Why?
Was it because there wasn’t a sidewalk in front and an alley behind—because I didn’t have a man beside me, and men in the rear?
Did a city cop draw his strength and his courage from the pavements—from cars and radios and, most of all, from other cops close at hand?
I was on the deck now, walking lightly toward the door, moving one slow, cautious step at a time. I’d unbuttoned my jacket. My revolver was loose in its holster.
The door was half glass, but curtained. Beside the door was a narrow window, also curtained. The door opened inward. A small brass knocker was mounted on the door-frame to the right of the door. With my left hand I reached across my body for the knocker, so my right arm would be free. Another step, and . . .
The door flew open. An arm held a black iron poker raised against me. I threw myself back, pivoting away. My left shoulder struck a concrete bulkhead, hard. In the dim light, the figure of a man filled the doorway—a big man, still with the poker raised. My gun was in my hand as I dropped to a crouch.
Ready to kill him.
“Jesus, Frank!”
The private detective—Bill.
“What the hell—” Wrathfully, I holstered my revolver. “Where the—” I realized that I was sputtering. I straightened, brushing leaves and dirt from my left shoulder.
A big man spoke urgently. “A guy just tried to get to Alex—tried to get in the basement window. He’s about thirty, thin face, sandy hair, fighter’s nose.” He pointed down the hill, toward the small gate set into the privet hedge. “He came up from down there. He was carrying a handgun. He went back the way he came —through that wooden gate.”
It was Mal Howard. The description fitted perfectly.
“Is Alex all right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“All right, get back inside.” Through the door, I’d seen a telephone in the entryway. I stepped inside and switched on my walkie-talkie. Bill closed the door behind us.
“Marsten?”
“Yessir.”
“Come down here. Bring your walkie-talkie and a shotgun.”
“Yessir.”
I went to the telephone and called Halliday, ordering him to dispatch two black and white units to the scene. The officers were to remain in their cars until I contacted them on channel ten—or until they heard shooting.
I saw Bill pull the door open. Carrying a shotgun across his chest, Marsten stood in the doorway. I explained the situation to him, then turned to Bill. “Stay with Alex,” I ordered. “Don’t let him take off again. And lock the door behind us.”
A moment later Marsten and I were cautiously descending the steep wooden steps that led down from the deck to the gate below. Taking the lead, I constantly scanned the base of the privet hedge. If Mal Howard was waiting for us, lying flat on the ground and shooting through the hedge, we’d be easy targets.
“Did you order reinforcements?” Marsten asked.
“Yes. But I told them to stay in their cars until they get orders. I don’t want them behind us, shooting.”
Speaking in whispers, we were standing in front of the gate.
“Ready?”
Marsten nodded calmly. He looked ready.
I slowly pushed open the gate, standing to the left as the gate swung wide to the right.
The terrain beyond the gate was similar to that higher on the hill: a wild, twisted tangle of low-growing underbrush and stunted trees. In the heart of San Francisco, I was facing a wilderness. To my right, a ragged line of tall pines ran down the hill, ending abruptly at a man-made cliff that had been blasted away to allow construction of the street below. To my left, the sheer concrete wall of an elegant high-rise apartment building rose fifty feet from the ground. The wall extended almost to the cliffside, with a cyclone fence running to the very edge—and even extending beyond, protection against prowlers. Two sides, then, were secure. He couldn’t climb the wall, wouldn’t have gone over the cliff. The third side, marked by tall pines, was bounded by another high wire-mesh fence. The fourth side—the uphill side where I stood—was bordered by three private pieces of property. One of the lots ended in the privet hedge. The second lot was bounded by a brick wall. A wooden fence secured the third piece of property. The enclosed tract of overgrown land measured about two hundred feet square.
“If he’s in there,” Marsten said, “we’ve got him. He can’t get out. But the cover’s so thick, you should order a helicopter.”
The remark was typical of Marsten. He was always suggesting, always pushing. Always bucking. I turned deliberately away from him and moved a few paces down the steep slope and into the cover of the first small, twisted trees. For a moment I stood alone, eyeing the wooden fence that adjoined the brick wall. The fence was no more than five feet high.
Howard could have escaped over the fence, the weakest point. If he’d escaped, and I ordered a ’copter, I’d look like a fool. Once every three months, the departmental comptroller called each unit commander into his office for a “cost of operations” review. For all of us, it was a dreaded moment of truth.
And a helicopter was charged out at three hundred dollars an hour.
I drew a deep breath. “All right, Howard,” I called. “Come on out. Bring the gun with you. Throw it on the ground when we tell you to do it. You’ve got one minute.”
Except for a woman’s head thrust out of a nearby window, there was no response. I called again, louder. Nothing.
By now, I knew, two black and white units were standing by, parked on Greenwich Street. I switched on my walkie-talkie and ordered the uniformed men to come down the stairs—with their units’ shotguns. And flack vests and helmets, if they had them.
Less than a minute later, with all of us crouched like jungle soldiers among the low-growing trees, I was explaining the problem to the four uniformed men, two of whom I knew by name, two by sight.
I pointed to the uphill perimeter: toward the hedge, the brick wall and the wooden fence. “Two of you guard that line,” I ordered, indicating the two men I didn’t know by name. “If he’s going to break out, he’ll probably try to go over one of those fences, or else through the hedge, maybe.” The two men were young and nervous. Both wore khaki-colored Army flack vests and big white helmets with S.F.P.D. stenciled in front. The bulky vests made their arms look frail and spindly. The helmets made their necks look scrawny. Both swallowed hard—then nodded in unison. They looked like boys playing war, dressed in their fathers’ combat gear.
“The rest of us will spread out,” I said. “We’ll work our way downhill to the cliff, through the trees. Each of you will carry a shotgun. Marsten, you take the far side—” I pointed uphill, toward the pines and the cyclone fence. “I’ll take the left. Let’s try and keep a line. And let’s not shoot each other.”
The two young patrolmen tried to smile—but couldn’t make it. Holding his shotgun high, Marsten began forcing his way through the underbrush. Watching the decisive, bull-shouldered way he moved, I realized that Marsten hoped to find Howard first—and kill him.
I drew my revolver and moved to my left, toward the towering concrete wall of the apartment building. The wall was blank, with only a series of vent holes, probably marking bathrooms on each floor. I counted eight balconies overhanging the cliff, one for each floor. On four of the balconies, figures had come to the railing, watching the show below. Sirens and flashing lights and screams and drawn guns attracted them: the rubberneckers, the impassive ghouls. They assembled silently, coming from nowhere—and everywhere. When it was over, when the sirens finally faded away and the blood was drying on the pavement, they silently disappeared.
I turned to my right, looking along the line. Three men with shotguns were working through the tangled trees. Two men with drawn pistols guarded the upper line of fences and walls and hedges.
“This is your last chance, Howard,” I called. “It’s the hard way or the easy way—your choice.”
Nothing.
The silence
threatened a fiasco—an assault team assembled against an enemy long gone. Thank God I hadn’t called for the helicopter.
“All right,” I called out, “let’s get him out of there—slow and easy.”
In unison, the four of us entered the underbrush. Immediately I was surrounded by foliage. Here there were no tunnels burrowed by playing children. There were only bramble branches, tearing at my clothing. That morning, realizing that I would be interrogating the affluent Cappellanis, I’d have chosen one of my best suits. Now I was sorry. I should have—
A flicker of movement came from my right. Crouching low, I brought my revolver up—and saw the blue of a police uniform over my sights. I lowered the gun just as I heard a shout from my left, above.
“Policeman. Hey.” It was a high-pitched voice. A child’s voice, from high above me. From one of the high-rise balconies. Looking up, I saw two small arms waving.
“Policeman. Hey. I see him. By the fence, there. Right down there. Right down below me, there.”
And ahead something moved—something brown, not blue. Through close-growing tree limbs I saw a trouser leg—a shoe—a hand.
And a flash of metal, bright among the branches.
“Over here,” I shouted. “To your left. Here. He’s . . .”
A shot cracked—and another shot. I flinched, then plunged ahead. I couldn’t see him now—so he couldn’t see me, either. So he couldn’t hit me if he shot again.
“Policeman. Hey. He’s climbing over the fence. Hey.”
Arms flailing, legs pumping, feet slipping and sliding, I fought free of the foliage, staggering into a cleared strip of rocky ground that paralleled the building.
He was climbing up the eight-foot wire mesh fence that ran from the apartment building to the edge of the cliff. Incredibly, he’d almost reached the top.
“Howard—” I raised my revolver, shot in the air—then lowered the gun, aiming at the desperately climbing figure. A part of my mind registered the image of a frenzied ape, trapped in his chain-link cage. The distance between us was less than thirty feet. If I squeezed the trigger, I couldn’t miss.
He threw his right arm over the top of the fence—then his right leg.
“Howard.” I took careful aim at the dangling left leg, and fired.
And missed.
With his left hand he reached for his waistband. The hand disappeared inside his jacket—then reappeared, holding a revolver.
“Howard. Drop it.”
Still hanging grotesquely on the fence, clinging to the top by an arm and a leg, he swung the big revolver toward me.
And fired. Once. Twice.
Close behind me, branches snapped, bullets whined.
I raised my revolver, steadied the sights squarely on his chest, and squeezed the trigger. I watched his body convulse, heard him sigh—
—and saw him slowly surrender his ape’s grip on the wire, then suddenly fall. The ground was rocky where he fell. He landed flat on his back, spread-eagled. His neck snapped; his head struck the rocks with terrible force. For a moment he lay motionless, staring straight up into the sky. Then, when his eyes began to glaze, his arms and legs began to twitch.
“Policeman. Hey. You got him.”
PART THREE
The Private Detective
13
When the shooting started in the woods down behind the apartment building, Alex Cappellani jerked and twitched on the settee as if he were imagining the bullets thudding into his own body. His eyes were dark and frightened; his face had a grayish pallor. He had been edgy when I got here an hour ago, but the sandy-haired guy with the gun had completely unnerved him. He had that ostrich look—like he wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere and hide himself from the world.
I said to him, “I’m going to have a look back there. You stay here, don’t move.”
He gave me a convulsive nod.
Still carrying the fireplace poker, I left him and went into the dining area that was part of the L-shaped living room. The rear windows looked out over the woods, and in the distance over the Bay and the Bay Bridge and the hills of Oakland and Berkeley; I peered through them, but I could not see any sign of Hastings or his partner or the sandy-haired guy—just a uniformed cop with his service revolver drawn, running through the gate in the privet hedge below. There was the sound of distant shouting, and two more echoing shots; then the shooting stopped altogether and there was nothing to hear but the shouts.
I turned away from the windows and hurried back into the living room proper. Alex was up on his feet, one hand pressed against the bandage that encircled his head, his mouth pulled into a painful grimace. He said shakily. “What’s happening? Is it over?”
“I couldn’t see much,” I told him. “But it’s over, all right, one way or another.”
He sat down again and clasped his hands between his knees. “God,” he said. “God.”
It got very quiet in there for a couple of minutes. I replaced the fireplace poker and paced around on the balls of my feet, looking over at the front entranceway. Nothing happened. My stomach was knotted up and I wanted a cigarette in the worst way; the craving was sometimes intense in moments of stress.
Another minute crept away. Then there was the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs outside, and seconds after that somebody pounded on the door. Alex’s head jerked up, but I gestured for him to stay seated; I went over into the entryway, up to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Hastings.”
I let out a breath and unlocked the door and opened it. Hastings was alone out on the landing. His big athletic body was tight-drawn and his squarish face was grim, damp with sweat. He gave me a brief nod and came inside past me. I shut the door again after him.
“You get him, Frank?”
“Yeah,” he said, “we got him.”
“Alive?”
“Barely. I had to shoot him. I don’t think he’s going to last long enough to answer questions.”
“Christ. Do you know who he is?”
“His name is Mal Howard. Strong-arm hoodlum, gun-runner, you name it.” Hastings looked past me to where Alex was visible in the living room, watching us with his frightened eyes. “That Alex Cappellani?”
“That’s him.”
He nodded. “Let’s have your story first, before I talk to him. What’re you doing here?”
“Alex called me at home a little after two,” I said. “Out of the blue. He said he’s been holed up here since Friday night. The apartment belongs to a girlfriend of his; she’s a model, in New York now on some sort of magazine assignment. He’s had her key for months, apparently.”
“Go on.”
“He swore to me he hadn’t killed Booker—that he found the body at the Cappellani house, lost his head because he was afraid he’d be blamed, and came here. But he’s not the fugitive type, and he said he’s been having second thoughts. He wanted my advice about what to do.”
“Why you?”
“I suppose because I was working for him and because I had something to do with saving his life the other night,” I said. “Anyhow, I told him to turn himself in, but he wasn’t ready to do that, not without talking to me in person. He sounded sincere and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“So you agreed to come over here.”
“Right. It seemed the best way to handle it.”
“And you convinced him to give himself up?”
“Yeah. He balked at letting me escort him down to the Hall, but I talked him into calling your office. While we were waiting for you to come the sandy-haired guy—Howard—showed up and tried to get inside. Only he made too much noise doing it and we heard him. I armed myself with that poker, ran into the kitchen, locked the cellar door, and made a lot of noise about having a gun. I thought it was him coming up to the front door when I heard you on the stairs.”
Hastings inclined his head again, slowly, digesting all of that. Satisfied, he said at length, “Okay. Now I want—”
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Outside, on the stairs, there had been more running footfalls, and now somebody else began pounding on the door. Hastings turned and opened it. Past him I saw the other plainclothesman, the one I didn’t know, and a uniformed officer farther back on the landing, standing against the redwood fence. With the door open I could hear the excited babble of rubberneckers up on Greenwich Street, the pulsing wail of approaching sirens.
Hastings and the plainclothesman held a hurried conference. What they were saying was none of my business; I went back to where Alex was sitting. He looked up at me in a plaintive way, so I let him have a small, reassuring nod. The tension had gone out of me, if not out of Alex, and I felt limp and tired—the way Hastings looked. You don’t go up against somebody armed with a gun, whether directly or indirectly, without a drained physical reaction setting in.
When Hastings finished talking to the plainclothesman he shut the door and came in to where we were and stood in front of Alex. For several seconds he gave hir a long, probing look; then he dragged up one of the free-form chairs—the apartment was furnished in somebody’s idea of ultra-modernism, all black and white and chrome, with huge impressionistic paintings that took up most of the wall space—and sat down. I sat down too, on the opposite end of the settee from Alex.
Hastings introduced himself. And immediately took a Miranda card from the inside pocket of his suit coat and read Alex his rights. “You understand all of that, Mr. Cappellani?” he said then.
Alex looked at him in a numb way. “Yes.”
“Would you like an attorney present?”
“No. No, that’s not necessary. I want to cooperate with you.”
“Fine. All right, to start with I wart to know everything you’ve done since Thursday night.”
In a low, nervous voice Alex told him essentially the same story he had told me on the phone and after I arrived here. It still sounded reasonable and sincere. And foolish. Leo Cappellani had been one hundred percent right about his brother: Alex, it seemed, more often than not acted without good judgment.
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