The Hardboiled Mystery Megapack

by John Roeburt

  Now they stood silently in the long watch, Devereaux and his partner. The night was good here in their high cloister. The scene far below in the hollow where the marsh was could be dismissed by the mere turning of the eyes. Devereaux turned his eyes momentarily, to the abounding woods with their tall trees and the smell of spruce and pine. He could hear the wind, and the cricket serenade. He could see the fireflies by their bottom light.

  And soon, with the bog in his eye again, he said, “The chances are, no corpse. Another prankster tip, somebody having his spoof with the police.”

  Solowey said, “Or if a corpse, a new problem raises itself. Proof of identity, positive enough. A cadaver in a marsh, for the time of The Tiger Man’s disappearance—How much can be left?”

  Devereaux thought about it. If a corpse, the disintegration must tax laboratory science to the limit. Proof of a sort finally perhaps, but always the remaining doubt. The laboratory could only approximate, or disprove. This could reasonably be The Tiger Man, it could say. Or, this is conclusively not The Tiger Man. The reassembling of identity from the abstract of bone, skeleton and tooth, left many gaps where inductive logic must do for the demonstrably and surely scientific. And in this, the original crime could be compounded by the policeman himself. There were cases such, replete in the records. Approximate identification sufficient to Law and even insurance claims, but a miscarriage of justice.

  Solowey knew it first, and nudged Devereaux to attention. Devereaux looked down into the bog. There had been a result. From his stand, he could not see the thing that lay uncovered in the marsh. The men in high boots were around it, like hunters making a fence against other claimants to their game. But it lay there at their feet, Devereaux knew. He could read the charge in their backs. He could hear Anders making nasal cries from his box. Cries of jubilation; a canker had been cut away from his hide, and the soreness that remained would heal with the speed of the dawn now rising in the east.

  Solowey started down the path that wound to the highway where their automobile was parked. Devereaux followed behind him, at a slower gait. It had been Anders’ show, and the show was over. For now, anyhow. And for the rest to come, any future event or finding born of this theater in the marsh, he would have to solicit Anders. And modestly, in a wily genuflection, so that the jealous Anders might share his monopoly of information.

  On the highway, they drove slowly into the first sun of day. The sun was round, a giant fireball. There were signs everywhere; small signs that were crude and huge signs that captured the eye with their bathing girls and red-letter promise of gourmet delights and tennis and love in the sun. Kraft’s Cosy Cabins and the Paradise Inn, the signs said. And the Seven Lakes Hotel, solarium and casino, the best Broadway entertainment, cuisine par excellence, day counselors for children, at low family prices.

  Devereaux said quietly, “Life and death, separated by a few hundred yards. Family hotels…fat mamas and week-end fathers. Hit a tennis ball high over the trees to land in the marsh. Retrieve the ball, and find a corpse.” He smiled at Solowey. “I’ve begun to talk like you.”

  The sun was low, as if rising from a crest in the highway. The Buick hurtled toward it, like a carnival driver sending his machine through a flaming hoop.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Part 1.

  It was a room in police headquarters, and the seated official seemed to dominate every corner of it in his nervous radiation of personality. He was Caesar, in his eminent domain, with power in his shout. But his look to Devereaux was less severe now than another day, and a wisping smile could even be read on his mouth. As if now, in some long afterthought, his war with an admired ex-colleague seemed a bit foolish.

  Devereaux said, “Believe me, no vanity, Anders. Nor am I looking for personal laurels. And in my time as a cop, I put pride in the Department before everything else. Go look in the book.”

  Anders made sheepish nod to it, and Devereaux continued, “An ex-cop stands in the public eye, he’s Moses in the desert to people. There’s a pull at his sleeve, a tug at his heart—His ear is bent by the hour. And then suddenly, he’s a cop again.”

  Anders said, “Who is your client?”

  Devereaux shook his head. “Same answer to that as yesterday, and the day before. I’m not stubborn, Anders…only keeping faith. I can’t decently tell you right now. But I’ve told you everything else, just about. And Solowey is preparing an operational report to really bring you to par with us.”

  After a reflective moment, Anders said, “I’m not as small as I’ve been acting. But an old case kicking up, with an army of operatives taking orders from Solowey like he was Commissioner of Police and that fleabag he calls an office was Police Headquarters… It began to get my goat.”

  Devereaux smiled, “Of course. And now I make you this promise. Our investigation continues independently, parallel to yours. But where it ends, because say it’s over, we fade out of the picture. The solution is yours, Anders. You write the climax on the police book. You make the arrest.”

  Anders read Devereaux’s face, and then nodded in solemn agreement to the bargain. Now Devereaux waited expectantly, hungry for a morsel from Anders’ monopoly and hoard.

  The Captain of Homicide began, “To the best of our knowledge so far, that thing out of the marsh could have been Rocky Star. Yes and no, that is. We shipped it to the Harvard Medical Lab. Dr. Kingdon up there, you’ve heard of him?”

  Devereaux nodded, and Anders continued, “They crate husks and hair and pieces of bone, and ship them to Dr. Kingdon. The labels on the crates read Copenhagen, Zurich, Havana and Seattle, Washington. That’s Kingdon’s size in his profession, Devereaux! He starts out with nothing-minus and when he’s done his report reads like a medical chart of the victim completed while he lived.” Anders had a boy’s incredulity in his tone. “An ankle tells Kingdon the victim’s height, an arm tells him the weight. A patch of skin tells him the age. And other fantastic stuff. If you get up there, Devereaux, stay a while. Kingdon’s a talker and a natural teacher. He loves educating cops.”

  Now Anders’ face drew gloomily. “We handed Dr. Kingdon a sticker. Not so much for the deterioration of that thing out of the marsh, mind you. Kingdon’s struggled with worse samples, much less to go on. But what made Rocky Star over a thousand other fellows of his general size, build, pigmentation and age…we simply do not know. We can’t yet furnish Kingdon with any special and distinguishing characteristics. Like very individual dentistry, or surgical scars say, or bone injuries he may have suffered in his time. The face on that thing out of the marsh, mind you…” Anders stopped, and then made his meaning with a gesture.

  Devereaux thought briefly and then said, “I’m thinking out loud, Anders. Face eaten away, okay. But the bone structure of the head remained. A bone injury to distinguish Rocky Star from Joe Blow, you said. How about the nose, the bridge of the nose. And the septum. Remember, Rocky was a pugilist.”

  Anders nodded, “A deviated septum, and a break in his nose. That did show up for Dr. Kingdon. The victim could have been a boxer; that’s been pretty well established. And those other measurements: size, build, approximate age and so forth, they check pretty okay too…”

  The Captain of Homicide crossed the floor to stand before Devereaux. “I’ve been making cautious statements for policy mainly. I don’t want to sound off, and then later go looking for a hole. But the fact is, I personally believe it is Rocky Star—what’s left of him. I believe it for myself, but not yet for the Department. Enough already checks. Those general measurements, and the fact that the victim could have been a boxer.”

  Devereaux said, “Other than clearer proof that this must be Rocky Star and nobody else—what other doubts do you have?”

  There was a small hesitation, then Anders said, “The time Rocky Star’s been missing. Five years. Dr. Kingdon agrees to the time. The thing out of the marsh could easily be dead that long a time…”

  “But?”

  Now Anders seemed to squirm a lit
tle. As if reluctant to injure a delicate structure of proof so painfully achieved. “That marsh. Dr. Kingdon isn’t so sure the condition of the victim squares with the marsh. For the time elapsed and the exposure, that is. The deterioration, as much as it is, should be even more. So Kingdon says…”

  “You’re not being very clear, Anders. Do I understand you to mean that Dr. Kingdon doesn’t think the victim had been in that marsh for as long as he’s been dead?”

  “That’s what I mean. But mind you, Dr. Kingdon is only doubtful—he hasn’t made any positive statement to that effect.” Anders sought to restore the delicate structure of proof and finality. “Even so, there’s a simple explanation. The corpse was secreted in one place, and then some time later on brought to the marsh.”

  Devereaux looked very skeptical, and now Anders spoke sharply, like a man resolving a doubt by force of wish. “There are holes, sure. We’ve got to make a few guesses; make a patch here, a patch there. But to have holes, you’ve also got to have fabric. I look at the fabric…” His eyes were on Devereaux’s face, demanding agreement. And then, not finding it, Anders said slowly, “I was going to save this. Tell you only so much, and let you go back to beating the brush.” He went to a desk and unlocked a drawer. “A clincher, Devereaux. Proof that the thing out of the marsh was once The Tiger Man.”

  Now Anders set an object on the desk top with the ostentation of a merchant-jeweler showing his wares. It was a heavy ring, a man’s ring, tooled into a cobra with twin rubies where the eyes were.

  Devereaux came over to look at the ring, not touching it. He said, “It was there in the marsh?”

  Anders nodded to it, and Devereaux said, “What makes you suppose it was Rocky Star’s own ring?”

  “It’s been identified as Rocky’s ring.”

  “By whom?”

  “Two people. Aldo Starziani, and Max Toller. The brother and the ex-trainer. They both knew the ring at once. They’d seen Rocky wear it.”

  A silence fell, and the conviction in Anders’ face began to slip noticeably. Troubled lines formed on his brow and in his meaty jowls. Soon he said almost accusingly, “An hour with you, I’m not even sure of my own name. That god-awful skepticism, you exalt it, you foul up the place.”

  Devereaux said quietly, “Leap without a long second look, you spill your brains. A cop isn’t a creator of Truth. That structure’s been standing long before the cop happens to the case. A solid edifice of stone and steel, with windows to it, and a whole inner life. It’s only slipped into the fog, so the eye cannot detect it. It’s lost to the eye, it’s something indistinct and ambiguous in a great mist.” The detective joined looks with the Captain of Homicide. “When the fog lifts, Anders, we’ll see the structure, and know it. Build our own Truth, we only build a trap for ourselves. Compel interpretations in our great natural impatience for conclusions and climaxes, and the fog only gets thicker…we’ll never get to see the standing structure.”

  Anders looked unenlightened and harassed, as if the concept was an assault against him. Devereaux said, “That ring is a strong pointer, yet a hundred times nothing for that very reason. Ask yourself: can a ring do for identity where bone, tissue and vitals cannot?”

  Devereaux continued, “Rings can be two of a kind, fifty of a kind. Identification of a ring can be a ruse, a deliberate lie. Even by two people. Two people acting out of private motives of their own.” He held Anders in a hard stare. “The thing out of the marsh, unidentified and nameless so far as we truly know, is a mere part of that structure hidden in the fog. Like the why and how of Rocky Star’s original disappearance is part of it. Like Hobie Grimes and the fate that he met with is part of it. And like all the others in the frame of this case…”

  Anders said, “I’m reeling. Stop with the trip-hammer.”

  Devereaux smiled, “I’m been passing my headache on to you.” His brow knit seriously. “What mainly bothers me about the discovery in the marsh, is how it came about.”

  Anders said, “I got a phone tip from an anonymous party.”

  “That’s my point, and my worry. You were made to perform by an invisible director throwing cues by remote control. To me, the identity of the thing out of the marsh is secondary to the identity of the informant and director.”

  “His motive,” Anders said quickly, very eager for status in the exchange. “Why would somebody set it up like he did? Hand up the remains of The Tiger Man at this time? At this late date?”

  Devereaux nodded and said, “The skepticism becomes you. There’s a new shine to your badge.”

  Anders reddened slightly, but said nothing. Devereaux asked, “The thing out of the marsh—how did he die? Has Dr. Kingdon determined that?”

  “Kingdon’s made no commitment on that yet. He so far only indicated the possibility of a brain injury. A concussion, maybe from blows on the skull.”

  Devereaux said, “But no clear establishment of foul play?”

  Anders said, “No. No clear establishment.” Now Anders made capital of irony. “Your fog’s over the Harvard Medical Lab, like it’s everywhere else.”

  Devereaux laughed pleasantly and started to the door. A politic retreat, this; the growl had crept back into Anders’ tone. The good Captain of Homicide was constrained to recover his rights to eminent domain. There was every sign of this in his face now. Devereaux opened the door. His good-by was a nod.

  Part 2.

  The restaurant in the low East Fifties was CBS’ backyard. A blue room, with show business murals on its walls and signed photographs of the theatrical great and small. The bar was small and cozy, and its few stools held a commingling of the sexes, male, female, and intermediate, in the fine tolerance characteristic of the show world. The tables themselves were separate islands where caste was the denominator of tenancy. The elite, of household name or face, sat apart from the rest.

  Off in a corner, remote from the diners and the shop-talkers, sat Devereaux and Sam Solowey. Devereaux was in his costume shirt, the midnight blue of director’s decree. This was the pause in rehearsal time, a time for actor’s breath and renewal. A time for Devereaux to probe his greater fortunes…his fortunate albeit provisional return to the life that suited him best.

  Solowey was mulling over his partner’s report: Devereaux’s hour with Captain Anders. The portly detective’s head pressed into the cup of his hands until his face formed three chins. And soon, in the slowest return from infinity, Solowey said, “I am one with your misgivings, Devereaux. The recovery in the marsh is presently significant only for the motive of the anonymous informant.”

  Devereaux said, “Even if the identification becomes actual and valid in the next days. All we achieve is a corpus delicti, a finalization to my long assumption anyhow that The Tiger Man had been murdered.” The detective paused briefly, and then continued, “A true corpus delicti is surpassingly important—no question about it. But only for the murder trial to come. So we can indict and convict. Right now, the result of the marsh doesn’t advance us one inch. If anything, it confuses. It tempts us into a nice diversion. Is the thing Rocky Star, or no? We can lollygag along that detour for days…we can lose our focus.”

  Solowey said summarily, “Assume then that Rocky Star has been murdered, as we have assumed it. Confine ourselves only to the pursuit of motive and the murderer.” Devereaux nodded to it and said, “When that’s accomplished, we’ll know the answer to why a corpse was handed up to the police. Why the sudden gift. Name the killer, and all questions will fall over at once.” He looked to Solowey in a passing show of affectionate warmth. “So no detours, old friend.”

  “My report is ash to your fire,” Solowey began twinklingly. “I am a collector of bits and scraps, a mere arranger of parentheses and addenda…”

  “All necessary stuff,” Devereaux smiled.

  “Thank you,” Solowey said. “Your magnanimity is water to mine old eyes. The poster reads: They Also Serve, Obituary by accolade. I am warmed, I am depressed.”

  “Come
off it,” Devereaux ordered. “In ten minutes, the whistle blows for me. I’m back upstairs in the Never-Never Land of Neurosis, Unlimited. We’re having a dress run-through of the show.”

  “At one thousand dollars a week. I don’t know whether to pity the man, or envy the bribe.”

  “Those bits and scraps,” Devereaux said impatiently.

  “Very well. Regarding Rocky Star’s financial resources at the time of his disappearance and presumed murder. A rendering can at long last be given. A circularizing of banks, insurance companies, investment houses, realty lists and sundry repositories of accumulated wealth came to no result. So far as we know, Rocky Star was without a capital asset of any size when he vanished. Excepting of course, his home furnishings and incidental personal possessions.”

  “What about that account he drew from to set up Mamie Regan?”

  “Barren, but to the penny.” Solowey anticipated Devereaux’s next query. “The one hundred thousand dollar endowment of the Boys’ Club was effected through the transfer of investment stocks and bonds. The account itself no longer exists.”

  Devereaux said thoughtfully, “All this would seem to eliminate profit as the motive in the murder of Rocky Star.”

  Solowey said, “If we forgive one small potential of profit.”

  Devereaux’s brows arched questioningly and Solowey explained, “A small insurance policy. Held by the father, Onofrio Starziani. A paltry two thousand dollars to the father in the event of his son Rocco’s death.” A moment later, Solowey supplemented, “The father holds equal policies on Aldo and Rocco. Premium payments of fifty cents a week. The policies have been in force since the boys’ childhood. Some fifteen years.”