Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (70 page)

Gibson was a tough cop of
the old school, a bleak and burly man who’d campaigned actively for the
lieutenancy which had finally been given to Fletcher. Leopold had never liked
Gibson, but until now he’d managed to overlook the petty graft with which
Gibson’s name was occasionally linked.

“What seems to be the
trouble, Captain?” Gibson asked, taking a seat. “You look unhappy.”

“I am unhappy, Gibson.
Damned unhappy! While you were working the assault and robbery detail I had no
direct command over your activities. But now that I’m in charge of a combined
Violent Crimes Division, I feel I should take a greater interest in them.” He
reached across his desk to pick up a folder. “I have a report here from the
District Attorney’s office. The report mentions you, Gibson, and makes some
very grave charges.”

“What kind of charges?”
the sergeant’s tongue forked out to lick his dry lips.

“That you’ve been
accepting regular payments from a man named Freese.”

Gibson went pale. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”

“Carl Freese, the man who
runs the numbers racket in every factory in this city. You know who he is, and
you know what he’s done. Men who’ve opposed him, or tried to report his
operations to the police, have been beaten and nearly killed. I have a report
here of a foreman at Lecko Industries. When some of his men started losing a
whole week’s pay in the numbers and other gambling controlled by Freese, he
went to his supervisor and reported it. That night on the way home his car was
forced off the road and he was badly beaten, so badly that he spent three weeks
in the hospital. You should be familiar with that case, Gibson, because you
investigated it just last summer.”

“I guess I remember it.”

“Remember your report,
too? You wrote it off as a routine robbery attempt, despite the fact that no
money was taken from the victim. The victim reported it to the District
Attorney’s office, and they’ve been investigating the whole matter of gambling
in local industrial plants. I have their report here.”

“I investigate a lot of
cases, Captain. I try to do the best job I can.”

“Nuts!” Leopold was on
his feet, angry now. There was nothing that angered him more than a crooked
cop. “Look, Gibson, the D.A.‘s office has all of Freese’s records. They show
payments of $100 a week to you. What in hell were you doing for $100 a week,
unless you were covering up for them when they beat some poor guy senseless?”

“Those records are wrong,”
Gibson said. “I didn’t get any hundred bucks a week.”

“Then how much did you
get?”

Leopold towered over him
in the chair, and Gibson’s burly frame seemed to shrivel. “I think I want a
lawyer,” he mumbled.

“I’m suspending you from
the force without pay, effective at once. Thank God you don’t have a wife and
family to suffer through this.”

Tommy Gibson sat silently
for a moment, staring at the floor. Then at last he looked up, seeking Leopold’s
eyes. “Give me a chance, Captain. I wasn’t in this alone.”

“What’s that supposed to
mean?”

“I didn’t get the whole
hundred myself. I had to split it with one of the other men—and he’s the one
who introduced me to Freese in the first place.”

“There’s someone else
involved in this? One of the detectives?”

“Yes.”

“Give me his name.”

“Not yet.” Gibson
hesitated. “Because you wouldn’t believe it. Let me give you evidence.”

“What sort of evidence?”

“He and Freese came to me
at my apartment and told me the type of protection they needed. That was the
night we agreed on the amount of money to be paid each week. I wasn’t taking
any chances, Captain, so I dug out an old recording machine I d bought after
the war, and rigged up a hidden microphone behind my sofa. I got down every
word they said.”

“When was this?” Leopold
asked.

“More than a year ago,
and I’ve kept the recording of the conversation ever since. What’s it worth to
me if I bring it in?”

“I’m not in a position to
make deals, Gibson.”

“Would the D.A. make one?”

“I could talk to him,” Leopold
replied cautiously. “Let’s hear what you’ve got first.”

Gibson nodded. “I’ll take
the reel off my machine and bring it in to you tomorrow.”

“If you’re kidding me,
Gibson, or stalling—”

“I’m not, Captain! I
swear! I just don’t want to take the whole rap myself.”

“I’ll give you
twenty-four hours. Then the suspension goes into effect regardless.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Get the hell out of here
now.”

“Thank you, Captain,” he
said again. “And Merry Christmas.”

* * *

On the day of the
Christmas party, activities around the Detective Bureau slacked off very
little. It was always pretty much business as usual until around four o’clock,
when some of the men started drifting out, exchanging friendly seasonal
comments. The party would really commence around five, when the men on the day
shift arrived at Eagles Hall, and it continued until well past midnight,
enabling the evening men to join in after their tours of duty.

Then there would be a
buffet supper, and lots of beer, and even some group singing around the big
Christmas tree. Without the family attachments of Fletcher and the other men,
Leopold tended to look forward to the party. In many years it was the main
event of his otherwise lonely holiday season.

By four o’clock he had
heard nothing from Sergeant Tommy Gibson. With growing irritation he called
Fletcher into his office. “Gibson’s under your command now, isn’t he, Fletcher?”

“That’s right, Captain.”

“What’s he working on
today?”

Fletcher’s face flushed
unexpectedly. “Well, Captain, it seems—”

“Where is he?”

“Things were a bit slower
than usual, so I told him he could go over to Eagles Hall and help put up the
tree for the party.”

“What!”

Fletcher shifted his feet
uneasily. “I know, Captain. But usually I help Carol and the other wives get it
up. Now that I’m a lieutenant I didn’t feel I could take the time off, so I
sent Gibson in my place.”

Leopold sighed and stood
up. “All right, Fletcher. Let’s get over there right away.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

* * *

Eagles Hall was a large
reasonably modern building that was rented out for wedding receptions and private
parties by a local fraternal group. The Detective Bureau, through its
Benevolent Association, had held a Christmas party there for the past five
seasons, and its central location had helped make it a popular choice. It was
close enough to attract some of the uniformed force as well as the detective
squad. All were invited, and most came at some time during the long evening.

Now, before five o’clock,
a handful of plainclothesmen from various divisions had already arrived.
Leopold waved to Sergeant Riker of the Vice Squad, who was helping Carol
Fletcher light her cigarette with a balky lighter. Then he stopped to exchange
a few words with Lieutenant Williams, a bony young man who headed up the
Narcotics Squad. Williams had made his reputation during a single year on the
force, masquerading as a hippie musician to penetrate a group selling drugs to
high school students. Leopold liked him, liked his honesty and friendliness.

“I hear you’re giving a
little speech tonight,” Williams said, pouring him a glass of beer.

“Herb Clarke roped me
into it.” Leopold answered with a chuckle. “I’d better do it early, before you
guys get too beered up to listen.” He glanced around the big hall, taking in
the twenty-foot Christmas tree with its lights and tinsel. Three guy wires held
it firmly in place next to an old upright piano. “See Tommy Gibson around?”

Williams stood on tiptoe
to see over the heads of some newly arrived uniformed men. “I think he’s
helping Carol finish up the decorations.”

“Thanks.” Leopold took his
beer and drifted over to the far end of the room. Carol had put down her
cigarette long enough to tug at one of the wires holding the tree in place.
Leopold helped her tighten it and then stepped back. She was a charming,
intelligent woman, and this was not the first time he’d envied Fletcher. As
wife and mother she’d given him a fine home life.

“I’m surprised to see you
here so early, Captain.”

He helped her secure
another of the wires and said, “I’m always on time to help charming wives with
Christmas trees.”

“And thank you for
Sergeant Gibson too! He was a great help with the tree.”

“I’ll bet. Where is he
now?”

“He took the hammer and
things into the kitchen. I think he’s pouring beer now.” She produced another
cigarette and searched her purse. Finally she asked, “Do you have a light?”

He lit it for her. “You
smoke too much.”

“Nervous energy. Do you
like our tree?”

“Fine. Just like
Christmas.”

“Do you know, somewhere
in Chesterton there’s mention of a tree that devours birds nesting in its
branches, and when spring comes the tree grows feathers instead of leaves!”

“You read too much, Carol.”

She smiled up at him. “The
nights are lonely being a detective’s wife.” The smile was just a bit forced.
She didn’t always approve of her husband’s work.

He left her by the tree
and went in search of Gibson. The burly sergeant was in the kitchen, filling
pitchers of beer. He looked up, surprised, as Leopold entered. “Hello, Captain.”

“I thought we had an
appointment for today.”

“I didn’t forget.
Fletcher wanted me over here.”

“Where’s the evidence you
mentioned?”

“What?”

Leopold was growing
impatient. “Come on, damn it!”

Tommy Gibson glanced out
at the growing crowd. “I’ve got it, but I had to hide it. He’s here.”

“Who? The man who’s in
this with you?”

“Yes. I’m afraid Freese
might have tipped him off about the D.A.‘s investigation.”

Leopold had never seen
this side of Gibson—a lonely, trapped man who was actually afraid. Or else was
an awfully good actor. “I’ve given you your twenty-four hours, Gibson. Either
produce this recording you’ve got or—”

“Captain!” a voice
interrupted. “We’re ready for your speech.”

Leopold turned to see
Sergeant Turner of Missing Persons standing in the doorway. “I’ll be right
there, Jim.” Turner seemed to linger just a bit too long before he turned and
walked away. Leopold looked back at Gibson. “That him?”

“I can’t talk now,
Captain.”

“Where’d you hide it?”

“Over by the tree. It’s
safe.”

“Stick around till after
my talk. Then we’ll get to the bottom of this thing.”

Leopold left him pouring
another pitcher of beer and walked out through the crowd. With the end of the
afternoon shifts the place had filled rapidly. There were perhaps sixty members
of the force present already, about evenly divided between detectives and
uniformed patrolmen. Several shook his hand or patted him on the back as he
made his way to the dais next to the tree.

Herb Clarke, president of
the Detective Bureau Benevolent Association, was already on the platform,
holding up his hands for silence. He shook Leopold’s hand and then turned to
his audience. “Gather around now, men. The beer’ll still be there in five
minutes. You all know we’re not much for speeches at these Christmas parties,
but I thought it might be well this year to hear a few words from a man we all
know and admire. Leopold has been in the Detective Bureau for as long as most
of us can remember—” The laughter caused him to add quickly, “Though of course
he’s still a young man. But this year, in addition to his duties as Captain of
Homicide, he’s taken on a whole new set of responsibilities. He’s now head of
the entire Violent Crimes Division of the Bureau, a position that places him in
more direct contact with us all. I’m going to ask him to say just a few words,
and then we’ll have some caroling around the piano.”