it recorded, as you can hear. So just reel it off.”
Finally he said, “Well, thanks a lot, anyhow. If you hear anything else, let me know. Call me. And thanks again Yeah, I’ll tell him. Goodbye.” He hung up.
“Well, that wasn’t much help,” he said. “Robertson’s room was practically bare, except for dirty dishes, a few posters and books, some clothing and a typewriter. Apparently he was writing the great American novel. It’s strange, maybe, that he didn’t have some of his writing with him, when he left for San Francisco. You don’t suppose he left any of it with Angie Sawyer
, do you?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask her, though.”
“Yeah, ask her. A neighbour of Robertson’s said he heard the typewriter going, but there wasn’t any manuscripts, or anything, in the apartment.”
“What else’d the neighbour say about him?”
“Well,” Friedman said, “I don’t think the N.Y.P.D. sent out their best, most imaginative sleuth on this one. They told him to take an inventory of the contents of the apartment, and apparently that’s what he did. Period.”
“Anything unusual, besides the typewriter? Correspondence, maybe?”
“Negative.” Friedman sat silently puffing on his cigar.
Finally he said, “San Jose checked with Robertson’s parents, to see if they might’ve given him money.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “Negative.”
“Did they have any idea why he might’ve been killed?”
“Still negative. His father came up yesterday to make the identification and claim the body. I talked to him myself. He just assumed that the kid got what was coming to him.”
“No fooling?”
“Well, he sugar-coated it with a lot of pious talk about the wages of sin—incidentally making the point that he was an elder in the local Methodist Church, plus being production manager of Kimball Electronics, plus being a Shriner. He also made the point, several times, that he’d warned the kid about his dissolute, immoral life. And now it was all coming true. It was a pretty sickening performance, if you really want to know. After twenty-four years chasing bad guys, I’m getting so I’m not shocked at much. But this guy—this so-called father—really turned me off.”
“Maybe he felt differently, after he made the identification.”
Friedman snorted. “You know,” he said, “whatever modest success I’ve achieved as a sleuth, I’ve achieved it by figuring personalities, as much as so-called facts. Take this business of Robertson’s sudden departure for New York, and the thirteen hundred dollars. Now, they’ve got to be explained. No argument. They’re facts. Still, those acts are undoubtedly influenced by other facts—which, obviously, we don’t have. So, until all the facts are in, I’ve never been much of a believer in trying to look for these so-called patterns of evidence that everyone’s so enchanted with.”
“That’s fine. However, the D.A. is also enchanted with facts.”
Friedman waved a casual, airy hand. “The D.A.’s office and the police department are natural enemies, as everyone knows.”
“You said it, Lieutenant. Not me.”
“Incidentally, there’s some rather interesting developments on the call you put out for this Maxine Summers. Carruthers prevailed on her landlady to let him inside her apartment for a peek, and he found some Thursdays newspapers, with stories on the Robertson murder cut out.”
“That’s all?”
“Just one other thing: a blond wig. The landlady changed her mind, about the time Carruthers got his heart in his work. He couldn’t con her so he had to leave. But I’ve decided to get a warrant. Maxine Summers has a record. Did you know that?”
I nodded. “Not much of a record, though. No more than Harper, for instance.”
“True. Still, Sergeant, by the time you get to be lieutenant, like me, you’ll realise that behaviour patterns are very important.”
“A minute ago, you were knocking patterns of evidence.”
“I know,” he grunted, examining his cigar’s ash. “That’s because I’m flexible.” He sighed, glancing at the clock. “What we’ve got so far,” he announced, “is not really much. The net net of our efforts, as they say in advertising, are two contradictions. We’ve got Cecile Franks’ prosperity story contradicted. And we’ve also got John Harper’s movements in the Crushed Chrysanthemum contradicted. We’ve also got a girl with a police record missing, who’s been cutting up newspapers. By the way, how far is it from the Crushed Chrysanthemum to Karen Forest’s house?”
“Seven blocks, I think. Maybe eight.”
The buzzer interrupted. With a groan, Friedman answered. Listening, he labouriously dug out his key ring from a pants pocket drawn in tight creases across his bulging midriff. He unlocked his desk drawer and took out his service revolver and handcuffs.
“All right. Sergeant Hastings and I will be right there. Tell Markham to get the car.”
He hung up the phone and rose, checking his gun.
“They’ve found Maxine Summers,” he said, reaching for his hat. “She’s out in Golden Gate Park. Dead.”
“To me,” Friedman said, “it looks like Donny Robertson all over again. She wasn’t murdered at the scene, and she was dumped in a wooded area. She was probably killed in the late afternoon yesterday, and she was killed by two shots by a medium-calibre revolver, both of which shots were fired at close range, and both of which passed completely through the body. Indicating, obviously, that the gun was powerful—like the gun used on both Robertson and Karen Forest.” We were standing on a narrow dirt bridle path, just wide enough for a car to enter, completely concealed. Surrounding us were giant trees—eucalyptus, pine and sycamore, all of them a half century old. Golden Gate Park is the largest, lushest, most naturally forested park in the country. Every year, on the average, five murder victims are discovered here. Maxine Summers was the third this year.
I watched them lift the body on the stretcher, cover it, and walk toward the Coroner’s wagon.
“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “I saw her about noon yesterday. And Cecile Franks said Maxine was supposed to go on duty at the Crushed Chrysanthemum at five P.M.”
“So?”
“So the point is, that when I saw her, she was wearing a Beethoven sweatshirt and ragged blue jeans. Which, I gather, she always wore, especially in the Crushed Chrysanthemum and on Haight Street. Yet now—” I pointed to the coroner’s wagon. “Now, she’s dressed up in a tweed suit, complete with high heels.”
“In which she looks terrible.” Friedman jerked his head to our cruiser. “Let’s go over and sit down. There might be something on the radio.”
He gave impatient instructions for the area to be cleared, and posted four patrolmen to the murder scene, now roped off and being examined by the lab men. As a necessary first step, a complete plaster cast was being taken, section by section, of the bridle path. It was a process that would take two hours, at least. Even with a crew of six.
We got into the back of the cruiser. In the front seat, Markham adjusted the radio.
“It’s a good thing, Frank,” the lieutenant was saying, “that your love affair with Cecile Franks hasn’t gotten too serious yet. Because it’s—”
“Listen, I already told you—”
“Because it’s beginning to look like we’re going to have to give a little closer attention to Cecile Franks. We do know that she was supposedly away from the Crushed Chrysanthemum during the time Karen Forest was murdered. She was off on the town, dressed up—an established habit with her, apparently, and a highly visible one. Which is, incidentally, the best kind of an alibi. And then we come to last night. And we find the same thing happening all over again.” Friedman shook his head, with obvious regret. He’d been only half kidding, I suddenly realised, about hating the thought of a Jewish girl suspected of murder.
“Maybe,” he was saying, “I’d better put Carruthers and a couple of others on her. See what we can find out about her movements yesterday. Does she drive, do you know?”
“No, I don’t.” I was staring off across the park, blankly. All day long, I realised, I’d been thinking about the touch of Cecile Franks. I was remembering her quick, glancing humour, and her dark, sombre eyes. I was remembering the urgency of her mouth on mine, and the sensation I’d felt as she burrowed into the hollow of my shoulder, wistfully laughing, almost shy.
“You know,” Friedman said, “if it turns out that this whole thing concerns drugs, I think the police commission had better do something, before we have some kind of a hippie gang war on our hands. Afte
r all—” He waved a pudgy hand. “We’ve got two victims directly tied to drugs, and a third victim that could’ve been involved in anything, the way I get it. And we’ve got Cecile Franks, with a lot of money—thousands and thousands—flowing in and out of her account.”
“Well, I don’t think she’s a murderess.”
Snorting, he said in a tired, quiet voice, “This whole thing keeps coming back to the Crushed Chrysanthemum, Frank. And it all keeps coming back to Cecile. We’ve already had one tip that she had something to do with the Forest murder, and you thought the tip might’ve come from Maxine Summers. Well—” He pointed to the departing coroner’s wagon. “There goes Maxine.”
“I think,” I said slowly, “that we need to know more about Maxine Summers.”
“Hey,” Markham said, turning up the radio. “This sounds like something, Lieutenant. It’s for you.”
“—car is being held at 2157 Union Street. Vehicle is a green Ford, 1963 four door, licence CVV 306, reported on an eight-oh-seven at four P.M. yesterday afternoon, reported recovered by owner at twelve-fifteen P.M. today. Owner reports possible bloodstains on passenger’s seat and door, and possible bullet holes in passenger’s front door.”
“Tell them to keep holding both the car and the owner right there, and tell the crime lab to send a crew to the scene.” Friedman laboriously got out of the car. “I’d better get back to the Hall; you two see what this is all about. That just could be the death car. Let me know if you need assistance.”
“I didn’t notice the bloodstains,” he repeated, “until I was almost halfway home. It was more like someone spilled water on the seat, you know. But then I stopped, and saw them spots on the door—them brown spots, and right then I knew. And then, when I saw them holes, which I hadn’t noticed either, why I—” Mr. Bellini paused for breath, his eyes large.
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 13
