16-Murder Can't Wait

by Lockridge, Richard

  The assistant district attorney shook his head, but Shapiro said, “Yes, Mr. Dell. You didn’t want to raise a stink before there really was a stink. Is that it?”

  “I guess so,” Dell said. “I guess you could call it that.”

  He had been uneasy and uncertain, and he had wanted advice. Then he had remembered Stuart Fleming. Not that he knew Fleming very well. Fleming was quite a lot older. But his own older brother had been at Dyckman when Fleming was, and thought Fleming was a swell guy and had been a hell of a good football player. And a man who wouldn’t want “to see anybody let Dyckman down.”

  Dell’s brother had told him where he could “contact” (at which Shapiro winced slightly) Stuart Fleming and he had talked to Fleming and told him what he had to tell. And Fleming had told him it wasn’t enough and got details, including the names of the other squad members Dell had suspected the man who said his name was Jones might have had in mind.

  “He said to sit tight,” Dell told them. “Said he’d look into it and if he came up with anything solid he’d contact me.”

  (The English Department of Dyckman University ought to wince too, Shapiro thought.)

  “When was this?” Shapiro asked Dell.

  It had been the previous December; late the previous December, after Dyckman had played its final game of the season.

  “And you heard nothing more from Mr. Fleming about it? Whether he was making any progress?”

  Dell had not. From which he had assumed that Fleming was making no progress; perhaps that he wasn’t really “looking into.” That probably, anyway, Mr. Fleming was a busy man. And, there had been no recurrence of “Jones.”

  “I half forgot it,” Dell said. “It just—well, sort of died out. Then I read in the papers that Mr. Fleming’s been murdered and—well, I thought you ought to know about this. Probably there isn’t any connection but—”

  “You did quite right,” the assistant district attorney said. “The names of the other men on the squad? The names you gave Mr. Fleming?”

  Dell was reluctant. He would just be guessing. The guys were swell guys.

  They were reasonably patient, entirely persistent. He gave them three names.

  During the previous season had he had any suspicions about any of his teammates? That there was any funny business going on?

  He emphatically had not; he was certain that if there had been “funny business” he would have spotted it. Yes, if “Jones,” or anybody else with the same ideas in mind, showed up again he would play along and get in touch with the district attorney’s office. And he was glad he had got it off his mind, and guessed, now he had, it wasn’t much.

  Shapiro and the assistant district attorney, after the big young man had gone, agreed that it wasn’t much. “They may,” the assistant district attorney said, “have decided to drop Dell out of it, figuring he wasn’t bright enough to get away with anything. They may have gone after some of the other boys, and had more luck. And—Fleming may have found out something. May have thought he’d found a way to stop anything that was going on without making a stink.”

  “Apparently in the end he decided to,” Shapiro said. “It took him a long time.”

  “Too damn long,” the assistant district attorney said. “For him. For us. These damn amateurs.”

  “Yes,” Shapiro said.

  “Have a little talk with these tomorrow?” the assistant district attorney said, and tapped the paper on which he had written the three names extracted from Dell.

  “O.K.,” Shapiro said and went back to the little office they had put him in and found that they were routing papers across his desk which didn’t belong across his desk. Intended, he supposed, for the previous occupant of the office. Too late in the day to do anything about it now, Shapiro decided, after looking at his watch. The office clerks kept office hours.

  He clipped the papers together and put them in the OUT basket and stood up, thinking of Brooklyn and of Rose and of a small dog. And the telephone rang.

  Gone for the day, Shapiro thought. For the man who was here before me, anyhow. He picked up the telephone and said, “Shapiro” and a man whose voice sounded vaguely familiar said, “You are hard man to get in touch with, lieutenant. Pesco drifted in couple of hours ago.”

  Which meant nothing whatever to Nathan Shapiro. He said, “Who is this?”

  This was John Spiros, owner-manager of the Cavalier Motor Lodge. Pesco was Frank Pesco, bartender returning for the season. And Pesco had seen a newspaper photograph of Stuart Fleming, and thought maybe he knew him, but the picture was lousy. Thought maybe he’d seen him at the lodge.

  The picture had not been especially good; it had also been taken some years before.

  “One thing,” John Spiros, a rather surprisingly helpful John Spiros said from distant Hangerford. “Frank’s a good bartender. One of the best we’ve ever had. When he’s on duty. Only now he isn’t—won’t be for a couple of weeks. And—well, he likes the sauce, lieutenant. Few more hours and there’s no telling. Already he’s got to the mysterious stage. Then he’ll get happy and then he’ll get sour and pretty soon the world’s against him.”

  Frank Pesco did not, to Nathan Shapiro, sound like a very satisfactory bartender. He did not say this.

  “All right,” Spiros said, as if in answer to an unspoken thought, “Place like this, seasonal place, you get one who’s sober on the job and doesn’t steal you blind you stand for a lot, lieutenant.”

  XII

  A messenger brought more papers for the IN basket of Captain M. L. Heimrich. Heimrich had been thinking that now, at considerably after six in the evening, he might call it a day. Heimrich took the papers out of the IN basket and the telephone rang on his desk. He said “Heimrich” into it and then, “Yes, he is” and raised his free hand to gesture to Sergeant Forniss, who had also been about to call it a day.

  “Long distance for you,” Heimrich said. “From Virginia. Man named Edwin Blake.”

  “Said he’d ask around,” Forniss said. “Take it outside.”

  He went to take it outside. Edwin? Ted? Heimrich would have supposed Theodore for Ted. But nicknames are variables. He went to the papers, which were reports.

  Residue in glass from Angus Fleming’s night table: Milk. Only milk. Contents of the vacuum jug, milk, only milk. Contents of the medicine bottle in the drawer of Fleming’s night table, Nembutal. Six capsules remaining.

  Those who want to kill themselves with barbiturates usually take plenty, take all they’ve got, Heimrich thought, and briefly closed his eyes. Sometimes they take too much and vomiting defeats their purpose. Angus Fleming probably had had long experience with Nembutal, would know the dosage indicated. Check with Dr. Blaney.

  Court order for post-mortem examination of the body of Angus Fleming issued at the request of the state police and properly served on the superintendent of the hospital to the mortuary of which the body had been taken. Dr. Blaney requested to participate with the hospital pathologist.

  Not, Heimrich supposed, that there was all that hurry. Still, there was no special reason to wait until Mrs. Angus Fleming was able to sit up and give consent. “Suspicious death” covers a multitude of short cuts.

  Fingerprints on medicine bottle, glass and vacuum jug, those of Angus Fleming, and only those of Fleming. Which might be a little odd? Which did not need to be odd at all. Fleming had, most probably, prepared his own relaxing warm milk drink, using recently cleaned containers. Only—

  Heimrich telephoned the house of the late Angus Fleming, and Trooper Nicholas answered, as he was supposed to answer, and said, “Yes, sir. Right away, captain” and Heimrich waited minutes and Nicholas said, “Sorry, captain. Doesn’t seem to be any.”

  No milk bottles, milk containers, in the Fleming refrigerator. Used the last of it, Fleming apparently had. Why milk to wash down Nembutal? Water would have served as well. But Angus Fleming, if he had killed himself—killed himself because he was tired of so slow a dying, because he was in shock
as a result of his brother’s violent death—might have done so on impulse; might have carried a familiar routine up to a point and then thought, Why a drowse when the deepest sleep is best?

  No firearms of any description to be found in the Fleming house or car. Heimrich had not for a moment supposed there would be. He did not really think that, for whatever reason, Angus Fleming had killed his brother. He hummed a phrase from Sir Arthur Sullivan, to which the words of W. S. Gilbert were, “Make the punishment fit the crime.” Heimrich had other words for it: “Make the character fit the crime.” He doubted that the character of the late Angus Fleming had fitted any crime. Only—preconceptions are dangerous things when lodged in a policeman’s mind.

  Corporal Raymond Crowley had been permitted to see, and make notes from, the last will and testament of Angus Fleming. It was a very simple will. It left half of Fleming’s estate to his widow, Enid; half to his brother, Stuart. In the event that either predeceased the other, the entire estate was to go to the survivor. Enid Fleming would be a woman well provided for.

  But, if the still non-explicit, but confident, estimates of Angus Fleming’s net worth were true, she was that with Stuart Fleming living and, in effect, with her husband living. There was nothing to indicate that the Angus Flemings had not lived in at least adequate comfort, barring the servant difficulties common to most who live away from cities. (And to most who live in them.)

  It was true, of course, that people sometimes killed for the most inadequate reasons, including money which they did not really need. It was also true that women sometimes killed lovers who turned away from them. But these were not, in Heimrich’s considerable experience, often housewives, country club members, living in what has been called “exurbia.” Such wear their loves more lightly.

  Only—generalizations amount to preconceptions in the minds of policemen.

  See what Forniss’s friend, if Edwin was Ted, had had to say. And—oh, yes. Have the milk supplier of the Angus Flemings, who was probably a route driver, checked out. When did Mrs. Fleming or her erstwhile housekeeper last order milk? And how much had been ordered and delivered? There would be a record. Only—Heimrich looked at his watch. Almost seven o’clock. Offices would have closed; milk men gone home. Still, have Crowley see what he could do tonight. Forniss was taking his time about—

  Forniss came in. His face was not a particularly expressive face, but Heimrich thought he saw satisfaction in it.

  It had been one of those things, one of those breaks. Ted Blake hadn’t had any idea at all where Professor Lucius Clappinger might have got to. And the first man he had asked had had the most precise idea, because a friend of his had decided to send his son north to prep school and who did Ted Blake think the assistant headmaster turned out to be?

  “Yep,” Forniss said. “Pawling. Stone’s throw for a good stone thrower. Checked it out. Nothing surreptitious about it. Well-known and well thought of. Lives near the school.” It did not sound too promising. On the other hand—“May as well go up and see for ourselves, Charlie,” Merton Heimrich said. “Toss a few pebbles of our own.”

  By rights it wasn’t his job. By rights his job was bounded by the city limits of New York. And probably a bartender named Frank Pesco, given to the bottle and apparently now in the process of tying one on, would have nothing to tell anyone that would matter to anyone.

  Captain M. L. Heimrich had, the barracks told him, gone off duty. So had Sergeant Charles Forniss. Barracks gave him the number of Heimrich’s home, and he called it, and a light clear voice, said, “Captain Heimrich’s residence.” The boy was still, it appeared, on telephone watch. Certainly Lieutenant Shapiro could speak to Mother.

  “No,” Susan Heimrich said, “he isn’t, lieutenant. And heaven knows when he will be. Does your wife ever know when you’ll get home, lieutenant?”

  “No,” Lieutenant Nathan Shapiro said, “I suppose she doesn’t, really. Tonight I had hoped….” He ended the sentence with a sigh.

  “And I,” Susan Heimrich said. “I very much. But there it is. If he’s off duty, he may conceivably be on his way here. On his way, however, via almost any place. Is there something I should tell him, when and if?”

  She listened.

  “Yes,” Susan Heimrich said, “I’ll tell him that you’ve gone back to this motel in Hangerford. And that you doubt it will be worth the trouble. And that there’s a bartender named Frank Pesco who may know something. That—wait a minute, lieutenant.”

  Shapiro waited a minute; it was a minute.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Susan Heimrich said. “It’s vague. I’m not even sure I remember right. But when I was at the Willow Pond club last summer somebody got a drink he didn’t like—too much of something or not enough of something. And he said, ‘Makes you appreciate good old Frank, lush or no lush.’ I think the name was Frank. But it’s a common name.”

  “Yes,” Nathan Shapiro said.

  Frank was a common enough name, Nathan Shapiro thought, driving the car which was the property of the New York City Police Department back into the country. But bartenders who can be accurately described as lushes were not, in Shapiro’s experience. The experience was largely vicarious, since Shapiro was not often a customer at bars. But a cop learns a good deal about a good many people. Even, Shapiro thought, an inadequate cop.

  He went up the Saw Mill to the circle, and off it to the Hawthorne Barracks, where they did have a print of the picture taken of Stuart Fleming’s body. They had several prints, and one showed Fleming’s face unmarred. Shapiro took it, and renewed directions to Hangerford, and left word, again, where he was bound. He drove north, into darkness and into the country. At one point, from either side of the road, there was a high, undulating sound made, he supposed, by some unlikely denizens of the countryside. (Peepers do not abound in Prospect Park.)

  There were some lights in the Cavalier Motor Lodge when, forty-five minutes or so from the Hawthorne Barracks—and God knew how far from Brooklyn—Shapiro reached it. He went into the lighted office, which was empty. He went to the desk and tinkled a bell and John Spiros emerged, rather like Jack from his box. A most co-operative man, John Spiros. Doing no more than his duty as a citizen? Shapiro hoped so.

  Shapiro was just in time, if that. Poor old Frank was really hitting it. Gone up to his room to hit it.

  “Never can tell when he’ll show up,” Spiros said. “Winter job runs out and after a while his money runs out and he comes here to wait. We—well, we advance him liquor, in a manner of speaking. At wholesale rates, and he works it out. Once we open, he doesn’t drink. Much, anyway. It’s along this way….”

  Shapiro followed Spiros along that way, which presently was up a flight of stairs. He asked Spiros’s back how long Frank Pesco had been tending bar at the lodge, and whether he returned every season.

  “Five years or so,” Spiros told him. “Missed one summer. Let’s see—summer before last. Wanted a change. Worked for a while at some club or other. Trouble was, no tips. Some sort of subscription for the help at the end of the season, but it didn’t add up the way Frank hoped it would. Here we are.”

  He knocked on a door. There was a sound from behind it which Spiros accepted as an invitation.

  “The police officer from New York you wanted to see,” Spiros told a heavily built man in his thirties with a broad face and smooth yellow hair parted in the middle. It occurred to Shapiro that Frank Pesco had studied old lithographs depicting the proper bartender.

  He was not one at the moment. He was a large, soft man subsided in a deep chair, wearing, to be sure, the white shirt of his calling, but also wearing shorts. He was sitting by a table with a bottle and a glass on it.

  “Shapiro,” Shapiro said. “Police lieutenant.”

  “Can’t tell anything from those damn newspaper cuts,” Frank Pesco told him. “Smudges. Could be it was him and could be it wasn’t.”

  “From this?” Shapiro said, and showed him the glossy he had picked up at the barracks.
>
  Pesco, who did not seem particularly drunk—conceivably, Shapiro thought, because he was sitting down—turned a light to shine on the glossy and studied it. He turned it this way and that. He said, “Doesn’t look too much banged up.”

  “He was enough banged up,” Shapiro said. “They cropped from the shoulders down. The man you thought you might have something to tell us about?”

  “Don’t know if it’ll be any use,” Frank Pesco said. “But—yeah, this is the guy all right. Want a drink? Got another glass around here somewhere.”

  He looked around the room as if he expected a glass to hurry to the table.

  “No,” Shapiro said. “What about the man?”

  “This the one got killed? Man named—” He paused to think. “Something Fleming?”

  “Stuart Fleming. Yes, Mr. Pesco.”

  “What’s the ‘mister’? Whatsa matter with Frank?”

  “Nothing,” Shapiro said. “What about Mr. Fleming, Frank.”

  “Came here last winter. Ski season. And a damned short season.” He said this last to John Spiros, with some resentment.

  “Can’t make it snow, Frank,” Spiros said.

  “Had a job in town,” Frank said, still with resentment. “Threw it up for a lousy two weeks.”

  “And got it back,” Spiros said. “Don’t cry in your bourbon, Frank. Lieutenant Shapiro’s come quite a way.”

  It took a little time; Frank Pesco’s attention inclined to wander. It came to this:

  The man of the picture, whom he now knew to have been Stuart Fleming, but whose name he had not then known, had had some drinks at the bar before lunch on a Friday in January. There had not been many at the bar. “Even when it snowed it was a lousy two weeks.” The man had asked questions.

  “Whether, the October before, I’d got to know a Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Fleming. And here all the time he was Fleming. What the hell was he up to?”

  “We’re trying to find out,” Shapiro told Frank. Which seemed to satisfy him.