Homicide at Yuletide Read online

  “But—”

  “No buts. That is, if you’ve told me the truth. If not, I’ll turn you in personally, Noah, my boy—and the five thousand dollar fee for being on your side—I’ll deny it, so help me.” I stood up out of the posture-chair. One section of my buttocks was asleep. “ ‘By, now, Noah. So far I’m on your side. So far. See you for supper.”

  10

  I WENT OUT, musing.

  I opened the door nearest Gene Tiny and I said, “Move over.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’ll drive.”

  “But, Pete—”

  “I’m driving, or you can go on back alone.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like the way you drive. I’d rather go back with my heart not in my mouth.”

  Please don’t get me wrong. I think women are wonderful. I think women can do anything men can do, and much of it they can do a lot better. Some women. Some women can’t. I’m unprejudiced. But I will not fall into the oldest trap in the world: making a prejudice of being unprejudiced. Even about driving a car. Gene Tiny at the wheel of a jalopy gave me palpitations. I couldn’t use palpitations. I was a tired guy. I needed peace.

  I drove.

  I made a couple of wrong turns, but she put me back on the right road each time. Neither of us said a word.

  Silence, peace, and snowbanks.

  Then she said, “You make a left turn at the next crossing, Galahad. Across to the Highway.”

  “How do you know, beautiful?”

  “It’s written right there in front of you. Can’t you read?” he was going to pass anybody on a lane like Lorimer Boulevard, and beneath that, Left Turn for the Highway. I made my left. Lorimer Boulevard was a boulevard strictly under the false license of poetic pretense. It was a narrow, rutty road with more bumps than a grind-girl going crazy in early morning burlesque. I proceeded with caution.

  Proceeding with caution grew difficult because of the din of an impatient horn-blower behind me. I scowled up at the rear-view. There was one guy at the wheel of a racy-looking number, wide and low-slung. Not the guy. The car. I did a couple of peeps on my horn, answering him. If he thought he was going to pass anybody on a lane like Lorimer Boulevard, he’d have to sprout propellers and make like a helicopter. He moved up on his cushioned springs and bumped me. Twice.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  Decorously, I stuck a hand out of the window. Then I pulled up the brake.

  Gene said, “Don’t make a scene.”

  “No scene,” I said. “A lecture.”

  He was out of his car before I had a chance to open my door. He was a short fat man with a wide mustache. He stepped high through the snow and came up alongside of me. I opened the door and swung my legs out.

  “It’s impossible,” I said. “So why make an ass of yourself? Nobody can pass anybody on this road. Furthermore, what in all hell is the hurry? Add to that, you got springs, and what I got on this jalopy, you should have.”

  He smiled and put his hand in his pocket. It came out a fistful of gun.

  “Now wait a minute, mister,” I said. “If it’s that all-fired urgent, maybe we can work something out.”

  “Out.”

  “Sure we can work something out. It gets a little wider over there—”

  “Out.”

  “Out?”

  “You too, lady. You first, Joe.”

  He had a voice like hail on a window. It came to me that he wasn’t interested in passing us. I looked at him, looked at the gun, and got out. He had Gene slide over and she came out the same door. He slammed the door, and lined us up in front of the running board. He was careful opening my coat and tapping me. So far he didn’t take anything. He touched me under the arms for a holster.

  “Stick-up?” I inquired, lamenting Noah’s five thousand dollars.

  “Shut up.” He moved back slightly. “Okay, lady. You’re next. Step forward.”

  He opened her coat and put his hand in.

  “Hey, now look—” she said.

  He took his hand out. “What do you think I’m digging for, a free feel?”

  “Now, listen, you—”

  “Shut up.”

  He swung the clump of his left fist hard and quick. It caught her on the chin. He didn’t watch as she crumbled. He stepped aside, let her fall, and came at me, gun first.

  “What goes, Mac?” I said.

  He smiled and he came nearer and he stopped. He smiled wider, the mustache spreading, but it wasn’t a smile. It was teeth on teeth with cracks by crazy eyes. I saw the knuckles around the gun whiten, and I moved because I had nothing to lose. I hit his legs in a laughable tackle, but it worked. He came down like a collapsed tent. We wriggled in the snow, scuffing. I kept moving my arms and legs, but I couldn’t see, because he was on top of me. I heard his cursing and panting, and then my accidental elbow caught him sharp in the gullet and I heard the wheeze as he slackened. Now I was on top, both hands locked around the wrist of his gun hand, trying to shake it loose, and then his legs came up, crossing around my throat, and he squeezed, and a numb buzzing came in my ears. I clung to his wrist, my fingers moving down, feeling the cold of the gun, turning it in on him, and then my breath began to go, and the suffocating blackness began. I wrenched once, wildly. The sound of the gun was a ragged faraway plop.

  That’s all.

  I don’t know how long I was unconscious, probably moments. I was eating snow, face down on the road. My neck hurt. I heard myself groan and stopped it. I sat up, watching as the scenery whirled back into focus. He lay beside me, on his back, still smiling. There was no blood on the snow. There was a black stain on his coat by the chest. I moved and touched him. He pushed over, rigidly, in one piece, the stain bubbling over and running down the coat and collecting in a bright red patch on the snow. He was still smiling.

  I rubbed at my neck, breathing through my mouth. I stood up and bent over him, touching his throat for a pulse, lifting his eyelids.

  Then I went to Gene.

  She had a blue bruise beneath her chin, bleeding slightly in leaky drops. Her eyes were open, open and up, only the whites showing. She was breathing shallowly, exploding in a little snore at the end of each breath.

  I went to his car and looked in. It was clean and empty. The glove compartment had a black automatic, nothing else.

  I went back to Gene and sat her up and rubbed snow against her face. I slapped her a few times and then, her eyes came down and she quivered.

  “What—? What—?”

  “Nothing. Let’s get up.”

  “What—?” I put my hands under her arms and helped her up. She leaned against me, rubbing at her chin. Then she giggled. “My God, what did that little man hit me with?”

  “A fist. Backed up with that wide ring on his finger. See?”

  I pointed and she looked. Then she looked back at me quickly, her hand moving up to her mouth. “Is he—?”

  “He is. I might have stood still for a stick-up, I always say a dead hero can’t hear his praises. But that guy was a hophead on a shooting spree, and a guy like that, you’ve got nothing to lose trying to take him. If you stand still, you get killed. So you try. You all right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can you drive?”

  “According to you, I can’t.”

  “No. I mean, are you capable, you know—”

  “I know, exactly. And I’m capable, damned capable.”

  “Okay. I’ll pile him into his car and I’ll follow behind you. When we get to the Highway, we look for a cop. Check?”

  “Yes.”

  I took him by his coat collar and dragged him, his heels making two wavering lines in the snow. She started the flivver while I arranged him in a lumpy bundle in back. Then I got behind his wheel and waved to her and our two-car procession bumped along Lorimer Boulevard seeking the Highway.

  We found a cop directing traffic through the slush near the bridge. I got out and talke
d to him and he came back with me and we all went to the nearest precinct. We parked outside and the cop went in for help and they carried the dead man into the station house. Gene and I were taken up to the detectives’ room and we sat around and told our stories to oscillating faces. Then the big shots arrived and we told our stories again, to stenographers and to wire recorders. More big shots arrived; now we produced identification, and told our stories again.

  Finally Sam Anderson came, an inspector in Queens, who used to be with Homicide in Manhattan. Sam recognized me, but better, he had recognized our plump cadaver. He was Perry Agufen, a goon from way back. Now we were popular. The faces stopped shaking and began nodding. A young doctor came in and announced that Mr. Agufen was filled to the gills with hop.

  Sam Anderson said, “Always was. All right, there’s no use detaining these people.” He shook hands with me. “There’s no explaining a guy when he’s charged. Maybe he got his marbles mixed on what started out to be a hold-up. Or maybe he was showing off, to himself. Or maybe he was real sore at you for not letting him pass. Or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. Who can figure a guy on the needle? And what’s the difference? I congratulate you. It’s another killer off the streets, and good riddance. If there’s any call on this, we know where to find you folks. Good-by, Pete. Good-by, ma’am.”

  Outside, fleece-clouds mottled the sky. The wind was sharp and biting and the beginning of winter darkness was sad. We ran into the car and before I started the motor I kissed her once on the chin.

  “What’s that for?” she said.

  “Nothing. Just glad to be with you, that’s all.”

  “I’m glad to be with you too, Peter.”

  I stepped on the starter and we went. She slumped down and dozed. We got back to town early enough, for all the current events we’d helped to create. I parked in front of her house, kissed her on the chin again, and got out of the car. “Cold compresses,” I said, “will have that chin of yours back in shape in no time.”

  “See you later, Pete.”

  I was a tired guy in a taxicab. I was a tired guy putting five thousand dollars into the dresser drawer in my bedroom. I was a tired guy drooping under a warm shower. Then I took the pillow off an easy chair, buried the telephone, added more pillows, and went to bed.

  I tried to think upon the matters that I had been retained to think upon, but I decided, perforce, to save that for a working day. Today was Christmas. I reached for the clock and set the alarm for nine-thirty. Then I spread-eagled and let the ceiling come down on me.

  Surprisingly, I slept till nine-thirty. If the phone had rung, the pillows had smothered it. I disinterred the telephone, put the pillows in place, shaved, showered, shampooed, shrugged, and got dressed. Then the doorbell sounded off. Company was early.

  Company wasn’t company. Company was Louis Parker, detective-lieutenant, filling the doorway, jamb to jamb, squat, dark, and lugubrious.

  “Well,” I said, “the good detective-lieutenant. Welcome, always welcome.”

  He opened the fingers of a thick right hand and placed them against my chest and put some weight behind that. I moved back into my apartment, precipitously. He closed the door behind him and threw me his hat and coat, and I hung them away. I hurried with a match for his cigar and I brought him a drink. He drank it and wiped his mouth. Sadly he said, “I’m going to take you in, my boy. I’m going to shove you into the clink and I’m going to let you rot. A lot of people in the Department are going to shake my hand for that. You’re turning out to be, of all things, a son of a bitch. You, of all people.”

  “Profanity, professor.”

  “How long can a man be an angel?”

  “Sit down, angel. Have another drink. It’s Christmas.”

  He sat down. He had another drink. He said, “Get your hat and coat. We’re going downtown. I’m going to let some people shove you around, experts.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Louis?”

  “Fred Thompson. That’s what’s the matter with me.”

  “Fred Thompson?”

  “A guy in plaid pants and a red beard on Thirteenth Street.”

  “Oh. Fred Thompson.”

  “Correct. Oh, Fred Thompson. We get a call on that, a couple of hours ago.”

  “Have a drink, Louis.”

  “No more drinks.”

  “Who called?”

  “A dame.”

  “Name?”

  “No name.”

  “A dame without a name”

  “That’s right. A dame without a name. A dame, anonymous.”

  “Good old anonymous.”

  “Solves more crimes than all the criminologists, and all the private eyes, and all the police departments put together. Good Old Anonymous.”

  “So?” I said.

  “We check. He’s dead. Fred Thompson with the wine-red beard. At Thirteen-b West Thirteenth Street.”

  “How long dead?”

  “Dead more than twenty-four hours. Autopsy fixes it about the time those watches say. You know those watches? A wrist watch and an electric timepiece. Where’s the gun?”

  “Gun?”

  “Gun, shooting-piece, side-arm, lethal weapon. Yesterday, you had me drop you on Thirteenth and Fifth. A landlady at Thirteen-b West Thirteenth describes you perfectly, only you’re a messenger boy. Guess who your message is for? You wouldn’t believe it. Fred Thompson. Next it’s Alger Shaw combing the night clubs. Who sent him? You. You want to know about a guy with a wine-red beard who was there the night before. We talk to you about it at Grace White’s … before we got word on the dead body on Thirteenth. So you throw us Barney Bernandino. You keep chopping it up. Why? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing, Louis, honest.”

  “Then we get the phone call. We find wine-red. Right away you’re in a pickle. I called you here. No answer.”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Don’t interrupt. Let me finish about Fred Thompson. We give him a shave. It isn’t Fred Thompson at all. Guess who he is?”

  “How would I know?”

  “How would you know, except that one of our people goes up to check Sheldon Talbot’s daughter, because that’s who the guy is after the shave, and the daughter says she’s not talking, but please talk to Peter Chambers, because he is now representing the estate, or something. You wouldn’t know who Fred Thompson turned out to be after the shave, now would you?”

  “Please, Lieutenant—”

  “Somebody goes to talk to Mrs. Theresa Talbot. She’s not talking either. You want to know why? Peter Chambers. He’s doing the talking for her. He’s doing the talking for everybody. Well, here’s your chance. Talk.”

  “It’s complicated, Louis.”

  “You were up there yesterday, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, Louis.”

  “And you didn’t report it, did you?”

  “No, Louis.”

  “Did you take that gun out of there?”

  “Yes, Louis.”

  “Sonny, I think the liquor’s getting to you, I really do. You’ve finally gone all the way overboard. If you think you’re going to get away with this, you’re cockeyed sonny, completely cockeyed.”

  “Cockeyed,” I said morosely. “Yeah, cockeyed. Cockeyed?” I slapped my hands together. I had it. All of it. It fell on me like a tunnel caving in. I kept slapping my hands together. “Louis, boy,” I said. “Don’t go way.”

  “Don’t worry about my going away.”

  I started with the bedroom. I turned it inside out.

  Parker smoked his cigar, leaning against the wall. “What’s the matter with you?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  Next was the kitchen. I administered the same treatment, all the closets, the cockroach paste, the utensils, the gas range, even the ice cubes in the refrigerator.

  He stopped me as I was coming out. “Now, look—”

  “Louis, I’m going to clear a killing in Chicago, and I’m going to give you t
he murderer of Sheldon Talbot, and I’m going to give you the murderer of Grace White. I’m going to tell you about one Perry Agufen—”

  “That I heard about.”

  “And I’m also going to put the boots to Barney Bernandino.”

  “Boots to Barney Bernandino, that’s fine by me. But when does all this start?”

  “Now, Louis. It’s started.”

  “How? By house-cleaning?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  He stood there in the doorway, keeping me in the kitchen. I sat down on an inverted pot and I gave him the story. I told him exactly what had happened to me from the time he had called me at the office, right up to now.

  “That gun still up there?”

  “Where, Louis?”

  “By Stella Talbot?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so, huh?” He swelled his cheeks and blew breath through pursed lips. “Boy, if I ever heard of obstructing justice— Here’s a case that’s cold now for twenty-four hours—with this crazy bastard sitting on it all that time—”

  “Which crazy bastard?”

  “You.”

  Aggrieved, I said, “I have not been sitting. I think I’ve got the solution, if you will only let me—”

  “Let you what? Turn your house upside down?”

  “Yes, Louis.”

  He wrung his hands once, then he slapped them hard against his thighs. “Why do I take this crap from you? Why—”

  I smiled at him. Sweetly.

  “You like me, Louis. Down deep in your heart, you love me.

  “You want to continue breaking up home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like that, you’re going to come up with an answer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re going to spring it on me, surprise-like?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without an audience? Without a speech? Not you.”

  “I’m going to have an audience. And I am going to make a speech.”

  He relit the cigar, clamped it between his teeth, and worked up smoke diligently. “Look, private richard, or whatever the hell you call yourself lately, I’m going to make a speech first. You’re the kind of a guy that’s so crazy, it spreads—other people act like they’re crazy. But we haven’t come up a cropper yet. Cropper. I don’t know what it means, sounds like a barber, or something. All right. We haven’t come up a cropper yet, and by dint of a long and spectacular acquaintance—well, we’ve been a good team. I’m the only cop in New York that takes a shamus seriously, and you educated me for that, Okay. Bust the house. Strew the furniture. Bake a cake, if you want to. Spring it on me in your own subtle way, but spring it, if you’ve got something to spring. Because I’m telling you right now, you’re not going out of here tonight—without me—unless. And if we go, we’re going downtown, and for once in your life, you’re going to sweat. Understood?”