Killer’s Wedge (87th Precinct), page 6
The old man lay in a crumpled fat ball at the opposite end of the room. The rope was still around his neck even though the sons had cut him down the moment they’d entered the room.
“We had to cut him down,” Alan explained. “To get in. We used a crowbar to break the lock, but even then we had trouble getting the door open. You see, Father had tied one end of the rope to the doorknob before…before he hanged himself. Then he threw the rope over that beam in the ceiling and…well, after we forced the lock, we still had his weight to contend with, his weight pulling the door closed. We opened it a wedge with the crowbar, and then cut the rope before we could get in.”
“Who cut the rope?” Carella asked.
“I did,” Alan said.
“How’d you know the rope was there?”
“When we got the door open a crack, we could see the…the old man hanging. I stuck my arm into the opening and used a jackknife on the rope.”
“I see,” Carella had said.
Now, standing in the room where the hanging had taken place, he really tried to see. The old man, of course, had been carted away by the meat wagon yesterday—but everything else in the room was exactly as it had been then.
The room was windowless.
Nor were there any secret panels or passageways leading to it. He had made a thorough check yesterday. The walls, floor, and ceiling were as solid as Boulder Dam, constructed in a time when houses were built to last forever.
All right, the only way into this room is through that door, Carella told himself.
And the door was locked.
From the inside.
So it’s suicide.
The old man had, indeed, fixed one end of the rope to the doorknob, thrown the length of rope over the ceiling beam, and then climbed onto a stool, fastened the rope to his neck, and jumped. His neck had not been broken. He had died of slow strangulation.
And surely his weight had helped to hold that door closed against the efforts of his three sons to open it. But his weight alone would not have resisted the combined pull of three brawny men. Carella had checked that with the laboratory yesterday. Sam Grossman, in charge of the lab, had worked it out mathematically, fulcrum and lever, weights and balances. Had the door not been locked, the brothers could have successfully pulled it open even with the old man’s weight hanging at the end of the rope attached to the doorknob.
No, the door had to be locked.
There was physical evidence that it had been locked, too. For, had the slip bolt not been fastened against the retaining loop of metal, the lock would not have been ripped from the doorframe when the crowbar was used on it.
“We had to use the crowbar,” Alan had said. “We tried to pull it open by force, and then Mark realized the door was locked from the inside, and he went out to the garage to get the crowbar. We wedged it into the door and snapped the lock.”
“Then what?”
“Then Mark stepped up to the door and tried to open it again. He couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t open. We’d snapped the lock, hadn’t we? We used the crowbar a second time, wedging the door open. That was…was when we saw Father. You know the rest.”
So the door had been locked.
So it’s suicide.
Or maybe it isn’t.
What do we do now? Send a wire off to John Dickson Carr?
Wearily, Carella trudged downstairs, walking past the clutter of wood splinters still in the hallway outside the door.
He found Christine Scott in the small sitting room overlooking the River Harb. I don’t believe any of these people’s names, Carella thought. They’ve all popped out of some damn British comedy of manners, and they’re all make-believe, and that old man up there did commit suicide and why the devil am I wasting my time questioning people and snooping around a musty garret room without any windows?
“Detective Carella?” Christine said.
She looked colorless against the flaming reds and oranges of the trees that lined the riverbank. Her hair was an ash blond, almost silvery, but it gave an impression of lack of pigmentation. Her eyes, too, were a lavender-blue but so pastel as to be almost without real color. She wore no lipstick. Her frock was white. A simple jade necklace hung at her throat.
“Mrs. Scott,” he said, “how are you feeling now?”
“Much better, thank you.” She looked out at the flaming trees. “This is my favorite spot, right here. This is where I first met the old man. When David first brought me to this house.” She paused. The lavender-blue eyes turned toward Carella. “Why do you suppose he killed himself, Detective Carella?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Scott,” Carella said. “Where’s your husband?”
“David? In his room. He’s taking this rather hard.”
“And his brothers?”
“Around the house somewhere. This is a very big house, you know. The old man built it for his bride. It cost seventy-five thousand dollars to build, and that was back in 1896 when money was worth a great deal more than it is now. Have you seen the bridal suite upstairs?”
“No.”
“It’s magnificent. Huge oak panels, and marble counter tops, and gold bathroom fixtures. And these wonderful windows that open onto a balcony overlooking the river. There aren’t many houses like this one left in the city.”
“Mmm, I guess not,” Carella said.
Christine Scott crossed her legs, and Carella noticed them and thought, She has good legs. The stamp of America. Legs without rickets. Firm fleshy calves and slender ankles and shoes that cost her fifty-seven fifty a pair. Did her husband kill the old man?
“Can I offer you a drink, Detective Carella? Is that allowed?”
Carella smiled. “It’s frowned upon.”
“But permitted?”
“Occasionally.”
“I’ll ring for Roger.”
“Don’t bother, please, Mrs. Scott. I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“Oh?” She seemed surprised. Her eyebrows moved up onto her forehead, and he noticed for the first time that her eyebrows were black, and he wondered whether or not the ash blond hair was a bleach job, and he realized it probably was, no damn woman alive owned the impossible combination of ash blond hair and black eyebrows. Phony, he thought. Mrs. Christine Scott, who just stepped out of a British comedy of manners. “What kind of questions?”
“About what happened here yesterday.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me.”
“I was out back walking,” Christine said. “I like to walk along the river. And the weather’s been so magnificent, so much color, and such warm air…”
“Yes? Then what?”
“I saw Mark rush out of the house, running for the garage. I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. I ran over to the garage just as Mark came out with the crowbar. ‘What’s the matter?’ I said.”
“And what did he answer?”
“He said, ‘Father’s locked himself in the den and he won’t answer us. We’re going to force the door.’ That was all.”
“Then what?”
“Then he rushed back to the house, and I followed after him. David and Alan were upstairs, outside the door to Father’s den. He was in there, you see, even though he’s got a very large and beautiful study downstairs.”
“Did he use the den often?”
“Yes. As a retreat, I suppose. He has his favorite books in there, and his music. A retreat.”
“Was he in the habit of locking the door?”
“Yes.”
“He always locked the door when he went up there?”
“As far as I know, yes. I know I’ve often gone up to call him for dinner or something, and the door’s been locked.”
“What happened when you came upstairs with Mark?”
“Well, Alan said they’d been trying to open the door, and it was probably locked, and they were going to force it.”
“Did he seem anxious about your father-in-law?”
“Yes, of course he did. They’d been pounding on the door and making all sorts of noise and they’d got no answer. Wouldn’t you have been anxious?”
“What? Oh, yes. Sure, I would. Then what?”
“They stuck the crowbar into the crack between door and jamb, and forced the lock.”
“Then what?”
“Then Mark tried to open it, but it still wouldn’t open. So they tugged on it and saw…saw…”
“…that the old man had hanged himself, is that right?”
“Yes.” Christine’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Who was the first to notice this?”
“I was. I was standing a little bit away from them as they pried the door open. I could see the crack, and I saw…this…this figure hanging there, and I…I realized it was Father and I…screamed!”
“Who noticed it next?”
“Alan did. And he took a knife out of his pocket and then reached into the room and cut the rope.”
“And then the door opened easily, did it?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“They called Roger and asked him to phone the police.”
“Did anyone touch anything in the room?”
“No. Not even Father.”
“None of them went to your father-in-law?”
“They went to him, but they didn’t touch him. They could see immediately that he was dead. David didn’t think they should touch him.”
“Why not?”
“Why, because he was dead.”
“So?”
“He…he knew there would be policemen here, I suppose.”
“But he also knew his father had committed suicide, didn’t he?”
“Well…well, yes, I suppose so.”
“Then why did he warn the others not to touch the body?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Christine said curtly.
Carella cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea how much your father-in-law was worth, Mrs. Scott?”
“Worth? What do you mean worth?”
“In property,” Carella said. “In money.”
“No. I have no idea.”
“You must have some idea, Mrs. Scott. Surely you know he was a very wealthy man.”
“Yes, of course I know that.”
“But not how wealthy, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you know that he left seven hundred fifty thousand dollars to be divided equally among his three sons? Not to mention Scott Industries, Inc., and various other holdings. Did you know that?”
“No. I didn’t—” Christine stopped. “What are you implying, Detective Carella?”
“Implying? Nothing. I’m stating a fact of inheritance, that’s all. Do you find the fact has implications?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, damnit, it has implications. It implies that perhaps someone deliberately…that’s your damn implication, isn’t it?”
“You’re making the implications, Mrs. Scott. Not me.”
“Go to hell, Mr. Carella,” Christine Scott said.
“Mmm,” Carella answered.
“You’re forgetting one little thing, aren’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“My father-in-law was found dead in a windowless room, and the door was bolted from the inside. Now perhaps you can tell me how your implication of murder—”
“Your implication, Mrs. Scott.”
“—of murder ties in with what are obvious facts. Or do all detectives automatically go around looking for dirt? Is that your job, Mr. Carella? Looking for dirt?”
“My job is law enforcement. And crime detection.”
“No crime has been committed here. And no law has been broken.”
“Suicide is a crime against the state,” Carella said flatly.
“Then you do admit it was suicide.”
“It looks as if it might have been. But a lot of suicides that look like suicides turn out to be homicides. You don’t mind if I’m thorough about it, do you?”
“I don’t mind anything except your excess of bad manners. Provided you don’t forget what I mentioned earlier.”
“What’s that?”
“That he was found in a windowless locked room. Don’t forget that, Mr. Carella.”
“Mrs. Scott,” Carella said fervently, “I wish I could.”
Alf Miscolo lay crumpled against the door to the Men’s Room.
Not thirty seconds had passed since the slug took him in the back. The people in the squadroom had frozen completely as if the explosion of the .38 had rendered them impotent, incapable of either speech or movement. The stench of cordite hung on the air with the blue-gray aftersmoke of the explosion. Virginia Dodge, in clear silhouette against the gray of the smoke, seemed suddenly to be a very real and definite threat. She whirled from the railing just as Cotton Hawes broke from his desk in the corner.
“Get back!” she said.
“There’s a hurt man out there,” Hawes said, and he pushed through the gate.
“Come back here or you’re next!” Virginia shouted.
“The hell with you!” Hawes said, and he ran to where Miscolo lay against the closed door.
The bullet had ripped through Miscolo’s back with the clean precision of a needle passing through a piece of linen. Then, erupting at its point of exit, it had torn a hole the size of a baseball just below his collarbone. The front of his shirt was drenched with blood. Miscolo was unconscious, gasping for breath.
“Get him in here,” Virginia said.
“He shouldn’t be moved,” Hawes answered. “For God’s sake, he—”
“All right, hero,” Virginia said tightly, “the nitro goes up!” She turned back toward the desk swinging the gun so that it was dangerously close to the bottle of clear liquid.
“Bring him in, Cotton!” Byrnes said.
“If we move him, Pete, he’s liable to—”
“Goddamnit, that’s an order! Do as I say!”
Hawes turned toward Byrnes, his eyes narrowed. “Yes, sir,” he said and there was barely concealed vehemence in his voice. He reached down for a grip on the prostrate Miscolo. The man was heavy, heavier now with unconsciousness. He could feel Miscolo’s bulk as he lifted him from the floor, his muscular arms straining against the man’s weight. He braced himself and then shoved Miscolo higher into his arms with a supporting knee. He could feel Miscolo’s hot blood rushing against his naked forearm. Staggering with his load, he carried Miscolo through the gate and into the squadroom.
“Put him back there,” Virginia said. “On the floor. Out of sight.” She turned to Byrnes. “If anybody comes up here, it was an accident, do you hear me? A gun went off accidentally. Nobody was hurt.”
“We’re going to have to get a doctor for him,” Hawes said.
“We’re going to have to get nothing for him,” Virginia snapped.
“The man’s been—”
“Put him down, redhead! Behind the filing cabinets. And fast.”
Hawes carried Miscolo to a point beyond the filing cabinets where the area of squadroom was hidden from the corridor outside. Gently, he lowered Miscolo to the floor. He was rising when he heard footsteps in the hallway beyond. Virginia sat at the desk quietly, putting her purse up in front of the bottle of nitro as a shield, and then quickly moving the pistol directly behind the bottle so that it too was hidden by the bag.
“Remember, Lieutenant,” she whispered, and Dave Murchison, the desk sergeant came puffing down the hallway. Dave was in his fifties, a stout man who didn’t like to climb steps and who visited the Detective Division upstairs only when it was absolutely necessary. He stopped just outside the railing, and then waited before speaking while he caught his breath.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” he said, “what the hell was that? Sounded like a shot up here.”
“Yes,” Byrnes said hesitantly. “It was. A shot.”
“Anything the…?”
“Just a gun went off. By accident,” Byrnes said. “Nothing to worry about. Nobody…nobody hurt.”
“Jesus, it scared the living bejabbers out of me,” Murchison said. “You sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes. Yes, everything’s okay.”
Murchison looked at his superior curiously, and then his eyes wandered into the squadroom, pausing on Virginia Dodge, and then passing to where Angelica Gomez sat with her shapely legs crossed.
“Sure got a full house, huh, Loot?” he said.
“Yes. Yes, we’re sort of crowded, Dave.”
Murchison continued to look at Byrnes curiously. “Well,” he said, shrugging, “long as everything’s okay. I’ll be seeing you, Pete.”
He was turning to go when Byrnes said, “Forthwith.”
“Huh?” Murchison said.
Byrnes was smiling thinly. He did not repeat the word.
“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” Murchison said, puzzled, and he walked off down the corridor. The squadroom was silent. They could hear Murchison’s heavy tread on the metal steps leading to the floor below.
“Have we got any Sulfapaks?” Hawes asked from where he was crouched over Miscolo.
“The junk desk,” Willis answered. “There should be one in there.”
He moved quickly to the desk in the corner of the room, a desk which served as a catch-all for the men of the squad, a desk piled high with Wanted circulars, and notices from Headquarters, and pamphlets put out by the department, and two empty holsters, and a spilled box of paper clips, and an empty Thermos bottle, a fingerprint roller, an unfinished game of Dots, the scattered tiles of a Scrabble setup, and numerous other such unfilable materials. Willis opened one of the drawers, found a first-aid kit and hurried to Hawes, who had ripped open Miscolo’s shirt.
“God,” Willis said, “he’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“That bitch,” Hawes said, and he hoped Virginia Dodge heard him. As gently as he knew how, he applied the Sulfapak to Miscolo’s wound. “Can you get something for his head?” he asked.
“Here, take my jacket,” Willis answered. He removed it, rolled it into a makeshift pillow, and then—almost tenderly—put it beneath Miscolo’s head.
Byrnes walked over to the men. “What do you think?”
