Time Off for Murder (11 page)

  She drew her hand out of his. She stood up. "Sorry, Chris. Your line's good, but not good enough."

  He grew angry. "You can't go. There's too much to do at the store."

  "You'll have to get along without me. Best you can. Because I'm quitting. I'm resigning now."

  He gripped her elbow. "You can't do it. I won't let you. All the years we've worked together."

  "You're making it harder, Chris. Consider it just a leave of absence. For a day or two. No more, Chris. I'll be back."

  "Listen." His voice was harsh. "If you walk out on me now, there won't be any coming back."

  She seemed to be thinking it over But finally she extended her hand, smiled. "It's been nice knowing you. Pleasant while it lasted."

  She took hat and coat from her locker She walked slowly toward the employees entrance. She punched her time-card.

  "Ain't sick, are you?" the time-keeper asked.

  "No. I'm leaving. For good. That's what I said. For good. Take care of yourself. Say good-bye to the boys and girls for me."

  She ambled down Fifth Avenue, taking a last loving look at the display windows of Blankfort's. She was thoroughly unhappy. She had quarreled with Chris. She had parted from Blankfort's - the store that had been a second home to her for many years. She turned the corner. Her feet were as heavy as her heart.

  Remembered episodes crowded one another - the triumphs she and Chris had shared: catching the thief who cut expensive tapestries out of their frames; trapping the dope peddlers who used the store's rest rooms to distribute their merchandise; the McAndrew murder and its blackmail plot.

  That case had been her undoing It had given her this zest for hunting murderers. She and Chris had worked together then, helping one another and the police. That was the way it should have been, even now, working together.

  Poor Chris. Such a dirty trick to walk out on him. Turn back? Oh, no. Oh, no. You've got to go ahead now whatever comes. Lord knows what you're walking into now. Why are you walking so slowly? As if you were going to a funeral. You are. It is a funeral. Phyllis'. Poor Phyllis. Rotting in a deserted cellar while the whole world searched for her. Poor Phyllis, who might this minute have been lying in the sun of Saxon Rorke's lovely terrace. So much to live for. Success. Romance. If it happened to Phyllis, it could happen to anyone. The fiend who killed her is at liberty. Six months of freedom, unsuspected. Lord knows how many other girls like Phyllis. A great city that could not guard its women. Oh yes, it could, if they stayed at home and tended to their business. No, not even then. A housewife, answering a mid-day doorbell might find death on the sill.

  But worldly Phyllis, who knew the ways of crime, Phyllis who lived without fear, Phyllis who said she was going to the movies and died in a furnace. What had she been doing uptown? How did she get there? Why did she go? Saxon Rorke waiting at the Rushmore Grill. But the rendezvous with death came first. That changed the schedule. Death had a date with the lady.

  Phyllis must have had an appointment to meet someone either at the movies or before or after. Or maybe she wasn't going to the movies at all. Perhaps the message she gave to Struthers was just a pretext. That queer, tan Struthers, so tight-lipped, hiding a past in prison. Perhaps it was all a lie. And Struthers knew. Where was Struthers now? Could the police find him? Could the police find any murderer who had had a six-month chance to get away?

  She had slipped into the familiar processes of picking up threads, weaving them into a fabric. She had forgotten melancholy; forgotten even Chris.

  She hailed a taxi, read the address to the driver from her newspaper.

  The taxi-driver said: "That's the place where they found the lady in the furnace, ain't it?"

  "News travels fast."

  "It's in the paper, ain't it? Crummy neighborhood."

  "Do you know the house?"

  He shook his head. "Used to know the place next to it. Fifty-seven. Took a lot of guys there onct upon a time. Before the pinch."

  "What pinch?"

  The back of his neck crimsoned. "Ah, it ain't nothing to talk to a lady about," he mumbled. He concentrated on his driving and kept silent.

  At the Plaza, he swung into Central Park. The young green of the lawns, the golden feathers of forsythia were a pleasant sight. Mary said: "It's good to see signs of spring."

  The taxi-driver inhaled deeply. "You don't know, lady. Ever try hacking in the winter time? I don't know when I remember a colder winter. Every time you turned around it was snowin'. Started up cold before Election Day."

  When the red-light held them up, Mary leaned forward. "What about fiftyseven? What was the pinch you mentioned before?"

  The driver acted as if he hadn't heard. The color of his ears betrayed him.

  Mary repeated. "Tell me about the house at fifty-seven."

  The driver lifted one hand from the wheel, waved it deprecatingly. "Just one of them things, lady. One of them places. The town's full of 'em. Don't know why they picked on Missus Gordon. She was runnin' a quiet joint. No trouble. High class trade. Politics. Maybe it was politics. Somebody had to make a showin' before Election."

  He pulled up his brakes on Central Park West, pointed down the cross street. "It's down that block, lady. Where the crowd is. One way. East bound street. Want me to go around the block?"

  "Don't bother. I'll walk." She made the tip generous.

  "Thanks, lady." He touched his cap, clicked his meter flag up again. "Goodluck."

  Away from the green terraces and time-mellowed crags of Central Park, the street became a dismal slum, growing more drab, more ugly, more neglected with each yard that took it from the park and nearer to the avenue where the El trains groaned and sunless shops mildewed under the tracks. A city refuse truck, near the corner, filled its air with the white haze of ashes and the attar of garbage.

  On the even number side, rows of aged brick tenements, of dark "railroad" flats, stretched in an unhappy line, fire-escapes crawling like iron spider webs over their bleak facades; frowsy women, resting fat elbows on sofa cushions at their windows. Down toward the middle of the block, the shell of a still more venerable building stood, denuded of its steps, doors and windows boarded tight, poster plastered, last November's defeated candidates still rearing hopeful heads above this spring's marvels at the circus. "The Leap Of Death…Thrill Of The Century…." "See The World's Most Savage Beast…Terror Of The Jungles." A baby slept peacefully in its go-cart under the paws of the leering ape.

  On the odd number side of the street, where the crowd was gathered, the houses were all private dwellings, which had once been homes of dignity and some pretentiousness. Three stories high, all of them, above iron-barred basements - monotony of drab brownstone, and brownstone topped by brick, all with steep stoops, grooved by generations of feet, and wrought iron-railed, slateflagged, iron-fenced areaways. Some were boarded up; some stared blankly through bare, unwashed windows, "For Sale or Rent" signs creaking before their doors; others were hung at parlor bay windows with ragged curtains and painted signs, lettered "Furnished Rooms." Fifty-nine was the middle house of a trio of hideous, boarded-up brownstone and brick.

  Mary used her elbows, cut like a knife blade through the throng. Resentful voices trailed her. "Hey, where you goin', lady?"…"Cops won't let you through."…"Hey, quit your shovin'. Don't you think I wanna see it too?"

  She pushed and wriggled, heedless of protests, but when she heard a small boy say, gleefully, as he hopped out of her way: "Gees, we ain't had so much excitement since they pulled the pinch on fifty-seven," she stopped abruptly and plucked the urchin's sleeve.

  "What pinch, sonny?" she asked.

  The boy looked up at her, startled. "I guess you don't live around here," he said. "Or you wouldn't of forgot that night."

  Mary opened her purse. "What happened?"

  The urchin got the idea at once. "Nothin' much. One of them houses. The cops carted all the dames away. You should of heard the hollerin'. About nine o'clock at night it was. I was doing my homewoik - upstairs." He pointed to the tenement down the block. "I hoid the hollerin'. So I come down. You should of seen them dames. One of them was swearing somethin' fierce."

  "When was this?" Mary demanded.

  "Oh, it was a long, long…before Election Day…. Hey, Mickey." He pulled another youngster's coat. "You remember when it was they pulled the pinch on fifty-seven? Come on. Come on. The lady wants to know. Come on, she'll give us somethin'."

  The other boy hunched his shoulders. "What she wanna know fer? It's a long time. Last fall. All I remember is it was the night it got so cold. Maybe a couple weeks before election."

  "Gees," the first urchin repeated. "I'll never forget it. Y'remember they said all the men got away. Y'remember they was runnin' down the street and the cop said 'Let 'em go, 'thell with 'em. Gees, y'see what she give us. She give us a quarter. . . She give us a quarter just for that. Hey, lady, come back here. I'll tell you some more. Where'd she get to? Gee, dames is nuts."

  Fifty-nine's first story was brownstone; its upper two, brick. In an earlier decade some thought and money had been lavished on it, to give it an air of elegance. There was a colored glass fanlight - poisonous greens and blues and reds - above the entrance door, atop a staircase, that had a balustrade of carved brownstone. Over the doorway, an animal's head, carved of stone, had been set, flush, into the brickwork. It was the head of a wolf.

  A uniformed policeman stood at the basement door, arguing with the herd of newspaper men. He pushed Mary away.

  "You can't come in here, lady."

  "I'm Mary Carner."

  "I don't care if you're Brenda Frazier. You can't come in."

  "Is Inspector Heinsheimer inside?"

  The policeman looked over his shoulder. "Sure. He's busy."

  "Can I get word to him?"

  The policeman shrugged. "If you can find somebody to tell him. I can't go away from here. I got my orders. Step back, lady. The Medical Examiner's comin' in."

  Dr. Leo Martin, the portly, black-bearded Medical Examiner of New York County, stepped from a departmental limousine at the curb. Mary hurried toward him.

  "Doctor Martin, you remember me? Mary Carner. Blankfort's."

  The Medical Examiner raised his brows. "Oh, yes. The McAndrew case. How d'ya do? What're you doing here?"

  "I've got to get in. I've got to see the Inspector. He - " She pointed to the officer at the door. "He doesn't know me. He won't let me in."

  "You don't think the boys can handle it themselves?"

  "I'd like to help them."

  He tucked her arm under his. "Come on."

  "Listen, lady," the policeman at the door muttered as she sailed by on the Medical Examiner's arm, "how was I to know you was a friend of the Doc's?"

  The narrow hallway was blue with uniforms. There seemed to be as many people inside the basement as out.

  A detective, busy with saw and chisel, paused in his task of cutting away a segment of plaster in the hall and pointed: "Downstairs, Doctor. That way. Watch the steps. Tight squeeze."

  Doctor Martin dropped Mary's arm. "You stay up here, Miss Carner. I'd rather you didn't go down."

  Mary's eyes and ears trailed him resentfully down the staircase.

  From the cellar's depths came voices - the deep rumble of Inspector Augustus Heinsheimer, chief of the Homicide Division, the clipped tones of the Medical Examiner, answering him, and another voice, boyish, New Yorkese. Was that Johnny Reese? Was he on Homicide now? Good boy to work with. Impulsively, Mary stepped on the top rung. A blue-coat hauled her back.

  "I heard what the Doc told you. Better not go down, lady. It ain't pretty. Here, miss," to divert her attention. "Take a look at the party?" He turned her around to the banquet table, wagged an admonitory finger.

  "Stay here, now. Behave yourself. I ain't got time to watch you."

  Then he went on out to the backyard where he had work to do.

  A detective, dictating to a police stenographer, paused in his narrative long enough to scowl at Mary, and went on with his description: "No rooms in the house showed signs of recent occupancy except the basement. In the rear of the basement, the premises designed for kitchen purposes had been used as a dining room by four persons unknown. Dishes, cutlery, remains of food, cigar butts, and an unopened bottle of whiskey were found on a table. The table stood ten feet, four inches from the place in the hall where a bullet had entered the wall, three feet ten and a half inches above the floor."

  A police photographer's flash bulb popped above the table. The cameraman deftly slid one plate out, another in. "Don't touch anything, miss," he warned.

  "I know the rules." Mary bent over the table, her hands behind her. The cigar butts caught her attention. Down at the squashed, pulpy end of one cigar there was a streak of red. She pointed to it. "If that was a cigarette," she said to the photographer, "I'd say a woman had been smoking."

  The dictating detective stopped, stared, scowled again, went on to dictate: "A red stain was noted on the end of one cigar butt."

  The cameraman addressed himself to Mary. "Women don't smoke cigars," he said positively. "But I've heard of men using lipstick. Or ain't you met that kind?"

  "Not yet. Find any prints on all this?"

  He shook his head sadly. "Been here too long. Dust settles on them. Wipes them out. Just a couple on the underside of dishes."