16-Murder Can't Wait

by Lockridge, Richard

  He stopped. When he started again he seemed to be talking to his hands, clenched tightly together.

  “I went back to the club and did some drinking,” he told his hands. “One hell of a lot of drinking. Woke up maybe a couple of hours ago—I don’t know when the hell I went to sleep—and had another shot. Maybe a couple more shots. Then it seemed like an idea to come over here and kick Fleming’s teeth in. Because maybe without teeth he wouldn’t look so good to other men’s wives. Because—O.K., because I was still drunk, I guess.”

  “You don’t own an automatic?”

  “I told you I don’t.”

  “Didn’t get this idea about doing something to Fleming a lot earlier? Didn’t come over and do it? With a gun, not with your hands or your feet? Didn’t—figuring we’d find out about your wife and Fleming anyway—get the bright idea of coming over here to put on a little show for us?”

  “No,” Steele said. “No to all of it—all this crap. Start with I haven’t got a gun. Go on with—”

  He stopped and looked at the state police car which was stopping in the drive. He watched while Sergeant Charles Forniss got out on one side and Lieutenant Nathan Shapiro got lankily, disconsolately, out on the other.

  When he saw them, Robert Steele stood up and stared at them. It seemed to Heimrich, watching, that his major stare was for the sad detective lieutenant from Manhattan. And Steele said, “Jeez,” in a low, faraway voice.

  “As I live and breathe,” Shapiro said, in a tone which suggested he found neither desirable. “If it isn’t Bernie—good old Bernie Stahlman. The missing link.”

  Steele once more demonstrated the limitations of his vocabulary. But there was no force behind the word.

  IV

  Robert Steele did not deny that he had been Bernard Stahlman. He summed it up succinctly. He said, “What the hell would be the point of it? I’ve heard of fingerprints.” He said he didn’t like that missing link bit, and, What the hell was it supposed to mean?

  Nathan Shapiro said he would come to that. He sat and smoked a cigarette and, in due order, came to that. As he talked he still sounded rather depressed, but not, Heimrich thought, as depressed as he had sounded earlier. By comparison, Shapiro sounded rather pleased, but it is hard to tell much about a man you have known for only a few hours.

  Patrolman, One Seventy-eighth Precinct—that was what Bernard Stahlman had been. “Forgotten the shield number, I’m afraid,” Shapiro said. “No hand at remembering things. How long ago, Bernie?”

  “All right,” Stahlman said. “Twelve years or so.”

  “Yes,” Shapiro said. “It comes to about that. So was I. Funny meeting you here, Bernie.”

  “I’m laughing,” Stahlman said. “They can hear me in Brooklyn.”

  “Shot at a couple of kids who’d broken into a store,” Shapiro said. “Killed one of them. But one of them—the other one, as it turned out—had a gun.”

  “And,” Stahlman said, “pulled it on me. I gave him warning.”

  “Sure,” Shapiro said. “Everybody was with you, Bernie. Not the newspapers, maybe, but all the boys were with you. Captain and everybody.”

  “So why bring it up?”

  “There was the matter of a drunk,” Shapiro said. “Resisted arrest, didn’t he, Bernie? Used force necessary to subdue, as it says to do. Not Bernie’s fault the man was getting along and had a bad heart. Nobody said it was Bernie’s fault.”

  “So,” Stahlman said, “I was a cop.”

  “Sure,” Shapiro said, “you were a cop. A little abrupt maybe, but sometimes a cop has to be abrupt. All of us realize that, Bernie. And—a cop for how long, Bernie?”

  “Three years.”

  “You want to tell it, Bernie?”

  Stahlman went back to his limited vocabulary.

  “Tchk,” Shapiro said. “But have it your own way. Cops don’t get paid very well for what they do, the chances they take. We all know that, Bernie. It started with shaking down some bookies, didn’t it, Bernie? Often does. Dollar here and a dollar there. Only, they sucked you in after while, didn’t they? So part of the time you were working for the department and part of the time for some very bad boys. So finally you weren’t really a cop any more, were you? Still had a uniform and a shield and a gun—and a chance, now and then, to pass along a little information. And—remember when you could swear Pagoni was in a bar on Flatbush, and so couldn’t be someplace else with a gun? Convenient for Pagoni. And—you want a list, Stahlman?”

  “So I went to jail,” Stahlman said. “Got indicted and convicted and went to jail.”

  “No,” Shapiro said. “Some people were sorry it didn’t work out that way, Stahlman. Some people who thought being a cop was all right, even if it didn’t make a man rich. Some people thought you must have worked your way pretty well in with the syndicate, Stahlman. Enough so the boys would go to town for you. Odd parts of town. So—”

  He stopped, tossed his cigarette onto the grass, said absently, “Shouldn’t do that. Filters don’t burn.” Said—

  “Departmental changes, captain. Due process of law. Dismissed from the force. The boys took care of you for a while, didn’t they, Stahlman? And you had a lot of free time and got to be pretty good at golf.”

  “I was always good at golf,” Stahlman said. “Damn good.”

  There are certain odd prides in a man, Heimrich thought. Touch one of them—touch a trivial thing—and the man reacts. Stahlman hadn’t denied he had been a crooked cop. But he had been a good golf player all along. And, Heimrich thought, here comes the missing link.

  “Stahlman just got back from Florida,” Heimrich said. “Says he did.”

  “Now,” Shapiro said, “that’s interesting, isn’t it? And Mrs. Fleming—Mrs. Angus Fleming—says her brother-in-law did tell them something about this tip he had, and that he had evidence to back it up, and that she may just have happened—isn’t sure, but may just have happened—to tell one of the girls at the club. The club you work for, that would be, wouldn’t it, Stahlman?”

  Stahlman didn’t know what the hell Shapiro was getting at.

  “Of course not,” Shapiro said. “Still—some of the members are friendly, aren’t they, Stahlman? From looking at you, I’d think a good many of the women members might be. You’ve been back …?”

  He looked toward Heimrich, who had his eyes closed. “Monday, he says,” Heimrich said. “You’ve been going a few rounds, Stahlman? Getting the feel of the course again?”

  “Sure,” Stahlman said.

  “You’ve got friends in Florida?” Heimrich said, and then opened his eyes. “Friends who know where you work up North? How to get in touch with you up here? But then, you’d know how to get in touch with them, naturally. If you had a word to pass along.”

  “I don’t get it. What the hell are you shooting at? Sure I know people in Florida.”

  “Maybe people you knew in the old days?” Shapiro said. “People who would appreciate information? People who might pay you to do a little chore?” He lighted another cigarette and drew on it heavily and thought, lung cancer will be what it’ll come to. Poor Rose. “With an automatic pistol?” he said, after he had exhaled the smoke, and when he said that his voice was hard—was a tough cop’s voice.

  “Colt thirty-eight,” Heimrich said mildly, to amplify.

  “The old frame-up,” Stahlman said. “The lousy, stinking frame-up. I’m sore at a guy who’s moved in on my wife. I come over to take it out of his hide and—”

  “Now, Stahlman,” Heimrich said. “That would have been easy, wouldn’t it? A man with a broken leg. Leg in a cast.”

  “Of course,” Shapiro said thoughtfully, “that maybe wouldn’t have mattered to Bernie. This drunk I told you about, captain—he was in his late sixties. Weighed—oh, maybe a hundred and thirty. Fleming, from the looks of him, would have had a better chance, even with a broken leg.”

  “I didn’t know about the bastard’s leg,” Stahlman said, and got from Heimrich a weary, �
�Now, Stahlman” and from Shapiro an audible sigh.

  “There’s this,” Shapiro said. “Two motives are better than one, you come down to it.”

  But, standing alone, even two motives were not quite enough, Heimrich pointed out, and Shapiro, in the car beside him, agreed. Motives are very useful things, but do not always stand very well alone. So, for the time being, the man who had changed his name from Bernard Stahlman to the, for a golf pro, more acceptable name of Robert Steele was on the loose—relatively on the loose. Like, Shapiro thought, a dog leashed to a cable, permitted to run back and forth the length of it. He approved.

  This man Heimrich, Shapiro thought—first time you see this man Heimrich, you think he’s the kind who just goes through the routine. Big and stolid like an ox, whatever the hell an ox is like. (The oxen population of Prospect Park is limited.) Get to thinking a bright guy—not a guy like me, but a bright guy—could think circles around him. And then pretty soon you’re not so sure. If you are a curious man you pick up bits and pieces about people, and if you have the time you put them together to see what you come up with. If you are not a curious man, you had better not be a detective.

  As for the time, it appeared to Lieutenant Nathan Shapiro that he was going to have it. He had called in—after they had told Stahlman he could go and advised him not to try to go far; after they had called Fleming’s law office and not been answered, and had called the friend from whom Mrs. Robert Steele rented a room and been told that Mrs. Steele had taken an early train from Brewster to New York, and would not be back until midafternoon. He had called in and reported to the assistant district attorney who was his immediate superior. The assistant district attorney had, expectedly, said, “Damn it to hell,” and then, not so expectedly, that Shapiro, since he was there, had better stay there and nose around. Because it was a funny sort of place for a man like Stahlman to show up, wasn’t it? Could be this club he worked for was a funny sort of club, couldn’t it?

  Shapiro had also been told that the Miami angle would be got onto, assuming there was a Miami angle, and that sifting of the Dyckman University football squad would be postponed, because applecarts notoriously are easy to upset. To all of this Shapiro had said, “O.K.,” not being in a position to say anything else.

  It was a little after noon by then and Heimrich had made a telephone call which, so far as Shapiro had overheard it, had consisted of “about one, then.” Shapiro had been in Fleming’s little office room, showing Sergeant Forniss the note from Cathy, the notation “Ca. 7” with a line drawn through it, so he hadn’t, obviously, overheard enough to make sense.

  Heimrich had said they might as well go have lunch, and now they were driving, apparently for a considerable distance on country roads, to lunch. They passed several places where they could have picked up a sandwich, but they kept on going. Heimrich, when he drove, apparently didn’t talk much. He drove faster than he had from the barracks in Hawthorne to North Wellwood. He drove past a sign which read: ENTERING TOWN OF VAN BRUNT and after a few miles, in a village, left-turned into the parking lot of a place called the “Old Stone Inn.” It looked all right, if perhaps a little expensive for a policeman, even one recently promoted. (For reasons which would always remain obscure.) They had wasted time getting to it, but in the country people probably had more time to waste.

  Shapiro followed Heimrich into a low-ceilinged room, after Heimrich had pushed open a door marked “Old Stone Lounge.” There was a bar at one end of the room and a dozen or so people at tables, some of them drinking and some of them eating. Shapiro followed the big country policeman to a corner table. A slim gray-eyed woman was already at the table. Beside her, sitting on the floor, was the largest dog Nathan Shapiro had ever seen. The dog had his mouth open and a large tongue was hanging out of it. The dog had large brown eyes, and they were sad eyes. Shapiro felt sympathy.

  The gray-eyed woman smiled up at them. She had a wide mouth and it was a wide, friendly smile. She said, “Hello, dear,” to Heimrich and Heimrich said, “This is Lieutenant Shapiro from the city,” and then, “This is my wife, lieutenant. Name of Susan.”

  So that was it, Shapiro thought, as he took the slender hand held out to him and made suitable sounds to a very attractive young woman. Worth, to this big state police captain, a thirty-mile drive, which was understandable. If there wasn’t a job to get on with.

  “This is Colonel,” Susan Heimrich said, completing it. The big dog—Great Dane, that was what he was—looked mournfully up at Shapiro who said, “Hello, Colonel,” and held a hand down to be sniffed. Colonel sniffed with unexpected interest, but he sniffed Shapiro’s trousers. “Got a dog at home,” Shapiro said, and pulled out a chair and sat at the little table, as Heimrich sat opposite him. This left Susan Heimrich between them, and Colonel out of it. Colonel collapsed on the floor with a reproachful thump.

  “My wife has a shop across the street,” Heimrich said. “Fabric shop. Designs some of the fabrics and has them made. Buys others from—what is it, Susan?”

  “Jobbers, darling,” Susan Heimrich said. “A few direct from mills. You said ‘impressions,’ Merton?”

  All right, Nathan Shapiro thought, people who are married—well married, really married—talk in shorthand. Rose and I talk in shorthand. Evidently it was to his wife Heimrich had talked from North Wellwood; apparently this carried on something said then. Only why he had been brought along, Nathan Shapiro couldn’t—

  “’Morning, captain, Mrs. Heimrich,” a man in a white jacket said from behind Shapiro. “’Morning, sir.”

  “Gin and tonic,” Susan Heimrich said; and Heimrich, after giving Shapiro an opening which was not taken, said, “Bourbon on the rocks,” and then, “Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t usually—” Shapiro began, and looked at Susan Heimrich who had, it was more than ever evident, a very charming smile—at the moment an encouraging smile. “A glass of sherry?” Shapiro said, doubt in his voice.

  The waiter said “thank you” and went away.

  “Last summer,” Heimrich said, “this club in North Wellwood—the Willow Pond Golf and Tennis—did over its dining room. Re-covered furniture, put up new curtains. Susan supplied the fabrics. Spent—how long was it, dear?”

  “Several days,” Susan said, and then, to the waiter who put down the drinks, “Thank you, Harry.”

  “Going over things with, advising, the committee of club members in charge,” Heimrich said. “The chairman of the committee was Angus Fleming. I happened to remember that. And that his wife was active. Only names at the time, naturally. Came back to mind today.”

  Shapiro said “Oh,” and sipped from his glass of sherry. It wasn’t as sweet as he liked, but he didn’t care much one way or the other. Sweet or dry, it would probably upset his stomach.

  “Took her clubs along,” Heimrich said. “Went around a few times. Combining business with pleasure, as I’m doing now, Shapiro. As you’ve obviously noticed.”

  “Well,” Shapiro said, and Susan said, “Now, Merton.”

  At which, for reasons not apparent to Nathan Shapiro, they both laughed briefly.

  Shapiro sipped again from his glass. The wine was, after all, very pleasant—had a tingle, somehow.

  “At that time,” Heimrich said, “they were relaxed, themselves, as they won’t be now when we start nosing around, and—”

  “Not entirely relaxed,” Susan said. “Mrs. Fleming wanted everything red—dark red. In summer people would have smothered. A Mrs. Jenkins wanted everything oyster white. The woman who manages the club almost fainted, understandably. She spoke with emotion of cleaning bills. It wasn’t an especially relaxing period, my dear. But—who do you want to start with?”

  “Did you meet the golf pro? His wife?”

  “Steele,” Susan said. “Everybody made rather too much of calling him Mr. Steele. With—oh, I don’t know—emphasis. Do you know what I mean? Both of you?”

  “Yes,” Shapiro said. “I know what you mean. The women, too?”


  “Most of them,” Susan said. “But—now and then some of them talked about Robert or Bobby. And it seemed to me that most of those he gave lessons to were women. The younger women. Because, I suppose, they needed lessons more. Of course, he’s a good-looking man in a—craggy sort of way.”

  “Any special young women?”

  “You do want gossip, don’t you? A couple of the girls did seem to need a good many lessons. Particularly in being guided in their drives. A dark girl in rather tight shorts. I don’t remember her name, don’t know whether I ever knew it. A red-haired woman. Very good tint job, I think. Older than the girl in shorts. Named, as I recall it, Isabel. I don’t remember her last name. If I’m to be an informer, oughtn’t I, in fairness, to know about what? A golf pro’s sex life?”

  It might enter in, Heimrich told her, and told her two ways it might—that the man the club knew as Robert Steele might have killed Stuart Fleming out of jealousy; that he might have killed for hire, after passing on to others the information which made the killing desirable.

  Susan said “Mm-m-m,” and Colonel, apparently mistaking this for a sound signifying imminent departure, lifted his head from the floor. Susan said, “No, Colonel,” and Colonel sighed and put his head down again.

  “I didn’t meet Mrs. Steele,” Susan said. “One time I had lunch on the terrace with the Flemings, and she and her husband—”

  The Robert Steeles had also been lunching on the terrace, at a table which was part of the table grouping—part, yet not quite part. It was at the edge of the terrace, and at an edge which the shade of a big maple did not entirely reach. Between it and the nearest of the occupied tables there were several unoccupied, and one of those—a table for two—was entirely in the shade. It had been a hot day.

  By sufferance they were there, Susan had thought that hot afternoon, and had not liked it. Accepted, but not really accepted; an invisible line drawn between. No, not invisible—the irregular line etched on flagstones by the softly moving shade of the big tree. Now and then, as breeze moved leaves over them, the welcome shade reached out and covered the dark-haired girl; sometimes there were flickers of shade on the big man’s deeply tanned face. The girl wore a tennis dress and socks and shoes. But there was no racket propped against the table, or lying across a vacant chair.