Morf gasped. “Then Spivak’s killer was using your gun?”
“Not when he killed Spivak. Since then, yes.”
Di laughed. “And be careful of the fingerprints on the inside doorknob of Spivak’s bedroom. You’ll find other fingerprints on the window opening on the fire escape at the rear of the third floor hall. Spivak’s killer made them.”
Morf’s voice choked. “Berke—”
CHAPTER IV
PHOTO FINISH
But Di had hung up. He rejoined Gail and they climbed back in the cab. “Let’s go to three-twelve Mason. We’ve got work to do.”
“They’ll trace that call,” Gail said. “They’ll be on our necks in two minutes.”
Di whistled softly. “They might come in handy.” He peered at her. “Got any film in that camera of yours?”
Gail lifted her four by five off the seat by its shiny strap. “All loaded for bear.” She patted the pocket of her trench coat. “Pocketful of flash bulbs, too.”
They found 312 Mason and its three-storied brownstone shabbiness. The frowsy landlady wiped her hands on her filthy apron and her cracked voice followed them up the worn stairway. “Francisco’s in the third floor back.”
Gail followed Di up the steps and the thin haze of dust from the carpet lifted under their feet. “This Francisco must be a blockhead—living in a dump like this.”
“Lack of money might not be his reason, Toots.”
They reached the third floor and moved down its shadowy length in silence. They reached the end of the hall, where a dim bulb burned in the ceiling in front of a bedroom recessed in a corner alcove. In front of the door, surprised by their coming, stood a slender, distinguished-looking man in a dark blue topcoat with a velvet collar.
Gail showed her shock, “Why, Mr. Harrison! Imagine meeting you here.” She smiled at Di. “This is Mr. Harrison, Di. He was awfully nice the night you were hurt. Mr. Harrison, this is my husband.”
Harrison took off his Homburg hat and his crisp gray hair glinted in the light of the dim bulb. His lips parted in a merry smile. “Sorry, Berke, that I didn’t recognize you. You look so different standing up. Last time I saw you, you were draped over my car bumper.”
Di wasted no time with pleasantness. “Harrison, how long have you known Joe Francisco?”
Harrison didn’t answer immediately and Di got the impression that he was hunting for the right words. “Only a short time. Francisco has been working briefly for the Allendale stables out at the track. I heard he was leaving for Gulfstream. My own trainer is ill and I thought I might persuade Francisco to pinch hit for him for a few weeks.”
Di put his knuckles up and rapped sharply on the scarred panel of Francisco’s door. Almost instantly a thin, cracked voice answered and the door opened. Di peered in at the slender, rangy, hatchet-faced man with a bald spot as big as a dollar on top of his black head. His eyes were shifty blue and they moved quickly over Di and Gail and Harrison. His voice was anxious, hurried. He pointed to a scuffed suitcase, its top open, resting on the table.
“My bag is packed. I’m ready to leave. Whaddya want?”
Di shouldered his way into the meagerly furnished room. He saw the cheap table, the rumpled bed. “Maybe you’ll change your mind. Harrison wants to give you a job.”
Francisco’s eyes flickered. “That ain’t what Harri—” He suddenly swallowed his words and his eyes filmed. “Whaddya want?”
Di grinned, and watched the man’s eyes, as he used the name. “Joe Patola, I’m interested in ‘ringers’.”
The man retreated behind his shifty eyes but he couldn’t disguise the fact that Di had hit his real name. “You’re talking in riddles, mister.”
Di walked up to the table and peered into the suitcase. He grinned as he picked up a book out of the half dozen lying on top of Patola’s packed clothing. “You’re a book-lover, too, Patola?” He read two or three titles. “Camouflage”, by Henri Pierce; “Color Harmonies, Pigment Blends”, by John Williamson.
He turned a book upside down and fanned the pages. Five one thousand dollar bills fluttered out and drifted to the floor.
“Five grand is a lot of dough for one week’s work, Joe,” Di said. “For a guy who lives in a dive like this.”
Di glanced sharply at Patola. “Patola, did you ever hear of a nag called Shame, by Shameless out of Careless?”
“That’s my business, wise guy. I’ve heard of every nag that ever ate oats. I’m a trainer, ain’t I?”
“Funny thing about this Shame horse, Patola. He was a rank selling plater. But back in Nineteen hundred forty-one they entered him in a feature race at Oaklawn and he came home in front at seventy-five to one.”
“That ain’t unusual. Favorites seldom win the Kentucky Derby, even.”
“Shame didn’t win that race at Oaklawn, either. It was a nag that you fixed up to look like Shame. A stake horse called Redoubtable. Shame had a white spot on his forehead. With your dyes and your color crookedness, you put a white spot on Redoubtable’s forehead. Shame was an eight-year old nag. So you fixed up Redoubtable’s three-year-old teeth with acids. So it wasn’t Shame that won that race at seventy-five to one, but Redoubtable.” Di’s voice was edged with raw humor. “That’s what a ‘ringer’ is, Patola. And you’re a guy that ‘rings’ in a good horse for a glue factory nag.”
Patola’s haggard face burned red at the cheek bones. His shifty eyes moved around the faces that edged him in. And Di’s stern eyes stared back at him. “You came here to pull another ‘ringer’. Now your job is done, and you’re ready to move on to another track. But Anton Spivak got suspicious. He remembered you from Oaklawn and he looked back through all the old Racing Forms at the track library until he found the dope he wanted about the ‘Shame’ race back in Nineteen hundred forty-one. Then he discovered you were working at the track here at the Allendale stables. So he sent for you.”
Patola’s eyes were glazed with a gnawing fear. “I didn’t kill Spivak. So help me God, I didn’t kill him.” Damp sweat dewed his forehead. “I went to his apartment that night, but nobody answered. I didn’t know Spivak was dead till I seen the newspapers. I never killed nobody.”
Di smiled, but there was no humor in his voice. “I know you didn’t.”
Harrison was standing still, nonplused at the sudden turn of events. “If Patola didn’t kill Spivak, who did?”
“You did, Harrison!” Di said.
Harrison’s mouth sagged open under the utter shock of Di’s calm accusation. Then his lips parted stiffly and his voice was little above a tense whisper. “Why should I kill Spivak? He was my friend.”
“Yeah, I know. But Spivak found out that Patola had worked in a ‘ringer’ for Pirate Boy the other day and won you fifty grand.”
Harrison blurted out, “Patola worked for Allendale, not for me.”
“Sure. That was just a slick trick on your part. Patola worked for Allendale during the day as a cover up for working in your stable at night doctoring up a ‘ringer’ to look like Pirate Boy.”
“This is pure poppycock,” stormed Harrison. “I refuse to listen to any more of it.”
“Poppycock, nothing, it’s murder,” Di murmured. “Anton Spivak got in touch with both of you the minute he found out about Pirate Boy. He had the dope on Patola out of the old Racing Form. You reached his apartment first—he showed you the Racing Form and told you you’d be exposed as a crook. To save the fifty grand you’d won on Pirate Boy’s ‘ringer’, you killed Spivak.
“You left Spivak’s apartment and slammed the door. That’s what I heard coming up the stairway. You saw me—and my tan topcoat—and you thought it was Joe Patola going to see Spivak. You said something about ‘Joe’ and banged me over the head with your gun. I dropped my gun and it rattled down the steps. I was almost unconscious—I fell down the steps—you shot
at me but the shot only creased my temple.
“You saw blood on my head and thought I was dead so you picked up your gun and scrammed. But you picked up my gun in your hurry instead of your own.”
Harrison’s lips curled and his hand dropped to his pocket. “Interesting,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Di. “It was interesting when you told the cops you saw me running out of the courtyard with a gun in my hand. Nobody could recognize a man running in the shadow of that hedge. Then you told them you followed me in your car just to keep me in sight.” His voice trembled. “You only tried to run me down and kill me but Gail and the cop showed up too quickly.
“But you weren’t worried. The cops had me—and the bullet in Spivak’s body matched the bullets in the gun I carried. All you had to do was to reclaim the evidence out of Spivak’s Racing Form. You did that last night—but I interrupted—and you buried a bullet in Spivak’s table. You escaped...but you left your fingerprints on Spivak’s doorknob and on the window by the fire escape. So you see, Harrison, we’ve got you sure as Sunday.”
Harrison’s lips twitched and his eyes rolled wildly. “Why did I come here to hire Patola, then? Explain that.”
“You decided to come here after Gail asked you about the Racing Form. You knew that if we found that, we’d eventually get around to Patola. You came here to kill Patola, Harrison!”
Patola sprang across the room, his haggard face drawn in hate. His hands clutched at Harrison. “You dirty dog! I fix a ringer for you to clean up on and then you plan to bump me off!”
Harrison slammed the little man backward. Harrison sprang aside and a gun swept out of his pocket. A snub-nosed .38 on a .45 frame. “Keep your voices down, friends! This is your gun, Berke. I’ll kill you all and leave the gun in your hand. The cops think you bumped off Spivak. They’ll think something went wrong and you took the easy way out.”
Patola whispered whiningly. “That’s cold-blooded murder!”
Harrison snorted. “The first murder is hard—the rest come easy.” His hand raised and the gun blazed.
Di leaped aside. A faint breeze stirred his sleeve as the slug whistled by and buried itself in the wall. He jumped across the room and his hands gripped the table edge and heaved upward. Another bullet crashed into the table and the soft wood spewed on the floor. The suitcase and its contents tumbled at Harrison’s feet. Patola was trying desperately to dodge the bullets, offering Di no assistance in the battle.
Di dropped to the floor. His hands clutched frantically at Harrison. Flame blasted downward from Harrison’s hand. But Di had rolled aside and the bullet tore into the floor. Di leaped to his feet. Harrison cursed. Di laughed between his clenched teeth. “We’re even now, Harrison! The gun’s empty!”
Harrison pulled the trigger. A sharp click echoed. Harrison threw the gun savagely at Di’s head as the latter bored in, both hands swinging for Harrison’s jaw. A roundhouse connected with Harrison’s chin and Gail screamed at the sound of breaking bone. The killer staggered back against the door, blood oozing from his pulverized mouth.
Suddenly the door blasted open behind Harrison and flung him across the room. He stumbled over the table and Di was in on him in an instant. He smashed Harrison across the back of his neck with the edge of his hand. Harrison subsided in a heap. Gail’s flash bulbs were popping and then the room was suddenly crowded, as Inspector Morf and Chuck Ryan barged in.
Morf said grudgingly to Di, “Nice going, Berke. We heard the whole thing from the hall outside the door. We got enough to put Harrison in the hot seat.” He snapped cuffs on Harrison and jerked him roughly to his feet. “Maybe you can fix up a ringer to take your place in the chair, Harrison.”
“The State Racing Commission will take care of Patola,” Di said. “His five grand won’t do him much good. But you hold up your report for an hour till I phone the story into the Journal or I’ll tell the whole story.” Chuck Ryan had picked up the gun Harrison had discarded. He looked at Di with wonder in his eyes. “You sure took a chance when you said that gun was empty.”
“No, I didn’t. It’s my gun. One shot was fired at the Berkshire. Harrison fired one shot at me in Spivak’s apartment. He fired three here. That makes five.”
“Yeah, but this is a six-shooter,” Ryan argued.
Di laughed, and took the gun from him. “I never carried a cartridge in the first cylinder.”
“What if Harrison had reloaded the gun?” Ryan demanded.
“He couldn’t. He didn’t have any of the special cartridges it requires. That’s a Jap gun that I picked up on Saipan. There’s a difference between a Jap .38 shell and the .38 slugs you get here.”
“Whadda yuh know!” said Ryan scratching his head. “See, I learn somethin’ new every day.”
LOVE KILLS, by Gary Lovisi
Originally published in Suspense Magazine, Feb. 2011.
Today the group was listening to another heart-wrenching story of violence perpetuated against women by men.
Janet and her ten female companions had formed this support group to aid battered women and their mission was to outsource positive emotions and healing through group therapy discussions to victims of violence from boyfriends and husbands.
The anger in the room just then, even hatred, was growing second by second with each word the young woman standing up front spoke. Outrage becoming a palpable creature in their midst. This latest victim was named Sandy, a petite blonde housewife from Scarsdale. Nice home. Not so nice husband. Not her fault, really. In fact, none of this was her fault—she’d just picked the wrong guy like so many women have.
His name was Roger.
He was a bad one.
“The hitting didn’t start until a month after we were married,” Sandy said bravely holding back her tears. She nervously dredged up the horrible memories, seeing it all and reliving it all in her mind, her terror mirrored in the angry faces of the ten young women who were listening to her so earnestly.
“We got through the honeymoon without any incident. Roger gave me that saving grace, at least.” Sandy suddenly broke down in tears.
Janet, the leader of the group came over and tried to comfort her.
Women in the audience grew angrier, curses flew, “Bastard! Men are all bastards!”
“The first time,” Sandy continued bravely, regaining her composure, “he only broke my nose. There was a lot of blood, so much blood. I was terrified. He never gave me a reason, or told me what I did wrong. Another time he broke my arm and leg. None of that was as bad as when he threw me down the stairs. Roger told me it was because I had become a ‘fucking fat bitch’ by getting myself pregnant with his child. I lost the baby…”
Sandy broke down as a growl of outrage grew from the throats of the women, followed by a moan of deep sympathy, for many of these women had also gone through the same horrors.
“I really wanted that baby, oh God…” Sandy stammered, fighting bravely to regain control.
“Do you want to stop? Take a break?” Janet asked softly.
Sandy took a deep breath, steeled herself, “No, I want to get through it, finish it.”
“You’re a brave woman,” Janet said.
The other women applauded Sandy for confronting her horror.
“The beatings had been going on for months, any day, any time, for no apparent reason. I know he blamed me for losing the baby. Roger wouldn’t let me go out, nor meet with my friends or family.”
“Typical male control freak!” one of the women shouted.
Sandy continued, “He wouldn’t allow me to leave him either. He said he’d kill me, that he’d rather see me dead than with someone else. When the police questioned Roger about my ‘accident’ falling down the steps—the hospital reported older broken bones on my x-rays consistent with physical abuse—then he blew a fuse. That night he cam
e home and beat me so badly I had to be rushed to the hospital emergency room.”
There were sighs and cries of rage from the women, Janet motioned them to be silent so the speaker could continue her story uninterrupted.
“Finally,” Sandy signed, “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I did not go back home. I’m in a shelter now…”
Some women nodded knowingly, others cheered her, shouting words of encouragement and empowerment. Sandy smiled awkwardly.
“…but now Roger is after me, stalking me. He told me he would kill me.” Sandy blurted, full of terror and allowing it to show now. “I have an order of protection against him but…”
“We all know how that goes!” someone from the group responded. Shouts of agreement accompanied her words.
Sandy nodded sadly, she stood in front of the group like a deer caught in the headlights, like someone who knew she was doomed and was just waiting for the executioner’s ax to fall.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room once the young woman had finished telling her tale.
* * * *
They took Sandy back to her safe house, then they got down to business.
“Well, ladies, are we going to help Sandy with her problem?” Janet asked, for now a private meeting of L.O.V.E.—Ladies Overcoming Violent Exploiters—was in session…
“I think Sandy needs to know that she is not alone in this,” a heavyset woman named Amanda said forcefully. She wore an eye-patch, covering the eye her husband had poked out with a screwdriver. He was in prison now, where he belonged. Amanda hated men and hated husbands in particular.
“Alright ladies, so let me see a show of hands,” Janet asked carefully.
Ten hands flew into the air.
“Then it’s unanimous.”
* * * *
Three nights later a friend of Roger’s let it drop where his runaway wife Sandy could be found. She was living alone in a house at 124 Mercer Street.
The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™ Page 37