Collection 1983 - The Hills Of Homicide (v5.0) (23 page)

Mooney had come up behind him. “Maybe we should have a look at the briefcase, Mr. Pollard.”

All the spirit went out of him. His face looked gray and old as he turned on Mooney. “Let me go, lieutenant. Let me go. I’ll pay. I’ll pay plenty.”

Mooney opened the briefcase and began leafing through the papers. “You should have thought of this before you planned to gyp a lot of vets out of their money.” He glanced up at me. “Morgan, unless I’m mistaken, this is the man who engineered the whole affair. From the looks of this, he was coming to settle up with Merrano.”

“Lieutenant, you work it out any way you like. I am going to buy Pat a drink as soon as she’s off duty, and then I’m going home and sleep for a week.”

“She’s off duty as of now,” Mooney said, but as we started to walk away, he called after us. “Sergeant? You’d better watch that guy! He’s a good man in the clinches!”

Pat laughed, and we kept going. In the clinches, I had an idea Pat could take care of herself.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

COLLECT FROM A CORPSE

Joe Ragan, career police officer, plays a central role in the next two stories. I have a great deal of respect for the kind of twentieth-century lawman he represents.

The police have an extremely tough job. We Americans accept laws because we know they’re necessary, but nobody likes them very much. We’re a people who are kind of freewheeling, used to going our own way and the police officer has a difficult time because he’s coping with people who are committing crimes or who are about to do so. In addition, very few people will tell an officer the truth. Nine out of ten people will tend to tell the officer, “Well, I wasn’t really speeding, officer, I just missed that stoplight.”

Yet, even though they do not get a very good view of human nature, a great many of the police are honorable people. Like Joe Ragan they’re hard-working men and women who stay with their jobs. An awful lot of police work is done just by sheer legwork. They have to get around, know their town, know their people, know where things happen.

COLLECT FROM A CORPSE

P
IKE AMBLER CALLED the department from the Fan Club at ten in the morning, and Lieutenant Wells Ryerson turned it over to Joe Ragan. “Close this one fast,” he said, “and give me an airtight case.”

With Captain Bob Dixon headed for early retirement, Ryerson was acting in charge of the burglary detail. If he made a record, his chance of taking Dixon’s job was good.

Ragan knew the Fan Club. A small club working in the red, it had recently zoomed into popularity because of the dancing of Luretta Pace. Ragan was thinking of that when he arrived at the club with Sam Blythe and young Lew Ryerson. Sam was a veteran, Lew a tall young man with a narrow face and shrewd eyes. He had been only four months in the department.

Sam Blythe glanced at the hole chopped in the ceiling and then at the safe. “An easy one, Joe. Entry through the ceiling, a punch job on the safe, nothing touched but money, and the floor swept clean after the job was finished.” He walked over to the wastebasket and took from it a crumpled wad of crackly paper. “And here’s the potatochip sack, all earmarks of a Pete Slonski job.”

Ragan rubbed his jaw but did not reply. Obviously, he was puzzled.

“Slonski, all right. It checks with the
modus operandi
file, and it’s as open and shut as the Smiley case. I’ll call headquarters and have them put out a pickup on Slonski.”

“Take it easy,” Ragan said. “Let’s look this over first.”

“What’s the matter?” Lew Ryerson was like his brother, too impatient to get things done. “Like Sam said, Slonski’s written all over it.”

“Yeah, it does look like it.”

“It is his work. I’m going to call in.”

“It won’t do any good,” Ragan said mildly. “This job would even fool Slonski, but he didn’t do it.”

Sam Blythe was puzzled, Ryerson irritated. “How can you be sure?” Ryerson demanded. “It’s obvious enough to me.”

“This isn’t a Slonski job,” Ragan said, “unless ghosts can crack safes. Pete Slonski was killed last night in Kansas City.”

“What?”
Ryerson was shocked. “How do you know that?”

“It was in the morning paper, and as we have a charge against him, I wired the FBI. They checked the fingerprints. It was Slonski, all right, dead as a herring. And dead for a couple of hours before they found him.”

Blythe scowled. “Then something is funny. I’d have sworn Slonski did this job.”

“So would I,” Ragan said, “and now I am wondering about Smiley. He swears he’s innocent, and if ever I saw a surprised man, it was Smiley when I put the cuffs on him.”

“They all claim to be innocent,” Ryerson said. “That case checked out too well, and you know as well as I do you can identify a crook by his method of operation as by his fingerprints.”

“Like this one?” Ragan asked mildly. “This looks like a Slonski job, but Slonski’s dead and buried.”

“Smiley had a long record,” Blythe said uneasily. “I never placed any faith in his going straight.”

“Neither did I,” Ragan admitted, “but five years and no trouble. He’d bought a home, built up a business, and not even a traffic count against him.”

“On the other hand,” Ryerson said, “he needs money. Maybe he’s just been playing it smart.”

“Crooks aren’t smart,” Ragan objected. “No man who will take a chance on a stretch in the pen is smart. They all make mistakes. They can’t beat their own little habits.”

“Maybe we’ve found a smart one,” Ryerson suggested. “Maybe he used to work with Slonski and made this one look like him for a cover.”

“Slonski worked alone,” Blythe said. “Let’s get some pictures and get on with it.”

Joe Ragan prowled restlessly while Ryerson got his pictures. Turning from the office, he walked out through the empty bar and through the aisles of stacked chairs and tables. Mounting the steps from the street, he entered the studio, from which entry had been gained to the office below.

Either the door had been unlocked with a skeleton key, or the lock had been picked. There was a reception room whose walls were covered by pictures of sirens with shadows in the right places and bare shoulders. In the studio itself, there was a camera, a few reflectors, a backdrop, and assorted props. The hole had been cut through the darkroom floor.

Squatting on his heels, Joe Ragan studied the workmanship. A paper match lay on the floor, and he picked it up. After a glance, he put it in his pocket. The hole would have taken an hour to cut, and as the club closed at two
A.M
. and the personnel left right after, the burglar must have entered between three and five o’clock in the morning.

Hearing footsteps, Ragan turned his head to see a plump and harassed photographer. Andre Gimp fluttered his hands. “Oh, this is awful! Simply awful! Who could have done it?”

“Don’t let it bother you. Look around and see if anything is missing and be careful you don’t forget and walk into that hole.”

Ragan walked to the door and paused, lighting a cigarette. He was a big man, a shade over six feet, with wide, thick shoulders and big hands. His hair was rumpled, but despite his size, there was something surprisingly boyish about him.

Ryerson had borrowed him a few days before from the homicide squad, as Ragan had been the ace man on the burglary detail before being transferred to homicide.

Ragan ran his fingers through his hair and returned to the club. He was remembering the stricken look on Ruth Smiley’s face when he arrested her husband. There had been a feeling then that something was wrong, yet detail for detail, the Smiley job had checked as this one checked with Slonski.

Leaving Lew Ryerson and Sam Blythe to question Ambler, he returned to headquarters. He was scowling thoughtfully when he walked into Wells Ryerson’s office. The lieutenant looked up, his eyes sharp with annoyance.

“Ragan, when will you learn to knock? What is it you want? I am very busy.”

“Sorry.” He dropped into a chair. “Are you satisfied with the Smiley case?” Briefly, he explained their discoveries at the Fan Club.

Wells Ryerson waited him out with obvious irritation. “That has nothing to do with Smiley. The man had no alibi. He was seen in the vicinity of the crime within thirty minutes of its occurrence. We know his record, and we know he needs money. The tools that did the job came from his shop. The D.A. is satisfied, and so am I.”

Ragan leaned his thick forearms on the chair arms. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I don’t like it. This job today checks with Slonski, but he’s dead, so where does that leave us with Smiley? Or with Blackie Miller or Ed Chalmers?”

Ryerson’s anger and dislike were evident as he replied. “Ragan, I see what you’re trying to do. You know Dixon is about to retire, and if you can mess up my promotion, you can step up yourself.

“Well, you go back to homicide. We don’t need you or anybody like you. As of this moment, you are off the burglary detail.”

Ragan shrugged. “Sorry you take it this way. I don’t want your job. I asked for the transfer to homicide, but I don’t like to see innocent men go to prison.”

“Innocent?” Ryerson’s tone was thick with contempt. “You talk like a schoolboy! Jack Smiley was in reform school at sixteen and in the pen when he was twenty-four. He was short of cash, and he simply reverted to type. Go peddle your papers in homicide.”

Joe Ragan closed the door behind him, his ears burning. He knew how Ryerson felt, but he could not forget the face of Ruth Smiley or the facts that led to the arrest of her husband. Smiley, Miller, and Chalmers had all been arrested by virtue of information from the M.O. file.

It was noon and lunch time. He hesitated to report to his own chief, Mark Stigler. He was stopping his car before the white house on the side street before he realized it.

Ruth Smiley wore no welcoming smile when she opened the door. He removed his hat, flushing slightly. “Mrs. Smiley, I’d like to ask a few questions if I may. It might help Jack if you answer them.”

There was doubt, but a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Look,” he explained, “something has come up that has me wondering. If the department knew I was here, they wouldn’t like it, as I am off this case, but I’ve a hunch.” He paused, thinking ahead. “We know Jack was near the scene of the crime that night. What was he doing there?”

“We told you, Mr. Ragan. Jack had a call from the Chase Printing Company. He repaired a press of theirs once, and they asked him to come not later than four o’clock, as they had a rush job that must begin the following morning.”

“That was checked, and they said they made no such call.”

“Mr. Ragan, please believe me,” Ruth Smiley pleaded. “I heard him talking. I heard his replies!”

Ragan scowled unhappily. This was no help, but he was determined now. “Don’t raise your hopes,” he said, “but I am working on an angle that may help.”

The Chase Printing Company could offer no assistance. All their presses were working, and they had not called Smiley. Yes, he had repaired a press once, and an excellent job, too. Yes, his card had been found under the door when they opened up.

Of course, the card could have been part of an alibi, but that was one thing that had bothered him all along. “Those guys were crooks,” he muttered, “yet not one of them had an alibi. If they had been working, they would have had iron-clad alibis to prove themselves elsewhere.”

Yet the alternative was a frame-up by someone familiar with their working methods. A call had taken Smiley from his bed to the vicinity of the crime, a crime that resembled his working ways. With the records each man had, there was no way they could escape conviction.

He drove again to the Fan Club. Pike Ambler greeted him. “Still looking? Any leads?”

“A couple.” Ragan studied the man. “How much did you lose?”

“Two grand, three hundred.” His brow furrowed. “I can’t take it, Joe. Luretta hasn’t been paid, and she’ll raise a squawk you’ll hear from here to Flatbush.”

“You mean Luretta Pace? Charlie Vent’s girl?”

Ambler nodded. “She was Vent’s girl before he got himself vented.” He smiled feebly at the pun. “She’s gone from one extreme to the other. Now it’s a cop.”

“She’s dating a cop? Who?”

“Lew Ryerson.” Ambler shrugged. “I don’t blame him. She’s a number, all right.”

Ragan returned to the office, reported in, and completed some routine work. It was late when he finally got to bed.

He awakened with a start, the telephone jangling in his ears. He grabbed it sleepily. “Homicide calling, Joe. Stigler said to give it to you.”

“To me?” Ragan was only half-awake. “Man, I’m off duty.”

“Yeah”—the voice was dry—“but this call’s from the Fan Club. Stigler said you’d want it.”

He was wide awake now. “Who’s dead?”

“Pike Ambler. He was shot just a few minutes ago. Get out there as fast as you can.”

Two patrol cars were outside, and a cop was barring the door. Joe had never liked the word “cop,” but he had grown up with it, and it kept slipping back into his thinking. The officer let him pass, and Joe walked back to the office.

Ambler was lying on his face beside the desk, wearing the cheap tux that was his official costume. His face was drained of color now, his blue eyes vacant.

Ragan glanced at the doctor. “How many times was he shot?”

“Three times, and damned good shooting. Right through the heart at close range. Probably a .45.”

“All right.” Ragan glanced up as a man walked in. It was Sam Blythe. “What are you doing here?”

“Prowling. I was talking to the cop on the beat when we heard the shots. We busted in here, and he was lying like that, with the back window open. We went out and looked around but saw nobody, and we heard no car start.”

“Who else was in the club?”

“Nobody. The place closed at two, and the last to leave was that Pace gal. What a set of gams she’s got!”

“All right. Have the boys round ’em all up and get them in here.” He dropped into a chair when the body had been taken away and studied the situation. A little bit of thinking sometimes saved an awful lot of shoe leather. Blythe watched him through lowered lids.

He got up finally, making a minute examination of the room, locating two of the three bullet holes and digging them from the wall with care to add no scratches. They were .45s and he studied them thoughtfully.