Death on the Waterfront

by Robert Archer

  The basement partitions had been ripped out, leaving a long, rectangular room with door and windows front and rear. The front windows looked out on a small court that was three feet below street level. The place contained a few pieces of discarded laundry apparatus and odds and ends of broken furniture and packing cases.

  “What the hell do you expect to find in this hole?” whispered Whitey.

  Stern shook his head. He led the way through the piles of debris to a cleared space in the rear where two planks on rough trestles against the windows formed a sort of workbench. A hand vise was clamped to one end of the planks, and several pieces of iron piping littered the bench top.

  Stern looked perplexed. “What do you make of this?” he asked.

  “Huh,” said Whitey. “Looks like the old dame was practicing plumbing in her spare time. What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”

  Jackson said seriously, “I still don’t know what we’re looking for.”

  Stern examined the iron piping carefully and shrugged his shoulders. Then he played his light down into the shadows under the bench and said, “Ah!” a quick exclamation full of suppressed excitement. “Here’s your answer, Jack. I didn’t think it would be so easy.”

  He reached down and dragged out a battered, ancient typewriter frame from which the carriage, type, and keys were missing. He set his find on the bench top and regarded it with blank, myopic eyes.

  “It proves we’re on the right track but it’s sort of academic,” he said. “Not much good as evidence. Our friend, the enemy, was just a little bit too smart for us.”

  Jackson said, “If that’s the typewriter and we can prove it——”

  “Uh-huh.” Stern was examining the enameled surface of the frame under the light of the torch. “Everything else down here is dusty, but this thing’s wiped clean. And the roller and type are gone. We can’t prove a damned thing with this.”

  “Maybe the parts are around here somewhere.” Whitey began looking in a pile of rubbish in the corner.

  “Fat chance. We can look around but we won’t find anything. Those parts are in the bottom of the river by now.”

  “But why all the bother? Why didn’t she dump the whole thing in the drink?”

  “She?” Jackson looked at Whitey with raised brows.

  “Sure,” said Whitey. “The old dame upstairs. This is her joint, ain’t it?”

  Stern smiled. “Whoever did this was afraid of being spotted, carrying a typewriter. Dismantling it and disposing of the parts was a bright stunt. Even if there were fingerprints on this frame now they wouldn’t prove anything. Come on, let’s see what else we can find.”

  But a hurried search of the rest of the basement revealed nothing of the slightest significance. The tools in the wall cabinet which they forced open had either been handled with gloves or carefully wiped before being put away, and even the iron piping on the bench bore no evidence of having been touched by human hands. Nowhere in the basement was there the slightest trace of the missing typewriter parts. After a few minutes Stern gave up.

  “We’re just wasting time,” he said. “Those detectives will be back any minute now. I think we’d better get out of here.”

  The ground floor was quiet, and no sound came from Nellie Cosimo’s apartment on the floor above. Stern rebolted the door to the basement stairs and led the way to the front of the house. Just as he was about to step out he drew back suddenly, treading sharply on Jackson’s toes.

  Jackson swore. “What now?” he asked.

  “Someone just came up out of the area way,” whispered Stern.

  “He’s crossing the street. I think he was trying to watch us through the window.”

  “That’s our baby,” said Whitey excitedly. “Let’s nail him.”

  “Take it easy,” hissed Stern. “I want to find out who it is first.” He eased the door open a crack, and they watched a shadowy figure moving along the face of the buildings across the street. When the figure reached the corner it was silhouetted briefly in the light of an arc lamp.

  “Holy smoke,” said Whitey. “A derby hat.”

  “This is a brand-new angle,” said Stern, “but maybe it makes sense. I want to talk to that guy.”

  When they reached the corner the slightly stooped figure in the long black coat was halfway down the block, walking at a normal gait and not looking back, as though with no fear of being followed. They caught up with the man just as he reached the next corner.

  “Just a minute, Powers,” called Stern. “I want to talk to you.” The butler turned, his face showing polite surprise but nothing more, and waited for them to come up.

  “Oh, it’s you, sir,” he said, recognizing Stern. “I was startled for a moment. I hardly expected to be accosted by name in this locality.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t.” Stern grinned at the man. “What are you doing down on the water front? I thought you were in jail?”

  “I was being held as a material witness, I believe they call it,” said Powers with heavy dignity. “I was released this afternoon.” He peered down his nose at Stern’s companions. “Are these gentlemen from the police, sir?”

  “They’re friends of mine,” Stern said shortly. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

  “Why—just walking, sir. I’m at leisure, you might say.”

  “I don’t like this monkey,” said Whitey.

  Powers looked at him. “Nor I you, if I may say so, sir.”

  “Why you big grease ball——”

  “Cut it out, Whitey,” said Jackson.

  Stern said: “Let’s take a little walk. You don’t mind, do you, Powers?”

  The former butler looked uncomfortable. “I—I don’t understand—but, of course, if you say so, sir.”

  “Right.” Stern took Powers’ arm and led him back around the corner into the street from which they had just come. Whitey and Jackson followed. When they reached Nellie Cosimo’s house Stern stopped.

  “Know who lives here, Powers?”

  “Why I—no sir, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Think hard. It’s an old friend of yours.”

  Powers started to speak, then evidently changed his mind. “You’re acting very strangely, Mr. Stern, very strangely indeed. I see no reason why I should answer your questions. May I ask what this is all about?”

  Scanlon and his partner came round the corner and approached the group.

  “Any trouble, Mr. Stern?” Scanlon asked.

  “Not a bit. Mr. Powers, here, was just about to tell us why he was playing Peeping Tom at Miss Cosimo’s basement windows.”

  “Oh, he was, was he?” Scanlon seized Powers’ arm in a hard grip while his partner, Brumbaugh, closed in on the other side. “Come on, Buddy,” said Brumbaugh. “Unbutton your lip.”

  “I think you’d better tell us all about it, Powers,” said Stern gently.

  “Perhaps you’re right, sir,” admitted Powers, glancing from the massive Scanlon to the even more massive Brumbaugh. “It was just that I didn’t think it prudent to become involved—not that I have done anything wrong, you understand, or have anything to hide——”

  “Skip it,” snapped Stern. “You knew this was Miss Cosimo’s house?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What did you come here for?”

  “I meant to visit Miss Cosimo.”

  “What for?”

  “Why, really, sir—just a friendly call, you might say.”

  “I might say but I’d rather you said.” Stern came close to the big man. “Do you usually start friendly calls by looking in windows?”

  “Oh, that, sir. You see, there was someone else looking in the window, and my curiosity was aroused.”

  “Someone else?”

  “Yes sir. Perhaps I’d better tell you exactly what happened. I came by with the intention of visiting Miss Cosimo as I said but when I saw her apartment was dark I was about to turn back. Just then I noticed a man crouching on
the sidewalk here in front of the basement windows and I saw that there was a light in the basement and this man was trying to look in. It aroused my curiosity, sir, and when the man went away I crossed the street to see what he had been looking at. The light in the basement went out, however, before I could see what had attracted the man’s attention, and I decided that whatever it was it was none of my affair. That’s all there was to it, sir, really.”

  “That story sounds like the malarky to me,” said Scanlon. “There’s something screwy about this guy, Counselor.”

  “Shall we lock him up?” asked Brumbaugh. “Or would you want we should do a little work on him?”

  Scanlon approved of the latter suggestion. “It’d be a pleasure, Counselor—the way he talks. Like he had a snout full of hot mush.”

  “Behave yourselves, boys,” ordered Stern. “I believe what Mr. Powers has told us is essentially the truth, although not all of it, perhaps. However, let’s get it straight.” He adjusted his glasses and looked at Powers. “Where were you when you first noticed this man?”

  “Across the street, sir. Some distance down the block.”

  “Come on. Show us.”

  Powers led them to a position deep in shadow and well up from Nellie Cosimo’s house. Seen from this distance, a man crouching in front of the house would be hardly more than a blacker shadow.

  “Okay,” said Stern. “Now what did the guy look like? I mean was he tall or short, fat or thin?”

  “At first I couldn’t tell, sir, but when he rose and moved away I gathered the impression that he was slightly on the tallish side and somewhat thin. It was difficult to tell positively.”

  “How long was he there—that is, between the time you saw him and the time he left?”

  “I watched him for about five minutes, I should say. Then he rose and walked away.”

  “Fast or slow?”

  “A fairly rapid pace. I would say he was a youngish man.”

  “I don’t suppose you would recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “I hardly think I could,” said Powers slowly, as though trying to revisualize the scene. “He had his back turned to me the whole time but just as he rose he looked over his shoulder, and I saw his face. It was too far for me to see features though, sir. Just a sort of white blur.”

  Several additional questions failed to elicit any further information, and Stern, his brows creased in a puzzled frown, turned to Scanlon. “Call the precinct and have them send down and get Mr. Powers. I think he’ll be much safer in jail for the night.”

  “Safer?” The butler’s face turned slightly gray. “I trust you did not mean that literally, sir.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Stern.

  The apartment was neat and very quiet, the night noises of the city rising in a subdued hum that was restful and soothing. The living room with its books and pictures and the fencing mask and crossed épées on the wall was like a refuge from murders and man hunts. He smiled faintly as he closed the door and heard the click of the latch.

  Tall ivory and ebony chess pieces set out on an inlaid board gleamed under the light of the desk lamp. They were East Indian in design, elaborately carved figurines of Oriental potentates, knights on prancing horses, and elephants in gaudy trappings with turbaned mahouts perched on their broad necks. The set had belonged to his father and was one of Stern’s most prized possessions.

  The pieces were set in position for a problem which Stern had been composing for the past week. He left them just as they were when he went to the office in the morning and returned at night to find them undisturbed. All day he never thought of them but when he saw them again he would find that subconsciously the problem had developed and grown since he left them sitting there. When the position was finally complete it would be printed in an obscure little magazine under the pseudonym, Rajah, known and respected wherever chess was played. But few, if any, of the thousands who puzzled over its perplexing subtleties would guess that it was the work of a promising young political appointee. Young lawyers with futures were supposed to have better things to do with their spare time.

  Still smiling faintly, Stern paused with poised hand above the chessboard. He stood there in a sort of pre-occupied contemplation that had in it none of the fierce concentration of the traditional chess addict. It was as though he were idly admiring the pieces in a shopwindow or—not seeing them at all—was lost in a dream created by their symbolism and the dynamic movements they represented—charge and countercharge, the tactics of attack and defense—a mimic battle like some childhood tale out of the Arabian Nights. Then the poised hand dropped, moved the white queen one square, and eliminated a pawn from the board. The problem—compact and balanced as a delicate machine—was completed.

  Stern went through the swinging door into the kitchen, got himself a glass of milk, and returned through the living room to the bedroom, turning out lights as he went. He undressed slowly, still with that dull, somnambulistic expression that was a combination of physical weariness and a conscious effort to relax taut nerves, drank the milk, yawning prodigiously as he put the glass down, switched off the light, and got into bed.

  But once in bed he found that he could not sleep. The thing that had been gnawing at the back of his mind suddenly became clear, and he found that he was filled with a sense of something left undone—something overlooked that might result in serious trouble. For the life of him he couldn’t think what it was. He reviewed the events of the day without result until he came to the incidents surrounding the meeting with Powers. That was it. There was something there—but what? It was not Powers himself or his story that was the source of the annoyance; true, Powers was an added complication—a suspect tucked neatly away on the shelf and all but eliminated, who had unexpectedly reappeared with a story that obscured more facts than it revealed—but Stern was sure that he knew most of the facts Powers had sought to hide. Powers was a prudent fellow with an eye for the main chance, as he would probably put it, and he had guessed, even before Stern, what had happened to the money from Murdock’s safe. At the first opportunity he had headed straight for Cosimo, intent on a bit of exceedingly circumspect blackmail—at least that was what Stern thought he had done. That made two blackmailers, a thief, and a stool pigeon, besides a murderer, in this nasty business. Stern winced in the darkness at the thought.

  Of course it was possible that his tenuous calculations were far from the mark and that Powers’ intentions had been even more sinister—or not sinister at all—but Stern refused to consider either of these possibilities. He had settled on two, possibly three suspects, and, if one of them wasn’t the murderer, then it was no use worrying about one thing done or left undone, since everything he had done that day was wrong.

  No, it was neither Powers nor his story that was the crux of the matter—what then? What had he overlooked? Then all at once he knew. Cosimo’s house had been left unguarded—only for a minute or two, when he and Jackson and Whitey had gone in pursuit of Powers—but those few minutes would have been enough for someone to enter if they had been watching. And someone had been watching just before. There it was—the thing he had overlooked—he had forgotten to make sure that the front door of Cosimo’s house was locked. Worse, he had neglected to check up before he turned the responsibility for guarding the house back to Scanlon and Brumbaugh. If anything happened in that little brick house tonight—anything at all—it would be his fault.

  And then Stern did a thing that was to haunt him for many months to come. Having discovered his oversight, he turned over and went to sleep and did nothing to rectify it—or what he knew from experience would amount to nothing. Instead of getting out of bed and dragging himself back to that little house on the dark, lonely street, he called a drowsy desk sergeant at the precinct and asked him to make a checkup. The result was delay and another tragedy that might possibly have been averted had he gone himself—at once.

  After all, the thing was excusable. Stern had been driving hims
elf hard and had had little sleep in forty-eight hours. Once recognized, the mere matter of an unlatched door that had been left unguarded for, at most, three or four minutes seemed little enough reason for dragging oneself from a warm bed. And even if something had happened in those few unguarded minutes (What could have happened to get so excited about?) it was, in all probability, too late to do anything about it now. Why be a fool about an unlatched door that led only to an empty hall and was guarded by a large and competent detective? Oh, surely, the thing was excusable enough, but Stern never excused himself. Had he not stifled that slight, uneasy feeling—had he gotten out of bed and gone to see for himself—a life might have been saved. Never mind excuses and mistaken details. That was the simple truth, and he had to face it.

  4. Locked Room

  Stern was shaving next morning when the telephone rang stridently; he wiped away lather as he went to answer it.

  Nicholson’s bellow seemed to fill the room. “Hello, Stern? We got more grief. Nellie Cosimo committed suicide last night.”

  “What?” The towel Stern had been holding slipped from his hand to the floor. “That can’t be. It’s crazy.”

  “Sure, it’s crazy. Tell me what’s sane about this case. But it’s true, all right, unless a damn good first-grade detective of mine is having nightmares. Scanlon found her. I just got the call.”

  Stern was silent a moment, listening to a small, inner voice that whispered accusingly, “You see, I told you so. Now, whatever it is, it’s your fault.”

  “Are you sure she’s dead?” he asked the telephone. He did not know what else to say.

  “Am I sure?” barked the phone. “Hell, I’m not sure of anything about this cockeyed business except that I’d like to forget the whole thing and go back to bed. If this suicide isn’t on the level I might as well, at that. One more murder and both me and the commissioner are going to have hemorrhages.”

  Stern took a grip on himself and asked in a flat, quiet voice: “How did it happen?”

  “Gas. Room locked, windows shut tight. Scanlon’s got an emergency squad working on her, but he says it’s dollars to doughnuts she’s a goner. Grab a cab, and I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. You know the address?”