The McBain Brief

by Ed McBain

  “In case you didn’t know, Peters.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said, smiling.

  “You’ll probably get a weather report for Guantanamo Bay and vicinity pretty soon.” Centrella shrugged. “There’s some joe in the pot, and I think those radio guys got a pie from the cook. They wouldn’t give me none, and it’s probably all gone by now. But maybe you got influence.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Okay, you relieving me?”

  “The watch is relieved,” I said. “Go hit the sack.”

  Centrella nodded and headed for the door. “Oh, yeah,” he said, turning, “the Old Man’s in his cabin. He wants anything important brought right to him.”

  “What does he consider important?” I asked.

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “That’s a big help. Go to sleep, Centrella.”

  “’Night,” he said, and then he stepped out into the passageway.

  I was ready to close the door after him. I had the knob in my hand, when Parson stuck his wide palm against the metal.

  “Hey, boy,” he said, “you ain’t going to close the door in this heat?”

  “Hi, Parson,” I said dully. I’d wanted to close the door so I could get a better look at the gun.

  “You got any hot joe, man?” he asked.

  “I think there’s some,” I told him.

  “Well, I got some pie. You like apple pie?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved his way in, and put the pie down on one of the plotting boards. Then he went to the electric grill, shook the joe pot, and said, “Hell, enough here for a regiment.”

  He took two white cups from the cabinet under the grille, and poured the joe. Then he reached under for the container of evap, and the sugar bowl. The radio shack was right down the passageway, you see, and most of the radio guys knew just where we kept everything. We went in there for coffee, too, whenever none was brewing in the radar shack, so that made things sort of even. Only, I could have done without Parson’s company tonight.

  “Come on, man,” he said, “dig in.”

  I walked over to the plotting board and lifted a slice of pie, and Parson said, “How many sugars?”

  “Two.”

  He spooned the sugar into my coffee, stirred it for me, and handed me the steaming mug.

  “This is great stuff on a hot night,” I told him.

  “You should’ve asked for battleship duty,” Parson said. “They got ice cream parlors aboard them babies.”

  “Yeah,” I said. The steam from the coffee rose up and touched my face, and I began to sweat more profusely. I put down the cup and reached for a handkerchief, and I was wiping my face when the Old Man popped in.

  “Attention!” I shouted, and Parson leaped to his feet, almost knocking over his cup. The Old Man was in silk pajamas, and he stormed into the shack like something on a big black horse.

  “At ease,” he shouted, and then he yelled, “What the hell is going on here, Peters?”

  “We were just having a little coffee, sir. We . . .”

  “What is this, the Automat? Where’d you get that pie?”

  I looked to Parson, and Parson said, “One of the cooks, sir. He . . .”

  “That’s against my orders, Parson,” the skipper bellowed. “I don’t like thieves aboard my . . .”

  “Hell, sir, I didn’t steal . . .”

  “And I don’t like profanity, either. Who’s on watch here?”

  “I am, sir,” I said.

  “Where are you supposed to be, Parson?”

  “Next door, sir. In the radio . . .”

  “Am I to understand that you’re supposed to be standing a radio watch at this time, Parson?”

  “Yes, sir, but . . .”

  “Then what the hell are you doing in here?” the Old Man roared.

  “I thought I’d . . .”

  “Get down to the OD, Parson. Tell him I’ve put you on report. This’ll mean a Captain’s Mast for you, sailor.”

  “Sir,” I said, “he was only . . .”

  “You shut up, Peters! I see you still haven’t got that haircut.”

  “We were out with the drone, sir. I couldn’t . . .”

  “Get it first thing tomorrow,” he said, ignoring the fact that we’d be out with the cruiser tomorrow. “And now you can dump that coffee pot over the side, and I want that sugar and milk returned to the mess hall.”

  “I’m on watch, sir,” I said coldly.

  “Do it when you’re relieved, Peters.” He stood glaring at me, and then asked, “Were there any important messages, or were you too busy dining?”

  “None, sir,” I said.

  “All right. I’m going out to the boat deck now to get those men below. I don’t like my ship looking like a garbage scow. Men aren’t supposed to sleep abovedecks.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “I’ll be there if anything comes for me. When I come back, you’ll hear me going up the ladder outside. I’ll be in my cabin then. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said tightly.

  “All right.” He walked out, and Parson watched him go and then said, “Someday that man’s gonna get it, Dave. Someday.”

  I didn’t say anything. I watched Parson go down to the OD, and I thought: Not someday. Now.

  I heard the Old Man yelling out on the boat deck, and then I heard the grumbling as the guys out there stirred and began packing their mattresses and gear. I was sweating very heavily, and I didn’t think it was from the heat this time. I could feel the hard outline of the .45 against my belly, and I wanted to rip the gun out and just run out onto the boat deck and pump the bastard full of holes, but that wasn’t the smart way.

  The smart way was to be in a spot where I could dump the gun over the side. I stepped out of the radar shack and looked down the passageway to where the skipper was waving his arms and ranting on the boat deck. There was a gun mount tacked to the side of the ship just outside the passageway and the radar shack. The hatch was closed, and I undid the dogs on it, and shoved it out, and then stepped outside, stationing myself near the magazine box alongside the 20mm mount. I could see the ladder leading up to the bridge and the captain’s cabin from where I was standing. My idea was to plug the captain, dump the gun, and then rush inside, as if I was just coming out of the radar shack after hearing the shot.

  I could hear the captain ending his tirade, and I thought to myself that it was the last time he’d chew anybody out. I thought everybody was going to be real tickled about this. Hell, I’d probably get a medal from the crew. It was all over out there on the boat deck now, and I peeked into the passageway and saw the Old Man step through the hatch and glance briefly into the radio shack.

  I pulled the .45 out of my shirt.

  The gun was very heavy and very hot. My hand slipped on the walnut grip, and I shifted hands and wiped the sweat off on the back of my dungarees. I took a firmer grip on the gun, with the sweat running down my face and over my neck and trickling down my back, sticky and warm. I thumbed off the safety, and the Old Man passed the radar shack and didn’t even look in, and I sucked in a deep breath and waited.

  And then he was starting up the ladder, and I thought, Now, you louse, now! and I sighted the gun at the back of his neck.

  I squeezed the trigger.

  There was a dull click and nothing else, and I was shocked for a second, but I squeezed off again, and there was another dull click, and the Old Man was already halfway up the steps, and he still hadn’t turned. I squeezed the trigger twice more, but I got empty clicks both times, and then the Old Man was out of sight, heading toward his cabin.

  I looked down at the gun in my hand, realizing it was empty, realizing there was no clip in it. I remembered the captain’s orders about no magazines allowed in sidearms or pieces, and I remembered that Ferguson had gone to the gun locker to get a clip for his own empty .45.

  I was still sweating, and the hand holding the gun was trembling now, as if
I was just realizing what I’d almost done, just realizing that I’d almost killed a man.

  I felt kind of foolish. Maybe an empty gun makes you feel that way. Or maybe the anger had burned itself out when I’d heard those stupid empty clicks. Maybe that, and maybe I was a little glad the gun had been empty, because chewing out a man is one thing, but killing a man is another. He chewed everybody out, when you got down to it, and nobody had gunned him down yet. Just me, who would have already committed murder if it hadn’t been for an order the captain had issued a long time ago. Me, from Red Bank, New Jersey—a murderer.

  I dumped the gun over the side, and I heard the small splash when it hit the water, and then I heard the speaker in the radar shack calling, “Cavalcade, Cavalcade . . .”

  I ran in and began copying down the weather forecast for Guantanamo Bay, and the weather forecast said there would be rain tonight, and all at once I felt a lot cooler.

  Kid Kill

  It was just a routine call. I remember I was sitting around with Ed, talking about a movie we’d both seen, when Marelli walked in, a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “You want to take this, Art?”

  I looked up, pulled a face, and said, “Who stabbed who now?”

  “This is an easy one,” Marelli said, smiling. He smoothed his mustache in an unconscious gesture and added, “Accidental shooting.”

  “Then why bother Homicide?”

  “Accidental shooting resulting in death,” Marelli said.

  I got up, hitched up my trousers, and sighed. “They always pick the coldest goddamn days of the year to play with war souvenirs.” I looked at the frost edging the windows and then turned back to Marelli. “It was a war sourvenir, wasn’t it?”

  “A Luger,” Marelli said. “9mm with a 3⅝ inch barrel. The man on the beat checked it.”

  “Was it registered?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Stupid characters,” I said. “You’d think the law wasn’t for their own protection.” I sighed again and looked over to where Ed was trying to make himself small. “Come on, Ed, time to work.”

  Ed shuffled to his feet. He was a big man with bright red hair, and a nose broken by an escaped con back in ’45. It happened that the con was a little runt, about five feet high in his Adler elevators, and Ed had taken a lot of ribbing about that broken nose—even though we all knew the con had used a lead pipe.

  “Trouble with you, Marelli,” he said in his deep voice, “you take your job too seriously.”

  Marelli looked shocked. “Is it my fault some kid accidentally plugs his brother?”

  “What?” I asked. I had taken my overcoat from the peg and was shrugging into it now. “What was that, Marelli?”

  “It was a kid,” Marelli said. “Ten years old. He was showing his younger brother the Luger when it went off. Hell, you know these things.”

  I pulled my muffler tight around my neck and then buttoned my coat. “This is just a waste of time,” I said. “Why do the police always have to horn in on personal tragedies?”

  Marelli paused near the table, dropping the paper with the information on it. “Every killing is a personal tragedy for someone,” he said. I stared at him as he walked to the door, waved, and went out.

  “Pearls from a flatfoot,” Ed said. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  It was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that attacks your ears and your hands, and makes you want to huddle around a potbelly stove. Ed pulled the Mercury up behind the white-topped squad car, and we climbed out, losing the warmth of the car heater. The beat man was standing near the white picket fence that ran around the small house. His uniform collar was pulled high onto the back of his neck, and his eyes and nose were running. He looked as cold as I felt.

  Ed and I walked over to him, and he saluted, then began slapping his gloved hands together.

  “I been waitin’ for you, sir,” he said. “My name’s Connerly. I put in the call.”

  “Detective Willis,” I said. “This is my partner, Ed Daley.”

  “Hiya,” Ed said.

  “Hell of a thing, ain’t it, sir?”

  “Sounds routine to me,” Ed put in. “Kid showing off his big brother’s trophy, bang! His little brother is dead. Happens every damned day of the week.”

  “Sure, sir, but I mean . . .”

  “Family inside?” I asked.

  “Just the mother, sir. That’s what makes it more of a tragedy, you see.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, sir, she’s a widow. Three sons. The oldest was killed in the war. He’s the one sent the Luger home. Now this. Well, sir, you know what I mean.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s get inside.”

  Connerly led us to the front door, and rapped on it with a gloved hand. Ed stole a glance at me, and I knew he didn’t relish this particular picnic any more than I did.

  The door opened quickly, and a small woman with dark brown eyes opened the door. She might have been pretty once, but that was a long time ago, and all the beauty had fled from her, leaving her tired and defeated.

  “Mrs. Owens, this is Detective Willis and his partner,” Connerly said.

  Mrs. Owens nodded faintly.

  “May we come in, ma’am?” I asked.

  She seemed to remember her manners all at once. “Yes, please do.” Her voice was stronger than her body looked, and I wondered if she were really as old as she seemed. A widow, one son killed in the war. Death can sometimes do that to a person. Leave them more withered than the corpse.

  “We’re sorry to bother you, ma’am,” I said, feeling foolish as hell, the way I always did in a situation like this. “The law requires us to make a routine check, however, and . . .”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Willis.” She moved quickly to the couch and straightened the doilies. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I sat down with Ed on my right. Connerly stood near the radiator, his hands behind his back.

  Ed took out his pad, and cleared his throat. I took that as my cue and said, “Can you tell us exactly what happened, ma’am?”

  “Well, I . . . I don’t really know, exactly. You see, I was in the kitchen baking. This is Wednesday, and I usually bake on Wednesdays. The boys . . .” She hesitated and bit her lip. “The boys like pie, and I try to bake one at least once a week.”

  “Yes, ma’m.”

  “I . . . I was putting the pie into the oven when I heard this . . . this noise from the attic. I knew the boys were up there playing so I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “What are the boys’ names, ma’m?”

  “Jeffrey. He’s my oldest. And . . . and . . .”

  “Yes, ma’m?”

  “Ronald.”

  “Was Ronald the boy who was shot, ma’m?”

  She didn’t answer. She simply nodded her head. I got up because I was embarrassed as hell, and I began walking around the room. On top of the upright piano, four photos in silver frames beamed up at me. One was of an older man, obviously the dead Mr. Owens. A second was of a young man in an Army uniform, with infantry rifles crossed on his lapel. The other two were of the younger boys.

  Mrs. Owens blew her nose in a small handkerchief and looked up.

  “Which one is Jeffrey?” I asked.

  “The . . . the blond boy.”

  I looked at the photo. He seemed like a nice kid, with a pleasant smile, and his mother’s dark eyes. “Is he in the house?”

  “Yes. He’s upstairs in his room.”

  “I’d like to talk to him, ma’m.”

  “All right.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the attic first.”

  She seemed about to refuse, and then she nodded, “Certainly.”

  “You needn’t come up, Mrs. Owens,” Ed said. “The patrolman can show us the way.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  We followed Connerly up the steps, and he whispered, “See what I mean? Jesus, t
his is a rotten business.”

  “Well, what are you gonna do?” Ed philosophized.

  The attic had been fixed as a playroom, with plasterboard walls and ceiling. An electric train layout covered one half of the room. In the other half, covered with a sheet, lay young Ronald Owens, I walked over and lifted the sheet, looking down at the boy. He resembled the older Jeffrey a great deal, except that his hair was brown. He had the same dark eyes, though, staring up at me now, sightless. There was a neat hole between his eyes, and his face was an ugly mixture of blood and powder burns. I put the sheet back.

  “Where’s the gun?” I asked Connerly.

  “Right here, sir.”

  He fished into his pocket and produced the Luger wrapped carefully in his handkerchief. I opened the handkerchief and stared at the German gun.

  “Did you break it open, Connerly?”

  “Why, no, sir. A patrolman isn’t allowed to . . .”

  “Can it,” I said. “If you broke it open, you’ll save me the trouble.”

  Connerly looked abashed. “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Any shells in it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not even in the firing chamber?”

  “No, sir.”

  “One bullet, then. That’s strange.”

  “What’s so strange about it?” Ed wanted to know.

  “A Luger’s magazine fed, that’s all,” I said. “Eight slugs in a clip. Strange to find only one.” I shrugged, handing the pistol back to Connerly. “Let’s see what else is around here.”

  We started rummaging around the attic, not really looking for anything in particular. I think I was just postponing the talk I had to have with the young kid who’d shot his own brother.

  “Bunch of books,” Ed said.

  “Mmmm?”

  “Yeah. Few old newspaper clippings.”

  “Here’s something,” Connerly cut in.

  “What have you got?”

  “Looks like a box of clips, sir.”

  “Yeah? For the Luger?”

  “Looks that way, sir.”

  I walked over to where Connerly was standing, and took the box from the shelf. He had carefully refrained from touching it. The box was covered with a fine layer of dust. There were two clips in the open box, and they too were covered with dust. I lifted one of the clips out, running my eyes over the cartridges. Eight. The second clip had only seven cartridges in it.