Homicide Sanitarium, page 17
When you gave us a clue where the cat was supposed to be, on the mantel, he raised his gun and pretended--"
"Jack!" I begged him, to break off the silly things he was saying. "If you're going to help them railroad me, even if you're in on the plot--please get them to let me take Beautiful with me. Don't take her away too. Please!"
Cars were driving up outside. I could feel the comforting weight and warmth of the cat sleeping on my chest.
"Don't worry, Brian," Jack said quietly. "That cat'll go wherever you go.
Nobody can take it away from you. Nobody."
LISTEN TO THE MOCKING BIRD
When the phone rang, Tim McCracken grabbed for it. Then he pulled back his hand and made himself count up to ten, slowly, before he lifted the receiver. Just because it was the first time the darned thing had let out a peep in a week, he didn't want whoever was calling to think he'd been sitting there waiting for the call.
Sure, business was bad, but a guy had to bluff. Or did he? While he was counting to ten, McCracken let his eyes run around the well-furnished office that constituted his bluff. He wondered again if he hadn't been foolish to sink the profits from his first three cases into that layout.
But those cases had come so easily and so quickly after he'd quit his job with the police department, and gone out on his own. They'd all come, though, when his office was a secondhand desk in a ramshackle building. And since then--
Eight, nine, ten. He picked up the phone, and said:
"Timothy McCracken Detective Agency. McCracken speaking."
"About that rent, McCracken," came a gruff voice. "When you going to pay up?"
"I explained about that yesterday, Mr.--Say, who is this? You're not Mr.
Rogers."
There was a baritone chuckle at the other end of the line.
"Mack, you ought to be a detective, the way you catch on to things. This is Cap Zehnder. How're tricks? Never mind, you just told me."
McCracken grunted disgustedly. "Cap, if I didn't used to work for you, I'd come over and slap your big ears down for that gag."
"Keep your scanties on, Mack," said Zehnder. "That ain't why I called you. If you still think you're a private detective, I got a client for you. He asked for you by name, even. I didn't have to recommend you. Now what do you say?"
"My God!" said McCracken. "Give quick! Where is he?"
"In the jug, right here. Suspicion of murder. It says it heard of you and wants you to help it beat the rap."
"It? What do you mean, it? You started out with a 'he.' "
"Did I?" The captain chuckled. "My error. It's a mocking bird. And it crochets."
"It what?"
"I said crochets. For a hobby. But it's a mocking bird for a vocation. But, I'm not going to explain everything over the phone. If you want to make twelve bucks, come on over."
McCracken gasped. "Twelve bucks? Listen, Cap, they didn't transfer you to the narcotic squad and put you testing samples, did they? What do you mean, twelve bucks?"
"Okay, don't come then," Zehnder said stiffly. "That's all the money, in cash, he's got. But maybe you can blackmail him for more if you get him off. He'll have a salary check coming from the theatre, if they don't fire him."
"But holy cow, Cap, I can't handle a murder investigation for a twelve buck advance. What's it about? Who'd he kill?"
"Don't you read the papers? Story's in the Morning Blade. Of course, if you haven't got three cents--"
"Okay, okay! Save your breath to cool your soup. I'll drop around and see what the guy looks like."
"Fine, Mack. Listen, Jerold Bell's coming over to see him, too. I told him to stop by and pick you up. Thought I'd save you cab-fare or a walk."
"Bell?" echoed McCracken. "Oh, the insurance guy.I remember him. Where's he figure in?"
"He insured the ring," Zehnder explained. "It's in the papers. Buy one, and I'll refund your three cents." There was a click in the receiver.
McCracken took his hat from the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on his head. He'd wait for Bell in the lobby and read the newspaper meanwhile.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror of the elevator and wondered if he'd been a triple-dyed sap to quit a paying job for a gamble on being his own boss. Six months ago, he'd been drawing down a paycheck every week, and no overhead to worry about. And this morning, he'd had a cup of coffee for breakfast, instead of the ham and eggs he usually ate.
Twelve bucks would buy a lot of ham and eggs. He hoped Zehnder hadn't guessed how badly he needed that twelve bucks.
The elderly walrus at the cigar counter was waiting on another customer, and McCracken fished up the contents of his pockets and looked at them. There was a folder of matches, three keys, and two pennies in cash, one of which was Canadian.
He shoved his hand back into his pocket, as the walrus turned.
"Morning Blade, George," said McCracken. He grinned engag-ingly. "Got a case today, George! So don't let the credit worry you. I'll be back in the money soon. Give me a pack of cigarettes, too."
"That's fine, Mr. McCracken," said George. "But if you're working, how come you can't pay--"
"Don't quibble, George. I'm going over now to pick up my retainer. I'll pay you this afternoon."
The walrus looked at him darkly, and then passed the ciga-rettes across the counter. McCracken had meanwhile picked up the top newspaper from the pile alongside the cash register.
The banner line read: "Italians Suffer New Reverses." That wouldn't be it.
"President Vetoes --" No. But there was two-column head at one side halfway down the page. It read:
SLIMJIM LEE MURDERED, ROBBED
The walrus had followed the direction of his gaze. "Say, is that the case you're gonna work on, Mr. McCracken?" he asked, and there was respect in his tone of voice.
McCracken's eyes caught the words "Mocking Bird" in the second paragraph.
He nodded absently, continuing to read.
"Golly," said the walrus. "Reckon whoever's hiring you has all kinds of dough, then. Slimjim used to be the biggest bookie in town. And the way he sometimes threw money around . . . You stick 'em for plenty, young feller."
"Mmmm," said McCracken, and started to add that you couldn't throw money around the way Slimjim Lee had thrown it, and still have much left, and that the big-shot gambler was reputed to be broke. Anyway, he wasn't working for Slimjim's heirs, if any.
Then he closed his mouth again. The way the walrus was look-ing at him awakened new possibilities.
"Say, George," he said, "I'm short of cash until I get that retain-er. Let me have a buck and put it on my account, will you?"
"Sure, Mr. McCracken." The walrus rang up "No Sale" on the register and passed over a bill from the drawer. He made a nota-tion on a slip of paper on the ledge.
"Makes it eleven dollars and--no, twelve dollars even." McCracken winced slightly. "Thanks, George," he said, and moved a few steps away to lean against the wall, while he studied the article in the Blade. It was quite brief--understandable as the murder had been discovered only half an hour before deadline of the Blade's final edition.
Slimjim Lee, whose real name was James Rogers Lee, had met his death probably between midnight and three A.M., although the body had not been discovered until four-thirty. Autopsy might determine the time of death more closely.
His body had been found in the visiting parlor of a theatrical rooming house on Vermont Street. He had been killed, presum-ably, by a long slender needle called a crocheting needle in one part of the story and a knitting needle in another paragraph. It had been thrust into his heart.
He was known to have been wearing, shortly prior to the murder, his famous ring with the huge solitaire diamond for which he was reputed to have paid six thousand dollars. His bill-fold was found empty. Undoubtedly, according to the police, rob-bery had been the motive, and the solitaire diamond the principal objective of the murderer.
Mr. Lee, according to the newspaper article, had been a close friend of Perley Essington, who roomed at the house in ques-tion, and was a frequent visitor at the Vermont street address. Perley Essington was a vaudeville performer specializing in whis-tling and bird imitations, and he was billed as "The Mocking Bird" on the Bijou's current bill.
Harry Lake, another vaudevillian and inmate of the rooming house, had seen Slimjim Lee enter the house at around midnight, and had assumed he was calling on Perley Essington.
Another vaudevillian and roomer, one LaVarre LaRoque, a dancer, had discovered the body when she came in at four-thirty in the morning. She had opened the parlor door when she had noticed a crack of light under it.
McCracken read the story for the third time, and was putting the paper in his pocket, when he saw Jerold Bell coming through the revolving door into the lobby.
"Hi, Mack," Jerry greeted him. "Haven't seen you since you left the force.
Have a quick one before we go see our fine feathered friend?"
Over a Scotch-and-soda, McCracken asked:
"You're in this because Continental insured the ring? How much was it really worth, Jerry?"
"He paid four thousand for it," Bell said. "I doubt if it could be sold now for over two and a half. Openly, I mean. As stolen property, whoever has it will be lucky to get a thousand. It's insured, incidentally, for two thousand."
McCracken nodded. "Cap Zehnder said you sold the policy. How come? I thought you handled only investigations for Continental."
"Ordinarily, yes. But in cases where unusual factors influence the amount of the premiums, I generally get called in. The regular salesman gets a cut, too, but turns the closing over to me and I help advise the amount of the premium."
"And what was unusual about this policy?"
Bell grimaced. "Just that Lee insisted on wearing that rock twenty-four hours a day, which made the risk much greater than is ordinarily the case with jewelry that valuable. Most people keep their stuff in safes or vaults, and wear it on special occasions. And then there was his occupation to consider, of course. A gambler, who goes to all the places a gambler goes to, and asso-ciates with the kind of people--well, I had to talk the company into issuing the policy at all."
"Leaving you out on a limb, now that the ring is gone?" McCracken grinned.
"Any chance that Slimjim might have sold the ring himself?"
"Not an earthly one," Bell said. "That ring was his luck, he thought. He'd have sold his shirt and shoes first. I've sat in on games with him, and knew him well enough to be positive of that."
"Ever met this Perley Essington?"
Jerry Bell nodded. "Wait until you see him, Mack. A crackpot of the first water. I never thought he'd pull anything like this--if he really did. Cap Zehnder says he has him cold, but I don't know what the evidence is."
"How well you know him?" McCracken asked.
The insurance man laughed. "A month ago, he wanted to take out an insurance policy on--believe it or not, Mack--on his whis-tle! How could you insure a whistle?
That was when he first got his engagement at the Bijou. He'd been 'at liberty' for a long time before that. I think Slimjim loaned him money to live on."
"You didn't issue the policy?"
"Heck, no. I saw him a few times and pretended to give it consideration only because he was a friend of Lee's. I wanted to keep Slimjim's good will, and that meant I had to go easy with Perley."
At Headquarters, they found Zehnder alone in his office. He barked an order into his desk phone.
"I'm having your Mocking Bird sent up here," he said. "If you want to talk to him in private before you go, Mack, you can do that in his cell when we send him back. Okay?"
McCracken nodded. "Sure. It won't matter, if he's innocent. And if he's guilty, I don't want it."
Zehnder chuckled. "Then I'm afraid you're out twelve bucks."
"Any news on the ring?" Bell asked.
The captain shook his head, but before he could add to the negation, the door opened.
A fat little man, whose head was as devoid of hair as a banister knob, came in.
A uniformed turnkey was behind him, but stepped back into the hall and closed the door from the outside when the captain signalled to him.
"Mack," said Zehnder, "this is Perley Essington. Your client, maybe. You said you already know him, Bell?"
McCracken put out his hand and shook the pudgy, moist one of the little bird imitator.
"Tell me about it, Mr. Essington," he said. "All I know now is what I read in the paper."
The little man beamed at him. "I saw the paper," he said. "It's right as far as it goes. I wasn't home when Jim Lee came there at midnight."
"How do you know he came at midnight, then?" asked Zehnder.
Tim McCracken frowned at the captain. "Tut, tut, Cap. It says so in the paper. Don't you read the Blade? Or haven't you got three cents?" He turned back to the vaudevillian. "Where were you at midnight, Mr. Essington?"
"Call me Perley, Mr. McCracken," the actor said. "Why, at midnight, I was just walking. After the show I went for a walk in the park. It was a warm night, and I didn't get home until about two o'clock. I didn't know Jim was coming around last night."
"See anyone you knew while you were out?" McCracken asked.
"Nope." Essington shook his head. "And you'll ask next if I stopped in anywhere. I didn't. I sat on a park bench for awhile and listened to a nightingale. I had a sort of conversation with him. Like this."
He pursed his lips, and suddenly the little room was filled with a sweet, lilting melody. The clear notes throbbed to silence. McCracken saw that Jerold Bell, who was standing behind Perley's chair, was grinning at him.
McCracken cleared his throat. "Say, that's good, Perley. You that good on other birds?"
"Better," said the little man complacently. "On some, even the birds can't tell the difference. On the stage, I'm a wow. And I have a line of patter with the whistling that knocks them out of their seats and rolls them in the aisles. Just last week, the manager was telling me that I was the greatest--"
"That's fine," interrupted McCracken. "But let's get back to Slimjim Lee. How well did you know him?"
The look that had been in Perley's eyes while he talked of the stage faded to awareness of the present.
"Very well," he told them. "I guess he was just about my best friend, and vice versa. Yes, I know most people think--thought--it was funny, because Jim and I are--were--so completely different. But I guess that was why we liked each other."
"You saw him often?"
"He came to see me two-three times a week. Generally after the evening show.
We'd play chess or whistle until nearly morning."
"Whistle? Late at night?"
"Sure. He liked whistling. But he couldn't very well, and I was teaching him how. He just couldn't get the knack of it."
"But didn't the other roomers--"
"Not in a place like that, Mack," Jerry Bell cut in. "They're all slightly nuts. It's liberty hall. Last time I was there, there were acrobats jumping off the banister at four o'clock in the morn-ing. Slimjim took me there after a game."
Zehnder nodded. "Yeah, I've been there," he said, "and I'd believe anything.
We picked up a guy there a month ago."
"Cap," McCracken asked, "could that have any connection with this case, maybe?"
"No. Simple theft case, and the guy's up now, doing three years. He was a stranger to the rest of the mob there, anyway."
McCracken glanced at Perley for confirmation, and got it.
"None of us knew him well," the whistler said. "He wasn't an artist like the rest of us. He painted pictures."
McCracken closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and asked the bird imitator:
"What do you know about Jim Lee's affairs? I've heard he was broke, or nearly so. If you're a. friend of his, you ought to know about that."
"I do, Mr. McCracken. He was hard up, that is, for him. He ran a lot of bookie places, you know, or rather he backed them. Then the syndicate--the Garvey-Cantoni group that runs the numbers game--moved in and took them over.
He didn't fight them about it. He wasn't a gangster and he didn't want to start a war.
And that's what it would have been if he'd tried to buck them."
Zehnder cut in.
"Perley's right about that. We're working on that syndicate, and we close a place now and then, but we haven't got much on them yet. They're bad boys, though."
"Then why," McCracken wanted to know, "suspect Perley when you've got some really tough mugs that might have a motive?"
"But they haven't," said Perley. "Jim Lee wasn't fighting them. Of course, they could have killed him for his ring, but--" He shrugged.
"What about that crochet needle Lee was killed with, Perley?" McCracken asked. "Was it one of yours? The captain says crochet-ing is your hobby."
For the first time, the little man seemed on the defensive as he answered.
"The police seem to think it's funny that I should like to crochet," he complained. "That's silly. Why, lots of men do. And it's good for the nerves, and it gave me something to do when Jim and I played chess. He took so long between moves."
"Was it one of your needles?" McCracken demanded.
"It could have been." Perley shrugged again. "I have lots of them."
"It was exactly like others in his room," said Zehnder.
Jerold Bell was getting restless.
"The devil with crocheting needles," he said. "I just dropped in here to see if there was any news on the ring. I think I'll go on around to Vermont Street and help the boys there look for it. Coming, McCracken?"
"In a minute, Jerry." He turned to Zehnder. "Listen, Cap, the main thing I want to know, is why you're holding Mr. Essington? Thus far there isn't any evidence against him, except that he hasn't an alibi he can prove."
Zehnder grinned. "It ain't that he can't prove he wasn't there. It's that we can prove he was, see? He says he didn't get home before two. But two people there heard him in his room, between half past eleven and half past twelve."
"You mean they heard someone in his room?"
"Nope. Him. Like always when he's in his room alone, they said, he was whistling to himself. Bird calls and stuff. Even a dog imitation."
