Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories (19 page)

"Uh-huh. He'll be right down."

"Where was he calling from?"

"The apartment of one of his employees," Klein said, "a woman named Fran Robbins. He says he's just given her a promotion and they've been celebrating all evening—at her place for dinner, then out for a couple of drinks around ten. They just got back. He sounded pretty upset when I told him what'd happened here."

"Wouldn't you be?" Eberhardt got a leather pouch out of his coat pocket and began thumbing shag-cut tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, scowling all the while.

Klein asked him, "Coroner's man have anything to say yet?"

"Confirmed the obvious, that's all. Shot once at close range, death instantaneous or close to it. Small-caliber weapon, looks
like; we'll know what size and make when the coroner digs out the bullet and Ballistics gets hold of it."

I said speculatively, "Maybe a twenty-two with a silencer."

"Why a silencer?"

"Because I didn't hear the shot."

"The gun could have been muffled with something else. Heavy cloth, cushion of some kind—anything along those lines."

"Sure. But it was pitch-dark in here except for the killer's flashlight; it'd be kind of awkward to hold a flash on somebody and muffle and fire a gun all at the same time."

"Well, a silencer seems just as doubtful," Eberhardt said. "They don't leave powder and scorch marks like the ones on Judkins."

"Then why didn't I hear the shot?"

None of us had a ready answer for that. Klein said, "What about the alcohol smell?"

"Wood alcohol, evidently," Eberhardt told him. "Judkins had a bottle of it zipped inside his jacket pocket; the bullet shattered the bottle on its way into him."

"Was he drinking it, you suppose?"

"He was crazy if he was; that stuff will destroy your insides. No way to be sure yet, though. There's a strong alcohol odor around the mouth, but it could be gin."

I said, "Was there anything else on the body?"

"Usual stuff people carry in their pockets."

"How much money in his wallet?"

"Fifty-eight dollars. You thinking robbery?"

"It's a possibility."

"Yeah, but not of Judkins so much as by him and somebody else. Of what's in this warehouse, I mean. That would explain what he and whoever killed him were doing here tonight."

"It would," I said, "except that it doesn't add up. Nothing seems to be missing; so if two guys come to a place to rob it, why would one of them shoot the other
before
the robbery?"

"And how did they get in and out in the first place?" Klein added.

Eberhardt jabbed his pipe in my direction. "Listen, are you sure you were alone when you locked up after Brinkman left?"

"Pretty sure," I said. "I came out here first thing and checked the windows and doors. Then I wandered around for a while, looking things over. I didn't see or hear anything."

"But somebody—Judkins, say—could have been hiding in here, just the same."

"It's possible, I guess. Up in the loft, maybe; I didn't go up there. But Brinkman told me Judkins had gone for the day, and it just isn't reasonable that-he could've slipped back in without somebody seeing him. And I still think I'd have felt something. You know when you're alone and when you're not alone, at least most of the time. You get what the kids nowadays call vibes."

"Yeah," Eberhardt said. "Vibes."

Klein said, "Even if Judkins was hiding in here, what was the point in it? To steal something? Hell, he worked here; he could have committed theft during business hours. And it doesn't explain how the killer got in and out either."

"There's one explanation that'll cover all of that," I said. "But I don't like it much; it's pretty farfetched."

"Go ahead."

"Nobody got in and out of here because there's no killer. Judkins committed suicide."

Eberhardt made a growling noise. "Suicide," he said, as if it were a dirty word. "If he shot himself, where the hell is the gun?"

"He could've dropped it somewhere and staggered down here and fallen where he is now. A thorough search would turn it up."

"Why would he pick a place like this to knock himself off in?"

"He wasn't too bright, Eb. Suppose he hated Brinkman for some reason and figured the publicity would damage the business. Suppose he wanted familiar surroundings when he pulled the trigger. . ." I spread my hands because Eberhardt was shaking his head in a disgusted way. "Well, I told you it was pretty farfetched," I said.

"The other possibilities are just as improbable," Klein said.

"One person, or even two, could have been hiding in here tonight without you realizing it, but there's nobody hiding in here now. Which means Judkins' killer had to get out, if not in—and how could he do that when all the doors and windows are double- or triple-sealed?"

"Maybe he's a magician or a ghost," Eberhardt said with heavy sarcasm. "Maybe he walked through the damned wall."

The patrolman who had been searching the warehouse came up and reported that he hadn't found anything of significance, unless you wanted to count an empty gin bottle tucked under some rags in the loft. Then a couple of white-coated interns entered with a stretcher and a body bag, and Eberhardt moved over to talk to the assistant coroner again before he gave them permission to remove the body. Klein, at Eb's instructions, returned to the anteroom to try again to get in touch with Orin McIntyre.

And I went into Brinkman's office, where it was quiet, to drink another cup of coffee from my thermos and do some thinking.

VI.

I
t was twelve thirty-five when Brinkman showed up. He came sailing in with Fran Robbins on one arm, looking more agitated than ever; his hands fluttered here and there, creating more of those invisible things out of the air. Robbins looked bewildered, nervous and a little frightened. She kept brushing a lock of her red hair out of one eye and casting glances around the anteroom as though she'd never seen it before.

Brinkman veered over to where I was standing in the doorway to his office. He gave me an accusing glare, as if he thought I had betrayed him somehow, and breathed stale tobacco and whiskey fumes at me; the heavy sweetness of enough cologne for a regiment was almost as unpleasant.

"What's been going on here tonight?" he demanded. "The officer on the phone told me Frank Judkins is dead, murdered."

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Brinkman."

"But how? By whom?"

"He was shot," I said. "The police don't know who did it yet. They think maybe you can help them."

"How can I help them? I don't even know what's going on." He fumbled a package of cigarettes from the pocket of his brown suit coat, got one into his mouth and fired it. "Is anything missing, stolen? Could it have been robbery?"

"Nothing stolen as far as I could tell," I said. "You'll be able to judge that a lot better yourself after you've talked to Lieutenant Eberhardt."

"Is he the man in charge?"

"Yes. He's out in the warehouse."

Brinkman nodded, started to turn away and then faced me again. "Orin McIntyre," he said, as if he were making some sort of revelation. Maybe he had something to do with this. You heard what he said to me tonight. He's always struck me as the vindictive sort."

"The police got him on the phone a little while ago," I said. "McIntyre claims he spent the evening barhopping alone, drowning his anger at being fired, and didn't get home until just before midnight."

Brinkman's cigarette bobbed and weaved in his restless fingers. "Do the police believe that?"

"They're reserving judgment until they check out his story. Lieutenant Eberhardt sent a patrol car for him; he'll be here pretty soon."

Brinkman hung his cigarette on his lower lip, said, "I'll go talk to the lieutenant," and headed through the warehouse doorway trailing smoke. Fran Robbins hesitated, glancing at me and biting her lip, and then went after him; the patrolman by the door watched the movement of her hips with the intensity and admiration of a confirmed ladies' man.

I shut the office door and returned to Brinkman's desk and poured the last of the coffee into my cup. It was quiet in the room—but not at all quiet inside my head. Things had begun to go clickety-click in there, like a sturdy old engine warming up
and about to run smoothly.

I sat on a corner of the desk, sipping coffee and concentrating. Vague ideas sharpened and took on weight and shape; bits and pieces of information slotted themselves neatly into place. And finally —

"Sure," I said aloud. "Hell, yes."

I went into the anteroom, through the warehouse door and past the shipping counter. Ahead, near where Judkins' body had lain, Eberhardt and Klein were talking to Brinkman and Fran Robbins. And to Orin McIntyre. It surprised me that McIntyre was there; I hadn't heard him being brought in. But when I looked at my watch I saw that it was one o'clock. A good twenty minutes had passed since the arrival of Brinkman and Robbins; I had been so deep in thought that I had lost track of both the time and my surroundings.

McIntyre, I saw as I came up, looked rumpled and bleary-eyed and upset. He was talking to Eberhardt but glaring at Brinkman as he spoke. "I didn't have a damned thing to do with what happened to Judkins. I told you, I was out drinking all evening."

"You haven't told us where," Eberhardt said.

"I don't remember where." McIntyre's voice was still a little slurred; he rubbed at his slack mouth. "A bunch of bars out in the Noe Valley. Listen —"

"You never did get along with Judkins," Brinkman interrupted. "You were always arguing with him."

"That was because he was a half-wit. And you're a bastard, Brinkman—a lousy bastard."

"I don't have to take that from you," Brinkman said indignantly. "For all I know, you did murder poor Judkins —"

I said, "No, McIntyre didn't do it."

All eyes flicked toward me. Eberhardt took the pipe out of his mouth and waved it in my direction. "How do you know that?"

"Because," I said, "Brinkman did it."

VII.

F
ran Robbins made a little gasping sound. Surprise opened up Brinkman's face for an instant: guilt flickered there like a film clip on a screen. Then it was gone and his stare was full of shocked indignation.

"You're crazy," he said. He turned and appealed to Eberhardt. "He's crazy."

Eb said, "Maybe," and narrowed his eyes at me. "Well?"

"He did it, all right."

"You got proof to back that up?"

"Enough," I said, which was not quite the truth. All I had were solid deductions based on circumstantial evidence and plain logic. But I knew I was right. There was only one person who could have killed Judkins and only one way the whole thing made sense; it was a simple matter of eliminating the impossible, so that whatever you had left had to be the answer. So I was pretty sure I could prove, at least to Eberhardt's satisfaction, that Brinkman had to be the murderer. After that it would be up to Eberhardt to make a homicide charge stick.

McIntyre said, "I might have known it," in a satisfied voice. His eyes were still on Brinkman, and they were wolfish now.

Brinkman drew himself up, all bluff and bluster, and ripped at the air with his hands. "This accusation is ridiculous," he said to Eberhardt. "I had nothing to do with what happened here tonight. I spent the entire evening with Fran; I've already told you that."

"So you have. Is that your story, too, miss?"

Robbins looked at Brinkman, wet her lips and said, "Yes." But the word came out almost as a question. She sounded anxious and uncertain.

I said, "You're sure about that, Miss Robbins? Being an accessory to insurance fraud is a minor offense; being an accessory to murder gets you a lot of years in prison."

That sharpened the anxiety and confusion in her eyes. She put a hand on Brinkman's arm. "Arthur?"

"It's all right, Fran. He doesn't know what the hell he's
talking about."

Eberhardt asked me, "What's this about insurance fraud?"

"That was the idea from the beginning," I told him. "This outfit isn't as profitable as Brinkman wants people to believe; I think he's been operating in the red and doesn't have enough capital to pay off on the merchandise that just came in from Europe, or enough buyers to take it all off his hands." I looked at McIntyre. "Am I right, Mr. McIntyre?"

"Damn right," he said. "I warned Brinkman about making the deal; I told him it was liable to put the company under. He told me to mind my own business and went ahead with it anyway. But how did you know?"

"Some inferences you made yesterday, for one thing. He also let it slip tonight that one of the reasons he fired you was that he couldn't afford your salary. And there are only a small number of purchase orders on the shipping counter, not enough to account for more than a third of the total shipment."