Invitation to Violence (7 page)

    Gerald had the run of the house, but by preference stayed pretty much to his own quarters. He did, however, keep an eye on things. He saw to it that the gardener, hired for a few days each month, kept the lawn and the hedges trimmed and he also made a point of seeing that the Sandersons' car was maintained in running condition. He checked to see that the tires didn't become deflated from standing idle or the battery run down. There was no telling when the Sandersons might suddenly decide to return and he made it a point to be sure everything would be ready in case they did. In this fashion he partly made up for the low rent which he paid for his own quarters.

    The converted doctor's offices made a pleasant and convenient bachelor's apartment; would in fact have been satisfactory for a childless couple. Maryjane Swiftwater, however, on the single occasion when she had visited Gerald, had found it hopelessly inadequate when he had casually suggested that it might make their immediate marriage possible. He hadn't argued; for some odd reason he himself found the idea of sharing the apartment with a wife-or at least with Maryjane-slightly unattractive.

    When Gerald returned in the early hours of the morning he had, for one of the few times in his life, neglected to set his alarm clock. As a result he awakened late, or at least late for him. It was well after seven-thirty when he slowly woke up and the sun was already streaming through the sheer curtains of his bedroom window, which faced to the east.

    For a moment or two, as he opened his eyes and stretched, the events of the previous night were erased from his mind. He started to leap from the bed, remembering only that he had to hurry if he was to arrive in Connecticut as he had planned. And then, halfway to the bathroom, he stopped dead in his tracks. Connecticut? No, it wasn't to Connecticut that he was going this Saturday.

    He turned to the dresser where he had placed the jewels and he was unable to resist the temptation to pull open the drawer and check on them. There they were in all of their loveliness.

    His eyes went to the clock as he checked the time. It had been more than five hours since he had left the scene of the robbery and the shooting. He breathed a sigh of sudden relief. He began to feel a little safer. No one could have obtained the number of his car; certainly not one of the policemen who had been lying in the street. They would have checked it and found him by now for sure. His calculated risk was beginning to pay off.

    He took his time showering and shaving, having put a pot of coffee on to boil first. And then he dressed, getting into a pair of slacks and an open-necked shirt and putting on a pair of tennis shoes. He fried two eggs and several slices of bacon and made himself a couple of pieces of toast. He ate a leisurely breakfast and took time to clean up after he had finished. Then he returned to the bedroom, made up the bed and put away the clothes he had been wearing the previous evening.

    The pattern of Gerald Hanna's thinking may have undergone a radical change, but the habits of a lifetime failed to desert him.

    At eight forty-five he put in his call to Maryjane. He had his story all ready, his alibi for not coming up for the week end.

    It was probably the quality of her voice that caused him to do what he did. Somehow or other, he was unable to help himself. There was something about the way she framed the question, something in the tone of her voice as she said, "And just why aren't you coming, Gerald?" that made him say what he did. He couldn't resist it.

    "Because I damned well don't want to," Gerald said, and then, quite unconsciously, he laughed. He could hear the gasp at the other end of the wire.

    Gerald carefully put the receiver back on the hook. He felt fine, just perfect. It was something he'd been wanting to say to Maryjane for a long, long time now.

    Gerald left the telephone and at once went downstairs to the basement where his car sat next to that of the Sandersons' in the double garage. He didn't open the garage doors, but instead turned on the overhead light. He started the engine in his car and then pressed the button, lowering the convertible top. He minutely inspected the car for bloodstains. He found no trace of his unwelcome passenger of the previous night.

    He realized almost at once what must have happened. The bullet must have struck the man somewhere in either the back of his head or his neck. The bullet had either completely passed through and gone out the windshield, or had struck a bone and stayed buried in the body. What little blood there was had probably dripped down the inside of the leather jacket.

    Finishing his inspection of the inside of the car, Gerald next made an inspection of the windshield. He began removing the last remaining fragments of glass. When he was through, he gathered the broken glass together and wrapped it in newspapers along with the pieces he had already recovered, and then put the parcel in a zipper bag which had been given him as a souvenir by United Airlines. He returned upstairs and retrieved the .38 revolver which Vince Dunne had dropped on the floor of the car, and this too he put in the bag. He placed the bag on the floor of the Sandersons' car next to the brief case which held the jewels.

    Five minutes later, at the wheel of the Sandersons' car, he drove out the driveway, after carefully locking the garage doors behind himself.

    Traffic was inordinately light and he made good time getting into New York. He found a parking lot not far from Grand Central Station and after checking the car in, took the zipper bag in one hand and the brief case under his arm and walked the two or three blocks to the station. He realized that the public locker services had a twenty-four hour time limit, so he went to the parcel checkroom on the ground floor level. He checked both the zipper bag and the brief case.

    He stopped in the lobby of the Biltmore long enough to obtain an envelope and a couple of sheets of stationery. Then he walked around the corner and over to the post office. Standing at the desk in the lobby, he addressed the envelope to himself, folded the check in two sheets of paper and inserted them. Then he purchased a stamp, sealed the envelope and dropped it into the slot.

    Returning to the parking lot, he felt considerably relieved.

    It took him only a few minutes to drive directly cross town and find the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.

    A lot of changes had been made during the last seven years, since the last time he'd driven this way, but he had no difficulty in finding the place. It wasn't surprising; he'd made the trip often enough, heaven knows, during the two years he'd worked for the garage while completing his course at college. They'd painted the building, added a wing and the name of the firm had changed, but it was still a glass factory. Parking in front of the place, he sensed a feeling of relief. It was an odd sensation walking inside once again.

    A man he had never seen before greeted him at the long counter and he guessed that the place had probably changed hands. He asked for a windshield for a '56 Chevrolet convertible. He had the model number, but the man behind the counter didn't need it. The man had the right size glass in stock. Hanna paid for it in cash.

    By one o'clock he was back in Roslyn.

    He knew a moment's nervousness as he drove into the driveway and stopped. The place was completely deserted, but he still felt the tension as he opened the garage doors. The Chevvie stood where he had left it the previous evening.

    It took him longer than he thought it would and once he bruised his knuckles badly, but at last he had the windshield installed. When he was finished, he went out to the drive and picked up a handful of sand and gravel. He rubbed it over the windshield, purposely scratching it. Next he covered the glass with a thin layer of mud and then wiped it off, leaving stray bits around the edges.

    At three-thirty he was finished and he went upstairs and washed up. Not until then did he sit down and relax. He picked up the newspapers he had purchased on his way back to Roslyn.

    

    

    The lieutenant had been very emphatic and Patrolman Hoffman was not a man to disregard a superior officer; especially as the lieutenant was attached to Homicide and was a detective. No one was going to pass through the door and get into that room. No one. That is, of course, with the exception of the day and night nurses and the doctor.

    Looking down from his six feet four inches of muscle and brawn into the upturned face of the slender man in the immaculate pin-striped suit, Officer Hoffman again repeated himself.

    "You heard me," he said. "I made myself very clear. No one. No one at all. Those were my orders and I'm going to follow them."

    "You do just that, Officer," Steinberg said. "Go right ahead and follow your orders-and the next thing you know you'll be walking a beat somewhere so far out in the sticks they'll have to fly your relief in by helicopter."

    Officer Hoffman very carefully removed the toothpick from the side of his mouth.

    "A wise shyster from the city," he said. "You know all the answers, yes? Well, let me tell you something, mister. You may be a big shot over in Manhattan, but out here, in Nassau, you ain't nothing. Less than nothing."

    "Keep your voice down, Officer," Steinberg said. "This is a hospital after all, you know. And perhaps you would like to look at this," he added, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "That is, of course, if they taught you to read. It happens to be a note from the assistant D.A. It's an order permitting me to see my client, Jake Riddle. I don't give a damn for you or your lieutenant. I happen to be Mr. Riddle's attorney and I have every right to see him. This little paper says so. And I'm going into that room and I'm going to talk to him. Alone."

    He handed the paper to the other man.

    "The doctor…"

    Steinberg whipped out a second piece of paper.

    "His permission," he said. "So just roll over and I'll go on in."

    Officer Hoffman carefully read both papers and then handed them back.

    "And how do I know you are Leon Steinberg?"

    "Oh, my God." The attorney reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a wallet. "Do I look like somebody who's going to go in there and shoot him?" he asked. "Do I…"

    "It would be a good thing if you did," Hoffman said. "The dirty cop killer! O.K., go on in. But five minutes. That's what the doc says. Five minutes. And if you can get a word out of that rat in that time, you'll be doing a lot more than we've been able to do."

    He reached down and turned the key in the door and then opened it.

    Steinberg entered the sterile white room, unconsciously observing the barred window and slightly repelled by the heavy anesthetic atmosphere.

    He waited until the officer had closed the door of the room and once more turned the key in the lock. Then he moved over to the high white bed and leaned down, speaking in a low, hoarse voice.

    "How is it, Jake?"

    Jake opened his eyes and stared at the lawyer.

    Looking down at him, Steinberg knew that the Assistant D.A. had been right; knew he'd been telling the truth when he'd said that the man was dying. That he wouldn't even need a mouthpiece.

    Steinberg wondered if he'd be able to talk at all.

    "Dommie's dead," Steinberg said, "but Vince made it. Only he hasn't turned up yet and Fred's worried. You're going to be all right, boy," he said as Jake again closed his eyes. "You're going to be O.K. and we'll get you out of it. Be sure of that-we'll get you out. But try and tell us what happened to Vince."

    Once more Jake opened his eyes.

    "I'm dead," he said in a choked whisper. "You know it-I'm dead."

    "Don't be a fool," Steinberg said quickly. "You'll be O.K. But try and think now, kid. What happened to Vince?-Fred's gotta know. We gotta find Vince."

    Jake groaned and tried to turn away, but quickly fell back on the bed. Five minutes later, when Hoffman opened the door to tell Steinberg his time was up, the little lawyer was still pleading with Jake.

    Steinberg picked up a cab a half a block from the hospital and gave the driver the address. It was an apartment hotel in upper Manhattan, and the driver didn't want to make the trip that far out of his territory, but Steinberg slipped him a ten spot and so he drove him. On the way, Steinberg muttered to himself under his breath.

    "Fred ain't gonna like it-not one little bit. He just ain't gonna like it."

    One thing was good about it, though. Dommie was dead and Jake couldn't last much longer. And Jake hadn't talked. Jake wasn't talking to anyone, not even to his own mouthpiece.

    

    

    Bella Riddle looked across the oilcloth-covered kitchen table at her son and raised the napkin to wipe her eyes.

    "Sammy," she said. "Sammy, I want you should eat your food."

    "You're not eating, Mom," Sammy said.

    "It don't make no matter. Eat. You're a growing boy and you gotta eat. And when you finish, I want you to go over to Grandma's for a while. Maybe for a few days."

    Sammy pushed the plate away and his delicate, sensuous lips formed a stubborn line.

    "I'm not hungry and I'm not going to Grandma's," he said.

    Bella felt the tears starting again, but she made an effort to control herself.

    "Sammy," she said. "Sammy, what's got into you anyway? A course you'll go to Grandma's. Just for a few days. Just until Daddy is better and maybe gets outta the hospital."

    "Daddy isn't going to get better," Sammy said.

    "Of course he's going to get better. What are you saying anyway, Sammy? An auto accident can happen to anyone. What kind of son…"