Killer’s Wedge (87th Precinct), page 11
“All right, you,” she said to Brown. “Give me your gun.”
Brown hesitated.
“The bottle here is full of nitroglycerin,” Virginia said calmly. “Give me your gun.”
Brown looked to Byrnes.
“Give it to her, Artie,” Byrnes said. “She’s calling all the shots.”
“What’s her game?” Brown wanted to know.
“Never mind my game,” Virginia said heatedly. “Just shut your mouth and bring me your gun.”
“You sure are a tough lady,” Brown said. He walked to the desk, watching her. He watched her while he unclipped his gun and holster. He was trying, in his own mind, to determine whether or not Virginia Dodge was a hater. He could usually spot hatred at a thousand paces, could know with instant certainty that the person he was looking at or talking to would allow the color of Brown’s skin to determine the course of their relationship. Arthur Brown was a Negro. He was also a very impatient man. He had learned early in the game that the chance similarity of his pigmentation and his name—was it chance, or had some long-ago slave owner chosen the name for simplicity?—only added to his black man’s burden. Impatiently, he waited for the inevitable slur, the thoughtless comment. Usually, it came—though not always. Now, as he put his gun and holster on the desk, his impatience reached unprecedented heights. He could read nothing on the face of Virginia Dodge. And, too, though he had newly entered the situation in the squadroom, he was impatiently itchy to have it done and over with.
Virginia pushed Brown’s gun into the top drawer.
“Now get over there,” she said. “The other side of the room.”
“Is it okay to report to the lieutenant first?” he asked.
“Lieutenant!” she called. “Come here.”
Byrnes walked over.
“He’s got a report for you. Give it here, mister, where I can hear it all.”
“How’d it go?” Byrnes said.
“No dice. And it isn’t going to work either, Pete.”
“Why not?”
“I stopped off in a candy store when I left the tailor shop. To get a pack of cigarettes.”
“Yeah?”
“I got to talking with the owner. He told me there’s been a lot of holdups in the neighborhood. Tailor shops mostly.”
“Yeah?”
“But he told me the holdups would be stopping soon. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because—and this is just what he told me—there’s a bull sitting in the back room of the tailor shop right up the street, just waiting for the crook to show up. That’s what the guy in the candy store told me.”
“I see.”
“So if he knows, every other merchant on the street knows. And if they know, their customers know. And you can bet your ass the thief knows, too. So it won’t work, Pete. We’ll have to dope out something else.”
“Mmm,” Byrnes said.
“You finished?” Virginia asked.
“I’m finished.”
“All right, get over on the other side of the room.”
Byrnes walked away from the desk. Brown hesitated.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“Then move!”
“What’s the gun and the nitro for, lady?” Brown asked. “I mean, what do you want here? What’s your purpose?”
“I’m here to kill Steve Carella.”
“With a bottle of soup?”
“With a gun. The nitro is my insurance.”
Brown nodded. “Is it real?”
“It’s real.”
“How do I know?”
“You don’t. Would you like to try belling the cat?” Virginia smiled.
Brown returned the smile. “No, thank you, lady. I was just asking. Gonna kill Steve, huh? Why, what’d he do to you? Give you a traffic ticket?”
“This isn’t funny,” Virginia said, the smile leaving her mouth.
“I didn’t think it was. Who’s the floozy? Your partner?”
“I have no partner,” Virginia said, and Brown thought her eyes clouded for a moment. “She’s a prisoner.”
“Aren’t we all?” Brown said, and again he smiled, and Virginia did not return the smile.
Hal Willis walked over to the desk. “Listen,” he said, “Miscolo’s in a bad way. Will you let us get a doctor in here?”
“No,” Virginia said.
“For Christ’s sake, he may be dying! Look, you want Carella, don’t you? What’s the sense in letting an innocent guy—”
“No doctor,” Virginia said.
“Why not?” Byrnes asked, walking over. “You can keep him here after he treats Miscolo. Same as all of us. What the hell difference will it make?”
“‘No doctor,” she said again.
Hawes drifted over to the desk. Unconsciously, the four men assumed the position they would ordinarily use in interrogating a suspect. Hawes, Byrnes, and Brown were in front of the desk. Willis was standing to the right of it. Virginia sat in her chair, the bottle of nitro within easy reach of her left hand, the .38 in her right hand.
“Suppose I picked up a phone and called a doctor?” Hawes asked.
“I’d shoot you.”
“Aren’t you afraid of another explosion?” Willis said.
“No.”
“You got a little nervous when Murchison came up here last time, didn’t you?” Hawes said
“Shut up, redhead. I’ve had enough from you.”
“Enough to shoot me?” Hawes said.
“Yes.”
“And chance the explosion?” Brown put in.
“And another visit from downstairs?”
“You can’t chance that, Virginia, can you?”
“I can! Because if anyone else comes up, the nitro goes, goddamnit!”
“But what about Carella? You blow us up, and you don’t get Carella. You want Carella, don’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then how can you explode that nitro?”
“How can you chance another gunshot?”
“You can’t shoot any of us, can you? It’s too risky.”
“Get back,” she said. “All of you.”
“What are you afraid of, Virginia?”
“You’ve got the gun, not us.”
“Can’t you fire it?”
“Are you afraid of firing it?”
Hawes came around to the left side of the desk, moving closer to her.
“Get back!” she said.
Willis moved closer on the right, and Virginia whirled thrusting the gun at him. In that instant, Hawes stepped between her and the bottle of nitroglycerin. She was out of the chair in the space of a heartbeat, pushing the chair out from beneath her, and starting to rise. And as she started the rise, Willis—seeing that her hand was away from the bottle, knowing she was off balance as she rose—kicked out with his left foot, swinging it in a backward arc that caught her at the ankles. Hawes shoved at her simultaneously, completing the imbalance, sending Virginia sprawling to the right, toppling toward the floor. She hit the floor with resounding force, and her right hand opened as Hawes scuttled around the desk.
The gun fell from her fingers, slid across the floor, whirled in a series of dizzying circles and then came to a sudden stop.
Willis dove for it.
He extended his hand, and Hawes held his breath because they were getting rid of the crazy bitch at last.
And then Willis shrieked in pain as a three-inch dagger of leather and metal stamped his hand into the floor.
The black skirt was taut over the extended leg of Angelica Gomez. It tightened around a fleshy thigh, pulled back over the knee, ended there in sudden revelation of shapely calf and slender ankle. A black strap circled the ankle and beneath that was a red leather pump with a heel like a stiletto. That heel was buried in the back of Willis’s hand.
And then Angelica pulled back her leg and stooped immediately to pick up the gun. From the floor, her skirt pulled back over both knees, her eyes flashing, she whirled on Lieutenant Byrnes, who was reaching for the bottle of nitro on the desktop.
“Don’ touch it!” she shouted.
Byrnes stopped cold.
“Away from the desk,” she said. “Ever’body! Back! Back!”
They moved from the desk, fanning away from it, backing away from a new menace which seemed more deadly than the first. Angelica Gomez had stabbed a man and, for all they knew, that man might now be dead. She had the law to face, and she also had the street gang to face, and so the look on her face was one of desperate resignation. Angelica Gomez was making her pitch for better or worse, and Christ help whoever stepped into her path.
She rose, the pistol unwavering in her fist.
“I’m ge’n out of here,” she said. “Don’ nobody try to stop me.”
Virginia Dodge was on her feet now. She turned to Angelica, and there was a smile on her face. “Good girl,” she said. “Give me the gun.”
For a moment, Angelica did not understand. She looked at Virginia curiously and then said, “You crazy? I’m leavin’. Now!”
“I know. Give me the gun. I’ll cover them for you. While you go.”
“Why I should give you the gun?” Angelica said.
“For Christ’s sake, are you on their side? The ones who want to send you to jail? Give me the gun!”
“I don’ have to do you no favors. I ask before you let me go, an’ you say no. Now you want the gun. You crazy.”
“All right, I’ll put it in black and white. If you take that gun with you, I’m jumped the minute you leave this room. And that means they’ll be on the phone in four seconds and the whole damn police force will be after you. If you give me the gun, I hold them. I keep them here. No phone calls. No radio cars looking for you. You’re free.”
Angelica thought about this for a moment.
“Give me the gun!” Virginia said, and she took a step closer to Angelica. The Puerto Rican girl stood poised like a tigress, her back arched over into a C, her legs widespread, the gun trembling in her hand. Virginia came closer.
“Give it to me,” she said.
“You hol’ them back?” Angelica asked. “You keep them here?”
“Yes.”
“Come then. Come close.”
Virginia moved to her side.
“Your hand,” Angelica said.
Virginia held out her hand, and Angelica put the gun into it.
“I go now,” she said. “You keep them here. I get away. Free,” she said, “free.”
She started to move. She took one step away from Virginia, her back to the woman. Quickly, Virginia raised the gun. Brutally, she brought it crashing down on the skull of Angelica Gomez. The girl collapsed to the floor, and Virginia stepped over her and moved rapidly to the desk.
“Does anybody still think I’m kidding?” she asked.
Roger, the servant who had been with Jefferson Scott for more than twenty years, was sweeping out the hallway when Carella went upstairs again. Hunched over, a tall thin man with white wisps of hair circling a balding head, he swept up the wooden rectangles, squares, triangles, and splinters of the crowbar’s destruction. The foxtail brush worked methodically in thin, precise fingers, sweeping the debris into the dustpan.
“Cleaning up the mess?” Carella asked pleasantly.
“Yes,” Roger said. “Yes, sir. Mr. Scott liked things neat.”
“How well did you know the old man?” Carella asked.
“I’ve worked for him a long time, sir,” Roger said, rising. “A long time.”
“Did you like him?”
“He was a fine man. I liked him very much.”
“Did he ever have trouble with any of his sons?”
“Trouble, sir?”
“You know. Arguments. Real quarrels. Any of them ever threaten him?”
“They argued from time to time, sir, but never violently. And never any threats. No, sir.”
“Mmm. How about the daughter-in-law? Any trouble when David brought her home?”
“No, sir. Mr. Scott liked her very much. He often said he wished his other sons would do as well when they married.”
“I see.” Carella paused. “Well, thanks a lot.” He paused again. “I want to look over the room another time, see if anything else turns up.”
“Yes, sir.” Roger seemed reluctant to leave. He stood with the dustpan in one hand and the foxtail in the other seemingly waiting for something.
“Yes?” Carella said.
“Sir, we generally dine at seven. It’s past six-thirty now, and I was wondering…sir, did you plan to stay for dinner?”
Carella looked at his watch. It was 6:37. “No,” he said. “In fact, I’m supposed to be back at the squad by seven. My wife’s meeting me there. No, thanks. No dinner.” He paused and then, for no earthly reason, said, “We’re going to have a baby. My wife is.”
“Yes, sir,” Roger said. He smiled.
“Yeah,” Carella said, and he smiled, too.
In the dimness of the corridor, the two men stood smiling at each other.
“Well,” Carella said, “back to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carella went into the room. Outside, he could hear Roger’s footsteps padding down the corridor.
So here we are again, folks, he thought. This is Steve Carella coming to you from the intimacy of The Den, where gay nightlifers are dancing to the strains of the Suicide Scott Trio. Vot’s dot tune dey’re playing, Ludwig? Ah, yes, the “Hangman’s Waltz,” an old Viennese favorite.
Get a grip, Steve-o, he told himself. You are beginning to lose your marbles. Leave us study this room, and then leave us ask a few more questions and wrap this thing up, yes?
Yes.
The room.
No windows. Assuredly no goddamn windows.
No trapdoors or hidden panels.
Jefferson Scott found hanging there—about ten feet from the entrance doorway, overturned stool at his feet.
Rope thrown over that beam in the ceiling and fastened to the doorknob.
Door opens outward into the corridor.
Scott’s weight alone could not have held the door closed.
Hence, door was locked; nor could it be forced open by three heavy men—Christ, these Scotts grow big!
Door could not have been locked from the outside. Required pressure to hold door closed and force to ram bolt across. Hence, no tricky string stuff like they have in detective magazines all the time.
Crowbar action snapped lock from doorjamb, enabled men to force door open, cut down Scott from where he was hanging.
Those are the facts, ma’m.
Now if Joe Friday were here…
But he ain’t.
There is only me. Steve Carella. And I am good and confused.
Let me see, let me see.
He walked over to the door and studied the bolt hanging loose from one screw. The doorjamb was badly marked; that crowbar had certainly done an excellent job. Old Roger had swept up enough splinters to start a toothpick factory. Carella closed the door. Sure enough the door was weather stripped, and, sure enough, you had to slam the damn thing and then pull on it hard in order to close it properly. He opened the door out into the corridor again, stepped outside, and closed it behind him. Then he stooped down.
There was a half-inch of space between the bottom of the door and the sill of the room. Carella stuck his fingers under the door. He could feel the metal runner of the weather stripping, starting about a quarter-inch back from the corridor side of the door. He opened the door again. The weather stripping lip was set into the doorsill, slightly farther back, to catch the runner securely when the door was closed. Again, he closed the door. And again he ran his fingers under the bottom edge, between door and sill. The metal seemed to be dented in one spot, but of course he couldn’t be certain. Still, there seemed to be—to the touch at least—a sharp narrow valley at one point. He slid his fingers along the metal, smooth, smooth, smooth, and there! There it was. The sudden small dip.
“Lose something?” the voice behind him said.
Carella turned. Mark Scott was a tall man even if you were standing beside him. When you were crouched on the floor as Carella was, Mark looked enormous. He was as blond as his brother David, broader in the shoulders with the same huge bone structure. His face, in fact despite three covering layers of skin, seemed to have been chiseled from raw bone. He had a flat, hard forehead, and a flat, hard nose. His cheekbones sloped sharply downward to break the otherwise flat regularity of his features. His mouth was full, the lips thick. His eyes were gray, but in the dimness of the corridor, they were almost no-color, almost a colorless opaqueness beneath the bushy blond brows.
Carella got to his feet and dusted off his trouser knees.
“No.” he said pleasantly. “I didn’t lose anything. But in a sense, I’m trying to find something.”
“And what might that be?” Mark said, smiling.
“Oh, I don’t know. A way into this room, I suppose.”
“Under the door?” Mark asked, the smile still on his mouth. “Have to be awfully thin, don’t you think?”
“Sure, sure,” Carella said. He opened the door again and stepped into the den. Mark followed behind him.
Carella tapped the hanging slip bolt with his finger, setting it swinging. “I understand this bolt was pretty hard to close,” he said. “That right?”
“Yes. One generally had to pull in on the door and then ram the bolt across with all one’s strength. I spoke to Father about changing it, but he said it suited him fine. Provided the exercise that was lacking in his life.” Mark smiled again. His smile was a charming one, a sudden parting of the thick lips over dazzlingly white teeth.
“Just how hard did you have to pull on the door?” Carella asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“When slipping the bolt.”
“Oh. Very hard.”
“Do you imagine your father’s weight pulling against the doorknob would have provided the pressure necessary to slip the bolt?”
“To hold the door shut, perhaps yes. But it took quite a bit of pressure to push the bolt across. You are thinking, are you not, of someone having managed it from the outside? With string or something?”
