by Zelda Popkin
He strode into the living room. "Sit down," he ordered the janitor. "On that couch. I'll talk to you later."
Venetian blinds were pulled all the way down over the two windows of the living room, and sunlight filtering through the slats, dropped pale, thin bars on a bare floor and a large round mahogany table. Black cigarette burns and white alcohol rings scarred the rim of the table. In its middle, in a confusion as violent as that upon the bed, were red, white and blue poker chips, and playing cards red backs, blue backs, mottled backs - pinochle and poker decks. There was a box of notepaper, upside down, a bottle of ink, a pen, two telephones. Four squashy leather armchairs stood around the table and a day-bed against the wall. Between the windows was a large radio cabinet, and in the far corner, opposite the windows, a sideboard, with glasses stacked atop a cellarette. Next to the sideboard stood a small safe. Its iron door was open.
A film of gray dust lay over everything.
The Inspector snapped on the overhead light. Then he knelt before the safe, swinging its door carefully open.
"Somebody beat us to it," he announced. "Bare as the old lady's cupboard." He straightened, rubbed his chin contemplatively, cocked his head. "Hey, Clancey," he called to his fingerprint man. "Come here. Take a look at this."
Clancey stared with him, down at the spaced fingers of a hand, plainly visible in the dust on top of the safe. Clancey sprinkled the print, squinted. He nodded at his chief.
"A wise guy," he said. "Came to work in gloves. Smeared up everything inside. But not a print. It wasn't MacKinoy. This guy's hand's a smaller one than MacKinoy's. Even in gloves. Smaller, narrower."
"O.K., O.K." Heinsheimer tapped his cheek bone, frowned, and then went on into the kitchen.
The bare kitchen floor was a trough of dirt. Under the sink and the single wash-tub and atop the sink and the stove were empty bottles and beer cans. Pints, quarts, fifths, pinch bottles, square bottles, whiskey, gin, wine, brandy bottles. On the stove was a white coffee pot, spilled over grounds streaking its sides, and on the sink drain board, a moldy loaf of bread, still in its wax paper wrappings. An electric ice box stood tepid, disconnected.
Inspector Heinsheimer leaned against the door lintel, sourly examining the tiny room. His eyes brightened. Down the center, plain in the muck of the floor, ran footprints. The prints made a double track. They went back and forth, from the living room door to the sink which held a bucket, a chromium vessel designed for ice cubes.
A long and narrow foot had made the tracks. It had worn rubber heels. Its stride was short. Over the narrow footprints, for a scant half dozen steps, was a larger, heavier tread.
Inspector Heinsheimer went carefully around the footprints, and looked into the bucket. It was half filled with sodden black ashes. Water dripped with a rhythmic ping from the tap into the bucket. He returned to the living room.
"You," he called to Patrolman Seiffert. "Come here. Did you go into that kitchen?"
The policeman looked worried. "Why, yes, sir. But I didn't touch anything. I smelled the smoke when I came into the place. I found it came from that bucket. But the fire was out, and the water was dripping, just a little bit, into the pail. I didn't touch it."
"You messed up the footprints.
The blue-coat looked guiltily at the kitchen floor. "I didn't notice them, sir. I didn't think about them. All I was thinking was there might be a fire."
"All right, all right. The water was dripping in that bucket, you say?"
"Yes, sir. Just the way it is now. Just about dampening the burned paper. There was still a little smoke coming from the bucket…."
"Still smoking, eh? You didn't see anybody leaving the place, when you came up?"
The policeman shifted from one foot to the other. "Why, no, sir, I don't believe so. There was a man and a woman coming out the front door when I got here. Tenants, they looked like. Carrying luggage. They put it in a car at the door, and they drove away."
"A man and a woman?"
"Yes, sir. Nice looking couple. Why, sure they must of been tenants. I was ringing the bell to two C and getting no answer. The door downstairs is locked, sir. It's a walk-up. And the man stuck his head out of the car and said: 'Anything wrong, officer?' I said: 'No. Nothing wrong.' And he said: 'The super's bell's over at the side.'"
"How'd he know you needed the super?"
"I wouldn't know that, sir. He drove away right then. In a small car. Light colored. Sports roadster."
Disgust was smeared over the Inspector's face. "You didn't detain him? You didn't get his name? His license number? You let him drive away just like that? And you call yourself a policeman?"
"But Inspector," Seiffert stuttered, "I didn't have any reason for detaining him. I didn't know anything was wrong, then, did I? The Commissioner don't require us to be mind-readers."
"All right, all right. But you got the idea now. Somebody was in this apartment after MacKinoy put in that call to the station house. When was it?…Quarter after one. You come around what time? Two-five. Fifty minutes. Somebody beat you to it, see. Somebody wearing gloves. Somebody darn smart. Throws the clothes on top of MacKinoy and cleans out the safe and maybe makes that fire in the bucket. Somebody moving a hell of a lot faster than you flat feet…. You got something here, buddy. You got something here in this apartment. And it ain't just a stiff and a stack of poker chips. Now, you get Clancey in here right away, to take those footprints. All those bottles. Clancey, make it snappy, will you? Get that water tap, that bucket. I can't be waiting all day to find out what's in that bucket."
The fingerprint man had sent his first consignment of plates downtown, and the Medical Examiner, grumbling a little at double duty on a Saturday, had come and gone and the cadaver, tagged and ticketed, was waiting on the bed for the mortuary ambulance, by the time Mary Carner and Johnny Reese were let into the apartment.
By that hour, too, morbid sightseers had filled the hall and steps outside the flat and swarming reporters begged for entrance from the immovable policeman, guarding the door.
"The last round-up, kids." The Inspector greeted the two detectives. "We got the who. All we need now is the why. Mitchell MacKinoy, Police Lieutenant, Three Hundredth Precinct, murdered Phyllis Knight. No doubt about it. He's dead. Shot through the chest. Looks like suicide. I think it is suicide. Here's the payoff. The bullet that killed Phyllis Knight was fired from MacKinoy's gun. MacKinoy left two letters. One for us. One for his missus. Here." He had put the two letters in a glassine container, and now he drew one out and spread it on the living room table. "Get a load."
Johnny Reese leaned over Mary's shoulder, while she read aloud the words which a nervous pen had scrawled on a sheet of white notepaper: "To Whom It May Concern." She read slowly, giving each word an emphasis of incredulity. "I swear before God that I did not kill Phyllis Knight. Mitchell MacKinoy."
"He says he didn't," the Inspector said grimly. "Ballistics says he did. A guy can lie, but a bullet can't. He knew the game was up when he heard that the corpse was found. He reported sick. He came up here. He wrote these letters. I ain't opened the wife's up yet. Wait."
"Has she been notified?" Mary asked.
The Inspector looked up from the sheet of notepaper. "How many guys you think I am? How many things can I do at once?" he grumbled. He motioned to Patrolman Seiffert. "Call up your desk," he ordered. "Have them shoot a man over to MacKinoy's house. Bring his missus here. No, you do it yourself, Seiffert. Break it easy. Listen to this, now:
"Dear Sarah, I'm sorry to bring this trouble on you and the kids. I don't know what got into me. Once you get caught in these things there's no escape You got to see it through to the end. And this is the end, all right. Maybe the boys'll give you and the kids a break and save you the disgrace. I didn't kill Phyllis Knight. I swear it to you and God. But I'll never be able to prove I didn't. God knows I did plenty but not that. I never shed a drop of innocent blood. But I'm caught. One way or another, I'm done for.
"You and the kids are
taken care of. You'll find the bankbooks and the insurance policies in my bureau drawer home. It's a nice piece of change. Don't waste it on lawyers. I sweated for it. Believe me, I did. I don't know what you're going to tell the kids. Help them forget their father. It's best that way. If you can get away with it, tell them it was an accident. Gee, it's going to be tough on them. Do the best you can for them. You've always been a good mother.
"I'm not afraid to die. The hell I've been through can't be any worse than the hell I'm going to. I must have been crazy to do it."
"To do what?" Mary Carner asked. "If he didn't kill Phyllis as he swears he didn't, what did he do that he's so sorry about?"
The Inspector grimaced: "I thought you were smart, Miss C. He says he didn't kill the girl. That's for home consumption. So his kids won't know papa's a murderer. He's dead now. No trial. Nothing to come out in public. And the boys on the force are good-hearted and they shut up."
"That's fine," Mary answered. "Swell as far as it goes. But the D.A. won't close the case until you've found the motive as well as the murderer. Where's your motive?"
"If 1'm not mistook," the Inspector said, "it's right here, in this apartment."
"And what," said Mary slowly, "did he mean by 'One way, or another, I'm done for?'"
The Inspector scowled. "That's the whole thing. MacKinoy's been mixed up in something phony. He rented this apartment under the name of McCabe. Had it for a year. Not for Sunday school, you can bet on that. Somebody else lived here with him and put in a few licks cleaning up before we got here. Hey, you, Super."
The janitor, dozing forlornly on the couch, jumped as his title was called.
"You. What's your name?"
"Johnson, Inspectuh. Ellsworth Johnson."
"Y'live on the premises?"
"Yessuh, boss. In the basement. Me an' mah wife."
"O.K., O.K. What do you know about this man MacKinoy? McCabe - whatever you call him? What do you know about him and the other two that lived here with him? What were their names?"
The janitor scratched his woolly head. "Ah don' have the lees' idea, boss. Ah don' b'lieve ah evuh heah they names. No suh, boss, ah don' have no dealin's here wid nobody on'y Mist' McCabe…. He the one done pay me mah rent."
"Didn't they have their names on the letter-box?"
"O'ny one name on the bell, boss. Mist' McCabe…. Maybe they's all name' McCabe. Same name as him."
"What did they look like?"
The super rubbed his nose. "Ah disremembuh, boss. They's all gen'mun. Tha's all ah know."
"Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?"
"Ah kain't tell you, boss, at all. Ah disremembuh eff ah evuh see them. This yere's a walk-up house, boss. Ever' tenant has he's own key to the doah downstairs. An ef they don' bothuh the supuh, he don't have to bothuh with them. They ain't nevuh bothuh me none, an' Ah don' bothuh them."
"Then how'd you know there were two others?" Mary asked.
The janitor looked offended. "He tol' me. Mist' McCabe, he done tol' me whin he done took the place. Fo' him an' he's two friends. Travelin' salesmen, he say they is."
"What'd they sell?" Mary demanded. "Poker chips?"
"Looks like it," the Inspector agreed. "Now, see here, Johnson, did these men have many visitors? Other men coming to see them? Or women? Did the neighbors ever complain about noise or loud talking?"
"Ah don' know, boss. Nevuh had no complaints about 'em."
"Think they were running a game up here, Inspector?" Johnny Reese suggested.
"Could be. Anything's possible in a walk-up. Nobody knows who comes and goes. Who has the other apartments on this floor, Johnson?"
"Mist' Weinstein. Him an' his wife has A. Ain't nobody livin' in B at all. C is this yere one. And D. That's next do'. Miss Franzine, she live nex' do'. She the one mek the noise. She got a dawg. She got a poll parrot. An' she give lessons on the piano."
"Let's get them in here," the Superintendent commanded. "Not the dog and the parrot. The neighbors. Bring 'em in."
Detective Reese went out to ring the doorbells.
Mr. and Mrs. Weinstein did not answer their bell, but Miss Franzine needed no urging. She was ready and waiting in the knot of interested by-standers. She came in trippingly, bringing with her the decadent scent of gardenias, and a hostess gown of violently striped magenta. She was sallow and scrawny and with a straight, long, black bob, bangs across a convex forehead, and dark rings, mascara abetted, under her eyes. She looked about her with pleasure-tinged curiosity, sniffed, flashed a gold-flecked smile.
"You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen…. My costume, I mean. I hadn't time to get into my things. Oh, a woman!" She stared at Mary Carner. She beamed. "Are you the wife? A lady detective? You're a detective! How thrilling! I always wanted to be a lady detective…. He's dead isn't he? Is it murder?" She jiggled with excitement.
"Sorry to disappoint you, lady," the Inspector growled. "Only suicide. Sit down." He motioned to one of the squashy armchairs.
Miss Franzine sat down gingerly, eyeing the dust on the chair. "Where is he? In the bedroom? Can I go in?"
"You certainly can not," the Inspector said. "This ain't no sight-seeing excursion. You're here to answer a question or two."
Miss Franzine pursed her lips. "You've got the wrong person," she said with hauteur. "I don't know anything."
The Inspector hitched up his coat sleeves as if he were going to work. "We'll see about that," he said "You live next door, don't you?"
"I do."
"Then you're the one can tell us about the people who occupied this apartment."
Miss Franzine folded her hands in her lap. "I don't know a thing," she repeated. "Not a single thing."
"Now, look here, Miss, Madam. What'd you say your name was?"
"Franzine. Rita Franzine. Miss Franzine."
"O.K., Miss Franzine. You don't have to get tough with us. We're officers of the law, doing our duty. And you're a citizen, see. And it's the duty of the citizen to help the officers of the law whenever they can." The Inspector's tone was truculent. "We asked you in to find out a few simple things. You're an intelligent woman, I know y'are. I can see it."
Miss Franzine melted. She exhibited her gold inlays again, but she pouted. "I don't know anything, officer, really I don't. I didn't hear or see a thing today. Not till I heard the police sirens. I never pay attention to what my neighbors are doing. I'm a very busy woman. You can't imagine how much I have to do. My pupils. My dog. My parrot…. My apartment."
"Didn't you ever see these people in here? Don't you even know what they looked like?"
"Why no, officer…I don't really." Miss Franzine posed a blue veined band against her chin. "I don't believe I ever saw them…. Well, not very often. Oh, yes. Let me see. There was one time. Last fall. I was going out with the dog in the evening. It wasn't very late. I passed three men on the steps. They brushed right by me. Why, one of them almost knocked me over. And without an apology, either. Just rushed right by and unlocked this door. One of them almost tripped over my dog. Kicked the poor little thing. But Skippy's so sweet. He's so friendly. The poor little thing just sniffed and wagged his tail. He's so good."
"Your dog wagged his tail when these men rushed by?" Mary said. "Could that mean he recognized any one of them?"
"Oh, no. He never saw them before. Nobody ever saw them. Oh, I used to hear voices here. Rather late at night. Once in a while when I was going down stairs or coming up in the evening, I heard the radio going, or the telephone ringing. And, oh yes, some evenings there'd be quite a few men coming up to the apartment. Not lately. Not so many as there were before the winter. And now that I think of it, some of them were colored men, too. Nice looking colored men. Well dressed."
"You're a help, Miss Franzine," the Inspector said sincerely. "You don't know how much of a help you really are." He patted her arm.
"Oh it's nothing. Nothing at all," Miss Franzine tittered. Color came into her sallow cheeks. "All I've told you is that my dog wagged his tail at
them and colored men came to call here."
"Colored men, eh? Colored? Johnson!" Inspector Heinsheimer turned to the janitor. "Do you play the numbers?"
First, blank surprise, then, wariness spread over the super's face. "No suh, boss. Ah don' play no numbahs."
"I wouldn't believe that, even if it was true."
"Ah swear it, boss. Ah don' play no numbahs…Solid don't. Don' know nothin' 'bout no numbahs…."
"Never played policy in your life?"
"Nevah's a long time, boss. Ah won't say ah nev' play in all mah life. No suh, boss, that ain't the truf. But ah don't play now. No moh. Ah knows it's agin the law, ah do."
"But you know there is such a game, don't you?"
"Sho, boss." The super breathed more freely. "Ev'body knows that. Rockey Nardello, he run the numbahs up in Harlem. He run ever' kind of racket. He in jail now fo' runnin' numbahs. Ev'body know that."
