Ax

by Ed McBain

  Someone on that quiet New Essex street with its Tudor reproductions, someone among Tony Lasser’s neighbors…

  “Was it Mrs. Moscowitz across the street?” Carella asked.

  No, no, Lasser said. No, not Mrs. Moscowitz. She was a pain in the neck, but not a malicious woman. No, it was someone else. It didn’t matter who, really, just someone in the neighborhood.

  “Yes, go ahead, what happened?” Hawes said.

  Well, someone had come to Tony Lasser the day before. The someone was a spokesman for a sort of lynch party, northern style, except that no one was really going to be hanged or tarred and feathered, not really, not if everyone would “go along.” That was just the way Lasser’s neighbor had phrased it. He had said everything would be fine and dandy and everyone would be satisfied if they would all just “go along.” Lasser still hadn’t the faintest inkling what this neighbor wanted of him. He had been called from his study at the back of the house where he’d been illustrating a children’s book about tolerance, and here was this stranger—well, practically a stranger—whom he’d seen perhaps once or twice from his window, but whom he did not know at all. Now the stranger was talking about going along, and Lasser asked him what he meant.

  “Your mother,” the neighbor said.

  “My mother?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, what about her?” Lasser asked.

  “We want her put away, Mr. Lasser.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the wish of the neighborhood, Mr. Lasser.”

  “That’s not my wish,” Lasser said.

  “Well, you haven’t got a hell of a lot to say about it, Mr. Lasser,” the neighbor said, and then went on to explain the barrel the neighbors had constructed, the barrel over which they felt they now had Tony Lasser.

  They had all read about the murder of Lasser’s father, and one of the newspapers had mentioned that the ax had been wielded by someone who possessed “the strength of a madman,” or some such journalese which had given them their idea. They had got together and taken a vote and decided that they would go to the police and say they had seen Estelle Lasser leaving her house at about noon on Friday, January 3, the day her husband George was hacked to death in the basement of his tenement building.

  “But that isn’t true,” Tony Lasser said.

  “Yes, but we have two people who will swear that they saw her leaving the house.”

  “My mother will say she didn’t.”

  “Your mother is insane.”

  “I’ll say she didn’t,” Lasser said.

  “Everybody knows you won’t step out of this house,” the neighbor said.

  “What has that got to do with—”

  “You think they’ll take the word of a man who’s afraid to go outside? You think they’ll take his word over the word of two normal citizens?”

  “I’m normal,” Lasser said.

  “Are you?” the neighbor asked.

  “Get out of my house,” Lasser said in a hushed and deadly whisper.

  “Mr. Lasser,” the neighbor said, unruffled, “everything work out fine here if we just go along with each other. We’re not trying to get anyone in trouble. We’re just trying to get a woman who is a maniac—”

  “She is not a maniac!” Lasser said.

  “—a maniac, Mr. Lasser, all we’re trying to do is get her out of this neighborhood and away where she belongs. Now we figure that either you’ll voluntarily have her committed, Mr. Lasser, or we’ll get her involved with the police, call her to the attention of the authorities as it were, have them ask her a few questions. Do you think she could stand up under a third degree, Mr. Lasser? Do we go along, or what?”

  “She isn’t harming anyone.”

  “She’s a pain in the ass, Mr. Lasser, and we’re all sick of apologizing for the maniac who lives on the block.”

  “She isn’t harming anyone,” Lasser repeated.

  “Mr. Lasser, this is it now, you listening? We’re going to give you till Monday morning to make up your mind. If you can assure us by then that you’ve contacted the authorities and your mother will be taken away, why, fine, we’ll all shake hands and have a drink to our continued good fellowship. If on the other hand, Mr. Lasser, we do not hear from you by then, we’ll go to the police and say that your mother was out of this house on the day your father was killed. We’ll just let them take it from there.”

  “That would be lying,” Lasser said. “My mother was here.”

  “Yes, that’s right, Mr. Lasser. It’d be lying.” The neighbor smiled. “But a lie ain’t a lie no more when somebody swears to it.”

  “Get out,” Lasser said.

  “Think it over.”

  “Get out.”

  “Think it over.”

  He had thought it over. He had decided that whatever else happened, his mother was not to be institutionalized again. If his neighbors went to the police and cast suspicion on his mother… if the police began asking her questions…if God forbid she lost control…they would surely ask for her commitment. He could not allow that to happen. There was one way he could protect her. If he confessed to the crime himself, why, then they would leave her alone.

  Lasser dried the tears from his eyes.

  “That’s why I’m here,” he said.

  “Okay, Mr. Lasser,” Carella said. “Genero, bring us some coffee!” he yelled.

  “I d-d-don’t want any coffee,” Lasser said.

  Carella ignored him. When the coffee came, they asked him whether he took it black or with cream, and Lasser said he took it black. How much sugar, they asked him, and he said he took it with no sugar. He wanted to get back to his mother, he said. He shouldn’t have left her alone for so long.

  “Mr. Lasser,” Carella said, “suppose we’d believed your story?”

  “What story?”

  “That you killed your father.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “Suppose we’d believed you, and suppose you’d gone to trial and been convicted…”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Lasser, who’d have taken care of your mother?”

  Lasser seemed suddenly confused. “I never thought of that,” he said.

  “Mmm. Then it’s a good thing we didn’t believe you, huh?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “We’re going to have a patrolman see you home, Mr. Lasser,” Hawes said. “As soon as you finish your coffee…”

  “I can get home by myself.”

  “We know you can, sir,” Hawes said gently, “but we’d like to—”

  “I can take a taxi,” Lasser said.

  “It’s no trouble at all, believe me, sir,” Hawes said. “We’ll radio for a car—”

  “I’ll take a taxi,” Lasser said. “I took one here, and I’ll take one home. I…I…I don’t want a police car pulling up in…in front of the house. There’ve been enough police since…since my…my father died.” Lasser paused. “He was not a bad man, you know. I…I…was never overly fond of him, I…I must say I couldn’t cry when I learned he was…was…d-d-dead. No tears would come. But he was not a bad man. He sent me to a good school, he sent my mother to a private institution. He was not a bad man.”

  “How could he afford that, Mr. Lasser?” Hawes asked suddenly.

  “Afford what?”

  “The school. The sanitarium.”

  “Well, he had a better job at the time,” Lasser said, and shrugged.

  “What do you mean? He was a janitor in 1939, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but in a better building. Not in a slum area.”

  “Where?”

  “Downtown,” Lasser said.

  “Downtown where?”

  “At 1107 Ganning. Do you know the area?”

  “I think so,” Hawes said. “That’s in the financ—” And then he cut himself short. “1107 Ganning, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father was the janitor at 1107 Ganning in 1939?”

  “Yes, that’
s right. What…?”

  “Steve,” Hawes said, “Siggie Reuhr was working for Cavanaugh and Post in 1939.”

  “So?”

  “At 1107 Ganning Street,” Hawes said.

  Sigmund Reuhr was still in bed when the detectives knocked on his door. He asked who it was, and they told him it was the police, and he mumbled something they couldn’t understand and then came through the apartment to the front door. He was belting a blue paisley robe over his red striped pajamas when he opened the door for them.

  “What now?” he asked. “Some more Gestapo tactics?”

  “Just some questions, Mr. Reuhr,” Carella said. “Mind if we come in?”

  “Would it make any difference if I minded?”

  “Sure,” Hawes said. “If you minded, we’d probably arrest you and take you uptown and book you. This way, it can all be nice and friendly, a private little chat without charges or countercharges or anything.”

  “Yeah, friendly,” Reuhr said, and he led them into the apartment. “I just got up,” he said. “I’m going to make some coffee. I can’t talk to anybody until I’ve had a cup of coffee.”

  “Take your time, Mr. Reuhr,” Carella said. “This has been waiting around since 1939.”

  Reuhr shot Carella a quick, suspicious glance, seemed about to say something, but closed his mouth instead and went into the kitchen. He fixed his pot of coffee, put it on the stove to percolate, and then came back into the living room. He sat opposite the detectives, but he did not say a word to them until his coffee was ready. Then, sipping at it, he asked, “What did you mean about 1939?”

  “Well, suppose you tell us, Mr. Reuhr.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Reuhr said.

  “Mr. Reuhr,” Hawes said, “we think it is a very big coincidence that someone says he saw you at a crap game at 4111 South 5th, in the basement where a man named George Lasser was janitor, and—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Which is very strange, considering the coincidence.”

  “What coincidence?”

  “In 1939, when you were working for Cavanaugh and Post at 1107 Ganning Street downtown, the superintendent of that building was a man named George Lasser. How about that, Mr. Reuhr?”

  “So what? I’m an accountant. You think I knew who the super of the building was?”

  “We think you did, Mr. Reuhr.”

  “You’d have a hell of a time proving it. And anyway, what if I did? Is there a law against knowing the super of a—”

  “There is a law against shooting craps, Mr. Reuhr,” Hawes said.

  “There is also a law against murdering people,” Carella said.

  “Argh, bullshit,” Reuhr said. “I didn’t murder anybody, and you know it.”

  “Mr. Reuhr, we talked to Mr. Cavanaugh, one of the partners in the accounting firm for which you worked.”

  “So?”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh told us that in 1937 you attempted to shake down one of his clients, is that true?”

  “No.”

  “We think it’s true, Mr. Reuhr.”

  “So what? That was in 1937. What’s that got to do with today?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “We have a few ideas, Mr. Reuhr.”

  “I’m not interested in your ideas,” Reuhr said, and he put down his coffee cup. “In fact, I think we’d better do what you suggested earlier. I’m tired of this friendly little chat. I think I’d better get dressed, and you’d better arrest me and take me uptown and book me, okay? I’d like to know what you’re going to book me for.”

  “How does murder sound, Mr. Reuhr?”

  “Whose murder?”

  “George Lasser’s murder.”

  “Come on, why the hell would I kill George Lasser?”

  “Then you did know him, huh?”

  “Who said so?”

  “Mr. Reuhr, let’s do what you said we should, okay? Go put on your clothes, and we’ll take you uptown and book you. We’re a little tired of this friendly chat, too.”

  “Book me for what?” Reuhr asked again.

  “Why, murder, Mr. Reuhr. I thought we’d told you.”

  Reuhr was silent for several moments. “I didn’t kill Georgie,” he said at last.

  “Were you at those crap games, Mr. Reuhr?”

  Reuhr nodded. “Yes.”

  “What about Spedino? Did he play, too?”

  “Yeah, he was there.”

  “Then why’d he lie about it?”

  “Because his wife would kill him if she knew he was shooting dice.”

  “You mean he lied to us, even knowing there was a homicide involved, just because he’s afraid of his wife?”

  “Have you ever met his wife?” Reuhr asked.

  “Okay,” Carella said, and shrugged. “What about George Lasser? Did you know him back in 1939?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the extent of your relationship with him?” Carella asked.

  “Just hello and goodbye. You know. I’d see him in the hallway every now and then. I’d say, ‘Hello, Georgie, how are—’ “

  “That’s a lie, Mr. Reuhr,” Carella said.

  “Huh?”

  “Mr. Reuhr, back in 1939 George Lasser was able to afford a prep school for his son Tony and a private mental institution for his wife Estelle. He couldn’t have done all that on a janitor’s salary, Mr. Reuhr. So we made a few guesses, and we’re going to try them for size, okay, Mr. Reuhr? Just for size, okay? We’ll get the right color later.”

  “Are you supposed to be comical?” Reuhr asked.

  “No, I’m supposed to be dead serious,” Carella answered. “We know that George Lasser was an ambitious man constantly on the lookout for fresh angles. We know that you’d already shaken down one of your firm’s clients and been warned against attempting the same thing again, and we also know that you and George Lasser worked in the same building at the same time. You’ve just told us that you knew him, so we—”

  “Just to say hello to.”

  “Sure. We think it was a little more than that, Mr. Reuhr.”

  “Yeah? What do you think it was?”

  “We think you found another one of your firm’s clients to blackmail, and—”

  “I’d watch how you throw around that word blackmail.”

  “Never mind what I watch, Mr. Reuhr. We think you found another sucker to blackmail, but you knew that Cavanaugh would break you in a hundred pieces if you tried it again. That is, if you tried it again personally.” Carella paused. “Are you beginning to get the picture, Mr. Reuhr?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He never seems to know what we’re talking about,” Carella said to Hawes conversationally. “What we are talking about, Mr. Reuhr, is this. We think you found someone who needed blackmailing and, knowing you could not go to him personally, decided to send a representative in your place. We think the person you decided to send was George Lasser. That’s what we think.”

  “Mmm-huh,” Reuhr said.

  “What do you think, Mr. Reuhr?”

  “I think that’s very interesting.”

  “Yes, we do, too.”

  “But I don’t think you can prove any of it.”

  “You’re right. We can’t,” Carella said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Reuhr said, and smiled.

  Carella returned the smile. “We don’t have to, Mr. Reuhr,” he said.

  “You don’t, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “How come?”

  “We’re not interested in something as piddling as blackmail. We’re interested in homicide. We’ve been getting a lot of heat on this, Mr. Reuhr. We’d really like very much to find someone to hang it on.”

  “You would, huh?”

  “Yes, indeed. Why don’t we play ball with each other?”

  “In what way?”

&n
bsp; “Mr. Reuhr, we can’t prove that you and Lasser were blackmailing someone together in 1939, that’s true. But we can prove blackmail in 1937 because Mr. Cavanaugh has already told us all about it, and I’m sure he’d repeat it on the witness stand and would also tell us the name of your victim. In other words, Mr. Reuhr, we’ve got you for that little caper, if for nothing else.”

  “Mmm,” Reuhr said.

  “Make sense?”

  “What’s your deal?”

  “We don’t think you killed Lasser,” Hawes said.

  “How come?”

  “We can’t see any reason for it. From what we can see, you and Lasser were friends. He was in on a shakedown deal with you, let you use the basement for your crap games, why should you kill him?”

  “Mmm,” Reuhr said.

  “Still make sense, Mr. Reuhr?”

  “I’m listening,” Reuhr said.

  “I think he knows what we’re talking about now,” Carella said, and smiled at Hawes.

  “Go on,” Reuhr said.

  “Okay. You and Lasser are shaking somebody down. Apparently you’re getting quite a bit of loot from this person because Lasser is able to afford the school and the hospital on his share alone. You start the shakedown in 1939—”

  “We started it in 1938,” Reuhr said suddenly.

  “Ah,” Carella said. “Thank you. I think he would like to play ball, Cotton.”

  “I think so, too,” Hawes said, and grinned.

  “You started the shakedown in 1938,” Carella said. “George Lasser was the man who went to your victim and told him what you had on him. George Lasser was the man who demanded payment.” Carella paused. “George Lasser was also the man who got killed with an ax on the third of this month. Get it, Mr. Reuhr?”

  “I think so.”

  “We want to know what the shakedown was about and who your victim was,” Hawes said.

  Reuhr shrugged. “What do I get out of this?” he asked.

  “That’s what, Mr. Reuhr.”

  “Huh?”

  “You get out of this. You get out of what could be a very nasty situation. You get out of it clean and with no further questions. Otherwise, we still need someone to pin a rose on—and it might turn out to be you.”

  “Okay,” Reuhr said.

  “See?” Carella said to Hawes. “He does know what we’re talking about, after all.”

  “The victim?” Hawes asked.