“Oh?” Finlay’s voice held doubt. “Why were you late? Where were you?”
“Well, I was making arrangements for the party we were to have tonight and I couldn’t buy any candles. I had to look practically all over town. I finally found them. Out in the northeast side in a simply foul little place.”
“What’s the address?”
Palmer gave the address and Finlay marked it down on a pad of paper. He also noted the time Palmer said he had been there. He handed the paper to a policeman for checking.
“What time did you arrive at Edwards’?”
“It was almost nine o’clock.”
“Uh-huh. And you opened the door and walked right in.”
“Yes sir.”
“What was the first thing you saw?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said Palmer. “I didn’t think anything was wrong. I called out to Eddie. He didn’t answer.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I walked through the living room and into the bedroom. He wasn’t there either. Then I went into the bathroom.” Palmer stopped and nervously stamped out his cigarette in an ash tray.
“And that’s where you found him?”
“Oh Lord, he looked so bloody, and … and awful.” Palmer began to cry.
Finlay sighed and again lit his pipe. He got up and went to a small table at the far end of the room and brought back a small furlough bag. He placed it on the table before Palmer. “This is the bag you found there, isn’t it?”
Palmer looked at it and nodded. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.
“Then you telephoned the police?” asked Finlay.
“Yes sir.”
“I see. Have you notified the man’s father?”
“No sir.”
“Would you like to?” asked Finlay.
Palmer nodded.
“All right. You go right out there and make the telephone call.” Finlay took him by the arm and led him to the door. A policeman followed and went with Palmer. Finlay came back to the table and looked long at the pad on which he had made notes. Both newspapermen decided they would rather leave. Finlay said it was all right if they wanted to. He knew that within an hour the city editions would carry all the sordid details of the case, featuring, he had no doubt, the “name” values and the sexual-pervert angle. These factors, tied up with a service man’s name, would make juicy copy. Finlay applied a match to his asthmatic pipe. Then he turned toward Keeley.
“Sounds pretty messy, doesn’t it, Sergeant?” Finlay opened a drawer in the table and from a large box drew a handful of long wooden matches which he placed before him. “Sorry to break in on your week end like this,” Finlay said.
Keeley came over and sat down opposite Finlay. “Where’s Mitchell?” he asked. “What do they mean he murdered somebody? Who is he supposed to have murdered? This Edwards?”
“Do you know this Mitchell boy well?” asked Finlay. He began to mark off things on his pad.
“If you think Jeff Mitchell killed anybody, you’re wrong.”
“Why?” said Finlay without looking up. “What’s there about Jeff Mitchell that he wouldn’t murder?”
“He’s not the type.”
“A soldier not the type to kill? Now, Sergeant, doesn’t that sound a little funny?”
“No. Jeff Mitchell wears a uniform but he’s no soldier. He wouldn’t kill anybody. He couldn’t, that’s all.”
“Could you?”
“I have.”
“Where?”
“Where they give you medals for it.”
“I see. And this Mitchell boy couldn’t do that, either, I suppose?”
“No. Not even there.”
Finlay tapped the furlough bag. “You know this bag, of course?”
“Yes. It’s his.” Keeley knew there was no use in denying it. It had Jeff’s name on it.
“Where is he?”
“Jeff? Why I thought.… You don’t know where he is?” Keeley stood up. “How did his bag get in that apartment?”
“Because he was there.”
“I tell you Jeff didn’t kill anybody.”
“I didn’t say he did,” murmured Finlay.
Keeley sat down.
“What have I got to do with this?” asked Keeley.
“You’re his friend, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Of course. But.…”
“But what?”
“How did you know where I was? How did you know I was his friend?”
“His other friend told us.”
Keeley’s mind did a backflip. Jeff’s other friend? Who could that be? And how did the other friend know a murder had been committed? Keeley heard the door open and close. Then footsteps. He turned. Monty Crawford was coming toward the table. He appeared worried.
Finlay said nothing. He did not even appear to be watching them. His stubby fingers were placing the long, blue-tipped matches in a neat row on the table top.
“Did you hear what they’re trying to do to Jeff?” asked Monty.
So this was Jeff’s other friend, thought Keeley. What could Jeff possibly have had to do with Monty? Why was Monty there?
“How’re you mixed up in this, Monty?” asked Keeley. He knew Finlay was letting them talk in the hope of learning something himself.
“We came in to D.C. together. Him, Floyd Bowers, and me.”
“Yeah? Go ahead.”
“This Edwards picked us up in his car and gave us a lift in. Then he invited us in to have a drink because he said he would like to do something for the guys in uniform. So that’s where we went. We went to his apartment and had a few drinks.”
“And you played the phonograph?” asked Finlay.
“Well, yes,” said Monty slowly, as though recalling the event.
“Just listen to the music?” asked Finlay.
“That’s all.”
“Sure that’s all?” Finlay prodded.
“Well … no. I think there was some dancing.”
“Dancing? What do you mean? Who danced?” Finlay asked.
“Well … I don’t exactly remember. I had a few shots myself you know, and I.…”
“Did you do any dancing?”
This cop is smooth, thought Keeley. He’s good. Smart. Slow and smart. Doesn’t miss anything. If Jeff did do anything, he’s a goner. This cop’ll get him. He’s been around. Knows his angles. Knows how to ask questions.
“No,” said Monty. “I don’t do that sort of stuff.”
“What sort of stuff? You mean you don’t dance?”
“Not with men.”
“Ah. I see,” nodded Finlay. “And how about this other boy, this Bowers. Did he dance?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Then if there was dancing it must have been Edwards and the Mitchell boy. That’s right isn’t it, Sergeant Crawford?”
“Well, what of it?” burst out Monty. “What if he did dance with that goddam fairy? So what? Nothing else happened. Nothing. Jeff’s okay. He wouldn’t do anything. He’s one of my boys. He’s all right. Tell him Jeff’s all right,” Monty demanded of Keeley.
Keeley was enraged. You stupid, stupid, stupid bastard, he was thinking. What’re you trying to do? What? Stop talking that way. You’re putting Jeff right in the crapper. You’re saying Jeff did it by the very way you’re saying he didn’t!
“How many times did Mitchell dance with Edwards?” Finlay’s voice was soft, casual, insistent.
“I don’t remember,” said Monty, and his tone virtually bellowed that Jeff had danced with Edwards all night.
“Of course,” said Finlay, “you really don’t have to say anything at all. You have every right not to say a single word. Matter of fact, I can’t even arrest you and hold you. So if you really don’t want to help me out here, why.…”
“Good,” said Keeley. “That’s fine.” All he could think of at the moment was that he had to get Monty out of there. “Let’s drop the whole thing for now. I don’t know anything anyway, an
d if I run into Jeff, why.…”
“But you don’t know how serious this is,” Monty cut in. “They’re crucifying the kid. You know Jeff—he won’t have a chance.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Finlay.
“Nothing at all. I just mean that Mitchell isn’t the kind of guy who knows the scoop on things like this. He’s an artist fella. Very sensitive and all that kind of stuff.”
“And you know all about it?” asked Finlay.
“Well, sure. I been a cop myself. In Chicago. Six years in a nigger precinct on the South Side. I know the score.”
“I’m sure you do, Sergeant. And I know that if you’ve been with the police you realize our difficulties in this sort of thing. So if you can just co-operate.…”
“I’m not helping anybody stick my friend in trouble.”
Your friend? Keeley boiled inwardly. You hate Jeff. You despise him. Since when are you his friend? I don’t understand this. Something’s queer. Every time he opens his mouth to protect Jeff, he hangs him a little higher. I’ve got to break this up. In a few minutes this cop will be sure Jeff did it. Maybe he did. Could he? Is it possible that Jeff murdered somebody? But why? But could he?
“When did Edwards take off his clothes?” asked Finlay.
“I didn’t know he took off his clothes,” said Monty sullenly.
“All right, Sergeant. When did Edwards shave?”
“I don’t know. He said something about an appointment and then went into the bathroom.”
“I see. Did he remove his shirt while shaving?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had Edwards done much drinking?”
“Yeah. I think so. As much as the rest of us.”
“And when did you leave the apartment?”
“I don’t remember the time.”
“I didn’t ask you the time.”
Can it be this cop is pulling for Jeff? thought Keeley. No. It isn’t possible. He’s just stringing Monty along. Smooth. God, how he works! You’d think he was just a routine cluck. But he knows. He knows everything and asks for scraps. But what does he know? And what does Monty know? And where the hell is Floyd Bowers? Where does he come in?
“I left the apartment,” Monty said, “when Bowers got so tight he couldn’t stand up. I thought he was gonna be sick so I took him out to the corner drugstore.” Monty got up and leaned across the table at Finlay. “Look, I went over all this before. You took it all down once and now you’re going through the same thing again. I tell you Jeff didn’t do a damned thing to Edwards. Nothing. And you’ll never prove he did, either.”
“But, Sergeant, I didn’t say Mitchell did anything.” Finlay’s voice was like a soft rug.
Monty pulled back. “But I thought …” and he stopped. “Then what’re you making such a stink about?”
“Well, after all, we find a soldier’s furlough bag in an apartment and a man murdered there. You used to be a policeman, Sergeant, ask yourself. Would you look for the missing man?”
Monty’s eyes became quick. “I don’t know where Jeff is, and if I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”
“But why?” asked Finlay. “We both know he didn’t do anything. All he has to do is come in and have a little talk and he’s as free as you are.”
Bait, thought Keeley. Just bait. Monty’s snapping at it. But he doesn’t know where Jeff is either. Finlay doesn’t know and Monty doesn’t know. Who the hell does know?
“Now, just one more question, Sergeant, if you don’t mind, huh? Why did you come back to Edwards’ apartment?”
“Why, to get Jeff. That’s why.”
“I see. Why didn’t Mitchell leave with you when you took Bowers out to the drugstore?”
Monty didn’t reply.
“Why is that, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it because he could have been in the bathroom with Edwards?”
“I don’t know.”
“But before, you said he had been in the bathroom with Edwards.”
Keeley’s heart sank. That would be enough. Enough to hang Jeff.
Suddenly Monty flared and exploded. “Well, what of it? What of it, damn it? What if he did go into the bathroom with that bastid fairy? What of it? What if Edwards made a pass at him? He was making goo-goo eyes at poor Jeff from the start. I don’t blame Jeff. It serves Edwards right. They oughta kill every one of them fairies. There ain’t a court martial in the world would do anything to Jeff for that.”
He’s defending Jeff right into the electric chair, thought Keeley.
“Are you saying that Jeff Mitchell killed Edwards?” queried Finlay meekly.
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just saying he had a right to.”
“Where’s the Bowers boy?” asked Finlay.
“How the hell do I know?” snapped Monty. “You’re such a big shot, go out and find him.”
“And so when you came back to get Jeff,” went on Finlay, ignoring Monty’s outburst, “you ran right into the police, huh?”
“You ought to know.”
“And you came up to Edwards’ apartment even though the street was full of police cars?”
“What?”
“I said you came up even though you saw the police cars?”
“Who said I saw them?”
“Come, Sergeant, you a policeman for six years in a nigger precinct and you can’t recognize a police car?”
“I didn’t know it had anything to do with Edwards.”
“I see. And naturally when you came up, Jeff was gone.”
“That’s right.”
“How long were you at that drugstore?”
“Half an hour. Maybe a little longer.”
“Why that long?”
“I thought Jeff.…” Monty let his voice trail away.
“You thought Jeff what?”
“Well, sometimes a guy is in the barracks for a long time and then he goes out and gets tight … and then … well … along comes a troublemaker like this Edwards and well … a sensitive guy like Jeff … well … I don’t know.”
Finlay struck one of the matches and lit his pipe again.
“You’ll never pin anything on Jeff. Never in a million years,” Monty shouted. “You’re just a bunch of hick cops down here anyway.”
Finlay nodded.
Monty quieted down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just I’m worried sick about Jeff. Give him a break, won’t you?” Finlay said nothing. He adjusted the matches on the table top again. “After all, he’s a soldier. Best outfit in the world. One of my own boys. Very sensitive. Maybe he went a little crazy. I mean … well … I mean maybe this Edwards … maybe he did something … maybe he tried to do something and Jeff couldn’t stand it. You know, he’s an artist. Give him a break, Captain. What do you say?”
“Sure, sure,” said Finlay. He rose. “You’re due back at the Post on Monday morning aren’t you, Sergeant?”
“Yeah. I’ll be where you can reach me. Any time at all. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please ask me.”
“Be glad to,” said Finlay.
“Coming, Keeley?” asked Monty.
“I want to ask Sergeant Keeley a few questions,” said Finlay.
Monty shook hands with Finlay. Then he said to Keeley: “Don’t tell ’em where Jeff is. So long, Keeley. Don’t worry about anything. The kid’ll pull out of it all right. You’ll see.” Keeley nodded and watched him go. He wondered how he could stand by and do nothing when he wanted to throttle the man.
After Monty had left, Finlay sat down again and puffed abstractedly on his pipe. After awhile he said, “Sergeant, know how Edwards was killed?”
Keeley didn’t venture a guess.
“With a flat and very heavy instrument.” Finlay drew a small sketch on his pad of paper as he talked. “The large, flat top of the toilet. The porcelain top to the basin that holds the water. Smashed Edwards’ skull like a cantaloupe. Think Jeff would have killed him that way?”
“No sir. I don’t think Jeff would have killed him in any way.”
“You still say you don’t know where he is?”
“I don’t.”
Finlay shook his head sadly.
“You don’t think Jeff Mitchell did this yourself,” said Keeley.
“Why not? He was there.”
“So were Crawford and Bowers.”
“You heard Sergeant Crawford,” Finlay muttered. “He and the Bowers boy left before Mitchell.”
“Are you going to take Crawford’s word for that?”
Finlay shrugged.
“Crawford’s a liar,” spat Keeley.
“Of course he’s a liar,” said Finlay. “Everybody lies. Sergeant Crawford is better than most, that’s all.”
“Then you don’t believe Crawford’s story?” Keeley pounded the table once and upset the row of blue-tipped matches.
Finlay rearranged the matches in an orderly file. “I should think you’d want me to believe Crawford’s story. He said that Mitchell didn’t do it. He said your friend was a nice kid. He even gave him a defense in case he did murder Edwards.”
Keeley sank back into his chair. Jeff was trapped. Jeff was a goner. Crawford had talked Jeff into the hot spot. Jeff wouldn’t stand a chance against Crawford. “I tell you, Jeff couldn’t have done it,” Keeley protested hopelessly.
“I don’t happen to share your views at all, Sergeant. Not at all. You see, I believe anybody is capable of murder. Anybody at all. And that includes Jeff Mitchell. A witness says Mitchell saw Edwards last. We find Mitchell’s bag in the dead man’s apartment. You admit yourself that Mitchell is a sensitive boy. Oh, yes,” Finlay pressed his lips together, “Mitchell could have done it all right. As a matter of fact … he did do it.”
“You’re not even giving him a chance.”
“What chance did he give Edwards? You soldiers get some peculiar ideas. A man has strange sexual habits, so you take it upon yourselves to straighten him out—by murder. Edwards was robbed, Sergeant. So our murderer doesn’t even have the motive of outraged righteousness. The man was generous enough to stand the drinks. He takes three soldiers into his home and entertains them. Then when they’ve had his liquor and messed up his apartment, they kill him and rob him. No, Sergeant. No uniform gives a man the right to do that.”
Keeley found himself getting impatient. “You’ve got nothing but circumstantial evidence. You’re taking the word of one man, a liar at that.”
The Brick Foxhole Page 18