Which Way to Die? (18 page)

“You know who I am. You knew before you latched onto me in that bar. I'm Andy Betz. The Grants' chauffeur.”

Grubb looked enlightened. “Four years ago out at the Alstrom place,” he exclaimed. “When I drove the boss over there the day they found his daughter's body. We gabbed some then. But I ain't laid eyes on you since. Why the hell are you fingering me?”

Corrigan said, “Andy says that last Friday night, outside Tracy's Tavern on Forty-second Street, you paid him five hundred dollars for a Bell Rocket Belt. So the only question is, Benny, did you use it to make that roof-to-roof jump yourself, or were you only the middle man?”

Grubb's mouth hung open. “You're way over my head, Captain. I don't know what in Christ's name you're talking about.”

The same portly lawyer who had appeared at Homicide early Monday morning walked into the squadroom.

Corrigan said, “You're a little behind schedule, aren't you, Counselor?”

“Afternoon, Captain,” Besser said. He nodded to Baer and Meisenheimer, glanced briefly at Andy Betz, then turned his attention to Benny Grubb and the Acid Kid. “Mr. Martello's secretary phoned me that you two had been arrested. Have you made any statements?”

Al Jennings shook his head. Grubb said, “Only that I don't know what they're talking about.” He indicated Bete. “This character says I bought a rocket belt from him. He's fluffier than an angel food cake.”

Besser turned to Corrigan. “What are the charges, Captain?”

“Suspicion of murder for Benny. Accessory for Al. Plus a few assorted items, such as receiving stolen property, resisting arrest, assault on a police officer, and A.D.W. You plan to spring writs of habeas corpus?”

“Depends on the evidence.”

“Try this for size.” Corrigan pointed to Bete. “This witness identifies Benny as the man he sold the rocket belt to that was used in Gerard Alstrom's murder. Benny and Al rigged alibis for the time of the murder; Benny's admitted they were rigged. He did
some
talking—knowing his constitutional rights, by the way.”

The lawyer glanced sharply at Grubb. “Did you admit that?”

“Well, the alibis was already busted,” Grubb said uncomfortably.

The lawyer gave him a disgusted look. “You can't assume murder just because a man bought a rocket belt, Captain.”

Corrigan grinned. “How many killers have you seen go up because a gun was traced to them, Counselor? It's the same principle. I think any judge would accept the presumption if you want to force a preliminary hearing. Do you?”

The lawyer considered. “Not at this point,” he decided. “May I consult with my clients in private?”

“Sure,” Corrigan said. “Use my office.” He shrugged.

His shrug stemmed from the knowledge that this was the end of all fruitful interrogation; Besser would instruct both men to answer nothing without his approval of each question. They would get nothing more from Grubb and Jennings until the pair appeared in court.

As the lawyer and his clients disappeared, Corrigan motioned Baer beyond earshot of Betz.

“What did you think of Benny's reaction to Andy, Chuck?”

“He sounded on the level.” Baer was looking worried. “Is it possible this troglodyte's been pulling our leg?”

“I'm beginning to wonder.”

“Maybe we'd better work on him a little more.”

They drifted back to Betz, standing under the watchful eye of Meisenheimer.

Corrigan said, “Benny Grubb sounded pretty convincing about not-having seen you in four years, Andy. You sure you didn't pull him out of a hat?”

“He's the guy bought the belt from me,” Andy said doggedly. “What would you expect him to do, admit it?”

“How come you didn't recognize him when he approached you in the bar?” Baer demanded. “You met him at the Alstroms'.”

“Look, that was four years ago and I didn't even get his name. Can you remember every joker you talked to years ago?”

“He remembered you.”

“No, he didn't. Not till I told him who I was. He was a stranger to me when I met him at Tracy's. Anyway, he knew who I was before he ever approached me in that bar; he must have. He's just putting you on.”

“Andy,” Corrigan said, “if it turns out
you're
the one who's putting us on, I'll tie a can to your tail!”

“I gave you a straight story,” Andy said. “I'll repeat it in court, what's more.”

“Okay,” Corrigan said. He turned to Meisenheimer. “Take him back to his cell, Meis.”

But he looked dissatisfied. So did Chuck Baer.

23.

When Besser and his clients came out of Corrigan's office, the MOS man said to the lawyer, “Well, Counselor? What's the verdict?”

“We're not going to force a preliminary hearing just yet, Captain,” Besser said, as if he were conferring a royal favor. “But my clients insist they're innocent of all charges, including that of resisting arrest. They claim you and Mr. Baer roughed them up without provocation.”

“They do, do they?” Corrigan growled. “I suppose that calcimined blonde who's supposed to work for Martello will testify to that effect?”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” the lawyer said with a straight face. “If you push it, Captain, you may find yourself in more trouble than my clients. As to the murder charge and the accessory charge, we'll discuss them in court in due time. Meanwhile, I'm advising my clients to submit to arrest without fuss and make no immediate application for bond.”

“Sounds profound,” Corrigan said. “Is that all you advised them?”

“Well, naturally they'll make no further statements without prior submission of the questions to me.”

“You bet, Besser. I'm not handing you any grounds for dismissals. You want to be present at the booking?”

“Yes.”

“Then let's go downstairs.”

Later, over their regular after-work drink at Maxie's Businessmen's Bar and Grill, Corrigan said, “I've still got a bug in my ear about Betz, Chuck. And yet I wouldn't have thought he was bright enough to make it all up.”

Baer lipped his beer chaser. “If Benny and the Acid Kid weren't involved, Tim, why did they rig alibis? Do you buy that yarn of theirs?”

“About setting up alibis for something that didn't come off, so they used them? Could be. I've heard screwier.”

“Oh, come off it.”

“Anyway, I'm putting all this in cold storage till tomorrow morning. Tonight I relax.”

“Now you're talking. How about we make the rounds?”

“With you? That's not what I had in mind.”

“Oh. The Alstrom chick.”

“She's not a chick.”

“Miss Alstrom, I beg your pardon. I thought you made it a rule never to mix business with pleasure?”

“This business,” said Corrigan with dignity, “
is
a pleasure.” He backed off the bar stool. “'Scuse. I'll be right back.”

Norma herself answered the phone.

“Baby, I caught up on my sleep last night,” Corrigan said. “How about dinner for two?”

“Oh, Tim, I'd love it!”

“Pick you up at seven.”

They ate Spanish at a Greenwich Village restaurant Norma was subdued; her brother's funeral was scheduled for tomorrow morning. She drank three glasses of sherry with her dinner and began to look flushed. Norma was not much of a drinker, and Corrigan wondered if she was preparing herself against his promise on their last date that on their next they would go to his apartment. If she has to steel herself, he thought, nothing doing! But maybe it was her way of trying to enliven her spirits, depressed by recent events and the shadow of the funeral. He decided to feel his way, and then grinned at the metaphor.

After dinner he took her to an untypical Village dive where a gypsy violinist played schmaltzy music and they could sip more sherry by candlelight. Norma sent the violinist away; she wanted to talk about the case. Corrigan decided that tonight was definitely not the night. He found himself giving her a blow-by-blow description of everything that had happened during the day.

He made only passing mention of the rocket-belt demonstration he and Chuck Baer had witnessed on Long Island. To his surprise, she returned to it. The belt seemed to fascinate her.

“Tell me all about it, Tim. How it works, and all that.”

“Well, there was a noise like fifty singing tea kettles starting to boil at once,” Corrigan said. “Then he went up in the air like a damn bird—”

When he stopped abruptly, Norma said, “What's the matter, Tim?”

Corrigan's brown eye was staring into space.

“What's the matter?” Norma said again, concerned. “Don't you feel well?”

Corrigan shook his head impatiently, and she became quiet Suddenly he snapped his fingers.

“It has to be!” he said, more to himself than to her. “It fits all the way.”

“What are you talking about, Tim?”

Corrigan said rapidly, “In the foyer of the penthouse there's a little door in the wall next to the mail chute. Isn't that an incinerator drop?”

“Yes. All the trash goes in there.”

“How often does the maintenance man burn it?”

“I haven't any idea. Why are you interested in trash disposal? It's not very flattering.”

“I just had a brainstorm. Norma … Do you mind if I take you home?”

“Well,” she said. “That's frank enough.”

Corrigan reached across the table and caught her hand. “I was going to suggest my apartment, but this is urgent.”

She looked at him. “It's about the case.”

“Yes. I just figured out who killed Gerard.”

Norma's eyes widened. “Tim! Who?”

“Wait till all the evidence is in.” He released her hand and pushed his chair back. “That's why I want to get back to your building. Maybe it's still not too late.”

“Whatever you say, Tim.”

When they stepped onto the main elevator, Corrigan pushed the “B” button instead of “11.”

“The super?” Norma said, frowning.

“Let's hope he isn't an early-to-bed guy, Norm.” He looked at his watch. It was five past ten.

There was a light on in the furnace room, but the door of the apartment where the maintenance man lived was shut. Corrigan rapped, holding his breath. There was a shuffling sound, the door opened, and there was the lean, gray-haired man he had glimpsed the day he and Baer had brought Gerard Alstrom and Frank Grant to the penthouse from Ossining. He was in trousers, shoes, and undershirt. When he saw Norma he said, “Excuse me, Miss,” and drew back into the room. A moment later he reappeared wearing a plaid bathrobe.

Corrigan showed him his I.D. “I'm Captain Corrigan of the police department and this is Miss Alstrom, from the penthouse. What's your name?”

“Jed Bonney. The tenants call me Jed.”

“How often do you burn trash, Jed?”

“Once a week. On Saturdays.”

Corrigan did not allow his elation to show. “Then anything that came down the trash chutes last Sunday is still not burned?”

“That's right.”

“May I have a look inside your incinerator?”

“Be my guest.”

Bonney led the way across the furnace room to an iron door about two and a half feet square. He opened it, and Corrigan peered in. He could see little by the light from the furnace room. He produced his pencil flash and directed it through the door.

The incinerator chamber was some six by six by six. The bottom of the door was about three feet above the floor. There was trash nearly level with it.

“Listen to me carefully, Jed,” Corrigan said. “I'm going to have a police team down here first thing in the morning to sift through this stuff. You're not to burn it, understand?”

“No chance of that, Captain. I'm the only one fires this thing, and I'm not due to turn it on till Saturday.”

“Okay.”

“What will they be looking for?”

“They'll know,” Corrigan said. “Good night, and thanks.”

On the way up, Norma pouted. “You didn't want to tell Jed. Are you going to tell me?”

“No,” Corrigan said, smiling. “If my guess is wrong, I'll look stupid, and you're one gal I want to impress.”

“That's as tricky a turndown as this gal ever got,” Norma said. “You're clever, Captain, you know that? Tell me this. If your idea pans out, will you phone and tell me tomorrow?”

The elevator door opened and they stepped out on eleven. As they crossed over to the penthouse auxiliary, Corrigan said, “I'll do better than that, Norm. If it works out, I'll be over in person.”

“Just to explain to me?”

“Well, no. To everybody.”

Norma stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the forehead. He tried to lower the boom, but she shook her head and gave him a little push, smiling. “You don't give out, I don't give out.” Then her smile faded. “The funeral is in the morning.”

“I'll be out of town—if this works out—all morning. So it won't be till after the funeral.”

“I won't sleep tonight.”

“Think of me,” Corrigan said. “The way you're holding me off, it'll be like a sedative.”

She was learning how it was to be involved with a cop, he thought. She didn't even ask where he was going.

The next morning, early, Corrigan arranged for a trash-sifting team and sent them off to the building with explicit instructions as to what to look for. Then he logged out, corraled Car 40, and headed upstate. He did not get back from Ossining until well past lunch.

On his desk he found a pair of large brown oxfords, in fair condition but far from new, and smelling of garbage. He examined the heels. They were rubber Goodyears. A small piece had been gouged from the right heel.

With a grunt of satisfaction Corrigan grabbed the phone and dialed Baer's office. Chuck answered immediately.