by McBain, Ed
"Inside. Hurry up!"
Brown moved deeper into the room. The puzzlement on his face was slowly giving way to awareness. And fast on the heels of this came a look of shrewd calculation.
Virginia picked up the bottle of nitroglycerin, and then began walking toward the coat rack, the bottle in one hand, the gun in the other. Her walk was a jerky nervous movement of shoulders, hips, and legs, devoid of all fernirlinity, a sharp, quick perambulation that propelled her across the room. And watching her erratic walk, Hawes was certain that the liquid in her hand was not the high explosive she claimed it was. And yet, nitro was funny.
Sometimes it went if you breathed on it.
And other times He wondered.
Nitro? Or water?
Step into the isolation booth, sir, and answer the question.
Quickly, Virginia removed Byrnes' pistol from her coat. She walked back to the desk, put the bottle of nitro down on its top, unlocked the desk drawer, and tossed the revolver in with the others.
"All right, you," she said to Brown.
"Give me your gun.
Brown hesitated.
"The bottle here is full of nitroglycerin," Virginia said calmly.
"Give me your gun."
Brown looked to Byrnes.
"Give it to her, Artie," Byrnes said.
"She's calling all the shots."
"What's her game?" Brown wanted to know.
"Never mind my game," Virginia said heatedly.
"Just shut your mouth and bring me your gun."
"You sure are a tough lady," Brown said.
He walked to the desk, watching her. He watched her while he unclipped his gun and holster. He was trying, in his own mind, to determine whether or not Virginia Dodge was a hater. He could usually spot hatred at a thousand paces, could know with instant certainty that the person he was looking at or talking to would allow the color of Brown's skin to determine the course of their relationship. Arthur Brown was a Negro. He was also a very impatient man.
He had learned early in the game that the chance similarity of his pigmentation and his name-was it chance, or had some long-ago slave owner chosen the name for simplicity?-only added to his black man's burden. Patiently, he waited for the inevitable slur, the thoughtless, comment.
Usually, it came-though not always. Now, as he put his gun and holster on the desk, his impatience reached unprecedented heights. He could read nothing on the face of Virginia Dodge. And, too, though he had newly entered the situation in the squad room he was impatiently itchy to have it done and over with.
Virginia pushed Brown's gun into the top drawer.
"Now get over there," she said.
"The other side of the room.~~ "Is it okay to report to the lieutenant first?" he asked.
"Lieutenant!" she called. Come here."
Byrnes walked over.
"He's got a report for you. Give it here, mister, where I can hear it all."
"How'd it go?" Byrnes said.
"No dice. And it isn't going to work either, Pete."
"Why not?"
"I stopped off in a candy store when I left the tailor shop. To get a pack of cigarettes."
"Yeah?"
"I got to talking with the owner. He told me there's been a lot of holdups in the neighborhood. Tailor shops mostly."
"Yeah?"
"But he told me the holdups would be stopping soon. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because-and this is just what he told me-there's a bull sitting in the back room of the tailor shop right up the street, just waiting for the crook to show up. That's what the guy in the candy store told me."
"I see."
"So if he knows, every other merchant on the street knows. And if they know, their customers know. And you can bet your ass the thief knows, too. So it won't work, Pete.
We'll have to dope out something else."
"Mmm," Byrnes said.
"You finished?"
Virginia asked.
"I'm finished."
"All right, get over on the other side of the room."
Byrnes walked away from the desk.
Brown hesitated.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard you."
"Then move!"
"I mean, what do you want here? What's your purpose?"
"I'm here to kill Steve Carella."
"With a bottle of soup?"
"With a gun. The nitro is my insurance."
Brown nodded.
"Is it real?"
"It's real."
"How do I know?"
"You don't. Would you like to try belling the cat?" Virginia smiled.
Brown returned the smile.
"No, thank you, lady. I was just asking. Gonna kill Steve, huh?
Why, what'd he do to you? Give you a traffic ticket?"
"This isn't funny," Virginia said, the smile leaving her mouth.
"I didn't think it was, Who's the floozy?
Your partner?"
"I have no partner," Virginia said, and Brown thought her eyes clouded for a moment.
"She's a prisoner."
"Aren't we all?" Brown said, and again he smiled, and Virginia did not return the smile.
Hal Willis walked over to the desk.
"Listen," he said, "Miscolo's in a bad way. Will you let us get a doctor in here?"
"No," Virginia said.
"For Christ's sake, he may be dying! Look, you want Carella, don't you?
What's the sense in letting an innocent guy .
"No doctor," Virginia said.
"Why not?" Byrnes asked, walking over.
"You can keep him here after he treats Miscolo. Same as all of us. What the hell difference will it make?"
"No doctor," she said again.
Hawes drifted over to the desk.
Unconsciously, the four men assumed the position they would ordinarily use in interrogating a suspect. Hawes, Byrnes, and Brown were in front of the desk. Willis was standing to the right of it. Virginia sat in her chair, the bottle of nitro within easy reach of her left hand, the38 in her right hand.
"Suppose I picked up a phone and called a doctor?" Hawes asked.
"I'd shoot you."
"Aren't you afraid of another explosion?"
Willis said.
"You got a little nervous when Murchison came up here last time, didn't you?" Hawes said.
"Shut up, redhead. I've had enough from you."
"Enough to shoot me?" Hawes said.
"Yes."
"And chance the explosion?" Brown put in.
"And another visit from downstairs?"
"You can't chance that, Virginia, can you?"
"I can! Because if anyone else comes up, the nitro goes, goddammit!"
"But what about Carella? You blow us up, and you don't get Carella. You want Carella, don't you?"
"Yes, but ..
"Then how can you explode that nitro?"
"How can you chance another gunshot?"
"You can't shoot any of us, can you? It's too risky."
"Get back," she said.
"All of you."
"What are you afraid of, Virginia?"
"You've got the gun, not us."
"Can't you fire it?"
"Are you afraid of firing it?"
Hawes came around to the left side of the desk, moving closer to her.
"Get back!" she said.
Willis moved closer on the right, and Virginia whirled, thrusting the gun at him.
In that instant, Hawes stepped between her and the bottle of nitroglycerin. She was out of the chair in the space of a heartbeat, pushing the chair out from beneath her, and starting to rise. And as she started the rise, Willis-seeing that her hand was away from the bottle, knowing she was off balance as she rose -kicked out with his left foot, swinging it in a backward arc that caught her at the ankles. Hawes shoved at her simultaneously, completing the imbalance, sending Virginia sprawling to the right, toppling toward the floor. She h
it the floor with resounding force, and her right hand opened as Hawes scuttled around the desk.
The gun fell from her fingers, slid across the floor,
whirled in a series of dizzying circles and then came to a sudden stop.
Willis dove for it.
He extended his hand, and Hawes held his breath because they were getting rid of the crazy bitch at last.
And then Willis shrieked in pain as a three-inch dagger of leather and metal stamped his hand into the floor.
CHAPTER I3
The black skirt was taut over the extended leg of Angelica Gomez. It tightened around a fleshy thigh, pulled back over the knee, ended there in sudden revelation of shapely calf and slender anlde. A black strap circled the anlde and beneath that was a red leather pump with a heel like a stiletto. That heel was buried in the back of Willis' hand.
And then Angelica pulled back her leg and stooped immediately to pick up the gun. From the floor, her skirt pulled back over both knees, her eyes flashing, she whirled on Lieutenant Byrnes, who was reaching for the bottle of nitro on the desk top.
"Don' touch it!" she shouted.
Byrnes stopped cold.
"Away from the desk," she said.
"Ever'body! Back! Back!"
They moved from the desk, fanning away from it, backing away from a new menace which seemed more deadly than the first.
Angelica Gomez had stabbed a man and, for all they knew, that man might now be dead. She had the law to face, and she also had the street gang to face, and so the look on her face was one of desperate resignation. Angelica Gomez was making her pitch for better or worse, and Christ help whoever stepped into her path.
She rose, the pistol unwavering in her fist.
"I'm ge'n out of here," she said.
"Don' nobody try to Stop me."
Virginia Dodge was on her feet now. She turned to Angelica, and there was a smile on her face.
"Good girl," she said.
"Give me the gun."
For a moment, Angelica did not understand. She looked at Virginia curiously and then said, "You crazy? I'm leavin'. Now!"
"I know. Give me the gun. I'll cover them for you. While you go."
"Why I should give you the gun?"
Angelica said.
"For Christ's sake, are you on their side?
The ones who want to send you to jail?
Give me the gun!"
"I don' have to do you no favors. I ask before you let me go, an' you say no. Now you want the gun. You crazy."
"All right, I'll put it in black and white. If you take that gun with you, I'm jumped the minute you leave this room. And that means they'll be on the phone in four seconds and the whole damn police force will be after you. If you give me the gun, I hold them. I keep them here. No phone calls. No radio cars looking for you. You're free."
Angelica thought about this for a moment.
"Give me the gun!" Virginia said, and she took a step closer to Angelica. The Puerto Rican girl stood poised like a tigress, her back arched over into a C, her legs widespread, the gun trembling in her hand.
Virginia came closer.
"Give it to me," she said.
"You hol' them back?~' Angelica asked.
"You keep them here?"
"Yes."
"Come then. Come close."
Virginia moved to her side.
"Your hand," Angelica said.
Virginia held out her hand, and Angelica put the gun into it.
"I go now," she said.
"You keep them here. I get away. Free," she said, "free."
She started to move. She took one step away from Virginia, her back to the woman. Quickly, Virginia raised the gun.
Brutally, she brought it crashing down on the skull of Angelica Gomez. The girl collapsed to the floor, and Virginia stepped over her and moved rapidly to the desk.
Does anybody still think I'm kidding?"
she asked quietly.
Roger, the servant who had been with Jefferson Scott for more than twenty years, was sweeping out the hallway when Carella went upstairs again. Hunched over a tall thin man with white wisps of hair circling a balding head, he swept up the wooden rectangles, squares, triangles, and splinters of the crowbar's destruction. The foxtail brush worked methodically in thin, precise fingers, sweeping the debris into the dustpan.
"Cleaning up the mess?" Carella asked pleasantly.
"Yes," Roger said.
"Yes, sir. Mr.
Scott liked things neat."
"How well did you know the old man?"
Carella asked.
"I've worked for him a long time, sir," Roger said, rising.
"A long time."
"Did you like him?"
"He was a fine man. I liked him very much."
"Did he ever have trouble with any of his sons?"
"Trouble, sir?"
"You know. Arguments. Real quarrels.
Any of them ever threaten him?"
"They argued from time to time, sir, but never violently. And never any threats. No, sir."
"Mmm. How about the daughter-in~ law
Any trouble when David brought her home?"
"No, sir. Mr. Scott liked her very much.
He often said he wished his other sons would do as well when they married."
"I see." Carella paused.
"Well, thanks a lot." He paused again.
"I want to look over the room another time, see if anything else turns up."
"Yes, sir." Roger seemed reluctant to leave. He stood with the dustpan in one hand and the foxtail in the other, seemingly waiting for something.
"Yes?" Carella said.
"Sir, we generally dine at seven. It's past six-thirty now, and I was wondering ... sir, did you plan to stay for dimner?"
Carella looked at his watch. It was 6:37.
"No," he said.
"In fact, I'm supposed to be back at the squad by seven. My wife's meeting me there. No, thanks. No dinner." He paused and then, for no earthly reason, said, "We're going to have a baby. My wife is.
"Yes, sir," Roger said. He smiled.
"Yeah," Carella said, and he smiled, too.
In the dimness of the corridor, the two men stood smiling at each other.
"Well," Carella said, "back to work."
"Yes, sir."
Carella went into the room. Outside, he could hear Roger's footsteps padding down the corridor.
So here we are again, folks, he thought.
This is Steve Carella coming to you from the intimacy of The Den, where gay night lifers are dancing to the strains of the Suicide Scott Trio. Vot's dot tune dey're playing, Ludwig? Ah, yes, the "Hangman's Waltz," an old Vieunese favorite.
Get a grip' Steve-o, he told himself. You are beginning to lose your marbles. Leave us study this room, and then leave us ask a few more questions and wrap this thing up, yes?
Yes.
The room.
No windows. Assuredly no goddamn windows.
No trapdoors or hidden panels.
Jefferson Scott found hanging thereabout ten feet from the entrance doorway, overturned stool at his feet.
Rope thrown over that beam in the ceiling and fastened to the doorknob.
Door opens outward into the corridor.
Scott's weight alone could not have held the door closed.
Hence, door was locked; nor could it be forced open by three heavy men-Christ, these Scotts grow big!
Door could not have been locked from the outside. Required pressure to hold door closed and force to ram bolt across. Hence, no tricky string stuff like they havo in detective magazines all the time.
