Death on the Waterfront

by Robert Archer

  Stern couldn’t help it. “The guy this guy says shot him,” he repeated, “has committed three murders and failed in a fourth by the width of a thin whisker, all in the last three days. Do you think you could beat that out of him? He’s afraid but he’s more afraid of several other things than he is of you and your rubber hose.”

  “Oh, tough, is he?” asked the chief. “Then how——”

  A car was drawing up before the house. “That would be Sheriff Christy.” Stern cut off Holcomb’s question.

  “Not tough,” he said. “Desperate. There’s a tremendous difference. Get him out here along with the rest of the people I name, and I’ll crack this thing for you. He’ll be your prisoner, and you can have the credit. Is it a deal?”

  The man still hesitated. “What do you want me to do?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Follow my lead and back me up.” Stern moved down the steps to greet the sheriff. “Glad you could come,” he said, shaking hands. “Will McArthur be over?”

  “McArthur? What do you need him for?”

  “I don’t.” Stern grinned. “But I think he might want to be here. This is the pay-off on the Murdock business. Chief Holcomb, here, is requesting a roundup of suspects for questioning.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He just decided to ask you to bring your prisoner over. Burke’s still in your custody, isn’t he?”

  The sheriff’s blue eyes twinkled. “Who’s going to do the questioning?”

  “The chief insists that I do it,” Stern told him unblinkingly. “He agrees that both this shooting and the Murdock murder are part of a pattern that started with the killing of the longshoreman, Riorden, and that since I have been connected with the case from the beginning——”

  “I get it. I get it.” The sheriff held up his hand. “I don’t need a blueprint. And if you want Burke over here you’ll get him. Of course, you’ll have to remember that he’s still my prisoner.”

  “Sure. Sure.” Stern hurried the two officials into the house. The highest hurdle was still ahead—getting Nicholson to agree to the plan.

  Once on the phone, Nicholson fussed and fumed as Stern had known he would. “Of all the harebrained screwball ideas,” he raved, “this takes the prize. Even if it’s legal—and I’m not sure it is—I’m taking an awful chance transporting witnesses out of the state for questioning. How do I know it’ll work? How do I know I’m not letting the city in for a mess of damage suits that’ll knock our case from hell to breakfast?”

  “The same answer to both questions,” said Stern. “You’ll have to take my word for it. Either this works, or we’ll never find the answer, and this fellow’ll go on killing people. Besides, Chief Holcomb requests it. You wouldn’t hold out on a brother officer?” The answer that came sputtering out of the phone was slightly incoherent, but Stern gathered the gist of it which was that all smart-aleck young shysters who meddled in police business should be in hell and would be, if the speaker had his way. He held the receiver some inches away from his ear and waited patiently for the storm to blow itself out. When Nicholson paused for breath he said one word:

  “So?”

  “So to hell with you,” said Nicholson in a weary, defeated tone. “I don’t give a damn for a carload of Chief Holcombs, but you know I’ll do anything short of committing a murder myself to get this case cleaned up.”

  “Okay,” said Stern. “Get ‘em out here as soon as you can, will you? And don’t forget Powers and Mayme Burke.”

  “Suppose they don’t want to come? What am I supposed to do—shanghai ‘em? And what in the name of common sense do you want with Mayme Burke?”

  “Persuade ‘em,” laughed Stern. “The last guy out here is a sissy. For crying out loud, do I have to tell you how to round up suspects? And Mayme’s important; she’s a character witness.”

  “Whose character?”

  “What do you care? You’re a married man.”

  Stern stood by while the sheriff called the jail and ordered one of his deputies to bring Burke to Dr. Stevenson’s immediately, then called several restaurants until he located McArthur and informed the loudly protesting county attorney of impending developments. This business finished, Stern and the two officials went outside again.

  Two prowl-car men, very natty in blue uniforms with shiny black leather putties and Sam Browne belts, were guarding the foot of the terrace steps against a little group of curious citizens and a couple of yapping reporters. Holcomb called one of the cops and sent him up to guard the door of Jackson’s room. He quieted the reporters, giving them the bare facts of what had happened and hinting that he would have a very important statement to make in the near future. While the chief was thus occupied Stern led Sheriff Christy around the side of the house to where a middle-aged detective with the lugubrious features of a Newfoundland dog stood disconsolately by the tree, guarding the ladder and the footprints in the snow.

  It had stopped snowing, and the night was clear and crisp. Light from the windows of the house made orange rectangles on the lawn and glistened on the branches of the tall tree. Stern was reminded of the Christmas-card impression he had gotten when he first drove up to the house an hour or so ago. Things had certainly happened fast in that hour to dispel the feeling of peace and security that first impression had given him.

  Chief Holcomb joined them, and Stern again related what had happened. Sheriff Christy looked up at the branch of the tree against which the ladder leaned and nodded.

  “The way that branch curves, a man on the ladder would have to stand below the level of the window to get a clean shot into the room. That’s probably why the path of the bullet ranged upward. Don’t look like the fellow had much time to plan what he wanted to do. Where’d he get the ladder?”

  “Dr. Stevenson told me that it was lying alongside the house,” said Chief Holcomb. “He had been using it earlier in the day.” He turned to the sad-looking detective. “You boys find anything, Hurd?”

  “Not much,” said Hurd. “Sam and Peanuts followed the footsteps out to the edge of the walk. They’re out there now, trying to dig up something. Them footprints are our best bet. They’re so clear you can see the trade-mark on the heel a couple of places.”

  “That oughtta help,” the chief nodded. He turned back to the others. “Well, boys, it don’t look like there’s much for us to do out here. Let’s get back into the house where it’s warm.”

  As they rounded the front of the house another of Holcomb’s men came hurrying up the steps from the street. He had a black rubber slicker over his arm and carried in one hand a heavy pair of old-fashioned overshoes with metal fasteners.

  “Look what we found in the bushes down by the corner,” he called out to the chief.

  Holcomb took the garments and examined them. “Fairly new and in good condition,” he said. “Looks like they might have been worn by our man.”

  “It’s a cinch they were,” said the detective. “They were thrown over the bushes from the sidewalk. You could see where they had hit the top branches and knocked off the snow as they rolled down. And there was snow under them, so they must have been thrown there recently.”

  The chief turned to Stern. “This is going to make it easy,” he announced gleefully. “When our guests arrive we’ll find out who these belong to in a hurry and then we’ll have our man.”

  Stern shrugged, and his face reflected none of the chief’s enthusiasm.

  “Maybe we can find out whom they belong to right now,” he said.

  He took the garments and led the way into the front door of the house and through to the kitchen. Mrs. Cox and Whitey were sitting at the kitchen table eating roast duck and dressing. Whitey had the good grace to look guilty.

  “Won’t you have some dinner, Mr. Stern?” urged Mrs. Cox. “I took a tray upstairs for the doctor and Maeve and the poor young man who was shot and I almost had to fight to get it past that policeman at the door. Whatever happens, there’s no sense letting good food go to waste.” She
noticed the articles Stern was carrying. “Where did you find the doctor’s raincoat and overshoes? I told him someone would steal them if he kept leaving them on the back porch.”

  Stern turned to Holcomb with a rueful grin. “There’s the answer to your footprints, chief,” he said.

  3. Pay-Off

  Later that evening an imposing array of officialdom gathered before the red brick fireplace at one end of Dr. Stevenson’s spacious living room. Stern and Chief Holcomb were there, of course, seated side by side in large armchairs like royalty granting an audience, with a slightly fidgety Nicholson on one side of them and a scowling McArthur on the other. Sheriff Christy, after escorting his prisoner, Tommy Burke, to the couch on one side of the room, had removed the handcuffs from Tommy and retired to a vantage point on the deep sill of the front window.

  Between the sheriff on the window ledge and the husky trooper in the doorway, it was going to be difficult for anyone to get out of the room in a hurry.

  Mayme Burke was on the couch beside Tommy, defiantly redhaired and attractive, her long-lashed, heavy-lidded eyes flicking from face to face with a hint of sheathed claws in every glance. In the corner of the room beyond the couch Powers sat stiff and uncomfortable on a straight-backed chair, his eyes straight ahead and an expression of bored snobbery on his heavy-jowled face. Across the room four of the five longshoremen who completed the gathering had arranged themselves in a row like a union delegation, while the fifth, Melius, sat stolidly apart, his hands clasped across his fat stomach and his hat on the floor beside him. Painter and Gordon looked calm and at ease, but Sangster was obviously apprehensive, and Colletti was downright scared.

  From where he sat Stern could see the outer hall and a portion of the stairway curving up to the second floor of the house. His eyes, moving slowly about the circle of faces, met the gaze of the murderer for a brief moment and passed on. Neither his expression nor that of the other changed, yet, in the instant their glance had met, both knew. There was a desperation and mocking challenge in the other’s eyes, and Stern shifted slightly in his chair, no longer in doubt as to what would happen once this man had been dragged into the open.

  The assistant D. A. leaned back deep in his chair and began speaking in a quiet voice.

  “The first thing to be done tonight is to demonstrate a logical connection between the shooting of Jackson and the murders of Nellie Cosimo, Murdock, and the longshoreman, Riorden.”

  At the mention of Nellie Cosimo’s name Nicholson had blurted a startled, “What?” but Stern completed his sentence before he paused and looked at him.

  “This business is a mess,” he said, “and we’ll never get it cleared up if the rest of you start interrupting. Give me a chance, and I’ll hand it to you double-wrapped in cellophane.”

  His gaze shifted to McArthur briefly, then he blinked once or twice and continued:

  “This case is a mess for a lot of reasons. First, the psychology of the killer—hot and cold by turns, reckless one minute and overcautious the next, scared stiff all the time and yet committing his crimes under the very noses of the police and getting away scot free. Second, the separate police jurisdictions under which the crimes were committed, each interested only in cleaning up the mess in his own district and jealous as hell of any interference from outside. Third, the red herrings dragged across the scene by two or three opportunists who thought they saw a chance to profit by the events surrounding the murders.

  “Still, in spite of all this, there should have been no trouble linking up these crimes and spotting the killer, because the crimes all had one obvious common denominator: Motive. Motive made them a simple succession of cause and effect from Riorden’s murder right down to the shooting of Jackson.

  “I’m not going to be long-winded about this. There was plenty of evidence in the Riorden murder pointing to a stool pigeon in the Eastcoast union, planted there by Murdock in an effort to discredit the union leaders and pave the way for the return of the labor racketeers who had formerly dominated the water front. There were indications that Riorden’s murder was part of this scheme, yet there was only one possible reason for resort to so drastic an act as murder, and that was the threat of exposure. Of course, exposure would have been fatal to the stool pigeon’s plans—if not to the stool pigeon himself.” Stern paused and grinned at his audience. “I don’t have to tell you what happens to stool pigeons on the water front.

  “So this fellow killed Riorden, and while he was about it he planted a frame on the union leader who was likely to be most troublesome in the threatened strike.

  “This theory of a spy in the union not only determined the motive for the murder, but it automatically limited the number of suspects, since in order to operate effectively the stool pigeon had to be high in the councils of the union and probably was a member of the committee negotiating for a new contract. Seven men remained on that committee, and it was a hundred-to-one shot that one of those seven had killed Riorden. However, every one of the men on that committee, excepting Jackson, had an alibi.

  “The preliminary investigation of the Riorden slaying was interrupted by the murder of Murdock. Here, on the face of it, was an entirely separate killing with an acceptable motive in the robbery of the safe. The presence of Jackson and Gordon in the neighborhood seemed to be purely coincidental, and there were three logical suspects placed at the scene of the crime. But when it was discovered that the description of one of these suspects fitted a member of the union committee—Burke—it looked as though a connection between the two killings was established and we had our man. Burke was arrested.” Here Stern paused and bowed politely to Nicholson, who grunted and scowled in response.

  “But the city police failed to break his alibi for the first murder. However, he admitted being on the scene of the second killing and was charged with that crime. As a matter of fact, Burke could have killed both Riorden and Murdock. Riorden was killed sometime between twelve and twelve forty-five. Burke could have slipped out of the back door of the saloon shortly before twelve o’clock, committed the murder, and been back in ten or fifteen minutes. The bartender broke down when I questioned him this afternoon and admitted he couldn’t swear that Burke had been in the booth during that time. And Burke could certainly have killed Murdock. He had motive and opportunity for both murders——”

  “Why you”—Mayme Burke started out of her seat—“you crumby little runt.”

  “Please, Miss Burke. Save your vocabulary until I’ve finished. I told you once and I’ll tell you again—I don’t believe your brother killed either of these men. Why? Because he was in jail when Nellie Cosimo died, and Nellie Cosimo was killed by the same person who killed the other two. Motive, the common denominator in all these crimes-”

  “Common denominator, poppycock,” burst out McArthur. “This is the biggest damn nonsense I ever heard. I came here to get facts, not common denominators.”

  Stern’s bland face and owlish eyes turned slowly in the direction of the county attorney. “Mr. McArthur,” he said in a voice that fairly dripped honey, “will you please be patient for a few more minutes? When I have finished you may have the floor.”

  McArthur spluttered and subsided, and Stern went on in his quiet, droning tone.

  “I was about to say that Nellie Cosimo was murdered by the same person who killed both Murdock and Riorden and for the same reason—fear of exposure. If you’ll all just be patient I’ll demonstrate that in a few minutes.

  “These were smart murders. They were crudely planned and hastily committed under the compulsion of terror that amounted almost to hysteria. Yet the killer left surprisingly few clues, and, as Mr. McArthur and Captain Nicholson know so well, it is facts not theories that stand up in court. As long as the killer stuck to direct action dictated practically on the spur of the moment by a cowardly brutal nature he was lucky and amazingly successful but as soon as he tried cleverness he was sunk. His first mistake of this nature was his planting the spy report on the body of Rior
den. That identified him as one of the seven men on the committee, since no one else knew that Riorden had that report. His second mistake was his carefully planned alibis that, in themselves, would have drawn attention to him immediately, had there not been so many suspects with alibis. But his third and fatal mistake was the manner in which he killed Nellie Cosimo. Killing Nellie was dangerous enough in itself, since it clinched the theory that these crimes were not unrelated but grew one out of the other, but the time and manner of that killing did much more than that—it eliminated the only other suspect that could be seriously considered and pointed directly to the guilty man. The moment I heard the news of Nellie’s death I knew who the murderer was.

  “Powers!”

  The former butler started as Stern suddenly snapped his name. Then he rallied and said, “Yes sir,” in his usual wooden tone. “Why did you go to Cosimo’s house last night?”

  “Well, sir, I fancied I’d do a little amateur detecting of my own.” Powers’ voice was calm and admirably controlled. “Miss Cosimo had taken the money from Mr. Murdock’s safe——”

  “How did you know she had taken the money?”

  “Why, the keys, sir. They weren’t on the desk when I first came into the room. I reasoned that only Miss Cosimo would think to look in—in Mr. Murdock’s pocket”—Powers shuddered slightly—“for them.”

  Nicholson said heavily, “We found the money—in a safe-deposit box registered under the name of Nellie——”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Stern interrupted hurriedly. “All right, Powers, what were you after—your cut?”

  Powers mustered all the dignity of which he was capable. “I should think not. Certainly not. I wanted to recover the money for Mrs. Murdock. I had reason to believe that Miss Cosimo was in danger and that she was very frightened and I thought ——”

  “Why did you think she was in danger or frightened?”

  “Because it seemed probable that she and I were the only two persons left who knew the murderer, sir.”