87th Precinct 09 - Til Death

by McBain, Ed

  “I don’t feel exactly beautiful,” Hawes said.

  Meyer holstered his revolver. “Nothing like a little excitement on a Sunday, is there?”

  “What the hell are you kicking about?” Hawes asked. “This is my day off.”

  “Lying?” Ben Darcy said. “What do you mean? Why would I…?”

  “Come on, Ben. Over to the house,” Carella said.

  “What for? What did I…?” A gun magically appeared in Carella’s fist. Darcy studied it for a moment and then said, “Jesus, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t you?” Carella asked, and together they walked out of the bushes. The fireworks were exploding behind them, the sighs of the crowd following each new display of pyrotechnic wizardry. Kling met the pair at the house.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Steve,” he said. “It’s past eight, and I’m supposed to pick up Claire at nine. So I’d better be taking off.”

  “Hang around a few more minutes, would you, Bert?”

  “What for?”

  “Hang around, can you?”

  “Okay, but you don’t know Claire when I’m late.”

  “Inside,” Carella said to Darcy. They entered the house. “Upstairs.” They went upstairs to the room that had been Carella’s when he was a boy. School pennants still decorated the walls. Airplane models hung from the ceiling. A Samurai sword he’d sent home from the Pacific was hung to the right of the windows, near the desk. In the room where he’d been a boy, Carella felt no nostalgic wistfulness. He had led Darcy into the privacy of the house because he was about to conduct a police interrogation, and he wanted the psychological advantage of the cloistered silence, the four walls, all the appearance of a trap. At the 87th, he’d have used the small Interrogation Room set close to the Clerical Office, and for the same reasons. There were some cops who used the Interrogation Room as a sparring ring, but Carella had never laid a hand on a prisoner in all the years he’d been a cop, and he did not intend to start now. But he recognized his weapons, and he knew that Darcy was lying, and he wanted to know now why he was lying. He had drawn his gun with the same psychological warfare in mind. He knew he did not need his gun with Darcy. But the gun added official police weight. And, in following through on his line of intent, he had asked Kling to accompany him upstairs because the police weight was doubled with a second cop along; the feeling of inevitable exposure mounted, the lie would root around in the suspect’s mind searching for a rock beneath which to hide, relentlessly exposed to the overwhelming odds against it.

  “Sit down,” he said to Darcy.

  Darcy sat.

  “Why do you want Tommy dead?” Carella asked bluntly.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He stood to the right of Darcy’s chair. Kling, knowing what was happening, immediately assumed a position to the left of the chair.

  “Tommy dead?” Darcy said. “Are you kidding me? Why would I…?”

  “That’s what I asked you.”

  “But I—”

  “You said a man slightly taller than you came up behind you in the bushes and circled your neck with his arm, is that right?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s the truth.”

  “And then he hit you on the head, right? Once? Right?”

  “Yes. That’s what happened. How does that…?”

  “I’m six feet tall,” Carella said, “give or take a quarter of an inch. Bert here is about six-two. That’s about the difference in height between you and your alleged attacker, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, that’s what I—”

  “Would you mind grabbing me from behind, Bert? Put your arm far enough around me so that I can see what kind of clothes you’re wearing. You did tell me your attacker was wearing a tuxedo, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Darcy said.

  “Okay, Bert.”

  Kling wrapped his arm around Carella’s neck. Carella stood facing Darcy, the gun in his right hand.

  “We’re pretty close, aren’t we, Darcy? I’m practically smack up against him. In fact, it would be impossible for Bert to take a whack at my head unless he shoved me on the head this way. Am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Darcy said quickly. “The attacker did shove me away from him. I remember that now. I yelled and then just before he hit me, he shoved me a few feet away from him. So that he could swing. That’s right. That’s just the way it happened.”

  “Well, that’s different,” Carella said, smiling. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? So he shoved you away from him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you mind demonstrating that, Bert?”

  Kling shoved out gently at Carella, and Carella stepped forward a few paces. “About like that?” he asked Darcy.

  “Well, with considerably more force. But that’s about where I wound up, yes. A few feet ahead of him.”

  “Well, you should have told me that to begin with,” Carella said, still smiling. “He hit you from a few feet behind you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes a big difference,” Carella said, smiling pleasantly. “And he didn’t kick you or anything, am I right?”

  “That’s right,” Darcy said, nodding. “He pushed me away from him and then he hit me. That was all.”

  “Then suppose you tell me, Ben, why the hell that cut is in the exact center of your skull, on the top of your head? Suppose you tell me that, Ben?”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “If you were hit from behind, you’d most likely have been hit either on the side or the back of your head. Unless the man who hit you was an absolute giant, the cut would not be in the center of your skull. The size man you described would never have been able to get force enough into a blow that presupposes his extending the weapon above your head and then bringing it down vertically.”

  “He…he was bigger than I thought.”

  “How big?”

  “Six-six, maybe. Maybe bigger.”

  “That isn’t big enough! The natural swing of his arm would have brought that gun down on a slant at the back of your head. Or, if he took a side swing, at either the right or the left of your head, behind the ears. How about it, Darcy? The wound was selfinflicted, wasn’t it? You ducked your head and ran into that big maple, didn’t you?”

  “No, no, why would I want to—?”

  “To throw suspicion away from yourself. Because you sawed through that tie rod end!” Kling said.

  “You were out for a walk this morning, weren’t you? That’s what you told me when I first saw you,” Carella said.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Did you run yourself into that tree? Did you saw through that tie rod end on your little stroll?”

  “No, no, I—”

  “Did you send Tommy that black widow spider?”

  “No, no, I swear I didn’t do any of—”

  “A note came with the spider,” Carella shouted. “We’ll compare your handwriting—”

  “My handwriting?…But I didn’t—”

  “Is that blonde in this with you?” Kling shouted.

  “What blonde?”

  “The one whose gun killed Birnbaum!”

  “Birnbaum!”

  “Or did you kill Birnbaum?”

  “I didn’t kill anybody. I only—”

  “Only what?”

  “I only wanted to—”

  “To what?”

  “I…I…”

  “Take him away, Bert,” Carella snapped. “Book him for the murder of the old man. Premeditated homicide. It’s an open-andshut Murder One.”

  “Murder?” Darcy shouted. “I didn’t touch the old man! I only wanted—”

  “What did you want? Goddamnit, Darcy, spit it out!”

  “I…I…I only wanted to scare Tommy at first. With…with the spider. I…I thought maybe I’d scare him enough so that he’d… he’d back out
of the wedding. But…he…he didn’t, he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t scare.”

  “So you went to work on the car, right?”

  “Yes, but not to kill him! I didn’t want to kill him!”

  “What the hell did you think would happen when that rod snapped?”

  “An accident, I thought, to stop the wedding, but that…that didn’t work, either. And then I—”

  “Where does the blonde come in?”

  “I don’t know any blonde. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The blonde who shot Birnbaum! Come clean, Darcy!”

  “I’m telling you everything. I was only trying to scare Tommy. The wine was to make him sick, yes, but then I took Angela for a ride in my car, and I tried to talk sense to her. If she’d agreed to what I—”

  “What wine? What do you mean, wine?”

  “The wine. For him and her. And if Angela had told me she’d go along with me, I’d have taken the bottles back. But anyway, it’s only to make him sick, so he’ll…he’ll look like a boob on his honeymoon. So she’ll be…disgusted with him. And then maybe she’ll come to me, after all. I love her, Steve! I love Angela!”

  “You gave them wine?”

  “Two bottles. One for him, and one for her. To take on the honeymoon. Two small little bottles. I left them on the bridal table. With cards.”

  “Where’d you get the wine?”

  “My father makes it. He makes a barrel each year.”

  “And bottles it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You put something in that wine? To make them sick?”

  “Only Tommy’s bottle. Only the one marked ‘For the Groom.’ I wouldn’t want Angela to get sick. That’s why I put two separate bottles on the table. One for the bride and one for the groom. Only his bottle has the stuff in it.”

  “What stuff?”

  “You don’t have to worry. It’ll only make him sick. I only used a little of it.”

  “A little of what, goddamnit!”

  “The stuff we use in the garden. To kill weeds. But I only put it in Tommy’s bottle. I wouldn’t want Angela to—”

  “Weed killer? Weed killer?” Carella shouted. “With an arsenic base?”

  “I don’t know what it had in it. I only used a little. Just to make him get sick.”

  “Didn’t it say POISON on the can?”

  “Yes, but I only used a little. Just to—”

  “How much did you use?”

  “It was just a small bottle of wine. I put in about half a cupful.”

  “Half a—and you mix that stuff twenty to one with water to kill weeds! And you put half a cup of it into Tommy’s wine! That’d kill an army!”

  “Kill an—but…but I only wanted to make him sick. And only him. Not Angela. Only him.”

  “They’re married now, you goddamn idiot! They’ll drink from one bottle or both bottles or—you goddamn fool! What makes you think they’re going to follow your instructions for a honeymoon toast! Oh, you goddamn idiot! Cuff him to the radiator, Bert! I’ve got to stop the kids!”

  Dancing had commenced under a starlit sky.

  The Sal Martino Orchestra, having imbibed of good, clean, commercially bottled wines and champagnes and whiskies all afternoon and evening, having been treated to the sweet, exhilarating taste of Antonio Carella’s expensive elixir, played with a magnificently mellow lilt. Distant cousins embraced distant cousins with mounting fervor as the hours ran out. It would be a long time before the next wedding.

  Steve Carella burst from the house and onto the dance floor, his eyes skirting his wife where she sat wriggling uncomfortably in her chair, darting over the dance floor in search of Tommy and Angela. They were nowhere in sight. He saw his mother dancing with Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton, and he rushed over to her and pulled her from the startled uncle’s arms and said, “Where are the kids?”

  “What?” Louisa said.

  “Tommy and Angela. Where are they?”

  Louisa Carella winked.

  “Mama, they didn’t leave, did they?”

  Louisa Carella, who’d had a bit of the commercially bottled elixir herself, winked again.

  “Mama, did they leave?”

  “Yes, yes, they left. This is their wedding. What did you want them to do? Stand around and talk to the old folks?”

  “Oh, Mama!” Carella said despairingly. “Did you see them go?”

  “Yes, of course I saw them. I kissed Angela goodbye.”

  “Were they carrying anything?”

  “Suitcases, naturally. They’re going on a honeymoon, you know.”

  “Che cosa?” Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton asked. “Che cosa, Louisa?”

  “Niente. Sta zitto, Garibaldi,” she answered him, and then turned to her son. “What’s the matter?”

  “Somebody put two small bottles of homemade wine on the table this afternoon. Did you happen to see them?”

  “Yes. His and Hers. Very cute.”

  “Did they have that wine with them when they left?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think so. Yes, I saw Tommy put the bottles in one of the suitcases.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Carella said.

  “Steve! I don’t like you to swear.”

  “Where’d they go, Mama?”

  “Go? How should I know? This is their honeymoon. Did you tell me where you went on your honeymoon?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Carella said again. “What did she tell me, what did she say? She talked about the hotel! Damnit, what did she say? Did she mention the name?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Louisa asked her son. “You act like a crazy man!”

  “Bert!” Carella shouted, and Kling ran to where he was standing. “Bert, did you hear anybody mention the name of the hotel the kids were going to?”

  “No? Why? Have they left with the wine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Kling said.

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A big hotel, she said. I’m sure she said that. Hold it, hold it. One of the biggest hotels in the world, she said. Right in this city. She said that.” He clutched Kling’s shoulders desperately. “Which is one of the biggest hotels in the world, Bert?”

  “I don’t know,” Kling said helplessly.

  “Do you think someone might have seen them drive away?” He turned to his mother. “Mama, did they take a car?”

  “No, a taxi, Steve. What is the matter? Why are you—?”

  “Che cosa?” Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton asked again.

  “Sta zitto!” Louisa said more firmly.

  “Did you hear Tommy tell the taxi driver where they were going?”

  “No. My God, they only left a few minutes ago. If I knew it was important, I’d have asked them to…”

  But Carella had left his mother and was running toward the front of the house and the sidewalk. He stopped at the gate and looked in both directions. Kling pulled up to a puffing halt beside him.

  “See anything?”

  “No.”

  “There’s somebody.”

  Carella looked to where Jody Lewis, the photographer, was packing his equipment into the trunk of his car. “Lewis,” he said. “Maybe he saw them. Come on.”

  They walked to the car. Lewis slammed the trunk shut and then came around the side of the car quickly. “Nice wedding,” he said, and he got into the car and started the engine.

  “Just a second,” Carella said. “Did you see my sister and her husband leave here?”

  “The happy couple?” Lewis said. “Yes, indeed. Excuse me, but I’m in a hurry.” He released the hand brake.

  “Did you happen to overhear the address they gave the cab driver?”

  “No, I did not,” Lewis said. “I am not in the habit of eavesdropping. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finish my work and get to bed. Good night. It was a wonderful wedding.”

  “Finish your…?” Carella started, and he turned to Kling, and th
e same excited look crossed both their faces in the same instant. “You going to take another picture of them?”

  “Yes, I’m—”

  “At the hotel? Putting their shoes out?”

  “Yes,” Lewis said, “so you can see I’m in a hurry. If you’ll—”

  “You’ve got company, mister,” Carella said, and he threw open the car door. Kling piled into the sedan. Carella was following him when he heard his mother’s voice on the path behind him.

  “Steve! Steve!”

  He hesitated, one foot inside the car, the other on the pavement.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “Teddy! It’s Teddy! It’s her time!”

  “What?”

  “Her time! The baby, Steve!”

  “But the baby isn’t due until next we—”

  “It’s her time!” Louisa Carella said firmly. “Get her to the hospital!”

  Carella slammed the car door shut. He thrust his head through the open window and shouted, “Stop the kids, Bert! My wife’s gonna have a baby!” and he ran like hell up the path to the house.

  “What hotel is it?” Kling asked.

  “The Neptune.”

  “Can’t you drive any faster?”

  “I’m driving as fast as I can. I don’t want to get a ticket.”

  “I’m a detective,” Kling said. “You can drive as fast as you want. Now step on it!”

  “Yes, sir,” Lewis answered, and he rammed his foot down on the accelerator.

  “Can’t you drive any faster?” Carella said to the cab driver.

  “I’m driving as fast as I can,” the cabbie answered.

  “Damnit! My wife’s about to have a baby!”

  “Well, mister, I’m—”

  “I’m a cop,” Carella said. “Get this heap moving.”

  “What are you worried about?” the cabbie said, pressing his foot to the accelerator. “Between a cop and a cabbie, we sure as hell should be able to deliver a baby.”

  A convention of Elks or Moose or Mice or Masons or something was cavorting in the lobby of the Neptune Hotel when Kling arrived with Jody Lewis. One of the Elks or Moose or Mice or whatever touched Kling with an electrically charged cane, and he leaped two feet in the air, and then rushed again toward the reception desk, thinking he would arrest that man as a public menace as soon as he finished this business with Tommy and Angela. God, it was past eight-thirty, Claire would have a fit when he finally got around to picking her up. Assuming the kids hadn’t tasted that wine yet—why was he calling them kids? Tommy was about his age—but assuming they hadn’t tasted the wine, assuming a stomach pump and a rush to the hospital wouldn’t be necessary, holy Moses what had happened to what had started out as a quiet Sunday?