The Copper Frame (5 page)

The man was about forty, well over six feet tall, and with a burly frame. He had a heavy-featured, rather glowering face and his expression suggested that he was in some pain.

Saxon rose and rested his arms on the counter as they approached. The man held out his open wallet to display a Buffalo police badge that read:
Sergeant of Detectives
.

“I'm Harry Morrison of Buffalo's Homicide and Arson,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice.

“Ted Saxon, acting chief of police,” Saxon said, extending his hand across the counter.

Morrison looked surprised. Clasping the hand, he said, “Glad to know you, Chief. How come you work New Year's Eve? Shorthanded?”

“Just a favor for one of the men who wanted to go to a party. I didn't have anything planned.” He looked at the woman with curiosity and she gazed back at him sullenly.

“This is Grace Emmet,” Sergeant Morrison said. “I'm bringing her back to Buffalo from Erie. Maybe you read about her.”

Saxon had. Grace Emmet had been the purported mistress of Buffalo industrialist Michael Factor, who a month previously had been found shot to death in the apartment he had been maintaining for the woman. Grace Emmet had disappeared. Neighbors' testimony of overhearing a violent lover's quarrel preceding the shooting, plus the fact that someone, presumably the woman herself, had carefully removed from the apartment all photographs of Grace Emmet, resulted in a warrant for her arrest on a homicide charge issued by the district attorney of Erie County.

The case had received considerable sensational coverage as a “love nest” murder, one of its most played-up factors being the woman's cleverness in destroying all photographs of herself before fleeing. A composite drawing based on descriptions by acquaintances had been widely circulated, but Saxon saw that it was only a mediocre likeness of the woman. She possessed the same round face and full lips that he had seen pictured, but aside from that, he wouldn't have recognized her from the drawing.

“She was in Erie all this time?” Saxon asked.

“Yeah,” Morrison said disgustedly. “How do you like that? We've had reports of her being seen everywhere from Denver to Miami, and all the time she was less than a hundred miles from Buffalo. The Erie police picked her up last night and she kindly waived extradition. Wonder if you'll do me a favor, Chief?”

“Sure,” Saxon said.

“I've been developing a pain in my side ever since we left Erie, and it's getting worse by the minute. I think maybe I have a hot appendix. I'm afraid to risk the last twenty-five miles. Can you stick my prisoner in a cell until I can get looked at by a doctor?”

“Of course. The woman we use as a matron happens to be at a party, but I know where she is. I'll phone her to come over.”

“Why pull her away from a party?” the sergeant said. “At least until I'm sure I won't be able to drive on. The prisoner won't have to be searched, because she was searched by a matron in Erie, and I have everything she's not allowed to carry in an envelope in my car. If I can find a doctor, I should know within an hour if it's safe to drive on. If it isn't, phone your matron then.”

Rules required that a matron be present at the jail any time there was a female prisoner. As this occurred too seldom to justify a full-time matron, the town's only meter-maid, Jenny Waite, pinch-hit as matron when necessary. As a condition of her employment she had to keep headquarters informed of where she could be reached in emergency. But as the sergeant suggested, it would be a shame to interrupt Jenny's New Year's Eve celebration if the female prisoner was going to be there no more than an hour.

“I guess we can skip regulations this time,” Saxon agreed. He said to the woman; “I'll hang your coat in one of the lockers.”

“Can't I keep it?” she asked huskily. “I'm still cold from the ride. This dumb cop hasn't got a heater.”

“Let her keep it,” Morrison said. “Which way do we go?”

Saxon took the cell key ring from his pocket and led the way back to the cell block. The three cells were in a row, the last one having a solid steel wall between it and the center one so that it couldn't be seen into from the others. This was the “women's section.”

As they passed the first cell, Edward Coombs said, “Company, huh? Maybe we can have a New Year's Eve party.”

No one answered him.

chapter 6

At the door of cell number three Sergeant Morrison removed the woman's handcuffs. The barred door was standing open. The prisoner walked into the cell without being ordered and glanced around disdainfully. The place was immaculately clean, but not very homey, containing nothing but a washbowl with a polished steel mirror over it, a screened commode, and a drop-down bunk.

Seeing her expression, Morrison said, “Better get used to it, lady. You're going to be living in one like it for a long time.”

She turned to glare at him, then whipped off her headscarf and tossed it on the bunk. Without the scarf she looked more like the composite drawing that had been published, for the short, bleached blonde hair which curled around her face in a poodle cut had been one of the distinctive features of the drawing.

Saxon locked the cell door. “You want anything, just holler,” he said.

“Who could want any more than this bridal suite has to offer?” she asked contemptuously.

Saxon turned away without answering. Morrison trailed him back to the waiting room.

Moving behind the counter, Saxon lifted the radio microphone and said, “Control to Car Two. Come in, Car Two.”

From the speaker George Chaney's voice said, “Car Two to Control. Go ahead.”

“Come on in, George,” Saxon said. “I want you to run a patient over to the hospital.”

As he hung up the mike, Morrison said, “I could have driven that far, Chief.”

“They aren't doing anything,” Saxon said. “New Year's Eve is our quietest night of the year.”

Picking up the phone, he dialed the hospital and asked for the chief duty nurse. After a few moments' wait a feminine voice said, “Mrs. Forshay speaking.”

“Hi, Edna,” he said. “This is Ted Saxon. I have a Buffalo police officer at headquarters who thinks he may have a hot appendix. Who's on standby duty?”

“Dr. Harmon.”

“Better give him a ring and have him meet the patient in the emergency room. I'm sending him over in a squad car. The name's Sergeant Harry Morrison.”

“Will do,” Edna Forshay said cheerily. “Happy New Year.”

“Same to you, Edna.”

Five minutes later the squad car reported in and took Morrison away. Three minutes after that, George Chaney's voice came over the radio to announce their arrival at the hospital and report the car out of service until further notice.

At eleven-thirty Sergeant Morrison phoned from the hospital. “False alarm, Chief,” he said. “The doc diagnosed it as indigestion. He was a little sore about being pulled away from his merrymaking.”

“Well, I'm glad it was nothing more serious. You'll be going on tonight, then?”

“Uh-huh. But do you mind if I goof off for another half hour? The nurses on this ward are having a quiet little New Year's Eve party. No drinks, just coffee and cake. They've asked me and your two boys to help them bring in the new year.”

“Sure,” Saxon said. “Let me speak to either Chaney or Ross.”

It was Chaney who came to the phone. Saxon said, “What extension are you going to be near, in case of emergency?”

“One eleven, Chief.”

“Okay,” Saxon said, marking it down. “Happy New Year.”

“Same to you,” Chaney said.

If one eleven had been the extension of Emily's ward, he would have asked to speak to her, because by now she was on duty; but it wasn't. He contemplated phoning to wish her a Happy New Year, then decided against it. If she wasn't tied up with a patient at midnight, she would probably phone him.

At midnight the fire whistle emitted the prolonged blast with which it annually signaled the start of a new year. A dozen church bells began to toll an accompaniment to it. Saxon went to the door and opened it a crack to listen for the horns and noisemakers of any celebrants who happened to be on the street.

There weren't any, because it was now snowing heavily. When he had come on duty, the streets and sidewalks had been dry, although a foot-deep residue of old snow lay on the ground. But now there was an inch-deep blanket of white on the street.

He closed the door and went back to the cell block, suddenly impelled to have at least some kind of human contact at the moment all the rest of the town was celebrating.

Pausing before the first cell, he said, “Happy New Year, Coombs.”

The man gazed at him for a moment before saying sardonically, “Happy New Year to you, Chief.”

Walking on to the last cell, he found the blonde seated on her bunk. She had removed her fur coat and it lay folded alongside of her. She was wearing a green dress of expensive cut, but of not very good fit, for it hung too loosely on her.

She must have lost weight since she fled Buffalo a month ago, he thought. He wondered if it had been deliberate, in an attempt at disguise, or if worry over being hunted had sloughed off the poundage.

“Happy New Year, Miss Emmet,” he said.

She glared at him. “Are you kidding?”

Saxon returned to the desk and reseated himself. Emily must have been too busy to call, he thought, for the phone didn't ring.

At five after twelve George Chaney's voice came from the radio speaker. “Car Two to Control. We are back in service. Will drop Sergeant Morrison off at headquarters before resuming patrol.”

“Control to Car Two,” Saxon said into the mike, “Roger.”

Five minutes later Edward Coombs called, “Hey, Chief!”

Walking back to the cell block, Saxon said, “Yeah?”

“You better check that woman prisoner. Some awfully funny sounds are coming from there.”

Saxon continued on to the last cell. What he saw made him hurriedly draw the key ring from his pocket and unlock the door. The blonde stood on the dropdown bunk. One end of her headscarf was knotted about an overhead water pipe; the other end she was winding about her throat.

As he turned the key in the lock, she quickly unknotted the scarf and dropped it on the bunk. By the time he got into the cell, she had jumped down to the floor.

Saxon paused in astonishment when she took hold of the front of her dress and deliberately ripped it to the waist, also bursting the center strap of her brassiere to bare small but well-formed breasts. Her skirt came up to her waist and she savagely tore at the unglamorous plain white cotton panties she was wearing. The elastic burst and the material split, allowing them to slither down to her knees. She completed their destruction by ripping them right in two and letting the segments fall to the floor.

Then she hurled herself at Saxon, scratching, kicking, biting, and screaming. Fingernails burned one cheek. He made a grab for the clawing hand, missed, and felt her teeth sink into his palm. The toe of a pointed shoe dug into his shin.

Spreading his arms, he managed to pin hers to her sides by enveloping her in a bear hug. Her pointed toes began to beat a tattoo on his shins and she attempted to get an ear in her teeth. He pulled her over to the bunk, threw her down and held her there by the simple expedient of falling on top of her with the full weight of his two hundred pounds.

Quite suddenly she relaxed.

“You going to cut it out?” he growled.

“All right,” she said in an entirely calm voice. “Get up. You're hurting me.”

Cautiously he released her arms and started to rise to his feet. At once her legs shot out to encircle his waist and her arms locked about his neck. She gave an abrupt jerk that pulled him off balance and made him fall heavily atop her again.

A voice from the cell door said, “What the hell's going on here?”

Then the woman was pushing against his chest, fighting him away and screaming again. Saxon fell from the bunk to his knees, climbed to his feet, and staggered backward across the room, to back into someone in the doorway. He turned to find Sergeant Morrison glaring at him in outrage.

“She's gone crazy,” Saxon said. “She tried to hang herself, and when I came in to stop her, she was all over me like a swarm of hornets.”

“Looked to me more like you were all over her,” Morrison said in his rumbling voice.

The woman still lay sprawled on the bunk, her skirt bunched around her waist to disclose her bare thighs, her naked breasts heaving. In a flat, unemotional voice she said, “He raped me.”

After staring at her for a moment, Saxon walked over and picked up the headscarf. Morrison was still standing squarely in the doorway when Saxon turned back toward the door, a belligerent expression on his face. But as Saxon bore down on him, the expression on the acting chief's face turned Morrison's expression uncertain. At the last instant he stepped aside.

Relocking the cell door, Saxon stalked to the waiting room, trailed by the silent Morrison. Tossing the headscarf on the counter, Saxon entered the washroom, leaving the door open, and stared into the mirror over the washbowl. Two raw scratches ran down his left cheek. Rubbing water on them, he patted his cheek dry with his handkerchief, then ran water over his bitten hand and dried that too.

Sergeant Morrison watched silently from the washroom doorway. When Saxon turned toward the door, again he stepped aside to let him pass. Saxon walked behind the counter. Morrison walked over, leaned his elbows on the counter, and regarded the acting chief steadily.

“You can stop looking at me so accusingly,” Saxon said irritably. “I don't know why she pulled that. Maybe she's just got a grudge against all cops.”

“Pulled what?” Morrison asked quietly.

“Faked my raping her.”

“I saw it,” Morrison said in the same quiet tone.