1965 - The Way the Cookie Crumbles (3 page)

‘That’s Johnnie Williams,’ he said. ‘Well, well, so he’s got his at last.’

‘You know him?’

‘Oh, sure. I’ve seen him around. One of the big money gigolos at the Palace hotel. What’s he doing in a dump like this?’

Beigler had been looking through the drawers of a chest that stood against one of the walls. He found a pigskin wallet. In it he found a Diner Club card, a driving licence and a chequebook. They were all in the name of Johnnie Williams. From the chequebook, Beigler learned that Williams had a cash balance at the bank of 3,756 dollars.

‘I guess he lives here,’ he said. ‘Take a squint at the room opposite.’

While Lepski was in the other room, Beigler continued to search the smaller bedroom. He found a closet full of Williams’ clothes.

Lepski came back.

‘A knocking shop,’ he said. ‘Who’s the woman?’

‘Calls herself Muriel Marsh Devon. She killed herself by an overdose of heroin at La Coquille restaurant tonight. She left a suicide note, admitting she knocked off our handsome lump of beef.’

Lepski wandered over to the dead man and peered at his chest. He grunted and moved back.

‘She certainly made sure of him. Cut his heart to pieces from the look of it.’

Beigler suddenly stooped and reached under the bed. He carefully drew into sight a .38 automatic. Taking out his handkerchief, he dropped it over the gun and picked it up.

‘Nice open and shut case,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t get an hour or two of sleep even now.’

A car pulled up outside the bungalow and Lepski went to the door. He returned with Dr. Lowis.

‘He’s all yours,’ Beigler said and waved to the dead man.

‘Thanks for nothing!’ Lowis snapped. ‘Now I have two reports to make.’

Beigler winked at Lepski and pushed him towards the door.

‘Never mind, doc,’ he said. ‘You’re not the only one.’ To Lepski, he said, ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’

The two men went down the passage and opened the front door. They moved into the garden and both lit cigarettes.

‘Funny no one reported the shooting,’ Lepski said, nodding to the bungalow opposite.

‘Could be they are on vacation,’ Beigler returned. ‘Besides, this end of Seacombe keeps to itself. Know something? I’ve been on the force ten years now, never had a squeal out of Seacombe yet.’

‘I wonder why she gave it to Johnnie. I wonder why he bothered with a two-dollar whore.’

‘She was a lot better than that. I’ve seen her. Well dressed; took care of herself. Most men who chase prostitutes like to perform in shabby surroundings. Don’t ask me why.’

‘I won’t then.’ Lepski stilled a yawn. ‘I wish the Chief hadn’t yanked me out of bed.’

‘Here they come now,’ Beigler said as two cars came racing down the broad boulevard, their headlights lighting up the row of bungalows as the cars swept past.

Half an hour later Dr. Lowis came out of the bungalow and joined Chief of Police Terrell who was sitting in his car, smoking a pipe, patiently waiting for his men’s reports.

‘I’d say he was shot around ten o’clock,’ Lowis said. ‘Five slugs in the heart. Good shooting, but she really couldn’t have missed. She fired from the foot of the bed. I’ll have a report for you by eleven. That all right?’

Terrell nodded.

‘It’ll have to be, doc. Okay, you get off and catch up with some sleep.’

When Lowis had driven away, Bert Hamilton came out of the bungalow. He had been busy on the telephone, filing his story.

‘Plenty of meat in this one,’ he said to Terrell. ‘Got any ideas why she shot him?’

‘That’s something I’ll have to find out,’ Terrell said getting out of the car. ‘See you some time, Bert,’ and moving past the reporter, he entered the bungalow.

Beigler and Hess were talking in the hall.

‘All clear here, sir,’ Hess said. ‘A nice, tidy job.’

‘It looks like it,’ Terrell returned, ‘but we won’t let it go as easy as that. You two boys go over to East Street and look at her home. Check her handwriting is the same as the suicide note. I think this case is straightforward, but let’s be sure. Have a talk with that dwarf. He seemed full of information. Maybe he can tell us why she shot Williams. I want a report on my desk by ten, so get moving, boys.’

Hess suppressed a groan.

‘Okay, Chief.’

Terrell went into the dead man’s room where Lepski was propping up the wall, talking to the finger print men who were packing their kit.

‘Tom,’ Terrell said, ‘I want you to find out if anyone heard the shots. Check up and down the boulevard and I want some background on Williams.’

‘You don’t want me to start checking now, do you, Chief?’ Lepski said. ‘It’s only just after six o’clock. You don’t want me to get people out of bed, do you?’

Terrell grinned.

‘Give them half an hour. They rise early this end of the boulevard.’ At the sound of an approaching car, he went on. ‘Here’s the ambulance now. I’ll leave you to handle this.’ He turned to the finger print men. ‘You got anything?’

‘Lots of prints,’ one of them said. ‘This room hasn’t been dusted in months. Mostly his prints, but there are others. We’ll run a check on them all.’

Terrell nodded, then went to the front door as the ambulance pulled up. He told the two interns where to find the body, then he got into his car and headed for Police headquarters.

CHAPTER TWO

A
few minutes after Terrell and his men had left La Coquille restaurant, heading for Seaview Boulevard, Ticky Edris took off his drill jacket and slipped on a light grey alpaca coat. He then trotted to the stillroom door, opened it and glanced into the bar.

Louis and Jacoby were talking at the head of the stairs.

‘Going home now, Mr. Louis,’ Edris said in his piping voice. ‘That okay with you?’

Louis waved his hand, not pausing in his talk with Jacoby. Edris returned to the stillroom, his movements quick and bustling. He let himself out through the Staff exit, bounced down a flight of steps and into the parking lot reserved for the Staff’s car. He half ran, half bounced to where two cars were parked. One of them a Cooper Mini; the other a Buick Roadmaster convertible with the top up.

A broad shouldered man sat at the wheel of the Buick, smoking a cigarette. He wore a brown straw hat and a well cut fawn-coloured suit. His shirt was white and immaculate; his tie expensive and conservative. The thick wings of his gold blond hair went well with his heavy suntan. He was handsome: a young looking thirty-eight, and the deep cleft in his chin gave him the little extra personality that appeals to most women.

He could have been mistaken for a successful law officer, a bank official or even an up and coming politician, but he was neither a law officer, a bank official nor a politician. Phil Algir used his impressive appearance, his wealth of general knowledge and his charm to fool the greedy out of their money. Algir was a con man who had spent fourteen years of his life in prison and who had left New York in a hurry for Florida at the very moment a warrant was being sworn out for his arrest. He had remained quietly in Paradise City, short of funds, afraid to set up another of his smooth swindles, knowing the next time he was caught, he would go away for another fourteen years.

Behind his handsome, charming facade, there was a streak of vicious ruthlessness in Algir. Up to this night, he had managed to get the money he needed without resorting to violence, but now the facade was down. If this job he and the dwarf had planned didn’t work out, it wouldn’t be fourteen years in a cell this time. A seat in the gas chamber would be waiting for him. But he had every confidence in Edris and himself. This job was going to work out - it had

to.

‘Going like a dream,’ Edris said, resting his stumpy fingers on the door of the car. ‘No fuss - no trouble. All right your end?’

‘Yeah.’

‘They’ve gone to the bungalow. They’ll then come on to East Street. You’d better get moving, Phil. You know what to do.’

‘Yeah.’ Algir started the car engine. ‘Think they’re satisfied she knocked herself off?’

‘Looks like it. I’ll watch Terrell. He’s smart. Don’t get to the school before half-past seven.’

‘I know. I know. We’ve gone over it enough times, haven’t we? You handle your end. I’ll handle mine.’

Edris stepped back, and with a brief nod, Algir sent the Buick moving out of the parking lot. Edris watched the tail lights disappear, then turned and got into the Mini. The clutch, brake and gas pedals had been built up with thick lumps of cork so his stumpy legs could reach down to them. He was a fast, expert driver. He hadn’t had an accident in his seventeen years of driving.

He drove fast out of Paradise City, pushing the Mini up to eighty miles an hour once on the highway. But as he approached No. 247, Seaview Boulevard, he slowed and drove past at a much slower speed, glancing at the parked police cars in front of the bungalow. It took him another ten minutes to reach East Street. Leaving his car before the apartment block, he took the elevator to the top floor and entered the two room apartment he had lived in now for the past eight years.

There was a big living room, a small bedroom, a kitchenette and a shower room. He had lavished considerable care on the living room and by careful buying and selection, he had made it into a comfortable, tastefully furnished home. He used a coffee table for his dining table and he had had a special miniature chair and a lounging chair made for his own comfort: the rest of the furniture was of normal size as Edris liked to entertain his friends from time to time and he had chosen the settee and the armchairs with consideration for the comfort of others.

He bounced into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes and then ran into the shower room. He danced around in his grotesque nakedness under the shower of tepid water, slapping his hands together in time with his humming. He then dried himself and put on a pair of gold and blue pyjamas and a blue dressing gown. He went into the sitting room, crossing over to the miniature cocktail cabinet. He poured himself a slug of whisky, added charge water, then carrying the drink to his armchair, he sat down, putting his feet up on a tiny footstool. He took a drink, set down the glass, then lit a cigarette. He sat for some minutes, relaxing, drawing the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs and then expelling it through his wide nostrils.

He glanced at the tiny lady’s wristwatch on his wrist. The time was 06.30 hours. It would take Phil a little under the hour to reach Greater Miami. If all went well, Phil would be on his way back to Paradise City by half-past eight. He couldn’t expect to hear from Phil before half-past nine or even ten.

Edris finished his whisky, stifled a yawn and stubbed out his cigarette. He would have liked to have gone to bed, but he knew if he went to bed, he would fall asleep and that would never do. He mustn’t be sleepy or dull minded when the cops arrived.

He struggled out of his chair and carrying his empty glass over to the cocktail cabinet, he made himself another drink. Edris was a heavy drinker, but seemed able to absorb a considerable quantity of alcohol without it affecting him. But tonight he had been under a strain and he was tired. He told himself to go slow with the whisky. It wouldn’t do for him to get overconfident.

He was finishing his drink, sipping it slowly, when he heard a car pull up in the street below. He restrained the urge to look out of the window. The cops mustn’t catch him peeping at them. He carried the glass into the kitchenette and rinsed it out. Then he went into the hall and standing by the front door, he listened.

Beigler had got the key to the dead woman’s apartment from the janitor who had shrugged indifferently when Beigler had told him the woman was dead. To Beigler’s questions, he had said he knew little about the woman except her name was Marsh, that she paid her rent

regularly, never appeared in the mornings, went out in the afternoons and returned very late each night. She didn’t have much mail and seldom visitors.

Yawning prodigiously, Hess got into the elevator with Beigler and they shot up to the top floor. Entering the woman’s two-room apartment, they looked around. The living room was comfortably furnished with a big TV set in one corner. There was a double bed in the bedroom and fitted clothes closets. On the dressing table were two silver framed photographs: one of a handsome, dark-haired man in his early thirties; the other of a girl around sixteen or seventeen years of age, her blonde hair in an urchin cut. Her thin, sharp features, pert little nose and large mouth, made her elfin-like and attractive.

A careful search of the various drawers in the apartment revealed very little except a collection of unpaid bills and a number of letters that began: Dear Mummy and ended: all my love, Norena. The address at the head of each letter was Graham Co-Ed College, Greater Miami.

Hess found several specimens of the dead woman’s handwriting which he compared with the suicide note. They seemed to have been written by the same hand.

Beigler, who had been reading some of the letters from the girl, Norena, looked up at Hess.

‘I guess she must be the daughter,’ he said and nodded to the photograph on the dressing table. ‘Nice looking kid. I wonder who the father is.’

‘Maybe the midget knows. Let’s go talk to him. He’s just across the way.’

Leaving the apartment, the two men crossed the landing and Hess rang on the front door bell of Edris’ apartment.

After a brief delay, the door opened and Edris looked inquiringly up at them.

‘Oh,’ he said and moved back. ‘Come in, gentlemen. I’m just making coffee. Will you have some?’

‘Sure,’ Beigler said and the two detectives entered the living room.

Hess said, ‘Why aren’t you in bed, Ticky?’

‘Can’t sleep without coffee. I won’t be a second,’ Edris said and with a hop and a skip, he bounced into the kitchenette.

‘Sort of cute, ain’t he?’ Hess said. He looked around the room. ‘For Pete’s sake! He’s got himself his own goddamn armchair!’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’ Beigler said, lowering himself onto the settee. ‘Would you like to be a dwarf?’

Hess thought about it, shrugged and sat down.