by Kane, Henry
“All three of them,” Vaydelle sang.
“Shut up,” Parker said.
“Gloves on all the time. He killed Pamela Reeves in the afternoon. He hung Johnny up at night. And then he hurried up to Nyack; driving, you can make fast time. Nottiby hadn’t been there long himself; he had had to get his car first. The windows weren’t even open. Just Nottiby in pajamas, the lights still on. Kelcey shot the poor guy with his own gun, of course. One thing bothered me. Kelcey himself explained it.”
“What?” Parker said.
“Nottiby had a bullet through his temple.”
“Why should that bother you?”
“No. There was another bullet in the opposite wall. It’s pretty tough to miss your own temple all the way like that. It had me for a while. Even after I knew it wasn’t suicide, it didn’t come, and then I remembered what Kelcey had told us.”
“What?” Parker said.
“The first bullet. The bullet in the wall opposite.”
The Commissioner said, “What do you mean Kelcey explained it?”
“The first bullet wasn’t the first bullet. That was the second bullet.”
“There he goes,” Parker said, “getting fancy. Don’t start with the conundrums.”
“I mean the bullet in the opposite wall was the second bullet—fired by the dead man.”
“Wow,” Parker said. “You see what I mean, Commissioner?”
“Please,” the Commissioner said. “Fired by the dead man?”
“Kelcey explained it when he mentioned the nitrate impregnations in Nottiby’s hand. Sure. Kelcey was a cop. Kelcey knew the angles. A guy can’t commit suicide by shooting a hole through his temple without leaving the nitrate particles in his hand, and there are no nitrate particles in your hand when somebody else shoots you. So, after he shot him, he put the gun in his hand, and squeezed out another explosion so that the nitrate deposits would show in the proper hand, if ever it was checked. Then, slam the snap-lock door, and there you have it, gentlemen, a one-man crime wave, and he almost got away with it.”
Nobody talked. The Commissioner was perspiring straight down his nose. Sweetheart Vaydelle poked his tongue at his bridgework and made faces. Parker was Parker.
“How much,” Parker said, “is fact?”
I went back to my chair. “I don’t know. I’ll dictate my end to a stenographer for you, and you check. I’ll be glad to.”
“But how—” the Commissioner began.
“A private richard,” I said, “operates a good deal on momentum and a good deal on hunch, with nobody in charge to have to report to and make sense. To me, it didn’t add up Johnny. Then who? I couldn’t figure it. I had a lot of ideas, but I didn’t have anybody solid. Then I had Nottiby up in Nyack, dead, and whatever ideas I had began to fade. I wanted to talk to him; I wanted to talk to him bad. And then, suddenly, boom, the one mistake Kelcey made, the one little no-matter, it stood up and tore my face apart. By the ears.”
“What?” the Commissioner said.
“A lady works for Mr. Vaydelle. She had told me that she and Vaydelle were in Atlantic City that afternoon and a good part of that night. Yet, Kelcey had told Johnny he’d talked to his partner that evening.”
Vaydelle said, “We certainly were in Atlantic City. All afternoon, and way in through the night. We got back to New York about two o’clock in the morning, and later I found out about Johnny.”
“It went by me the first time,” I said. “But I talked to the lady again tonight, and she mentioned Atlantic City—and it hit me. Kelcey was lying to Johnny. Why? Then I remembered an argument I’d heard about—Johnny and Sweetheart about payoff money. To whom? All of a sudden—Kelcey. First step was to convince Sweetheart to co-operate. Sweetheart was convinced. Sweetheart, in case you gentlemen haven’t divined, is Mr. Vaydelle. There you have it, Commissioner, and if you please, may I have another touch of that Scotch, medicinal?”
The Commissioner shoved his hands at the edge of the desk like he was pushing away disbelief. Finality was a straight line of thin mouth across his face. He handed up the ledge of stapled paper.
“You will supplement this report, Lieutenant, in line with Mr. Chambers’ disclosures. You will conduct a personal investigation along those lines, most tactfully, adding the necessary points of corroboration. Return the report to me. Strictly confidential.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You—Vaydelle.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You will not reopen this—club. As of now. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will consider the complete investment finished. Whatever is there is impounded. As of now. Lieutenant, you will attend to the details. No publicity.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In view of all of this, Mr. Vaydelle, and your voluntary appearance here, the matter will be taken up with the District Attorney, with my recommendation, as follows: an indictment will be handed up on the two counts of operating this club and of bribery, to both of which you will plead guilty—after consultation with your attorney, of course. Please remember, I can recommend to the D.A. I cannot order. The D.A. may view this differently. It will be my recommendation that, in view of your voluntary aid in clearing up three murders, that sentence be suspended, and that you be placed upon probation for the full period of the sentence, and that the sentence be the longest possible to be imposed by law. One breach of your probation, and you will be remanded to prison for the full balance of the term. I repeat, I cannot promise you anything. I can only recommend. If the D.A. does not accept my recommendation, you go to prison, Mr. Vaydelle, willy-nilly.”
Sweetheart wet his lips. “Willy-nilly. Yes, sir.”
“Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will personally inform whoever is to be informed.” The Commissioner lit his cigar and bit deep. “The rest of you—not one word. Is that clear?”
“But,” I said, “Commissioner. I have a client—”
“Not one word. If it leaks, Mr. Chambers, I’ll be compelled to take up your license. I am sincerely appreciative of your efforts, despite your unorthodox procedures. Nevertheless, if it leaks …”
“But, Commissioner, I have a fee due—”
“That’s that.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, no, it isn’t.”
“Now, look here, young man—”
“Sir. If you please, sir. I’ve worked on this, I’ve punched it around, I’ve pushed it. Part of the push—most of it—all of it—was Mikvah. I didn’t like to think he was a murderer, and I didn’t believe he was a suicide. So, it bunches up my way. Mikvah’s not a murderer, and he’s not a suicide. I think people ought to know that.”
“I’ll see to it that the right people do know it, I promise you.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Commissioner, too many of Mikvah’s people—are not the right people.”
“I’m sorry, Chambers.” The Commissioner tapped his fingers. He moved the cigar to a corner of his mouth. “Mr. Chambers, there is an element of police scandal involved in this, that, as a matter of public policy, must remain undisclosed, if we can manage it.”
“Two viewpoints,” I said. “Two viewpoints—”
“I’ll have to insist that we go along with mine.”
“Well,” I said (with reservations), “we’ll see.”
He pushed his chair back. “That’s that, gentlemen, thank you. Lieutenant, you will take Mr. Vaydelle directly over to Leonard Street. Get a statement drawn, and get the District Attorney’s boys in action. I’ll call from here and acquaint them with the circumstances. I want this kept in the family. I’m ashamed of it, that’s the truth. Remember, please, gentlemen.”
“But, Commissioner—”
Parker herded us out. Downstairs, Sweetheart said, “You call Miami, will you, Pete? Tell her we don’t open, to get in touch with the bar girls and everybody. I’ll see you.”
“Pete.”
“Hi, lover.”
“Case closed, Miami.”
“Wonderful. Who?”
“Listen. First off, El Courvocco is another closed case. As of now. Sweetheart asked me to call you. Get in touch with your people. The joint folds tonight—for good.”
“What? What gives? What are you talking about? Where’s Sweetheart?”
“On his way to the D.A.’s office. Arranging to cop a plea.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What about the Mick?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What about your fee?”
“I can’t tell you. I mean, I don’t know.”
“Come on up, lover.”
“I’m sick.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Bum arm. Dislocation.”
“Come on up. Have a drink. I’ll soothe you. According to you, I’ve got nothing better to do tonight, anyway.”
“Well …”
“All right?”
“Well …”
“And I’ll listen. While you tell me.”
“I’m not allowed.”
“I’ll coax you.”
“I’ve got a bum arm.”
“You don’t know Miami.”
“Well,” I said, “we’ll see …”
If you liked Hang by Your Neck check out:
Death on the Double
1
Watch The Jools is bread and butter for the private richard. There is Watch The Jools and there is Louse The Spouse, and both are bread and butter, and both are duller than delinquency in hell, but bread and butter is bread and butter, and a man must eat. Louse The Spouse is a private detective’s assignment to uncover incriminating evidence against a husband or wife (depending upon who employs him) which, eventually, will lead to divorce, separation, or settlement with proper pecuniary blandishments. Watch The Jools is standing about in the midst of crowded (and usually drunken) festivities to see that none of the silverware is displaced, that nothing of value magically vanishes into the perfumed air, and that milady’s baubles remain festooned within the copious crevice of her abundant bosom. There are many ramifications to these staple assignments—ranging from dull to duller—but when the call is from Robby Tamville, there is hope, at least, for a change from bread and butter—something like a taste of brandy which is so old you cannot pry the cork loose from the bottle (or some such other dandy divertissement for the dilettante). The call, in point of fact, turned out to result in a combination of both Watch The Jools and Louse The Spouse, which puts gilding the lily in the same category of whitewashing the barn door.
The call came through at one o’clock of an afternoon which was running its own special preview of Indian Summer. It was muggy and sweaty and hotter than a cooch-grinder wriggling through an audition for a rhythm show in Vegas. My legs were up on the desk and I was dreamily debating a visit to a lady graphologist who had begun to prick at my libido. This being afternoon, it would be an afternoon visit, which would make it social, since the lady worked nights. The lady worked at reading handwriting in the plushest of New York bistros—Monte’s Cave on Fifty-seventh and Park. We had become acquainted after one of Monte’s famous informal introductions, and I was busily plighting my troth. The lady was quite wonderful at reading handwritings—but she was even more wonderful at doing handwritings, as a short check (which comes free when you’re in the business) disclosed. The lady had once been indicted and tried for a series of forgeries in Los Angeles, but a good lawyer, a shapely leg, and a sympathetic jury had got her off. She had since shifted to New York, was reading handwritings, and was doing right well. Of course I had not mentioned the results of my short check: who strews rocks on the pathway of the plighting of a troth? The lady’s name was Sunny Saunders (Sunny being a corruption of Sondra), and I had my feet off the desk, and my finger in the phone dial, when Tamville’s call came through.
My buzzer buzzed and my secretary said: “Pick up the phone.”
“Who is it?”
“A Mr. Tamville.”
“A who?”
“A Mr. Tamville.”
“A Mr. Who Tamville?”
“A Mr. Robby Tamville.”
“Robby Tamville!” Excitement nagged like a young wife at an old husband. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Okay. Enough already with the chit-chat. Put him on.”
She grunted. I grunted back at her.
She put him on.
“Hello!” Tamville was crisp and peremptory. “How are you, Pete? Long time no see, and all the rest of that crap. Grab a hat and come down the office. Right away. Bye, now.”
He hung up and I cursed and praised him in the same breath. I cursed because he was a mean little guy, a vicious little guy, a pompous little guy, and a demanding little guy. I praised because a call from Tamville represented business, and my business of late had been of the peanuts variety, and Tamville, whatever else he was, was not peanuts, and my yen for Sunny Saunders was no more than a twist away from boredom: I didn’t really have a yen at all.
“Grab a hat!” he had ordered. “Come down the office! Right away!”
I sighed.
I went.
Right away.
But I did not grab a hat.
I took a cab to Pine Street, where his office was. And I told the cabbie to use the Highway because I was in a hurry. But I left my hat smack-dab on a corner of my desk. What’s a hat on a corner of a desk? Nothing. To me, at the moment, it was something. It was a symbol of my trying to cling to my fleeting self-respect. True, it wasn’t much. But then, neither was Robby Tamville.
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Copyright © 1949 by Henry Kane, Registration Renewed 1976
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4138-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4138-4
