“Hi, Clancy.” His voice was somber. “I’ll be with you in a second.”
Clancy exchanged brief hellos with the other men. His eyes swept the room; it was a shambles. Small shards of glass were lying on the windowsill; the balance of the window glass, together with the frame, was down in the courtyard below, blown out by the shock waves of tortured air. Within the room the explosion had flung a light chair against one wall, splintering it; books from the high-stacked shelves had taken the shock and then rebounded to slide in confusion to the floor. The broad mahogany desk had been cleared by the force of the blast and was deeply scarred at one end, looking much as if someone had taken an ax to it in a fit of fury. A white sheet had been spread to cover a still form bent back against the base of the bookshelves; several books, apparently having fallen after the body had been covered, lay wedged between the covered form and the wall. A small foot, neatly clad in a black sock and a highly polished shoe, protruded from beneath the sheet. Despite the jagged opening left by the missing window, the acrid odor in the room was strong. Clancy wrinkled his nose.
Two other doors also opened into the room. One, leading to a clothes closet, had been blown in, and hung from one hinge; the other, leading to a bathroom, apparently opened out, and was intact. Lieutenant Lundberg came to his feet and carefully deposited the tiny pieces he had gathered, on one corner of the scarred desk, placing them side by side. He looked at Clancy.
“A mess,” he said quietly.
Clancy looked down at the body. “Who covered him?”
“An intern from Bellevue. He just left. He pronounced him dead. The M.E. is going to be a bit delayed, but—” He also looked down at the crumpled figure. “—there really isn’t any rush.”
Clancy looked around. “No secretary?”
“They work out of a secretarial pool. Lucky for some girl.”
“What time did it happen?”
Lundberg jerked a thumb in the direction of a wall clock, stopped with the glass shattered and the hands bent in, pressing on the face, pointing to 3:12. “Your men also confirmed the time.”
Clancy nodded. “And where are my men?”
“I told them to wait in the courtroom until you got here.” Lundberg wiped his brow. “A real mess.… Well, I better go out and try to quiet those newshounds outside.…”
He walked to the door, opened it, and stepped through, holding the knob behind him with the door just barely ajar. Clancy could hear the sudden increase in the buzz outside, and then Lundberg’s even voice.
“There has been an accident. Judge Kiele is dead. When we have more information, the press will be notified through regular channels. That’s all, boys.”
Through the crack in the door Clancy could see flashbulbs exploding and hear the babble of questions.
“Hey, Lieutenant, what kind of an accident? It was a bomb, wasn’t it? What happened?”
“Lieutenant, over here … over here, please. Look up.
“Lieutenant, was it murder? It was a …”
“One more, Lieutenant … look up, please.…”
Lundberg’s strong voice overrode the babble, quieting the group momentarily. “That’s all there is to say right now. As soon as we have more information, you’ll get it.”
He came back inside, closing the door behind him firmly, and wiped his brow once again. “A mess,” he repeated.
“Any idea how it happened?” Clancy asked.
“My guess would be some sort of a booby trap.” Lundberg pointed to the small fragments he had assembled; a hand came up from behind the desk as his assistant deposited more pieces on the desk and then returned to the search. Lundberg took a pencil from his pocket and nudged one of the pieces; it was a thin, curled piece of leather, scorched along the edges. An embossed grain could be seen on one side.
“I think maybe somebody was real clever. It looks like they took a book—an ordinary leather-bound book—and hollowed it out and set their gadget inside. They probably just set it on the desk, maybe out of line, or maybe on top of some important papers. From what I’ve heard of Judge Kiele, he would have straightened it automatically, or opened it. I’ve heard he was a fussy son of a—a real meticulous kind of person.”
He frowned. “Or it may have been timed instead of being set to go off on contact, although I doubt it. I don’t see how anyone could be sure of what time he’d be through in court any particular day. Or maybe it was one of those gadgets like they sell in joke stores—a book with a dirty title and a mousetrap inside. Only this wasn’t any mousetrap.” He shrugged. “When we get enough pieces and assemble them over at our lab, maybe we’ll be able to tell.”
“And where were my men during all this?”
Lundberg shook his head. “You’ll have to ask them.”
“Don’t worry,” Clancy said, his voice deadly. “I will.”
“I thought you would.” Lundberg leaned over, speaking to the man on the floor. “Jimmy—how you doing?”
A flushed face was raised; the man on the floor came partially upright, squatting on his heels. “Lieutenant, whoever set this thing up, overcharged it a million miles. I doubt if we’ll find enough to even tell us how it worked.…” He started to bend down again, muttering. “Like using an atom bomb to open a Coke bottle.…”
Lundberg nodded. “Keep looking.”
Jimmy raised his head again. He glanced over at the sheet-covered body. “Maybe …”
“Maybe what?”
Jimmy’s face was grim. “Well, maybe when they do the autopsy, they’ll pull something out of that—” His head jerked toward the body with distaste. “—that might help.”
“Maybe,” Lundberg agreed quietly.
Clancy stared around the room. “Any chance it was thrown in from outside? While he was in the room? At least that would spot the time the killer was around.…”
Lundberg shook his head. “Your men were outside the door, as I understand it; and the way the glass went, nothing came through the window. No, this was waiting for him when he came in after court. And it could probably have been placed here any time.”
Jimmy came to his feet, laid the last of his find on the desk, and dusted his knees. The photographer began moving his lights and camera to take pictures of the little pieces on the corner of the desk. The fingerprint man moved over to the bookshelves.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Jimmy said reflectively. “Those old loft fires. Except for the size of the charge, and the fact that there wasn’t any gasoline; but then the purpose of this wasn’t arson, but murder, instead.…”
Clancy came alive. “What loft fires?”
Lundberg explained. “We had a series of loft fires in the city a few years ago—you must remember them. We came into it because the guy that set them always used a gadget to explode and destroy the arson evidence. He always set them in a hollowed-out book; it’s something you can walk about with without arousing suspicion. One of them flopped once—it’s how we finally got him.”
“Do you mean Marcus? Phil Marcus?”
Jimmy snapped his fingers triumphantly. “That was his name! Marcus! He—” He stopped suddenly and stared at Clancy.
“Yeah,” Clancy said. “That’s right. He was one of those involved in the Sing Sing breakout. But he’s in the hospital up there and has been since the truck they broke out in hit that pole.” He thought a moment. “And this Blount character was also handy with a stick of dynamite. And he was a good friend of Marcus.…”
The others were silent. Clancy sighed. “Well, I think I’ll have a heart-to-heart talk with my men. Let me know what you come up with, Bill.” He turned to the door and then suddenly paused, his mind nagging at him. Something the judge had said to him during his visit to that swank apartment was trying to come through; the thought was irritating. Lundberg and Jimmy watched the frowning face, waiting. Suddenly memory came through; Clancy snapped his fingers.
“Bill, have you gone through the papers in his desk, yet?”
“
No. We’re waiting until fingerprints have been checked out.”
“When you do,” Clancy said, “see if you run across a copy of a speech he was going to make tonight on the radio, will you?”
“Will do,” Lundberg said, but he sounded puzzled. “I’m going to be talking to the secretaries later, too. Maybe one of them typed it up for him. In any event, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” Clancy said, feeling better although he could not explain why. He edged his way through the door once again; the majority of the building’s employees and the idly curious had drifted away, but most of the reporters and photographers remained, still clogging the narrow corridor. Kaproski came up beside him protectively; the reporters converged on him. He held up his hand.
“Lieutenant Lundberg said it all, boys,” he said quietly, and turned to Kaproski. “Let’s go, Kap.…”
He started to punch through the men around the door; there was a sudden tap of high heels down the corridor. They seemed to pause for a moment and then come on in a frantic rush. Clancy turned to find Carol Wells pushing her way almost hysterically through the crowd. Her eye fell on Clancy; she grasped his arm.
“Lieutenant Clancy …” There was fright in her eyes. “… that’s my father’s office.…”
Clancy held her arms gently. “There’s been an accident.”
The reporters suddenly came alive, crowding about, pushing each other for proximity to this new quarry.
“Mrs. Wells, do you know why …”
“Is that Mrs. Wells? The judge’s daughter? Hey, Mrs. Wells …”
“Mrs. Wells, look this way … this way, please, Mrs. Wells.…”
“Did your father ever take these threats of Cervera seriously, Mrs. Wells …?”
“Did your father ever say anything that …”
“Mrs. Wells. Mrs. Wells! Once more … look this way, please.…”
Flashbulbs were exploding on all sides. Carol Wells pulled herself free of Clancy’s restraining hands and tried to break past the two policemen guarding the door. Her face was white, her eyes opened enormously in near terror. Clancy caught her once again, turning to Kaproski, talking fiercely through angrily clenched teeth.
“Kap! Do something about these vultures!”
Kaproski’s deep voice boomed. “All right! All right! Next guy wants his camera broke over his head just take a picture! Let’s stand away, huh? Let’s stand back!”
Carol Wells turned to Clancy, white, dazed. “I … I want to see him.…”
“You can’t see him,” Clancy said gently. The pressure of his hands on her arms eased a bit. “Come with me, Mrs. Wells. Let’s go someplace where you can sit down.”
She turned blindly and took several steps, guided by Clancy; then in mid-stride she crumpled. Clancy caught her as she fell, holding her up. Kaproski turned from the group of newspapermen and picked her from Clancy’s arms easily, pushing his way through the now-silent men. Clancy led the way quickly to the end of the corridor, turned into a cross-hallway, and opened the first door he came to. A young secretary looked up; her mouth opened as Kaproski followed with the woman in his arms, and kicked backward, closing the door. Clancy looked around.
“Where’s an empty office?”
The girl got up hurriedly. “Over there. But it’s Mr.…”
Clancy crossed the office and opened the door. He closed it behind Kaproski, who laid the girl gently on a sofa that stood against one wall. Kaproski straightened up and stood back.
“Water,” Clancy said, leaning over the girl.
Kaproski was gone, returning in a moment with a paper cup brimming with water. Clancy lifted the girl’s head, bringing the cup to her lips; Kaproski bent over, dipped a finger into the cup, and traced a wet line across her forehead. He repeated the gesture, bringing his finger down the side of her cheek and alongside her throat. Carol Wells moaned faintly, fought the cup at her lips a moment, and then opened her eyes.
“I … I fainted.…” Her eyes stared at Clancy and then widened in horror as memory returned. She tried to sit up.
“Take it easy,” Clancy said quietly. “Have some water.”
She obeyed, sipping, and then sat up with Clancy’s arm aiding her. She swung about, placing her feet slowly and carefully on the floor, as if it were somehow unsteady, and then bent over, her head low. Her voice was muffled by the hair that tumbled unnoticed about her face.
“What happened, Lieutenant?”
“There was an accident,” Clancy said quietly.
“My father—he’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
She took a deep shuddering breath. Clancy reached backward, handing the cup of water to Kaproski, who stretched a long arm and placed it on the desk. Clancy turned back to the girl, reaching into his pocket. “Would you like a cigarette, Mrs. Wells?”
The bent head shook slowly, swaying, and then raised. Dazed eyes stared at Clancy. “It was this Cervera boy, wasn’t it?”
“We don’t know who it was,” Clancy said, trying to speak in an unemotional tone. “We’ll get whoever it was, though.”
“And who will that help?” She sat up straighter, brushing unconsciously at a tiny spot of water that had dripped on her dress, fighting to keep herself under control. “How did it happen?”
“Don’t talk about it,” Clancy said. “When you’re feeling better you’ll be given all the details.” He glanced down at his wrist watch; the movement apparently reminded the girl of something. She gave a sudden start.
“John …”
“What about your husband?”
“He was to meet me—us—here. We were going to the Froegoft Exhibition on Fifty-seventh Street. Father was thinking of buying …” She shut her eyes, squeezing them tightly, blotting out the picture of the plush gallery, and the three of them walking slowly and enjoyably before the bright canvases, discussing them.
“Take it easy,” Clancy said, wishing with all his heart that he was somewhere else; somewhere far away. “He’ll be here in a moment. You’ll be all right.”
“But he won’t know.…”
“I’ll tell him,” Clancy said quietly, and turned to Kaproski. “Kap, go out to the elevators and intercept Mr. Wells. Bring him here.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.” Kaproski hesitated, frowning. “What’s he look like?”
“Young, in his mid-thirties, mustache, about your height.” Clancy stared at him. “If six get off the elevator looking like that, ask their names. Or take prints.”
Kaproski left with a slight shake of his head; he hated to see the lieutenant upset. As he closed the door the curious face of the office secretary tried to peek within. Clancy turned back to Carol Wells. “How do you feel?”
“Silly. I feel silly. I know that isn’t the right word, but it’s actually how I feel. I feel that I should know what is happening, but somehow I don’t. I feel …”
“Take it easy,” Clancy said, and wiped his forehead. A sudden thought came to him; for a second he felt like a brute to question the girl, but the question would not be denied. “Mrs. Wells …”
“Yes?”
Clancy cleared his throat. “Do you know … Would you have any idea … Do you have a copy at home of the speech your father was going to make tonight on the radio?”
She stared at him, her eyes blank. “Radio?” She shook her head. “Father never wrote down his speeches. He spoke from notes. He said he couldn’t keep looking down and then up, it would make him dizzy.…” The memory was too much; the tears began to well behind her heavy lids, sliding down her cheeks. She bit her lip a moment in an attempt at control, and then burst into wild crying. Clancy swallowed.
“I’m sorry—” he began, and cursed himself for his stupidity. They sat in silence; the everyday sounds of the city drifted up faintly through the closed windows of the office, disconnected with the tragedy in every way. Slowly the sobbing ceased; Clancy wiped his forehead. After what he later recalled as eons, he heard a commotion in the outer office. T
he door suddenly burst open and John Wells entered, followed by Kaproski. Wells nodded at Clancy without seeing him; he bent down, taking his wife’s hand in his, drawing her to her feet and into his arms.
“Darling.…”
“I told him,” Kaproski said flatly. “I figured you had enough on your hands, already.”
The man and wife were holding each other tightly. Clancy pushed himself to his feet, sighing. The lawyer turned to him, speaking over the top of his wife’s head which was pressed in relief at his presence, on his shoulder. “Lieutenant …”
“You’d better take your wife home, Mr. Wells,” Clancy said evenly. “She’s had a terrible shock. We can talk about it some other time.”
The dark-blue eyes of the other stared at him; then the head nodded slightly in agreement. “You’re right, of course.” He led the way to the door, supporting his wife tenderly. Kaproski and Clancy followed them in their slow movement down the hall to the elevators, and stood back as the couple entered.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” John Wells said sincerely. Clancy nodded without expression and watched the doors slide closed.
Thank you, Lieutenant.… Thank you for what, Clancy? he asked himself bitterly. Thank you for assuming the responsibility for the safety of a man—for the life of a man—and then letting that man be blown to bits because something you did or didn’t do proved to be ineffective? Miscalculated? To put it bluntly, screwed up? Because of something you’ve forgotten or overlooked or didn’t have the intelligence to see in the first place?
Thank you, Lieutenant.… Thank you for a wife shattered by a horrible experience that is beyond her comprehension, beyond any possible explanation to her; beyond excuse? Thank you, Lieutenant, for sitting on your duff, horsing around with pointless reports while a madman with ten times your brains and fifty times your luck sets a simple booby trap for his prey? Thank you, Lieutenant, indeed—for what?
The Quarry Page 11