by Ed McBain
Praise for Ed McBain & the 87th Precinct
“Raw and realistic…The bad guys are very bad, and the good guys are better.”—Detroit Free Press
“Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct series…simply the best police procedurals being written in the United States.”—Washington Post
“The best crime writer in the business.”—Houston Post
“Ed McBain is a national treasure.”—Mystery News
“It’s hard to think of anyone better at what he does. In fact, it’s impossible.”
—Robert B. Parker
“I never read Ed McBain without the awful thought that I still have a lot to learn. And when you think you’re catching up, he gets better.”
—Tony Hillerman
“McBain is the unquestioned king…light years ahead of anyone else in the field.”—San Diego Union-Tribune
“McBain tells great stories.”—Elmore Leonard
“Pure prose poetry…It is such writers as McBain who bring the great American urban mythology to life.”—The London Times
“The McBain stamp: sharp dialogue and crisp plotting.”
—Miami Herald
“You’ll be engrossed by McBain’s fast, lean prose.”—Chicago Tribune
“McBain redefines the American police novel…he can stop you dead in your tracks with a line of dialogue.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“The wit, the pacing, his relish for the drama of human diversity [are] what you remember about McBain novels.”—Philadelphia Inquirer
“McBain is a top pro, at the top of his game.”—Los Angeles Daily News
Ax
AN 87TH PRECINCT NOVEL
Ed McBain
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright (c) 1964 Hui Corporation Republished in 2011
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612181561
ISBN-10: 1612181562
This is for Barbara and Leonard Harris
The city in these pages is imaginary.
The people, the places are all fictitious.
Only the police routine is based on established
investigatory technique.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
January.
It refuses to obey the cliches this year. December did not provide a white Christmas, and now there is no lingering snow on the city pavements. The clouds above the jagged skyline are threatening, but it is too warm to snow, and yet there is no real warmth. Neither is there a blustering wind, or frost-rimmed windows. There is instead a sunless lack of cheer, an overall impression of solemn monochromatic gray.
The gray descends from the curving sky in motion, covers the motionless city buildings, gray themselves with the soot of centuries, extends to the gray concrete pavements and the deeper gray of asphalt streets, becomes a part of the residents themselves, a teeming gray mass that moves along the city streets as though suspended in melancholy, captured in the doldrums of January. This is the first month. It contains thirty-one days, year in and year out. There will be no future days or years for the man lying against the basement wall.
An ax is embedded in his skull.
It is not a hatchet, it is an ax; designed for the felling of trees and the chopping of wood. Its wedge-shaped metallic striking head has been driven with astonishing force into the man’s skull, splitting it wide, covering blade and hair and face and floor and wall with blood and brain matter. There is no question but that this was the final blow, and the condition of the dead man makes it equally clear that this final blow was not at all necessary: there are more than twenty other wounds on the man’s face and body. His jugular is severed and pouring blood, his fingers and hands are mutilated from the repeated slashing of the ax head as he raised his hands to ward off the savage blows. His left arm dangles loosely from the shoulder where a vicious cleaving blow of the ax has left a wide trench across skin and bone. He was undoubtedly dead even before his assassin drove the ax blade into his skull and left it there, the curving wooden handle arcing against the gray wall, the wood stained with blood and pulp.
Blood has no aroma.
There was the smell of coal dust in the basement, and the smell of human sweat, and even the smell of urine from behind one of the coal bins near the furnace, but Detective Steve Carella could smell no blood. The police photographers were snapping pictures and the assistant medical examiner was pronouncing the man dead and waiting for the lab boys to chalk his position on the floor before carting him off to the morgue for autopsy, as if autopsy were needed with an ax sticking out of his head. Detective Cotton Hawes was talking to the two cops sent over by Homicide, and Carella was down on his knees before a boy of about seven who kept trying desperately not to look at the bloody corpse against the wall.
“All right, sonny, what’s your name?” Carella said.
“Mickey,” the boy answered.
“Mickey what?”
“Mickey Ryan. Will there be a ghost?”
“No, son, no ghost.”
“How can you tell?”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Carella said.
“That’s what you think,” Mickey said. “My father saw a ghost one time.”
“Well, there won’t be any ghost this time,” Carella said. “You want to tell me what happened, Mickey?”
“I came down to get my bike, and I found him,” Mickey said. “That’s all.”
“Right where he is? Against the wall there?”
Mickey nodded.
“Where’s your bike, Mickey?”
“Over there. Behind the bin.”
“Well, what brought you over here, on this side of the bin? Did you hear something?”
“No.”
“Then what brought you here? Your bike is all the way over on the other side there.”
“The blood,” Mickey said.
“What?”
“The blood was running across the floor, and I looked down and saw it, and I wondered what it was, so I went to take a look. That’s when I saw Mr. Lasser.”
“Is that his name?”
“Yes. Mr. Lasser.”
“Would you know his first name?”
“George.”
“George Lasser, is that right?”
Mickey nodded.
“And Mr. Lasser is superintendent of the building, is that right?”
“Yeah,” Mickey said, and he nodded again.
“All right, Mickey. After you saw Mr. Lasser, what did you do?”
“I ran.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs.”
“Upstairs where?”
“To my mother.”
“And then what?”
“I told her Mr. Lasser was dead in the basement with an ax in his head.”
“And then what?”
“Then she said, ‘Are you sure?’ and I said I was sure, so she called the police.”
“Mickey, did you see anyone in the basement besides Mr. Lasser?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyo
ne while you were going down to the basement?”
“No.”
“While you were running upstairs?”
“No.”
“Excuse me, but would you mind?” a voice said, and Carella looked up to where a very tall, plain blonde woman wearing a light topcoat had pushed her way past a patrolman near the basement door.
“I’m the boy’s mother,” she said. “I don’t know what the legality of this is, but I’m sure you’re not permitted to question a seven-year-old boy in the basement of a building! Or anywhere, for that matter.”
“Mrs. Ryan, I understand my partner asked your permission before we—”
“He didn’t tell me you were going to take the boy down here again.”
“I’m sure he—”
“I turn my back for one minute, and the next thing I know both your partner and the boy are gone, and I haven’t the faintest clue where. I mean, I’m pretty upset anyway, as you can imagine, my seven-year-old son finding a body in the basement with an ax in the head no less, so here he vanishes from the apartment, and I don’t know where he’s gone.”
“He’s been here all along, Mrs. Ryan,” Carella said. “Safe and sound.”
“Yes, with a corpse all full of blood staring him in the face not ten feet away from him.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ryan.”
“My point is he’s only seven years old and he shouldn’t be put through this sort of ordeal. We don’t live in Russia, you know.”
“No, ma’am. But he did discover the body, and we thought it might be easier for him to reconstruct what happened if we—”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I think he’s reconstructed enough,” Mrs. Ryan said.
“Of course, Mrs. Ryan,” Carella said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Is that meant to be sarcastic?” Mrs. Ryan asked.
“No, ma’am, I meant it sincerely,” Carella said.
“Yeah, cops,” Mrs. Ryan said, and she took her son’s hand and pulled him out of the basement.
Carella sighed and walked over to where Hawes was talking with the two Homicide cops. He did not recognize either of the two men.
“My name’s Carella,” he said, “the 8-7.”
“I’m Phelps,” one of the Homicide cops said.
“I’m Forbes,” the other said.
“Where’s Monoghan and Monroe?” Carella asked.
“Vacation,” Phelps said.
“In January?”
“Why not?” Forbes said.
“They both got nice places down in Miami,” Phelps said.
“No reason they shouldn’t go there in January,” Forbes said.
“Best time of the year for Florida,” Phelps said.
“Certainly,” Forbes said.
“What’ve you got so far?” Phelps asked, changing the subject.
“Man’s name is George Lasser,” Carella said. “He was superintendent of the building.”
“That’s what I got from the tenants,” Hawes said.
“Any idea how old he was, Cotton?”
“The tenants put him in his late eighties.”
“Why’d anyone want to kill a man that old?” Forbes asked.
“Ready to kick off anyway,” Phelps said.
“We had a killing once over near Seventh and Culver,” Forbes said. “You know the area?”
“Mmm,” Carella said.
“Guy was a hundred and two years old. In fact, it was his birthday.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. Somebody shot him while he was cutting his birthday cake. Fell right into the damn thing, a hundred and three candles on it, one to grow on, you know. Guy dropped dead instantly.”
“Who did it?” Hawes asked.
“His mother,” Forbes said.
There was a short silence, and then Hawes said, “I thought you said the guy was a hundred and two years old.”
“That’s right,” Forbes said.
“Then how old was his mother?”
“A hundred and eighteen. She got married when she was sixteen.”
“Why’d she kill him?”
“She couldn’t get along with his wife.”
“I see. He had a wife, too, huh?”
“Sure.”
“How old was she?”
“Twentyseven.”
“Oh, come on,” Hawes said.
“He thinks I’m kidding him,” Forbes said, pushing his elbow into Phelps’s ribs.
“No, he ain’t kidding,” Phelps said, laughing.
“Over in Homicide,” Forbes said, “we get all kinds.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Hawes said.
Phelps looked at his watch. “Well, time we was running along,” he said. “You boys keep us informed now, huh?”
“In triplicate, huh?” Forbes said.
“We’re surprised you came out at all on such a cold day,” Carella said.
“It ain’t so cold,” Forbes said. “Over in Homicide, boy, we get days you could freeze.”
“Listen,” Hawes said, as though suddenly inspired, “why don’t you fellows handle this case yourselves?”
“Nope,” Forbes said.
“Not allowed to,” Phelps said.
“Against regulations,” Forbes said.
“Homicide is to be investigated by the precinct handling the initial complaint,” Phelps said.
“Sure, but I thought—”
“Nope.”
“I thought,” Hawes said, “that since you’ve had experience with geriatric cases, perhaps you’d—”
“What kind of cases?”
“Geriatric,” Hawes said.
“Jerry who?”
“Well, I just thought it was an idea,” Hawes said.
From the corner of his eye, Carella saw the patrolman at the basement steps signaling to him.
“Excuse me,” he said, and walked rapidly to the steps. “What is it?” he asked the patrolman.
“Steve, we got a guy outside, found him wandering around in the alley without a jacket on or anything. I mean, this ain’t weather to go running around in your shirtsleeves, you know what I mean? It’s forty-two degrees out there.”
“Where is he?” Carella said.
“We got him upstairs.”
Carella turned and gestured to Hawes. Hawes moved away from the Homicide cops.
“What is it?”
“Patrolmen found a wanderer in the alley. In his shirtsleeves.”
“Uh-oh,” Hawes said.
The man they had found wandering in the alley was a huge Negro wearing only dungaree trousers and a white shirt open at the throat. He was very black, and very mean-looking, with a scar across the bridge of his nose and with enormous muscles bulging beneath the white cotton of his shirt. He was wearing sneakers, and he seemed to be balancing himself on the balls of his feet as Carella and Hawes approached, almost as though ready to begin throwing punches. A patrolman was standing alongside him with his nightstick in his hands, but the Negro paid no attention at all to him. With his eyes slitted, his legs widespread, and his weight balanced, he watched the approaching detectives.
“What’s your name?” Carella said.
“Sam.”
“Sam what?”
“Sam Whitson.”
“What were you doing in the alley out there, Sam?”
“I works here in this building,” Whitson said.
“What do you mean?”
“I works for Mr. Lasser,” Whitson said.
“Doing what?” Carella asked.
“I chops wood for him,” Whitson said.
There was a deep silence for the space of a heartbeat. Carella glanced at Hawes and then back to Whitson. The two patrolmen—the one who had been standing alongside Whitson with his nightstick at the ready, and the one who had come to fetch Carella—both stepped a pace backward from the huge Negro, their hands moving imperceptibly toward their service revolvers.
“What were you doing in the alley, Sam?” C
arella asked.
“I tole you,” Whitson said. “I works for Mr. Lasser. I chops wood for him.”
“You were chopping wood out there?”
“Yes, sir,” Whitson said, and then shook his head violently. “No, sir. I was gettin’ ready to chop my wood, yes, sir.”
“How were you doing that?” Hawes asked. “Getting ready, I mean.”
“Well, I was on my way to get the ax.”
“Where was the ax?”
“We keeps it out in the toolshed.”
“Where’s that?”
“Out back.”
“Out back where?”
“In the toolshed,” Whitson said.
“You trying to get smart with me, Whitson?” Hawes asked.
“No, sir.”
“Well, take my advice, don’t.”
“I wasn’t,” Whitson said.
Carella, watching, said nothing. There was a mean and menacing look on the Negro’s face, and his size was frightening. He looked as if he were capable of tearing the building down with his bare hands, and it did indeed seem as if he were answering Hawes’s questions in a deliberately evasive and somewhat snotty manner, perhaps in order to provoke a fight. Carella had no doubt that if this man decided to begin swinging, he would not stop swinging until everyone and everything in sight had been reduced to rubble. Confronted with a man as strong and as big as this one, the best thing anyone could do would be to tip his hat, say “Good afternoon,” and get the hell home. Unless you happened to be a cop, in which case you wondered why Whitson had been roaming around in an alley in his shirtsleeves with the temperature at forty-two degrees and a dead man with an ax in his head there in the basement. You wondered about such things, and you let Whitson know that you expected straight answers to straight questions without any crap, while all the time you figured he might just possibly reach out and pick you up in one hand and squeeze you to a pulp in his fist. Listen, who told you to become a cop?