Which Way to Die? (12 page)

“Seven-and-a-half-A,” Jennings said. He added suddenly, “I got aristocrat's feet,” and chuckled. It was as if a corpse had laughed.

“Nine-D,” Martello volunteered.

Corrigan ignored him. “Any of you ever had any military service?”

“I was in Korea,” Little Jumbo said, not without pride.

“What branch?”

“Air Force.”

Bender and Kinn looked quickly at each other. Grasping at straws, Corrigan thought. They were doing the same thing he was: hoping someone else than Harry Barber would turn out to be the guilty man. The fact was, the pro halfback was their number one suspect.

Dave Bender growled, “How about you other lice?”

Al Jennings shook his head. Grubb said, “I was in the National Guard a few years back.”

Bender pounced on that. “Where?”

“Long Island. The 305th Air National Guard.”

“Well, well,” the sergeant said softly. “How long ago was that, Benny?”

“Five-six years. Sixty-one and sixty-two, it was.”

“What was your job?”

“Ground maintenance. Buck private.”

Kinn said, “Ever use a Bell Rocket Belt?”

Benny looked puzzled.

Corrigan said, “I don't think they were invented that far back, Marty.”

Kinn made a face. “It couldn't be that easy.”

It had to be one of those complicating coincidences that cropped up every once in a while in a case to bug the investigator, Corrigan thought. If Grubb had stolen a rocket belt from his old outfit, he would hardly have been so ready to volunteer the information that he had once belonged to it. The killer could not have been unaware that 305TH AIR NAT. GUARD was stenciled inside the belt. That let Benny Grubb out.

Bender looked Corrigan's way and shrugged his silent agreement.

Just then a portly man in a sleek two-hundred-dollar Italian suit and thinning gray hair bustled into the squadroom.

“Right on time,” Marty Kinn said, looking at his watch.

Bender said, “Never mind making with the writs, Counselor. They're all yours.”

Marty Martello got up and stretched. His henchmen followed suit.

“We cooperated, didn't we, Sergeant?” the racketeer said to Bender. “The least you can do is tell me what this is all about.”

“Glad to oblige, Marty,” the Homicide man said. “It's about young Gerry Alstrom's murder.”

Benny Grubb and Little Jumbo Barth managed to look surprised. The Acid Kid's face registered nothing.

Martello's dark face split in a smile. “Now that's news worth getting out of the sack for! How about the other creep?”

“He's still breathing. Now take your punks and get the hell out of here.”

Martello smiled from the teeth out. “Sure, Sergeant.”

They left the squadroom quickly, followed in a saunter by the lawyer, who had not opened his mouth. There was a silence. Finally Bender said, “What do you think, Tim?”

Corrigan shrugged. “You'll check Grubb's National Guard record out tomorrow, Dave, but I'm betting it comes to a big fat nothing. So far it looks to me like Harry Barber.”

Bender said sourly, “It's going to leave a hell of a hole in the Cougar backfield.” He turned to one of the uniformed men. “What about Barber? Is somebody bringing him in?”

“He wasn't home,” the officer said. “His place is staked out, Sergeant. They'll grab him when he shows.”

The news depressed Corrigan. Where could Barber be at this time of night? Driving around brooding over having committed murder, most likely.

He said, “I'm heading for home. My working day starts in five hours.”

But when he got outside, Corrigan had a change of mind. It had suddenly occurred to him where Harry Barber was. Might as well make a night of it, he thought.

There was a man seated in a parked car a few yards from the entrance to the apartment building where Harry Barber lived. Corrigan stooped to peer in. He recognized the stakeout man as a detective attached to the Homicide Division.

“Hi, Stoyle,” he said. “You on Barber?”

“Oh, Tim. Yeah. That boy keeps late hours for an athlete. It must be four.”

“About a quarter of,” Corrigan said. “He may be up there in another apartment. His girl friend lives next door to him. I'll check it out and let you know.”

“Want me to come up with you?”

“No,” Corrigan said. “I don't expect any trouble. Harry's a friend of mine.”

He went into the building. It was a five-story oldie with a tiny vestibule, and the vestibule was locked. He located Barber's mailbox and pressed the buzzer. When the buzzer played dead after three more rings, he looked for Pat Chase's name. The girl was listed in 209. He pressed the 209 button.

There was no immediate response. He rang once more. Then the lobby door buzzed, and he pushed the door open and went upstairs.

Pat Chase's door was the second from the top of the stairway. She had the door open a crack and was peeping out. She wore a white quilted satin robe and her blonde hair was tumbled about her round, pert face. Even without makeup she didn't look her age. She must use a lot of face goo, he thought.

She looked at him in sleepy surprise. “Tim. What on earth do you want at this time of night?”

“I'm looking for Harry, Pat. Is he here?”

She managed to look indignant. “What do you think I am? You can see I was in bed.”

“Pat, this is important. Is he here?”

“Of course not. Tim, please, I need my sleep—”

A large hand reached past the girl's shoulder, grasped the edge of the door, and pulled it open. It was Barber, in pajama bottoms. Curls of blood hair covered his big chest and shoulders. His muscles were long and smooth; to Corrigan he suddenly looked formidable.

“Don't be an idiot, Pat,” Barber said. “Captain Corrigan wouldn't come around in the middle of the night if it wasn't important. Come in, Captain.”

The girl clutched her robe about her and stepped back. The robe parted, and she grabbed at it. She was wearing nothing underneath.

“You should have backed up my fib, Harry,” she said angrily. “Don't you care anything about my reputation?”

“He's a cop, not a snoop for some lousy rag,” Harry Barber grinned. “I doubt if he gives a hoot in hell whether you have a reputation or not, Patso. Come on in, Captain.”

He stepped aside, and Corrigan walked in. He found himself in a small living room identical in layout to Barber's next door, but decorated in pastel pink. Barber shut the door, and Pat Chase flounced over to her sofa, where she plumped down and tucked her bare feet beneath her.

The football player rubbed a hairy shoulder. There was a half smile on his face, but he did not seem to be enjoying himself. It gave him a watchful look.

“All right, here it is,” Corrigan said. “Harry, how long have you been in this apartment?”

“That's none of your business,” the girl said sulkily.

Corrigan continued to look at Barber.

“She says it's none of your business, Captain. Can I compromise a lady's honor? I just came over a minute ago to borrow a cup of sugar.”

“Okay,” Corrigan said. “Get your clothes on.”

“What for?”

“You're under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

The halfback and the blonde gaped at him.

“I have to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you. You're not required to make any statement, and you're entitled to legal counsel before answering any questions. Want to phone a lawyer?”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Pat squealed. “What is this?”

“I just told you. He's under arrest.”

“Who am I supposed to have killed?” Barber asked slowly.

“I think you know, Harry.”

The big man scratched his crew-cut. “Must be Frank Grant and Gerard Alstrom. Somebody got to them, huh?”

Corrigan felt sickish. Damn! He said, “Get your clothes on.”

“Listen,” Pat said feverishly. “The hell with my reputation. Harry's been here since seven
P
.
M
., Captain, and we've been in bed together since ten.”

“You wouldn't be making that up, would you, Pat?”

“It's the truth! He was here for dinner and he hasn't been out of my sight since. Oh, except for about three minutes just before ten, when he went next door for his pajamas.”

“That right, Harry?”

The big man said, “If you want the whole truth and nothing but, she left me alone for about ten minutes around eleven o'clock.”

“Harry!” The girl was crimson.

Corrigan looked from one to the other. “What for?”

“All right,” Pat cried to the football player. “If you insist on advertising our most intimate secrets.” She turned back to Corrigan. “He means I went into the bathroom. For hygienic reasons.”

Then she started to cry.

Corrigan felt a vast relief. It was hardly the sort of alibi a girl like Pat Chase would make up on the spur of the moment. He had questioned too many suspects and witnesses over the years not to be able to sense the truth when he heard it. This one had the ring of authenticity.

Nevertheless it had to be polished off.

“I know you're fond of Harry,” he said to the weeping girl. “But if you're helping him cover up, remember that accessory to murder is a felony. If you're lying, you may lie yourself into prison for a long stretch.”

“I'm not lying,” she whimpered. “Do I have to show you the damp douche bag?”

Harry Barber laughed. “Here's a chick who really goes all out for a guy,” he said cheerfully. “Thanks, Pats. You're tops.”

She jumped off the sofa and ran into the bedroom, sobbing.

Corrigan could have clipped him.

15.

“You didn't have to be so damned cheerful,” Corrigan said. “That girl's no tart, Harry. It took a lot to make her admit she'd been in bed with you.”

“Oh, hell, a chick is a chick,” Harry Barber said. “They all love it so much they want to surround it with a great big curtain of mystery. Pat's okay, or she will be when she grows up. If she ever does. Well, where do I stand?”

“I'm accepting your alibi for the time being unless something else turns up. Are you familiar with a device called the Bell Aerosystems Rocket Belt?”

“The Buck Rogers belt? I saw it over at the New Jersey air show a few months back.”

“Ever use one?”

“Me?” Barber laughed again. “I was a doughfoot. The infantry doesn't have fancy gizmos like that. We mainly crawled—when we weren't slogging the terrain.”

Corrigan nodded. Barber sounded in the clear. “One last thing, Harry. I'd like to have a look at your shoes.”

Barber looked at him blankly; then he shrugged and went into the bedroom. Corrigan could hear his voice, too low-pitched to make out the words, saying something contrite to the girl, and her muffled reply.

Barber returned with a pair of huge black oxfords. He handed them to Corrigan.

“She's still upset,” he said. “Hell, I apologized, didn't I?”

The shoes were fairly new and the size markings had not yet rubbed away. Baer had been right. They were size twelve-and-a-half-D.

He turned them over to inspect the heels. They were of leather.

He handed them back. “I suppose you have more shoes in your pad.”

“Sure. Eight, nine pair. What's
this
about?”

“I'd like to see them.”

Barber shrugged. “Just a minute.”

He took the shoes back into the girl's bedroom. When he returned, he was wearing a dressing robe. He preceded Corrigan to the public hall and, taking a key from the pocket of his robe, unlocked the door to the next apartment.

There were ten pairs of shoes on Barber's closet floor. Two had rubber heels, but neither was a Goodyear, and there was no gouge.

“I guess that does it,” Corrigan said. “May I use your phone?”

“It's in the living room.”

The phone sat on the card table, beside the portable typewriter. The lid of the carrying case was still up.

He called Homicide. Dave Bender answered.

“Aren't you in bed yet, for God's sake?” the Homicide sergeant asked in surprise.

“I'm at Harry Barber's, Dave.” He explained the football player's alibi, and informed Bender that he had checked Barber's shoe supply and that the pair worn by the killer was not among them.

“I'll bring him in if you want,” Corrigan said, “but I don't see what it would accomplish. I don't think he'll run anywhere.”

“All right, Tim. Just tell him to stay available. Oh, as long as you're there, you may as well pull the stakeout, too.”

“Will do.” Corrigan hung up and said to Barber, “You've got a reprieve, Harry. But don't take off without first checking with headquarters.”

“Think I'm an idiot?” Barber grinned. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Corrigan idly punched the space bar on the typewriter. It would all be in the papers tomorrow, anyway, he decided.

“Only one of the boys is dead,” he said. “Alstrom. Frank Grant managed to lock himself in a bathroom before the killer could get him.”

Barber made a face. “Excuse my cold-bloodedness, but it's too bad he didn't cream them both. How'd this guy get to them, Captain?”

“They were hiding out, under guard, in a supposedly attack-proof penthouse. Somebody used a Bell Rocket Belt to jump over to the roof from another roof across the street.”

“You're kidding!”

Corrigan shrugged. “It's what we've got, Harry. A real nut case.”

He pushed the space bar a few more times, then hit the return lever. His eye fell on a stack of bond lying beside the machine. On impulse he picked up a sheet and held it to the light.

The watermark read: FOUR STAR BOND, SOUTH-WORTH CO., U.S.A., 25% COTTON FIBER.