The Crazy Mixed-Up Corpse

by Michael Avallone

  But I was still working overtime. Way overtime.

  Even as the sidewalk rushed up to kiss my face I thought of only one thing. The blonde had planted a bomb in a hand laundry.

  Nothing could be that important. Or that crazy.

  EIGHT

  The two .45’s in the blonde’s strong white hands exploded in my face and I woke up with a headache, aching lungs and a funny feeling in my nose. Then I remembered the smoke and the fire and it all came back little by little. I opened my eyes.

  A white-jacketed interne was standing over me. His face was kind and smiling. I sat up. Then I saw he was sitting too. Sitting down on what I’d been lying on. We were both in an ambulance, only the ambulance wasn’t moving. I craned my head through the wide-flung doors. I could see West 56th Street and a million people. I also saw Tom Long with a wide white bandage encircling his small head. And he had his arms around Tania. They were hugging each other.

  “Easy, mister,” the interne said. “How do you feel now?”

  “Like a million bucks.” I started to clamber out and he helped me. “How long have I been pounding my ear?”

  “Long enough. You ate a lot of smoke. But you don’t rate a hospital ride this trip. Here, let me help you.”

  As soon as I put my foot on the sidewalk, it rubbered under me. But the interne’s brown hand was as steady as an anchor. I was wobbly but I was all right. I leaned against the ambulance. The letters “Roosevelt Hospital” on the doors mocked me. I was giving them all my business lately.

  Tania saw me first. She squealed delightedly, her black eyes popping. She said something in Chinese and Tom Long turned stiffly. Our eyes met. He looked worse than I felt. His smooth face was smoked and dirty, but except for his head, he was ship-shape. The expression in his eyes told me a lot of things. The expression was Thanks in caps, thanks ten million and how can I ever apologize for what I did this afternoon?

  I felt relief flood me. The war was over. His war and mine. The war I didn’t want any part of.

  The mob on the sidewalk started buzzing and pointing me out as if I were a freak of some kind. But the burly cop coming towards me drowned them out with a big roar.

  “All right – come on now – break it up – the show’s over. Come on. Go on about your business –”

  I took a look at Tom Long’s laundry. The caved-in store front was a mass of charred wood and burnt embers now. Tom Long was out of business for good and all. I hoped he’d been saving his money.

  Tania ran to me and put her tiny hand, the good one, in mine. She stared up at me and winked. I stared down at the lovely, brave little face. I saw the tattered state of her clothes, the crazy, distorted sling that was her left arm. The fire had scorched the gauze so that it resembled so many brown rags. Like a mummy’s arm. Kids. She was clutching a Raggedy Ann doll. The doll I remembered seeing in Titi’s arms before she died.

  Tom Long tried to say something to me but it died in his throat. And the big cop had moved around in front of him to face me.

  “Nice going, fellah. According to a million witnesses, you ran into that burning store and pulled these folks out. Nice, fast thinking.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” I said.

  He scowled and his big face suddenly got red.

  “I know you. Heard of you. What went on here, anyway? Looked like bomb work.”

  I fumbled for my cigarettes and had a laugh. My pack of Camels was all twisted and smashed. He grinned and fished his own pack out and lit one for me. I puffed gratefully, thinking fast now.

  “It might have been,” I said. “I was coming out of my office when I heard the explosion. I rushed out, saw Long’s going up in smoke and did my bit.”

  “Hmmm.” The way he said hmmm convinced me he didn’t believe me.

  “What does the Chinaman say?”

  The cop shrugged. “Said a blonde walked in, took out some laundry. And about three seconds later, the front of the store went boom. Luckily, the old man and the kid were in the rear of the shop. He was just making tea for them both.”

  “That’s a break. Saved their lives by the look of it. Look, do you mind if I take them upstairs with me? They must be pretty beat –”

  “They are,” he nodded. “But you can’t. I’ve called in and Captain Monks is coming on down with a squad. I understand he wants to talk to you. Seems like you’ve run smack into the middle of some investigation of his. I also understand you’re doing things like that all the time.”

  “Skip the posies,” I said. “My head hurts. Okay. I’ll take them upstairs. You put ninety cops outside the door so I don’t go anywhere. I’m where you can find me. I’m where I want to be. And everybody’s happy. How’s that?”

  Before he could answer, the white-jacketed interne stuck his head out of the ambulance.

  “Okay, chief. That’s all we can do. They’re all okay if they get some rest. We’ll be moving along now. See you.”

  I took my cue and put an arm around Tania and took Tom Long’s hand. I was guiding them into my building when the cop swung around and saw us. He started to say something, then clammed up and motioned to a couple of fellow bluecoats who were ringing the rubberneckers off. The ambulance keened on a rising note and pushed away from the kerb as we entered the building.

  Tom Long was sobbing softly. Tania looked at me questioningly.

  “Easy, Tom,” I said. I punched the elevator button. “It’s all over now. And I’m going to help you, whatever the trouble is. I’m on your side.”

  He still couldn’t talk but one of his hands came out of his hip pocket. I stared at what it was holding. A wallet. A man’s brown leather wallet. I couldn’t make head or tail of what he meant but I took the wallet.

  He must have seen the surprise in my face, because he spoke up in a low, dead monotone.

  “Meant give it to you this noon. But so upset when I see you I forget. Now so very glad to return it to man who saved my child.”

  “Forget it, Tom. But this isn’t mine. Must belong to one of your other careless customers.” I remembered now the nice habit Tom Long had of storing things which people sometimes left in the pockets of clothes they brought in for washing and cleaning. Like receipts and money and valuables. He’d once found a memo pad in my shirt I would have been sorry to lose. He’d generally find something after the customer left and store it in an envelope to return when the customer came to pick up his clean clothes. If he knew you by face, he’d remember that way, as he had with me.

  But I hadn’t lost my wallet. Mine was on my hip right now, where it always was. And I didn’t need two wallets.

  “No, no,” he said. “This yours. I recall morning you left clothes. Dropped out of coat pocket.”

  “Tom, I –” Then I remembered. The blonde, a laundry ticket. Looking for something. Something important enough to machine-gun a kid and bomb the hell out of a laundry shop.

  “Sure, thanks. I was wondering where it was.” I put the wallet in my back pocket. It felt hot and deadly against my hip. Maybe it was the answer to everything. Maybe it wasn’t. But I didn’t think so. And there was time enough to find out upstairs where it was nice and peaceful.

  The elevator doors slid open and I remembered something else. My wardrobe. Lying out in the back alley collecting dust and flies.

  “Tom, you and Tania go upstairs. Third floor. My name’s on the door and the door’s open. I want to get something in the alley. Be right up. Okay?”

  The door closed on his grateful face. I winked at Tania. She winked back.

  I limped out to the back stairs and wobbled down to collect my things. It took me a good five minutes to recover everything. By the time I got back to the elevator with all my duds spread over two arms, I looked like a salesman for a swop shop – or, depending on your taste in clothes, a rag picker.

  I was just stepping through the doors when a mob of people got in behind me.

  “Well, well,” a familiar voice boomed in my ears. “The master himself. He not only so
lves tough murder cases but he can beat any fireman in town when it comes to saving people.”

  I turned slowly in the very little turning space they had afforded me. I saw three plain clothes men I didn’t recognize and the one captain of detectives I did recognize.

  “Hello, Mike,” I said wearily. “Come on up. We’re having a weenie roast. And I hope you brought the mustard.”

  NINE

  Nobody laughed. I couldn’t care less. I felt about as funny as a cry for help.

  One of the three plain clothes men I didn’t recognize looked inquiringly at me. His big mitt strayed to the panel of floor buttons.

  “Third floor,” I said. “It’s so high up it makes your head swim.”

  He grunted without expression, pushed the right button. The elevator door hummed shut. The cage rose and Captain Michael Monks’s pleasantly ugly face stared into mine. With my arms full of clothes and the four of us jammed together, the car was crowded.

  Another of the detectives started to whistle tunelessly. Something from My Fair Lady. That was funny. I was thinking of my two-gun blonde with .45’s and bombs. I grinned. My head hurt, my side ached and my eyebrows felt like they were AWOL, but I grinned. It was a great world. Trouble all day and cops at night. There isn’t a daily double like it.

  Monks’s black eyes drilled me.

  “Why did you take a powder from your nice, soft bed in the hospital?”

  “I’m all cured. Fit as a fiddle. And ready for love.”

  “You look terrible.”

  “I’ll get by.” I grinned again. “As long as I have you.”

  One of the other dicks snorted. He didn’t seem to care for popular music or lyrics or my sense of humour. I didn’t bother looking at him or any of his colleagues because I didn’t want to know any of them. I already knew enough cops to fill Delehanty’s Institute.

  Monks smiled. He knew me better than my mother had. “So you saved two lives because you can’t stand still. You’ve got a big nose, Ed.”

  “Yours is bigger,” I pointed out.

  It was, and one of the other dicks must have thought so too because he guffawed right out loud. Monks didn’t say another word. Neither did anybody else. We reached the third floor in a fast, hard silence.

  I didn’t say any more either. I beelined it for the office with my police detail right on my heels. I idly wondered what was on Monks’s mind besides my big nose and a blasted Chinese laundry shop.

  Tom and Tania Long were waiting for us. They were huddled together on the worn leather sofa by the window. Fright sprang into their faces when they saw the four tough-looking cops with me, but I shook my head to show them it was all right. Monks conferred briefly with his three hired hands. I was damned glad when they remained in the hall.

  The door closed behind us and Monks put his big back to it. I limped over to the closet, pulled the door open and began hanging up my last two suits. They were in pretty sad shape from lying in the alley.

  Tom Long and Tania started to jabber at each other excitedly in Chinese until I held up my hand the way Dave Garroway used to on that morning TV show.

  “Peace, folks,” I said. “This is a man from police headquarters. But he’s a nice man. He’s not here to hurt anybody. And he isn’t going to arrest anybody either. That’s right, isn’t it, Captain?”

  Monks nodded and the Long family quieted down. Tania’s marble-sized eyes were pop-eyed with awe. I could understand why. Mike Monks is as big and as grim as they make them, and aside from being a good copper, he’s not exactly an oil painting. Tania hugged her doll protectively.

  I stopped hanging my clothes and shut the door.

  “Who are your friends?” I indicated the door with the three detectives behind it.

  “Bomb squad.” He fished out his cigarettes and gave me one. “They’ll have to figure out what wrecked that store downstairs. I was on my way to see you anyway so I gave them a lift.”

  “Fine bunch of fellows,” I stalled, puffing on my butt.

  He looked at me carefully over a smoke ring he sent up.

  “Any ideas about what happened downstairs?”

  I shrugged, throwing a glance at Tom Long to see what was happening on his face. But he wasn’t a Chinese for nothing. Oriental calm had returned to his round little kisser.

  “Sure. Look for another phantom bomber. Always planting his cute little home-made blockbusters around town. This job would be right up his street.”

  Monks frowned and wet his lips. I’d rubbed his sore spot good. I was kidding, but the phantom bomber had been real. He blew a seat apart in the Music Hall once and another time one of the lockers at Penn Station went blooey. And he’d even gotten as far as Brooklyn. About once every six months he went to work. Nobody had been killed but Headquarters had gotten some workover by the newspapers until they put him out of business.

  Monks was still frowning.

  “This isn’t a bomber and you know it. There’s a tie-in here. Everything that’s happened is all part of a big beef. You getting shot, the Longs – Ed, I’ve got about a million questions to ask and I want only straight answers.”

  “Okay, Mike.” I put out the cigarette. “But the old man and the kid have had a rough time. And very recently. I’ll answer any questions you’ve got but leave them out of it.”

  Monks smiled. When he smiled, he was getting clever. “I understand you weren’t in the store when the bomb went off.”

  “I wasn’t at Custer’s Last Stand either but I know what happened there.”

  “Stop clowning. I’ve got my job.”

  “Sure you have. But your job isn’t third-degreeing a pair of people who’ve had the book thrown at them. Can’t you ask me the questions?”

  “Okay, okay.” He shrugged wearily. “I’m sure glad I let those boys go about their business. You make a captain look silly in front of his men. Well, I came down here to see you primarily. The Longs can wait. But let’s have some co-operation for a change. And please spare the jokes. I’ve got a television set now.”

  I smiled. “Fair enough. Drink?”

  “I’m on duty,” he reminded me.

  “And we aren’t. Just a sec.” The bottle I’d been killing when the blonde walked into my life was still on the desk. I reached for two shot glasses. I poured two neat ones and handed one to Tom Long. Then I remembered my manners and Tania. I found some Coke and cookies in the refrigerator and loaded up a tumbler and a plate for her. She gave me a big smile when I set the goodies down beside her on the sofa. All the time I was playing host, I could see Monks carefully scrutinizing the office. His bird-dog nose was sniffing over the whole works. But there wasn’t anything to see. Nothing to indicate what had passed an hour or more ago. Not that it made much difference. If a blonde with a fur coat had visited my office; what could that mean to a captain of detectives?

  The drink made me feel ten per cent better. But I still had ninety to go.

  “Okay, Mike, what’s eating you?”

  For answer, he dug inside the folds of the brown tweed coat he was wearing and produced a thick manila envelope. I watched without expression as he ferried it across the desk at me.

  “The day you had your accident I said I wanted to see you. Well, after you got laid up, you were in no shape to look at anything. And I figured I could handle it on my own and maybe crack it before you got out. Well, I haven’t. And the whole picture’s changed again. So now I’m asking you. Look at those pictures and tell me if you’ve ever seen that guy before.”

  Tania sipped her Coke and Tom Long toyed with his shot glass. I opened the envelope Monks had given me and a pile of photos dropped out on the desk. I sat back in my swivel chair, made myself comfortable and fanned out the pictures before me.

  There were four of them, all the standard 8× 10 size. All different views. All different positions. All of the same man. The same dead man.

  There wasn’t much doubt about his being dead. I’ve seen plenty of morgue shots in my time. The usual body
-under-a-white-sheet type of photography. But in police morgue camera art, they pull the sheet away so you can see just what killed the subject. This one wasn’t pretty. Not pretty at all.

  I held them up close to me so Tania couldn’t even get a flashing glimpse of the photos. I didn’t want her tossing her cookies. It might have made Tom Long retch too.

  The man had been fair-skinned and strong-limbed. Looked like a hale and hearty six-footer in life. In death, he was something else.

  Somebody had done him up brown. The morgue had cleaned him up, but you still got a pretty good idea how much blood he’d lost.

  For one thing, his neck was laid open from ear to ear. The photos were crystal-clear. The knife or sharp instrument of some kind must have gone in at least an inch. But that was just the beginning.

  The same sharp instrument had travelled up his stomach in a vertical line ending just under his breastbone. This time the point had gone in about three inches. But that wasn’t all, either.

  There were five, ugly, terrible bullet holes that had gouged out big chunks of his chest. Only a .45 could have done that. My stomach rumbled warningly but I fought it off and looked more closely at the pictures. I skipped the wounds and bullet holes and stared at the guy’s face until my eyes hurt. There was a tiny black mole just behind his left ear. His hair had been crew-cut, his teeth looked as if they’d been a fine set of choppers. But the rest of his face looked as if it had been stepped on.

  I’d never seen the guy before in my life. Death makes a stiff look different, I know, but I also knew I would have remembered this guy if I’d seen him just once. I turned the pictures over on my desk and cracked my knuckles to fight off a feeling of queasiness in the pit of my bread-basket.

  Monks growled. “Well?”

  “Deadest guy I’ve ever seen. He looks as though he was killed three times.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking you and you know it.”