Which Way to Die? (14 page)

17.

After lunch Corrigan stopped in at the penthouse. Baer admitted him. Elizabeth and Frank Grant and Norma Alstrom were sitting about the living room. Through the glass doors Corrigan could see two uniformed men seated at the lawn table on the roof.

“With this police protection, Chuck, you're hardly needed around here any more.”

“What I've been telling Mrs. Grant,” the redhead said. “I'd like to get away and do something constructive. It's bad enough having a client killed. Not being able to do anything about it is worse.”

“It's only for a few more days, Mr. Baer,” Mrs. Grant said. “And I feel better having you sleeping in the same room with my Frank.”

“With two officers on duty around the clock, Mrs. Grant, your son ought to be safe.”

“Of course I am,” young Grant snapped. “Baer didn't do a hell of a lot protecting Gerry—he didn't do
anything
. Let him go, Mother.”

Baer flushed scarlet. Corrigan saw the look in his eye, which took him back to Korea and certain tight situations. But the big man controlled himself. The truth is, Corrigan thought, Chuck feels guilty. He had probably been berating himself ever since the night of the murder for having slipped out for a couple of beers. The fact that he had left his old buddy on guard in his place would be no solace to Chuck. He had let a client down, which in Chuck's book was the ultimate disgrace.

“I'll stay on if you insist, Mrs. Grant,” Baer said in a tight voice. “But in this case I have to agree with Frank. You're wasting your money. Those are two fine officers out there. Nobody's going to get past them.”

Mrs. Grant looked torn. “Captain Corrigan, do you really think it would be safe?”

“Yes.”

“Frank, you're sure …?”

“The sooner he's out of here,” young Grant said in his endearing way, “the better sonny-boy's going to like it. I can't stand the sight of him. What's more, he snores.”

“Well … all right, Mr. Baer. I'll let you go.”

With remarkable promptness Baer said, “I'll go pack my valise.”

He disappeared. Corrigan glanced at Norma. “How was your father taking it this morning?”

“He's quieted down. He's given up the apartment downstairs and moved back to the Island.”

“Where's that leave Andy Betz?”

“I was going to have Andy move into the room where Gerard and Frank were sleeping,” Mrs. Grant said. “But since Mr. Baer is leaving, I'd rather he slept with Frank.”

“Where is he? Betz, I mean.”

Mrs. Grant looked helpless. “He hasn't checked in today. Oh, dear. It isn't like Andy not to report for work.”

“You haven't had him drive you anywhere since you got here, Mother,” Frank sneered. “And when he's here, all you do is beef because we play cards. He probably took the morning off.”

“Well, he could have phoned …”

Chuck Baer returned carrying his valise. “You going back to headquarters, Tim?”

“Yes.”

“You have to go by my place. Drop me off?”

“Sure.”

Corrigan called one of the officers in to send them down on the elevator and make sure the switch was opened again when the car returned to the roof. Norma accompanied them to the foyer.

“You look as though you didn't get much sleep last night, Tim.”

“A couple of hours.”

“Then I don't suppose I'll see you tonight?”

“Not tonight, I'm afraid. I'll phone you when I've caught up on my shut-eye.”

“Make it soon.” She sounded desperate.

On the way down, Baer grunted, “That chick is after you, Tim.”

“I'm after her, too.”

“You're not serious!”

Corrigan laughed. “I haven't had my cutaway fitted yet, Chuck, if that's what's worrying you.”

“Then it's just the old chase?”

“Something like that.”

Baer looked relieved. “You're safe. As soon as the nice ones find out the guy isn't thinking of the wedding march, they dump you. The nice ones, I mean. Is she a nice one?”

“Yes,” Corrigan said, and let it go at that.

Baer began to look worried again. But he had troubles of his own, and he lapsed into silence.

It was broken by Corrigan as they got into Car 40 NYPD—Corrigan's unmarked black Ford. “By the way, Chuck. The Alstrom case has been lifted from Homicide. It's now in the lap of yours truly.”

“No kidding! Bring me up to date.”

He was as startled as Corrigan had been when he learned that Harry Barber had been tagged as the author of the unsigned crank note.

“Seems out of character, somehow,” Baer commented. “I still can't see Barber as a killer.”

“Then why did he run?” Corrigan muttered.

“Panic. He knew you were going to find out he wrote that note.”

Corrigan said, “I'm not convinced. That wouldn't put him in nearly as much hot water as a disappearing act. Taking a powder makes him our prime suspect. He must have realized that.” He shook his head. “I just don't know.”

When Corrigan dropped Baer, the private detective said, “I'll pick up my car and drive down to your office as soon as I drop off this bag.”

Corrigan waved and drove off.

When he got back to his office, he found a note that Major Conners had called. He called back immediately.

“One of our rocket belts is missing, all right, Captain,” the major barked. “I've started an investigation to try to track down whoever was responsible. I don't think it could have been the Benjamin Grubb you asked me to check on, though.”

“Why not, Major?”

“Both belts were accounted for on our last monthly inventory, which was only three weeks ago. So the missing belt had to have disappeared since that time. Grubb resigned from the Guard in 1962. Some of the men still remember him, and I made a point of asking if he's been around since the last inventory. No one recalls seeing him.”

“I guess that's that.” Nothing works out in this damned case, Corrigan thought. “Will you let me know the result of your investigation?”

“I certainly will. We're as anxious to get to the bottom of this as you are.”

Baer walked in as Corrigan hung up. The redhead reached for a chair and a panatela.

“That was the C.O. of the 305th Air National Guard,” Corrigan told him. “One of their rocket belts is missing, and he's digging to find out how it got away. Benny Grubb seems to be in the clear. He hasn't been around there since 1962, and the belt was still in the supply room three weeks ago.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“I guess we're stymied until we net Harry Barber and the Chase girl. Unless you have any ideas?”

“One I could be working on,” Baer said, belching smoke. “If Martello was behind this, maybe some rumors will be shooting along the grapevine. I have a pretty good contact.”

“Then check it out, Chuck.”

“I'm on my way,” Baer said. He left a wake of smoke behind him.

Corrigan wound up the paperwork on some other cases. It was two-thirty when he finished. He was dying for sleep. He was about to take a catnap at his desk when the phone rang.

It was Norma Alstrom. “Sorry to disturb you at work, Tim. Are you busy?”

“I was just considering a nap,” he said. “What's up?”

“Oh, Elizabeth is all upset and has been taking it out on Frank by listing her maternal sacrifices again—they've just flounced back to their rooms. I was bored, Tim. I wanted to talk to somebody.”

“What's Mrs. Grant upset about?”

“Andy Betz phoned her. He's quit.”

“When was this?” Corrigan was surprised. It was a case lousy with surprises.

“Shortly after you left. She really took it hard, poor thing. He's been with the Grants for twenty-five years. He was practically a member of the family—lived on the estate, in an apartment over the garage. He spent the morning moving out.”

“What explanation did he give, Norma?”

“None. Which upset her even more.”

Corrigan muttered, “Funny that he'd pull this right after the murder. I wonder if there's a connection.”

“How could that be, Tim?”

“I haven't the foggiest. But I've learned in this racket that when a witness in a murder case starts behaving out of character, it's worth checking out. Do you know where Andy's moved to?”

“He gave Elizabeth a new address to which to mail his check. She wrote it down on a pad. Just a minute. I think it's right here … Here it is.” She read off a Greenwich Village address.

Corrigan wrote it down. “I think I'll pay a little visit to Mr. Betz.”

“Andy couldn't have had anything to do with the murder, Tim. He worships Frank.”

“Frank wasn't murdered,” Corrigan pointed out. “I have to run this down, Norma. Thanks.”

He hung up, logged out, and got Car 40 from the parking lot. He headed for Greenwich Village.

The address Norma had given him was a three-story brownstone. According to a tenant chart beside the front door, Betz's was the basement apartment. It had a separate entrance at the bottom of some concrete steps. No one answered Corrigan's ring.

He climbed back to the upper entrance and rang. An elderly woman with a crab-apple face and four teeth answered.

“You the landlady?”

“I'm all filled up,” she said.

“I'm not looking for a rental, ma'am. I'm looking for your new tenant, Mr. Betz.”

“Oh, him. He walked up the street about an hour ago.”

“Which way?”

The woman pointed east. “There's shopping in the next block. Maybe he went there.”

“Thank you.”

He decided to walk on the chance that he might spot the ex-chauffeur en route. The block consisted of identical brown-stone buildings. At the intersection there was a dime store, a delicatessen, a shoe repair shop, a bakery, and a bar.

He crossed the street and looked into each store. Andy Betz was in none of the first four.

Flaking gilt lettering on the window of the bar announced Noah's Bar and Grill. The interior was too dimly lighted for Corrigan to make out anything through the window. He went in.

18.

It took Corrigan's good eye a while to adjust after the sunny street. The bartender loomed.

“You're just in time, bud,” the bartender said. “A live one is standing the house. What a character! Been popping for an hour. What'll you have?”

“Nothing,” Corrigan said. “I'm looking for someone.”

The bartender shrugged and waddled back to the far end of the bar.

“Seven eighty-five,” Corrigan heard him say.

The lined-up patrons came into focus. The man who had bought drinks for the house was big and square-shouldered. He was turned from Corrigan, but the powerful build looked familiar. Corrigan went over and tapped him on the shoulder.

It was Andy Betz, all right. The man's heavy face was flushed with booze; his little eyes were glassed. More than half-seas over, Corrigan decided. It might be a break.

“Well, well, if it ain't the captain,” Betz said. His voice was thick. “You're just in time for a drink, Cap'n.”

“Some other time, Andy,” Corrigan said. “See you privately for a minute?”

“What about?”

“Let's go on over to a table.”

The big man groped for a shot-glass of whisky and a beer, and announced to the world, “Be back in a minute, gents.” As he moved off, the bartender counted out change on the bar.

“This his?” Corrigan demanded.

“Uh-huh. Change from a twenty.”

Corrigan took it and walked over to where Andy had seated himself. He dropped the money on the table and sat down.

“Hey. Thanks.” Betz tossed off his whisky and chased it with a gulp of beer. He left his money where it was.

“Powerful combination,” Corrigan said amiably. “What are you celebrating, Andy?”

Betz shrugged. He started to reply, and changed his mind. He finished the beer.

“Understand you quit your job.”

The glazed eyes shifted. “Where'd you hear that?”

“Miss Alstrom told me.”

Betz shook his head violently, as if to clear it in a hurry. “So I quit my job. So what?”

“Sudden, wasn't it?”

The man said carefully, “Took me twenty-five years. Call that sudden?”

“Why did you quit, Andy?”

“Decided to retire. Anything wrong with that? Be my own man for a change. High time, I'd say.”

“You're throwing away a lot of eating money for a guy who's unemployed, Andy. The bartender says you've been popping for this bunch of freeloaders for an hour.”

“It's my money!”

“Sure. Where'd you get the bankroll?”

Betz glared at him. “I could buy and sell you, Captain. For twenty-five years I been getting free board and room on top of my pay, and piling seventy-five percent of it in the bank. I'm loaded, brother.”

Corrigan laughed. “My mistake. I thought some rich uncle just left you a bundle.”

“I got no rich uncles,” the man growled. “I got enough saved to live like a duke the rest of my life. That's why I quit, Captain. I says to myself, why the hell work any more? Say, I need another drink. How about a shot, Captain?”

“Not for me, and not for you,” Corrigan said. “Till I'm through with you. You see, Andy,” Corrigan said, putting his elbows on the table and boring into Betz with the eye, “I still can't get over the feeling that it was kind of sudden. You didn't even resign in person. You did it by phone. After twenty-five years. Strikes me Mrs. Grant deserved a little more consideration than that. I'm interested in heels, Andy. Although you didn't strike me as one. Are you a heel, Andy?”

An alcoholic tear appeared in a corner of Betz's right eye. “I guess you'd say that, Captain, I guess that's what I am, all right. The Grants always treated me good. I just couldn't face her, and that's the truth. You're right, Captain. Heel.”