“I’m licked,” he admitted, sucking on a tooth reflectively. “I gotta notion to throw the whole bunch of them in the can.”
Stern nodded. “I’d even agree if I could see where that would get us but I can’t. You haven’t got enough to charge any of them with the murder—and they’d get out on bail on any other charge. Have you got the Cosimo woman covered?”
Nicholson looked at him questioningly. “Yeah, she’s sewed up tight—although I don’t see where she fits into the Riorden picture.”
“I could be crazy.” Stern grinned. “Maybe I am. But as far as these birds are concerned I’d give ‘em more rope. One of them might get tangled up and trip over it.”
Nicholson sighed heavily. “Okay,” he said aloud, “you guys can go, but don’t get the idea I’m through with you. And”—he stabbed at them with a belligerent forefinger—“if any of you so much as looks at a boat or train I’ll have him in the can so quick, it’ll make his head swim. Just remember that.”
The men started filing toward the door, but just before they reached it Stern stopped them.
“Wait a minute.” He paused as they swung around and then pointed an accusing forefinger. “Jackson!” he shouted at the big longshoreman, “I’ll give you just one more chance to tell Captain Nicholson the truth. I’m sick of playing nursemaid and I don’t want another murder.”
Jackson looked blank. “What are you talking about?”
“You know damned well what I’m talking about,” shouted Stern dramatically. “When you told me that stuff about the clock yesterday you practically admitted you knew the murderer. What’s his name?”
Jackson hesitated, then spat toward a cuspidor in the corner. “You’re screwy,” he said shortly. He turned and went out the door.
Stern shouted at his retreating back. “Okay, wise guy. If we have another killing we’ll know where to look.”
The remaining men stared at each other and at Stern. Their faces were puzzled and questioning, but when Stern abruptly turned away they followed Jackson out the door.
“That was a swell show,” said Nicholson tartly. “What was it for?”
“Bait,” said Stern cryptically.
“Bait!” Nicholson snorted.
“Sure.” Stern started out the door. “Bait to catch a sucker—only I hope the sucker’s not me.”
Stern gave Jackson and Whitey a lift back to the water front. Jackson tried to refuse, but Stern snapped crossly: “Don’t try to figure it out. If you don’t trust me now you never will.”
Jackson was inclined to retort in kind, but something in the owl eyes stopped him. He followed Whitey into the car without another word.
“Miss O’Callighan called me this morning and asked me to give you a message,” Stern said as he shifted gears. “Dr. Stevenson would like to have you two come out to visit them over the week end.”
“Why me?” asked Whitey.
“He got the idea you and Jack were pals.” Stern laughed. “Or maybe Miss O’Callighan wants you for a chaperon.”
Jackson reddened, and Whitey guffawed loudly. “She ain’t seen me yet. Anyway, Jack’d make a better chaperon.”
“Shut up,” snapped Jackson with so much vehemence that Whitey’s laughter died in his throat. “We can’t do that. A couple of suspected murderers. Swell weekend guests we’d make. Besides, the union’s got a strike on its hands.”
“The strike’ll be okay without us,” argued Whitey, “and if you want to talk about murderers speak for yourself. If worst comes to worst we’ll still get a couple of swell feeds anyway. I’m all for it.”
“The doc’s taken a fancy to you,” said Stern slyly, “and he kept you out of jail. I think you ought to accept the invitation.” Jackson’s objections were eventually broken down, and he agreed to call up Maeve and accept her invitation.
Stern stopped at the hall to let Whitey and Jackson out.
“Will you be here a little later in the evening?” he asked when they stood on the curb.
“Either here or over at Danny’s Bar,” answered Whitey. “Drop around, and we’ll have a couple of beers and talk about murders.”
“Not a bad idea,” agreed Stern. “I was considering it.”
3. Breaking and Entering
Stern had dinner and looked up an address he had forgotten. It was sometime after nine o’clock when he parked his coupé in front of the neat little two-story-and-basement house where Nellie Cosimo lived. He sat for a moment looking up at the red brick façade. The place, though well-kept, was obviously very old, one of the few survivors of the time when this neighborhood had been a residential area. A white-lettered sign just below the parlor-floor windows said, “French Hand Laundry,” but the windows themselves were dark and bare. Light trickling through the blinds of the second floor, however, announced that the upper part of the house was tenanted.
Stern scanned the dark doorways of the buildings to right and left. He spotted a man in one of them and got out of the car and went over.
“Hello, Scanlon. Is Miss Cosimo at home?”
“Huh?” Scanlon was startled. He peered into Stern’s face. “Oh, it’s you, Counselor; I didn’t recognize you. You mean the old dame over there? Sure, she’s home. Come in this afternoon and hasn’t budged since.”
“You alone on this detail?”
“Naw. Brumbaugh is parked in the back yard.” He indicated a narrow, iron-gated passageway alongside the brick house. “She couldn’t get out that way unless she climbed a couple of fences.”
“Murderers have been known to climb fences,” said Stern cryptically.
“Murderers? You mean this old battle-ax croaked them guys?” Stern smiled. “I don’t know. I’m going to pay her a visit and maybe I’ll find out.”
“Jeez.” Scanlon looked down at the little D. A. “You better watch your step with that dame, Counselor. Maybe I better go widja.”
“Thanks. I don’t think that’ll be necessary. If Nellie makes any passes at me, murderous or otherwise, I’ll holler like hell. Then you can come a-running.”
Scanlon bobbed his head seriously. “I’ll do that, Mr. Stern.” Stern had hope for quite a bit from this interview with the woman who had been Murdock’s confidential secretary for fifteen years. Despite the fact that a man sent by Nicholson to interview her had gotten less than nothing, the assistant D. A. believed that Nellie knew a great deal more than she was telling and that if she could be flushed from cover she would lead them to significant evidence or even, possibly, to the murderer himself.
The moment he faced Miss Cosimo, however, he recognized that he had underestimated her. Nellie was scared, but she was not scared enough—at least not yet. Viewed through the crack of the door on the second-floor landing, her face appeared feverish and congested, but when she grudgingly unhooked the chain and admitted him to the small, low-ceilinged room he sensed wary, alert strength and defiance in every inch of her big-boned frame.
The room was evidently a combination of living and sleeping quarters. The studio couch, to which Miss Cosimo retired after closing the door, was covered with some black, shiny material that, to Stern’s unpracticed eye, looked like satin and flanked at side and end by modernistic equivalents of the old-fashioned whatnot. There was a large, reasonably comfortable-looking chair for which Stern headed and two straight-backed chairs upholstered in faded brocade. A low coffee table between the big chair and the couch and bookcases on either side of the door in the rear wall completed the furnishings. Doors and windows were tightly shut, and a gas radiator in front of the bricked-up fireplace gave off waves of smelly, stagnant heat. Stern found it almost impossible to breathe in the congested atmosphere, and his forehead was soon beaded with perspiration.
Nellie Cosimo noticed his discomfiture and seemed to enjoy it. “I suppose this room would be too warm for most people,” she said in a flat take-it-or-leave-it tone, “but it suits me. I’ve got a cold and I can’t stand drafts. I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable.” She propped pillows
on the studio couch and sat down, drawing the quilted house coat closer together about her. “What can I do for you, Mr. District Attorney?”
“Just a couple of points I thought you might help us clear up,” said Stern. “You probably knew more about Murdock’s business dealings than anyone else. Did he have any enemies or did he quarrel with anyone lately?”
Miss Cosimo sniffed. “Don’t you people ever get tired asking the same questions?”
“It’s the first time I’ve asked it.”
“Well, I’ll give you the same answer I gave the others. Mr. Murdock had no enemies except those every businessman has—the Communists.”
Stern ignored the comment. The woman had worked for East-coast for fifteen years, and Murdock’s conviction that any man who joined a union was a dangerous Red had become firmly implanted in his secretary’s mind. By now she was a little cracked on the subject.
“Yes,” Stern said. “We’ve about narrowed it down to one of the union leaders. But we’re stuck—we’ve got nothing to go on. Perhaps you could help us—tell us of some threat or something that would give us a lead.”
He watched the woman’s eyes harden and grow suspicious. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of the house coat and blew her nose loudly. She was thinking what to say. If she decided he was stupid she might invent a story or even make an accusation.
Finally she made up her mind. “If I had any idea who killed Mr. Murdock don’t you think I’d have told the police? I want to see the man caught as much as they do—more, probably.”
Stern changed his tactics. “Frankly, Miss Cosimo, I doubt that you do,” he said softly. “You see, we have a theory about this case. We believe Murdock had a spy in the union and that the spy is the man who killed him. I think that you, Miss Cosimo, know who that spy is.”
The woman had surprising self-control, but just for an instant it slipped, and the furious look she gave him reminded Stern of his favorite black panther at the zoo. Then it was gone, and she did a very creditable job of outraged surprise.
“Ridiculous. You’re accusing me of knowing who the murderer is and protecting him. May I ask why, in heaven’s name, I should do that?”
“Because you’re afraid,” said Stern more casually than he felt. “You’re scared stiff.”
Nellie Cosimo was seized with a sudden fit of coughing. She held her handkerchief to her face and glared at Stern over it. A long minute passed before she caught her breath. “Afraid? If I were afraid of the man my best protection would be to turn him over to the police.”
“Right. But then you couldn’t keep the ten thousand dollars.”
This time Stern was near to being attacked, and he knew it. There was a mad streak in the woman—more pronounced because of long years of repression—and if she ever broke...How long would it take Scanlon to get through the door and up the stairs? Too long to do any good, probably. But, although white spots appeared on either side of Nellie Cosimo’s jaw and cords stood out in her neck, making it suddenly very gaunt and old, she only sat up straight and did not move from the couch. Her voice, when she spoke, was harsh and choked.
“I don’t know what you expect to gain by these accusations,” she said. “But I do know I don’t have to listen to them. Get out of here and don’t come back.”
Stern went. There was nothing else to do. The woman was still sitting on the edge of the couch, glowering, when he closed the door, but before he reached the stairs he heard the clink of the chain being slid into place. She was scared, all right. He paused to take out his handkerchief and wipe his face. Had he achieved his purpose? Well, the next hour or two would probably tell. As he went out the street door a sudden idea occurred to him, and he snapped back the spring lock so that the door could be opened from the outside.
Scanlon still stood in the building entrance down the block.
“Well, I see you’re all in one piece, Counselor,” he said. “Have any luck?”
Stern ignored the question. “When does your relief show up?” he asked.
“I came on at eight. I guess I’m good for the night.”
“That’s fine,” said Stern callously. “Do you think the woman knows she’s being tailed?”
“She may guess. If you mean has she spotted us—she ain’t.”
“Okay. Now listen. She may come out in the next few minutes. If she does, tail her and don’t let her out of your sight. Better tell your partner to be on his toes too.”
“Right.”
“If she doesn’t go out she may telephone. If anybody goes in you go right in behind him and sit on the lid till I get back. If nothing happens keep covered. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” said Scanlon. He repeated the instructions. “And if we have to tail anybody we report in to headquarters every half-hour or as close as we can make it. That’s routine anyway.”
“Around,” said Whitey.
Jackson stared moodily into his drink.
“How would you two like to join me in a little breaking and entering?” asked Stern.
“You mean second-story work?”
“No, basement. It doesn’t make any difference; they’re both against the law.”
“You’re taking an awful chance,” grinned Whitey. “We’re murder suspects.”
“That’s all right. I’ll have you where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Why don’t you get the cops?” asked Jackson. “They’re expert burglars.”
“Tut, tut.” Stern nibbled a pretzel. “What I want you to do is really against the law. Besides, there’s nothing in it for you but glory and a chance to catch your stool pigeon.”
“I don’t get you at all,” said Jackson. “How do you know one of us——”
“I don’t, really.” Stern’s eyes were wide and guileless. “But then, how do you know it isn’t a trap?”
“That’s a dare,” said Whitey. “We never take dares, do we, Jack? Where is this crib you want cracked?”
“Let him crack his own cribs,” growled Jackson stubbornly. “We’re going to show some sense for once and stay out of this thing.”
Stern stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said coldly to Jackson. “I just thought you might want to help.”
Whitey caught his sleeve. “Wait a minute. I’m game.”
Stern did not look at him. “Well?” he asked quietly.
“Come on, Jack,” urged Whitey. “What have we got to lose?” Jackson looked at Stern. Finally he nodded. “All right. What do you want us to do?”
Stern told him. “We have to wait a while till she’s asleep,” he said. “I don’t want her to catch us at it.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Jackson.
Stern shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe something that will come close to solving this case.”
“Why the basement? Why not the whole house? Why don’t you get a search warrant, instead of going at it this way?”
“Because if I got a search warrant and found nothing that would be the end of it,” said Stern. “If this doesn’t work nobody’ll be the wiser, and there’s still a chance that somebody’ll make a break. That’s the only way we’ll ever solve this case. Anyway, whatever evidence is in that house will be in the basement. Cosimo’s too scared to keep anything connecting her with the murder in her apartment.”
Stern ordered a beer, and they talked for another half-hour, then he looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty.
“Come on. Let’s go take a look.”
When they rounded the corner into the dark, deserted little street Stern motioned the other two back into the shadows and went forward alone. No light filtered through the second-story Venetian blinds, and Scanlon informed him that Miss Cosimo had apparently gone to bed a few minutes after he left. There had been no signs of a visitor. “Not this night or any other night,” complained Scanlon. “This is the deadest detail I ever had.”
“What about the laundry people?” asked Stern, gazing up at the building. “Do they ever
come around at night?”
“There ain’t any laundry people,” said Scanlon. “That’s just a sign. Fellow told me the laundry folded about a month ago.”
“Well, well”—Stern rubbed his chin—“I wondered about that.” Scanlon looked mildly mystified, but Stern changed the subject. “Lend me your torch,” he requested brusquely, and when Scanlon complied: “Now, here’s what I want you to do. Go get your pal and take a walk. Have yourselves a beer or a cup of coffee and come back in about twenty minutes. I’ll stand guard while you’re gone.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Counselor,” demurred Scanlon, “but we got orders. You know that.”
“Of course I know. It’s all right. I’ll take the responsibility.”
“I don’t know.” The big man scratched his head. “I don’t think we ought.”
“You don’t want to be a party to a crime, would you?”
“No,” said Scanlon.
“All right, then. Scram.”
Scanlon moved toward the iron gate reluctantly. “The captain ever finds this out,” he muttered, “he’ll have our badges—the both of us.”
“See that you don’t talk then,” said Stern. “And convince that partner of yours. I don’t want to have to waste time on him.”
He waited until the two detectives emerged and, walking with reluctance and protest in every stride, disappeared down the block. Then he signaled to Whitey and Jackson and, after cautioning them against unnecessary noise, preceded them up the steps and into the house. A bolted door under the stairs, halfway down the hall, led to the basement. Stern flashed Scanlon’s torch into the dark stair well, found a switch, and snapped it. Light sprang up in the room below, revealing a cement floor and white walls and a porcelain laundry trough covered with dust. Stern motioned the others onto the unpainted riserless steps and closed the door gently behind him.
Death on the Waterfront Page 22
