Top Assignment

by George Harmon Coxe

  ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say. He may have.’ She took a small breath and sat up, the tone still brittle and the impatience showing through. ‘Was that all you wanted to talk about?’

  ‘Not quite’, Palmer said, and unrolled the two prints he carried. Selecting the eight-by-ten, which showed no face, he offered it to the woman. ‘What I really wanted to know,’ he said, ‘is whether your husband has a scar like that.’

  She bent over the photograph, her face obscured. She let five seconds pass before she looked up, and now her voice carried a different inflection.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘A man with a scar like that could go through life with very few people knowing it. In this country, with the kind of trunks men wear, he could even swim without showing that scar. But I think a wife would know about it, wouldn’t she, Mrs. Chapman?’

  She eyed him steadily, an odd compression showing round her mouth, but all that poise still there. ‘I should think so’, she said. ‘But I still don’t know just why you should—’

  ‘I’ll tell you’, Palmer said, and then he was talking, low-voiced and intent as he told her the story of Ethel Kovalik, her marriage in Germany in 1946, her eventual search for her husband here in this city. He spoke of her fears of Henkel and Muller and pointed out the complications.

  He had no idea how long he talked, but when he finished, his throat was dry and he was out of breath. He was excited too because he could see the change come over Isabel Chapman. He was not sure just why he thought so, for she had been schooled in poise and the outward control of her emotions; yet something in her manner told him her interest was more than academic. To get a more positive reaction, he went one step further.

  ‘I think I’ve got enough to go to the police’, he said. ‘If they agree, they can probably arrange to see if your husband has such a scar. I came here first because I thought—’

  What he thought was left unsaid because she interrupted, a note of awe and uncertainty in a voice that was no longer brittle.

  ‘This Guy Kovalik,’ she said, ‘deserted from the army after he had been arrested. He deserted his wife, and she came here, leaving the child in Germany. You think that she found him here, or that somehow he found her—’

  She broke off, head cocking, and now Palmer heard the foyer door close. The unexpectedness of the sound made him turn on the edge of his chair, and he waited that way, his face moist from the tension of the past few minutes and his mouth suddenly grim.

  Al Chapman strolled into the room, hesitating an instant as he pocketed his key, his rangy, broad-shouldered figure at ease in its tailor-made garments.

  ‘Well, hello’, he said, very casual. ‘What’s this, a private conference?’

  There was no answer, so he advanced. He took time to give Palmer a curious glance and then he was watching his wife while she examined him narrowly, a new pallor working on her face as the muscles beneath tightened one by one.

  ‘Mr. Palmer was telling me a story’, she said in a cold, precise voice. ‘And showing me some pictures.’

  ‘A story?’ Chapman’s tanned blond face creased across the forehead and now his light-blue eyes were watchful and suspicious. ‘About what?’

  The woman offered the eleven-by-fourteen print. When Chapman took it she said: ‘About a Mr. and Mrs. Guy Kovalik. That’s a picture of them taken in Germany in 1946. She came here looking for him a week or so ago. She was found strangled.’

  ‘I read the story’, Chapman said. ‘But why should Larry come here?’

  ‘He wanted to ask me’—she gave him the second photograph—‘if you had a scar like the one in the picture.’

  If Chapman was concerned, he did not show it. He took the picture, walked over to the kneehole desk, and turned on the lamp. From a centre drawer he produced a pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses and slipped them on. For a silent second or so he examined the pictures and then he put them aside and removed the glasses.

  ‘And what did you tell him, dear?’ he said softly.

  ‘I hadn’t told him anything’, the woman said. ‘But I was about to.’ She hesitated as her voice wavered, continued quickly. ‘I’m not quite sure whether I’m Mrs. anybody or not at this point, but I recognize the scar … Yes’, she said to Palmer. ‘Al has one quite like it.’

  Chapman’s voice remained strangely composed. ‘I suppose there are other men with similar scars.’

  ‘I should imagine that might be possible.’

  ‘If there’s any doubt,’ Palmer said, ‘the War Department can probably clear it up. They should have some fingerprints or a mug shot of Guy Kovalik somewhere in the files.’

  He stood up as he spoke, having what he wanted and ready to leave. As he did so, Chapman moved with him, reaching forward to yank at a bottom drawer in the desk. The movement was swift and hard, so that the drawer came completely out and thumped solidly on the rug.

  Before Palmer could do more than wonder why, he had the answer. What Chapman wanted was not in the drawer but held securely to the back of it by a strip of adhesive tape. When he straightened he had a short-barrelled revolver in his hand, and with a continuation of the same movement he flipped out the cylinder, examined it, and flipped it back into place.

  ‘Stick around, Palmer’, he said, and placed the gun on the desk, his fingers on top of it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IN THOSE FIRST few moments while the silence thickened and spread across the room, Larry Palmer stood as he was, his body turned towards the foyer, his gaze angling back over his shoulder. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that Chapman was guilty of two murders or that the gun that had been so carefully secreted had been used on Leo Flynn.

  He knew, too, that he had already stayed too long, and as he considered the odds he saw that he was nearly ten feet from the desk and more than twice that from the doorway and safety. Then, as though understanding what was in his mind, Chapman spoke, the gun pointed and steady.

  ‘You’ll never make it’, he said. ‘So relax, Palmer. I want the rest of it. Unless you want a slug in your back you’d better start talking.’

  He walked round the desk and slid a thigh across the corner so he could face Palmer and his wife.

  ‘You’ve been a busy little man,’ he said, ‘so go ahead. Start at the beginning.’

  Palmer knew then that he had no choice. Chapman, having killed before, would have no compunction about shooting again. That he, Palmer, was to be given even that much time was apparently due to the presence of Isabel Chapman, and from watching her reaction now, and seeing all that disgust mirrored in her eyes, it occurred to him that in her he might have an ally.

  He understood this too when he considered her wealth, her impeccable social position, her three husbands. He remembered Chapman’s story of their meeting and marriage, and he sensed that if there had ever been any genuine love between them it had long since been lost along the way. She had wanted a handsome and vigorous prince consort and she had bought one. But even in that she had been tricked and, if only because of her pride, she would neither forgive nor defend him. As if to corroborate such thoughts, she spoke first, her tone outraged and contemptuous rather than alarmed.

  ‘Put that away,’ she said, ‘and stop being ridiculous.’

  ‘When I’m ready, darling’, Chapman said. ‘But first I’d like to find out more about this. Maybe the War Department can prove that I’m Guy Kovalik, but that still doesn’t prove I murdered my wife.’

  He looked at Palmer now and gestured with the gun, his voice thin and commanding.

  ‘Let’s hear it’, he said. ‘All of it.’

  Palmer let his body swing around as he shifted his weight. He took his time lighting a cigarette, doing the best he could to appear unconcerned, aware that he no longer had any choice in the matter. What he had to say would take a while, and somewhere along the way he might have a chance to get closer to the gun. He still could not figure the woman, but he clung to the idea that Chapman, unless forced
into action, would not kill again in front of a witness.

  And so he began, his voice controlled as he related the story of Henkel and Muller and why, because of Ethel Kovalik’s stated fears, they had been suspected from the first.

  ‘Okay’, Chapman said when he had finished. ‘Now get back to me and Ethel.’

  ‘You saw her picture in the paper’, Palmer said. ‘Until then you had no idea she was in town. You still weren’t sure why she was here, but you knew what would happen if she ever found you.’

  ‘Let’s say you’re right.’

  ‘What I couldn’t figure, and the reason I never even connected you with her death,’ Palmer said, ‘was why, if you were afraid she might find you, you didn’t simply leave town for a week or two. Not until I began to consider you did I get an answer to that one … You knew your picture was coming out the following Sunday in that sport layout I did’, he said. ‘The gravure section had already been printed by that time and you knew you couldn’t stop it. When Ethel Kovalik saw that picture you knew she’d find you for sure.’

  At one side Isabel Chapman uttered some half-audible sound, but he was intent on Chapman now as he said:

  ‘The Bulletin thought the contest story we ran was what tipped off the killer. Now I know it wasn’t that at all. You didn’t wait for any story. You figured your wife would come to collect the hundred-dollar prize, which she did, and when she did you could follow her to her room, just as Henkel did. I don’t know when you went to see her, but I know when you went back to kill her.’

  He digressed to speak of the tan Zephyr that had been parked on Martin Street and related the things Isabel Chapman had told him.

  ‘I knew Ethel Kovalik had been to see Leo Flynn,’ he said, ‘and I jumped to the conclusion that it was Leo’s demonstrator that was parked there sometime after eight.… It was,’ he added, ‘but you drove it there after you’d arranged to borrow it for a half-hour or so from Leo. Later, after the murder, I questioned Leo about the car and told him I knew it had been parked on Martin Street. He denied it, but I thought he was lying, and he must have come to you to find out why. Is that why you had to kill him too, or was it something else?’

  Chapman looked at his wife and his blue gaze was mean and dangerous.

  ‘You talk too much, darling’, he said. ‘Much too much.’

  She ignored him and addressed Palmer. ‘Why did you come here with the pictures?’ she asked. ‘I know the woman left the negative with you. I saw the picture the Bulletin printed after the murder, but it only showed her face and Al’s, and I didn’t even recognize him.’

  Palmer evaded the question for the moment to ask if she shared the same room with her husband.

  ‘Not ordinarily’, she said, frowning at the digression. ‘Why?’

  ‘Think back to the night I met you’, he said. ‘What time did you come home?’

  ‘About one-thirty.’

  ‘Do you take sleeping pills?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘How about that night?’

  She glanced at her husband, the frown deepening. ‘We’d had quite a few drinks,’ she said, ‘and we came home and—’ She paused, bright glints in her eyes. ‘Yes, I remember now. Do you, Al?’

  ‘Do I what?’ Chapman said.

  ‘Remember how solicitous you were about my getting a good night’s sleep, and bringing me the pill and the glass of water?’ She looked back at Palmer. ‘You mean he went out after that?’

  ‘Sometime before three’, Palmer said and went on quickly to tell of the intruder who had been searching his apartment the night of the first murder.

  ‘This was about ten minutes to three,’ he said, ‘and I couldn’t figure why. The only thing that was taken was a copy of the original street photograph which showed Henkel following Ethel Kovalik. I knew the search must have something to do with the murder and, still without knowing what I could have that the killer wanted, I assumed again that either Henkel or Muller or both had made the attempt.’

  He took a breath and said: ‘I talked to Gladys Flynn after Leo was killed. She said Leo knew Henkel and Muller. She said both had been to Flynn’s apartment that same night at ten minutes to three. That told me that someone else had searched my place—but for what?

  ‘All I could do was guess’, he said. ‘The contest photo was gone. A prowler feeling about in the dark would know it was a photograph even though he could not know what the subject was. The fact that it was missing indicated that he wanted a picture—not that one, but another.’ He paused. ‘And the only other one I could think of was the old snapshot and negative Ethel Kovalik had given me. I didn’t have it. It was at the office, and if the killer knew about it at all, it meant that she must have told him … This afternoon,’ he said, ‘I thought I’d better have another look at it.’ He glanced at Chapman. ‘She told you about that snapshot, but you killed her anyway.’

  Chapman slid off the corner of the desk, the gun easy in his hand. ‘You’re right about a lot of things, Palmer’, he said. ‘I did follow her home and when I’d talked to her I knew where I stood. It wasn’t just a question of giving up all this’—he waved the gun to indicate the luxuries of the life he led—‘it would mean ten years or so in Leavenworth once those army jokers got their hands on me. I could see I couldn’t buy her off, so I told her to sit tight, that I’d be back that evening. When I came she told me about the old snapshot she’d given you, but by then it was too late. I couldn’t stall her any longer, so I had to take my chances with the picture. I didn’t know whether you had it on you, but I had to come to your place and take a look, just in case. After it was printed, with only the faces, I quit worrying about it.’

  ‘You borrowed Flynn’s demonstrator.’

  ‘I was in evening clothes. I couldn’t risk a taxi. The driver would remember a man dressed like me going to a Martin Street address.’

  ‘If that tailor hadn’t remembered the car, you would have made it’

  ‘Let’s say if you hadn’t checked with the tailor and then at the garage and with Flynn, I’d have made it.’ He hesitated, considering his wife. ‘Whose side are you on now? Just for the record.’

  The scorn and loathing still showed in Isabel Chapman’s eyes. It had not yet occurred to her to be afraid or to consider her own position. Seeing this, Palmer wanted to warn her to temporize and play along until he had a chance to get closer to that gun. Then it was too late and her words came, clipped and cutting.

  ‘You can ask me that?’ she demanded. ‘After what you’ve been, what you’ve done?’

  ‘I just wanted to know … Okay, get on your feet.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘We’re moving out’, Chapman said. ‘We’ll take a ride.’

  Palmer knew what he meant because he had seen the change in the tanned face. Gone was the casual manner. The inherent cruelness showed in the pale-blue eyes, in the tight, set lines of the tanned face. The woman must have seen it too. She must have realized that this time it would be futile to crack her whip, but she was not yet ready to surrender.

  ‘A ride?’ she said. ‘What for? Where?’

  ‘The south-shore place is closed,’ Chapman said, ‘but the speedboat is still in the water. Maybe I can figure out a ride you two won’t come back from. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.’

  Palmer heard her quick gasp, but realized that she was still not ready to accept the obvious, as though, having never actually been frightened in her protected and well-regulated life, her mind rejected the present danger as unthinkable.

  ‘You’re mad’, she said.

  ‘Maybe’, Chapman said. ‘But just remember you’re not talking to an ever-loving husband now, baby. You’re talking to a guy who has nothing to lose.’

  And this, Palmer knew, was true. He also understood that he had made a small, and perhaps fatal, miscalculation in the beginning by thinking the woman might be of help. His work had taught him something about brutality and vicio
usness—he had written too often of muggings, assaults, the senseless killings. Common sense told him that men like Chapman did exist; other men had killed for similar reasons. What he had not accepted until now was the idea that, while Isabel Chapman’s presence had given him time that might not otherwise have been his, that reprieve had now expired. In the final analysis she was to be a second victim; nothing more.

  With no conscience to hinder him, it had become a simple matter of self-preservation to Chapman, and in his single-minded pursuit of this he was no longer quite sane. To Chapman there would be no additional penalty, and so long as he had the gun he was temporarily secure.

  Palmer eyed it aslant, measuring the distance. He began to talk again, wanting only additional time in which to think. Concentrating on his voice, he said:

  ‘Before we go, why don’t you tell your wife the story you told me the other evening? You know, about being a German and finding your home town bombed flat after the war.’

  He looked at the woman and continued without pause, repeating the things Chapman had said while the tension wound tighter inside him and the stiffness grew in the backs of his legs. He talked until he was out of breath and even then he was not sure she heard him. For she made no reply, but stood stiffly in her sheathlike gown, her gaze vacant, like a woman in shock. Instead it was Chapman who answered.

  ‘I thought it was a pretty good story’, he said.

  ‘It was damned good’, Palmer said. ‘I believed it.’

  ‘Maybe because most of it was true. I threw the German part in because I knew you’d been snooping. You knew Ethel had married an American soldier and I had to get across the idea that it couldn’t be me. The rest of it—going to Spain and Mexico and getting the social-security card—was true. If it hadn’t been for—’

  He broke off and turned on his wife, his tone ugly now as remembered things came back to him.

  ‘But you had to go to Europe on your honeymoon, didn’t you? And I had to get a birth certificate to get a passport, and I couldn’t write to Idaho because I was born in a small town and I was afraid someone would tip the War Department.’