“Yes, sir. One arrest and a suspended sentence for mugging.”
“Mugging is a slang term for robbery with force, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Generally without a weapon. You get a guy around the neck from behind and go through his pockets with your free hand. There’s other methods classified as mugging, but that’s the way Garcia did it the time he was convicted.”
The lawyer said, “Did you draw any inference from the fact that Robert Hummel, with a gun against a knife, used the gun merely to disarm his opponent and then grappled with him with his bare hands?”
The policeman said, “I don’t exactly know what you mean.”
“I mean, did it not occur to you as obvious Robert Hummel’s statement that he did not wish to shoot his opponent was true, and that he went out of his way to avoid seriously injuring Garcia, when under the circumstances he would have been fully justified in shooting the man through the heart? And that Garcia’s subsequent death in spite of Mr. Hummel’s precaution must have been an accident resulting from Robert Hummel exerting more strength than he intended in the excitement of the moment?”
This leading question would have been stricken from the record in a regular court, of course, for not only was it deliberately slanted at the jury rather than to the witness, it asked for an opinion on a matter of which the witness could not possibly have had actual knowledge. But in Coroner’s Court the legal formalities of a court of law are almost entirely lacking inasmuch as no one is on trial for anything, the jury’s sole duty being to determine how the deceased met death. I was therefore not surprised when neither the assistant circuit attorney nor the deputy coroner made any objection to the question.
Patrolman Lutz said he had not thought about the matter, which seemed to satisfy Marcus Prout, as he had asked the question only to implant it in the jury’s mind anyway. The lawyer went back to his seat.
When the deputy coroner asked if there were any more questions, both Prout and the assistant C.A. shook their heads. The patrolman was dismissed and Norman Paisley was called as a witness.
Norman Paisley was a thin, dried up man of middle age who looked like a school janitor. To the deputy coroner’s first question he gave his address as a rooming house on South Broadway two blocks south of Market.
“Were you a customer at Stoyle’s Tavern on Sixth near Olive this past Wednesday night?” the deputy coroner asked.
“Yes, sir. All evening from seven till they closed at one thirty.”
“Did you know the deceased Joseph Garcia?”
“To talk to, yes, sir. I used to run into him at Stoyle’s Tavern off and on. I didn’t know where he lived or what he did, or nothing like that, though.”
“I see. Was the deceased a customer at Stoyle’s that night?”
“Yes, sir. He come in several times during the evening. I guess he was bar cruising all up and down Sixth Street.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
The deputy coroner said, “Do you recognize any other person now present as a customer at Stoyle’s the night before last?”
Norman Paisley pointed at Robert Hummel. “Him. He come in about a quarter of eleven and left at eleven fifteen. I noticed him particular because he bought the house a couple of drinks.”
The assistant C.A. cut in. “Was Joseph Garcia present during this period?”
“Yes, sir. He even remarked about it. When Mr. Hummel bought a drink, Joe said to me, ‘That damn fool must be made of money. He just bought the house a drink at a place I was in up the street.’”
Marcus Prout asked, “Did you get the impression Garcia was following Hummel?”
“No, sir. Joe come in first, as a matter of fact, and Mr. Hummel come in right after him.”
The lawyer looked surprised. He started to ask another question, changed his mind and waved his hand dismissingly. The assistant C.A. stepped into the breach.
“Mr. Paisley, did you get the impression the deceased was particularly interested in Robert Hummel?”
“Not right at first. But when Hummel bought the second drink, he happened to be standing close to Joe at the bar, and when he opened his wallet to pay, Joe looked kind of startled. I was standing the other side of Joe, but even from there I could see there was a lot of bills in it. After that Joe couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Hummel.”
Marcus Prout spoke again. “When Hummel finally left the bar, did Garcia follow him?”
“Yes, sir. He went right out after him.”
The assistant C.A. said, “Did you get the impression Garcia left because Hummel did? That is, that the deceased was actually following Mr. Hummel? Or that he just happened to leave about the same time?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Paisley said. “I never thought about it at the time. I guess Joe must of followed him out figuring to roll him.”
Marcus Prout smiled at this answer and the assistant C.A. grunted. When both indicated they had no further questions, the witness was dismissed.
Shuffling the papers in front of him, the deputy coroner located the post mortem report, cleared his throat and said, “The autopsy shows death by suffocation due to a crushed larynx.”
Following this announcement, he rose from his bench, advanced to the edge of the platform and asked in a loud voice, “Are any relatives of the deceased present?”
When there was no reply to this routine question, he turned to the jury and signified they were to go out.
While the six man jury was out, I tried to figure what Nels Parker’s interest in the case could be. On the surface it was simply a case of a mugger being killed in self-defense by his intended victim, and the inquest was obviously a routine affair designed to clear the intended victim of any blame. The slant of the questions, not only of Robert Mummer’s lawyer, but those of the assistant circuit attorney and the deputy coroner as well, indicated no one expected or wanted any verdict other than justifiable homicide.
I had no time to question Nels about it though, for the jury was out only thirty seconds. When it filed back in, the foreman read the verdict I expected: justifiable homicide.
Ordinarily, beyond noting down his name, age and address for my news item, I would have paid no further attention to the man who had just been cleared of homicide, for he was not a particularly impressive person. Nels Parker’s unexplained interest in the case intrigued me though, and noting the sergeant continued to linger in the courtroom until Robert Hummel finished shaking hands with his lawyer and finally moved toward the door, I lingered beside him.
When Robert Hummel was erect, you were less conscious of his unusually broad shoulders and the muscle underlying his fat than you were when he was seated. He looked like a well fed businessman who had reached the age when he ought to start watching his blood pressure. He also looked like the last person in the world you would expect to resist a professional mugger so successfully and so violently that the mugger ended up dead.
As the man passed from the courtroom, Nels continued to watch his back through the open door until he reached the stairs at the end of the hall and started down. Then the sergeant gave his head a slight shake and moved toward the stairs himself.
Falling in beside him, I said, “Buy you a drink, Sergeant?”
His dull eyes flicked at me. “One beer maybe. I got to get back to Homicide.”
The nearest tavern to the Coroner’s Court Building was a half block west. I waited until we were standing at the bar with a pair of draft beers in front of us before I asked any questions.
Then I said, “A story hidden here somewhere, Sergeant?”
He shook his head, tapped his glass once on the bar to indicate luck and sipped at his beer. “No story, Sam.”
“Not even off the record?”
“Just a pipe dream I had, Sam. You couldn’
t print it without risking a libel suit.”
“Then I won’t print it. But I got curiosity. Whose case was this Garcia’s? On Homicide, I mean.”
“Corporal Brady,” Nels said. “He wasn’t there because the thing was so routine, all they needed was the beat cop’s testimony. Probably I ought to have my head examined for wasting my time on a case I wasn’t even assigned to.”
When he lapsed into silence I asked, “What’s the story?”
He drank half his beer before he answered. Then he said, “I was just interested because this guy Hummel killed a guy once before.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Almost the same circumstances too,” the sergeant said. “A mugger down along Commercial Alley. Only that time the guy’s larynx wasn’t crushed. Hummel just choked him to death.”
“Judas Priest!” I said. “Was there an inquest?”
Nels nodded. “Routine. Happened about twelve years ago. There’s no doubt it was on the up and up. The mugger had a record as long as your arm and it was pretty well established Hummel never saw the guy before he was suddenly waylaid by him. Apparently the mugger had been loitering in a doorway for some time waiting for a likely victim to pass, for they turned up a witness placing him there a full hour before he tangled with Hummel. Picking Hummel was pure accident, and the mugger was just unlucky to jump a guy who looked soft, but turned out to have the strength of a gorilla.” The sergeant paused, then added reflectively, “There wasn’t any of this flashing a roll in dives then.” His tone as he made the last statement struck me as odd.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
But the sergeant ignored my question. “Hummel didn’t carry a gun then either. Matter of fact, it was as a result of the incident that he applied for a permit. He didn’t have trouble getting one because he’s an antique and rare coin buyer and carries large amounts of cash.”
“You’ve been doing some detailed checking on the man.” I remarked.
“Yeah. But it doesn’t add up.”
I eyed him narrowly for a moment, then signaled the bartender for two more beers. I said, “Now give me the pipe dream.”
“Pipe dream?” he asked.
“You mentioned your interest in the case was a kind of pipe dream. You think there’s some connection between the two cases?”
Nels took a sip of his fresh beer and shook his head. “I’m sure there isn’t. Not between the two muggers anyway. Maybe a kind of psychological connection.”
“What docs that mean?”
“Well,” the sergeant said slowly, “I figure the case twelve years ago was just what it seemed to be. A guy unexpectedly jumped Hummel, and Hummel killed him defending himself. So was the case today, I guess. With a slight difference. Maybe this time Hummel killed deliberately when he was jumped.”
“You mean he deliberately lured Garcia into attacking him?”
“Think back over the testimony,” Nels said. “Remember how surprised the great lawyer looked when the witness said Hummel had followed Joe in?”
“There was even something about Garcia remarking he had run into Hummel in another tavern. But why? What would be Hummel’s motive?”
Nels was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “I checked back over unsolved homicides for the past twelve years, and seven of them were guys with records as muggers. They were found dead in alleys, some strangled, some broken necks.”
“My God!” I said.
“That makes nine he could have killed.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. “But why, for God’s sake?”
Without inflection Nels said, “Twelve years ago I imagine Robert Hummel was just a normal guy. Or at least I imagine any abnormal urges he had were merely latent. Then he killed in self-defense. My pipe dream is that maybe he discovered he enjoyed it. You’ve heard of psychopathic killers.”
“But… but…” I stuttered.
“But what? A guy flashes a roll in dives. There any law to stop him? A mugger tails him for an easy roll. The guy kills the mugger, and if nobody sees it, he just walks away. If he gets caught in the act, he merely tells the truth and the law gives him a pat on the back for defending himself against attack by a criminal. It’s a psychopath’s dream. He’s figured a way to kill legally.”
“But…” I whispered. “But… he couldn’t possibly again…”
“The law says you can use whatever force is necessary to resist attack on your person or property. If you use more than necessary, theoretically you’re guilty of manslaughter. In the case of a farmer shooting a kid stealing watermelons, we can prove unnecessary force, but how do you prove it in a case like today’s? And even if we established beyond reasonable doubt that Hummel deliberately enticed a robbery attempt… which we couldn’t do without a confession, no matter what we suspect… he still has a legal right to defend himself.”
“You mean you intend to do nothing about a homicidal maniac?”
“Sure,” Nels said calmly. “Next time we’ll put a white light in his face and hammer questions at him until Marcus Prout walks in with a writ of habeas corpus. But unless we get a confession that he used more force than necessary to protect himself, he’s safe even if he kills a man every week.”
He laughed without any humor whatever, “Beyond picking him up and questioning him every time he kills, there isn’t one damned thing in the world we can do to stop him.”
STRANGERS IN THE HOUSE
Originally published in Detective Tales, June 1953.
Harry Nolan slipped his key into the Yale lock, looked surprised when it failed to turn, and raised his eyes to the brass numerals over the door. The numerals were one, three and four, just as they had been when he left for work that morning.
Withdrawing the key, he examined it puzzledly, then tried to fit it into the lock upside down. It refused to enter.
Once more he tried it the right way, but when he had no more success than before, withdrew it and dropped it back in his pocket.
The lock must be broken, he thought, trying to decide what to do about it. He left the shop at four-thirty, while Helen, his wife, worked until five, so it was unlikely she was already home, but he rang the bell on the off-chance she had left work early.
To his surprise, the door was opened by a slim, red-haired woman he had never before seen.
An unprejudiced male would have considered the redhead beautiful, or at the very least pretty. But Harry was in the habit of unconsciously appraising every woman he met by the standard of Helen’s fresh sparkle. It took more than surface beauty to match that sparkle; you had to be clean and fresh inside, in love, and sure you were loved in turn. By beauty contest standards the redhead would have surpassed Helen, but all Harry saw was her brittle hardness.
When she looked at him inquiringly, Harry said, with mild bewilderment, “For some reason my key won’t fit. Is Helen home?”
The woman looked puzzled.
“I’m Harry Nolan,” he explained. “Helen’s husband.”
“Helen?” the woman said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. There’s no Helen Nolan here.”
A man outside Harry’s range of vision called, “Who is it, honey?”
The redhead called back, “Some man looking for his wife, Kurt. Do we know a Helen Nolan?”
Harry began to grow angry. Who these strangers in his apartment were, he had no idea, but he had no intention of continuing to stand in the hall outside of his own home. He started to push by the woman, then stopped in confusion.
The front room was not that of his apartment. Not only were its furnishings entirely different, but the wallpaper was a flowered pink instead of a vertically striped green.
A tall, dark-skinned man seated on the sofa looked up at Harry with a frown, folded the paper he was reading and rose to his feet.
Harry stammered, “I’m…I’m sorry. I thought this was my apartment.”
As he backed through the door, the man crossed to stand next to the woman. He continued to frown at Harry, and now the woman was frowning too. Finally the dark-skinned man shrugged and pushed the door closed in Harry’s face.
Once again Harry looked at the numbers over the door. They still read one, three and four. Checking the doors to either side, he found they were 132 and 136, just as they should have been. Immediately across the hall, as usual, was apartment 135.
Just as his bewilderment started to become tinged with an element of panic, Harry saw the light. He was simply in the wrong building; an understandable error, inasmuch as he and Helen had moved in only a week ago and their apartment house was one of three identical buildings in the same block.
With a relieved but rather embarrassed chuckle at himself. Harry went down the stairs, passed through the front door and studied the gilded number embossed on the glass of the door. Panic jumped within him again when he saw it was 102.
Glancing left, then right, he saw identically solid, red brick apartment houses rising five stories either side of him. Wildly, he turned to study the opposite side of the street. At one end of the block was the same gas station which had been there that morning, at the other end the same drug store. And between them were the same brownstone-front houses which had once been upper middle-class homes, but now were boarding houses.
Harry felt his sanity slipping. Grasping at a straw, he ran to the corner and peered up at the L-shaped street sign. His throat contracted when the sign verified that the corner was Carlton and Fourth.
“Whoa, boy!” Harry told himself. “Let’s pull ourselves together.”
With forced calmness he marshaled facts to convince himself he was not going mad. Last Saturday he and Helen had moved into apartment 134 at 102 Carlton Avenue. It was now Friday, which meant five times he had left apartment 134 at 102 Carlton Avenue to go to work in the morning, and five times had returned after work in the afternoon…
The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 6