The Eighth Circle

by Stanley Ellin

  He would. That was the realization that exploded in him, the knowledge that he would. He could feel the savor of it in his mouth, the sweet pleasure of handing her Lundeen’s head on a silver platter. And he wouldn’t have to fake the job. It would be an honest job all the way. Lundeen would get full value for every dollar.

  Granted, it would be like walking a tightrope. It might mean tangling with the D.A.’s office against all Frank’s canny advice, or with the politicos around Wykoff, or with the Police Department, for that matter. But it could be done. Frank had once gone down to Trinidad on a case, had set the whole colonial administration on its tail to pull a client clear of a murder charge, no less, and had lived to gloat over it. Lundeen’s case was a joke compared to that kind of deal. And the joke was on Lundeen.

  “All right,” Murray said, “I’ll work for you on those terms. I cut, and the chips fall where they will.”

  The girl’s head moved in a numb gesture. “That’s all we want.”

  “Maybe.” He pressed the buzzer under the desk for Mrs. Knapp. “How long do I have? When’s the trial?”

  “January sixteenth. About six weeks.”

  “It’s not much. It’ll take time just getting started, and I need Lundeen for that. When can you have him here?”

  She seemed dazed by the sudden quick tempo of events. “I don’t know. Oh, of course, Sunday. He always comes home Sundays. But I suppose you won’t be here then.”

  “I won’t, but it doesn’t matter. One of my men’ll be here, and he’ll set up a tape recorder for you. Or is Lundeen likely to get tongue-tied around a recorder?”

  “I’m sure he won’t.”

  “Good. Then all he has to do is talk his head off into it. I mean, get the whole story down, including names, addresses, times, places—the works. I don’t care how much he rambles on, or how many times he stops to think things over. He’s the one who’s paying for the tape, anyhow. You can tell him that for me.”

  Mrs. Knapp’s head appeared inside the door, and Murray beckoned her in. She came to attention at the desk, the good soldier, her pad and pencil at the ready.

  “Mrs. Knapp, this young lady is Arnold Lundeen’s fiancée, and we’ve just been having quite a talk about his case. It looks like we’ll be handling it, after all.”

  Mrs. Knapp was a good soldier, but she was also human. Her eyes moved to the girl, then back to the pad again, and her lips twisted in a curious grimace.

  Murray said coldly: “I’d like you to open a file in his name, and draw up the usual contract for our services. Oh, yes. He’s being taped Sunday, so have one of the girls make a transcript of the tape first thing Monday morning. And book an appointment with Ralph Harlingen early next week. Here, if possible.”

  “Right. Is that all, Mr. Kirk?”

  “That’s all.”

  When she had gone, the girl said, “You’re very efficient here, aren’t you?” It was not a compliment; there was almost a distaste in the way she said it.

  “That’s what we get paid for,” Murray answered flatly. “By the way, did Lundeen get a bill of particulars on this indictment?”

  “Yes. McCadden got it for him.”

  “Then tell him to bring it along Sunday and leave it for me. I suppose you’ll be phoning him now about all this, anyhow.”

  “Yes,” said the girl, “I will.”

  He waited until he heard the elevator door close behind her in the outer hall, and then he went to the window. The rain had stopped, the street below was filling with the first rush of homeward-bound office workers, the Santa Claus and his paraphernalia were no longer there. Then the girl appeared outside the building. She stood there hesitant a moment, her hand holding her coat collar together, and finally she moved off with the crowd down the street. Even at that distance Murray could see the men turning to watch her as she passed.

  They would, he thought, suddenly hating them for it. They would.

  3

  FILE: AL391

  TAPE RECORDING: AL391-01

  RECORDED: 27 November

  TRANSCRIPT: 28 November

  BY: Dolores-May Mulqueen

  My name is Arnold Lundeen, and my regular address is 500 Bleecker Street. That is in the Greenwich Village section. But I used to work out of the Third Division, Manhattan West, which is around midtown Manhattan from Fifth Avenue to the Hudson River. I was on the Vice Squad, Shield 32C720.

  This whole thing started last May 3. I met my buddy in the precinct house in the morning, because that’s the way we handled it, two of us in a team so we could cover each other. His name is Benny Floyd—Benjamin Floyd—but I don’t know his address. Just somewhere out in Queens, around where they have all those used-car lots.

  Anyhow, that morning we worked Seventh Avenue from the precinct house up to Central Park, pretty near, and then we cut over to Eighth Avenue and headed back downtown that way. We were mainly on the lookout for bookies, because the ones who operate out in the open have to show themselves around this time. That is, between when you can pick up a scratch sheet in the morning and about one o’clock in the afternoon, which is just before post time at the New York tracks.

  Most of the time coming down Eighth Avenue Benny and I worked opposite sides of the street, keeping each other under surveillance. Now and then we got together to pass the time of the day. Around twelve o’clock we had a hot dog at a stand near Madison Square Garden, and so far everything was all quiet. I remember saying something to Benny about working a different territory, because it almost looked like some hustler had spotted us moving down the avenue and had gone ahead to tip off the bookies and numbers men. I don’t remember what he said exactly, but anyhow we just kept along Eighth, and it was around Forty-fifth Street that I finally spotted this guy. He was operating right out where you could get a good look at him.

  There’s some kind of shop there that sells all kinds of theater equipment, because that’s around where the theaters are, and then next to it is one of those joints sells sexy books and practical jokes—they have a window full of that stuff—and in between them is a hallway leading up to the apartments in the building. And there was this character standing a little bit back in the hall, a scratch sheet sticking out of his pocket. He was wide open. All he needed was a cash register in front of him to ring up the bets.

  I laid back a little, watching him, and after he booked three bets I moved right in on him. As soon as I said he was under arrest he put up a terrific squawk about what the hell was this, he was just standing there minding his own business, and all that kind of birdseed. He didn’t pipe down until I dug in his pockets and came up with the roll of money he was collecting for bets, and with six bet tickets. I took that and the scratch sheet and a couple of pencils he had stashed away—you have to have all that for evidence to back up the charge in court—and then he quietened down some, but he was still nasty. Oh yes, his name was—is—Eddie Schrade, and he lives at 3501 Stillwell Avenue. That’s way to hell and gone out in Brooklyn, right in the middle of Coney Island.

  He said to me: “I got friends. I’m in with plenty big people around here. They’ll have your ears for this, you so-and-so flatfoot.”

  So I told him it would be all right with me to hear who his friends were if he wanted to tell me. Then I could take them right along where he was going, and it would save me trouble some other time.

  Then he started whining. He said: “You got my dough; why not let it go at that. Why pick on me? I’m only a first-timer. I’m brand new. I just wanted to make a dollar.”

  Meanwhile Benny came from across the street. I told him what was what, and we talked some about whether we should walk down to the precinct house or maybe ride it, because we were so far uptown.

  Right away when this Schrade character heard us talking about it he started to hop up and down and make speeches.

  “You got no right to walk me to death!” he yelled. “What are you trying to do, make a parade out of it so you can be heroes? I got a right to ride in. I�
�m an American citizen. I stand on my constitutional rights!”

  Up to then I was thinking myself maybe we ought to ride in, but with the way he was yelling, and then some people piling up around the door so they could see what was happening, I got peeved.

  I said to him: “Enough out of you, friend. You’ll walk on your constitutional feet the way I tell you,” and that’s how we brought him in, walking all the way. We booked him at the precinct, and then we took him over to Magistrate’s Court. He didn’t have bail money on him, but they released him on his fingerprints, and later when the case was called up he just took a guilty plea. You’d figure with all the fuss he made he’d show up with some big-time lawyer handling the case, but, no, he didn’t let out a peep. Just said guilty and shelled out fifty for the fine.

  I didn’t think twice about this whole thing—not even when the Wykoff business busted wide open in the papers a couple of weeks later—because to me it was just another arrest. As far as when Wykoff started shooting off his mouth it didn’t mean a thing to me because I was clean. It’s God’s honest truth I never took a penny of pay-off money since I got into the Department. I never rigged up any stand-in arrests. I never set up any stiff arrests, no matter how much the heat was on.

  Sure, there are guys on the squad—I’m not naming any names—but as soon as the Inspector says to them: “What’s this? You don’t have any score on bookies lately. Did they all move out of the neighborhood?” they rig up deals with a couple of small-time bookies to take arrests, so that the score looks okay and the heat is off.

  I never played that angle or any other, so I naturally figured the Wykoff blast went right over me. Then in September—that was September 15—I was called down to the D.A.’s office. I knew it was that cruddy LoScalzo right away, because one of the guys that came for me was this leg man of LoScalzo’s, Myron Kramer.

  Anyway, they sat me down in like a corridor outside the office along with some other men from the squad, and we just stayed there for an hour, wondering what it was all about. They didn’t let us talk or smoke. We just sat there sweating it out.

  Then LoScalzo came walking out of his office with this fellow I didn’t know at the time, and he says to him: “Point him out. Take your time and make sure. Then point him out to me.”

  This fellow puts on a big act of looking us over, and then all of a sudden he comes up to me and puts the finger on me. I didn’t know till later that he was that Ira Miller bastard. I didn’t even know what it was all about.

  That was all that happened right then, but when I went back on duty I was plenty worried. I talked to the Inspector, and he just said, “If you’re clean you got nothing to worry about.” But what the hell, with this Wykoff business and all I figured maybe I was being put on the spot. That’s when I went to Johnny McCadden, who I knew from my political club, and he was the one took care of things after the grand jury called me up. Johnny’s all right—I don’t have a thing in the world against him—but later on when he started to sound like LoScalzo had reached him, I had to change over.

  What I want to say is—and I don’t give a goddam who knows it—the whole trouble is this LoScalzo. He runs that grand jury, and he runs it the way he wants. They sit there and look at him like he was a little tin god, and you don’t stand a chance.

  Take the way he worked me over before the grand jury. Did I know Miller? Did I ever deal with Miller? What happened when I arrested Eddie Schrade? He kept throwing the ball so fast that half the time all you could do was stand at the plate and watch it go by. I brought along a copy of that bill of particulars, Mr. Kirk, so when you read the minutes of my grand jury hearing you’ll see for yourself how it was.

  If I could have figured what Miller told them I could have done better. But I didn’t know Miller, so how could I guess what they were getting at? All I knew when I got out of there was that they were going to throw me to the wolves. It didn’t surprise me any when I was indicted. If LoScalzo told that bunch to take a running jump out of the window, they wouldn’t even wait to open the window when they jumped. He’s just using that investigation to build himself up for D.A. or governor or what the hell. Johnny McCadden knows that, Everybody on the cops knows that. It’s no secret.

  That’s how it all happened, and everything important is right in here. Maybe I left out some small things, but I can fill you in any time you want, Mr. Kirk. I hope you can use this to help Ralph Harlingen on the case. Thanks. I’m signing off now.

  Murray shuffled the pages of the transcript into their proper order, reread them—slowly this time—and laid them aside. The recorder was on the desk, the tape ready in it. He leaned forward, switched on the machine, and held the earphones to one ear.

  “My name is Arnold Lundeen,” said the machine, “and my regular address—”

  Murray snapped the switch off, and the sound went dead with a yelp. He put the earphones down and sat there contemplating them with a frown. Lundeen’s voice was no surprise; it pretty well fit the man’s narrative style. A hard New York voice, slovenly in enunciation, a little truculent in tone. Anyone reading the transcript had that voice subconsciously in his ears.

  What didn’t fit was Ruth Vincent. Her milieu was the Homestead School, and beyond it something like Westport or New Canaan or even the saner part of the world that the Harlingens frequented. The idea pulled him up short. The girl and Harlingen. On the one hand—on the other hand—

  On the one hand, Harlingen might just have been man enough to snatch at dark-haired, blue-eyed opportunity when it hovered so tantalizingly close. On the other hand, the irony of any such situation would be too rich, too perfect, to be plausible. The girl, using Lundeen’s case as a front for an affair with his lawyer, would be a sort of Francesca da Rimini in reverse, and while she certainly looked the part it was doubtful that she would ever play it. It was nonsense even to think of her in those terms.

  Or was it?

  Murray took a deep breath and picked up the bill of particulars Lundeen had left for him. This consisted of a few typed pages, badly soiled, and heavily scored with penciled notations along the margins. It was no surprise that it was so brief, although Lundeen’s testimony in full would probably have added up to quite a pile of paper. Public prosecutors have a violent dislike for revealing grand jury testimony. Murray, flattening the first page before him, had the feeling that the court must have twisted LoScalzo’s arm before he gave up even this much.

  Minutes of the Hearing, September 15

  For the District Attorney: Felix LoScalzo

  For the Grand Jury: Thomas L. Price, foreman

  Testimony of: Patrolman Arnold Lundeen, 32C720 (sworn)

  Reference: page 1281

  Q (by Mr. LoScalzo): You say you are familiar with the duties of a plainclothes man attached to the Vice Squad?

  A (by Patrolman Lundeen): That is right.

  Q: Then please tell this jury what those duties are.

  A: You mean, what the job is, or how we work on it?

  Q: You seem to be a normally intelligent man, officer. You’re not usually this slow on the trigger, are you?

  A: All I—

  Q: Just tell me what you think your duties are.

  A: Well, we function against vice, gambling, and violations of the ABC. That is the Alcoholic Beverage Control.

  Q: Thank you. Now let’s hear how you work on a case.

  A: What kind of case? There’s all different kinds.

  Q: Any kind of case. Just a case in general. No, wait. Is it your impression, officer, that I’m trying to trick you into something? That can’t be done, if you’re telling the truth.

  A: Yes, sir. I am telling the truth.

  Q: All right. Go ahead and keep telling it.

  A: Well, the way we work is to patrol an area, and when we see a suspect we keep him under observation until we catch him with the goods.

  Q: And then?

  A: Well, then we arrest him and seize the evidence. After we book him at the precinct house we ta
ke him to court.

  Q: And that’s it?

  A: Yes, sir. My record—

  Q: Never mind your record, officer; it’s been duly entered. What interests me right now is the way you’ve been using that editorial “we.” I take it that this includes you as well as all the other men on your squad?

  A: Sure.

  Q: That wasn’t intended to be funny. It was intended to point up that while I asked you how you worked on a case, you answered with some glittering generalities about your squad in phrases drawn from the departmental instruction book. Are you—you, personally—always so careful to follow departmental instructions?

  A: I guess so.

  Q: You guess so. Do your instructions allow you to consort with known criminals?

  A: Well, there might be some assignment—

  Q: I am not talking about special assignments.

  A: In that case, no, sir.

  Q: Good. Do your instructions allow you to make a deal with any suspect, so that you will be paid to arrest someone in his place?

  A: Of course not. You know that, Mr. LoScalzo.

  Q: I know it, yes. But do you?

  A: If you’re saying—

  Q: Let me finish. Have you ever made any such deal? Have you ever taken money—graft is the word for it, officer—to arrest someone in a suspect’s place?

  A: No, I did not.

  Reference: page 1289

  Q (by Mr. LoScalzo): So that is your story of the Schrade arrest?

  A (by Patrolman Lundeen): Yes, sir.

  Q: You say you arrested him at Forty-fifth and Eighth?

  A: Yes, sir.

  Q: Do you know that section well?

  A: Pretty well.

  Q: Did you ever hear of the Songster Corporation? It is right around the corner from there.

  A: No, sir.

  Q: Do you know the owner of that company? His name is Ira Miller.

  A: No, sir. I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know him.

  Q: Did you know that the Eddie Schrade you arrested was an employee of that company, and a long-time associate of Ira Miller?