Anything But Saintly

by Richard Deming

  Even in the darkness I could see beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. “Listen, Rudd. I didn’t kill her. Honest to God I didn’t.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “If I level with you, are you going to tell Artie anyway?”

  “Depends on how level you sound.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m gonna take a chance on you being a square guy. Yeah, Artie took over the bar for a while this afternoon and sent me to collect from Kitty. She was dead when I got there.”

  I gave him a bleak smile. “Coincidental, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s the truth,” he said on a high note. “Why the hell would I want to kill the girl?”

  “To shut her up. If she told Artie she was rolling clients on your instructions, you’d be in the soup.”

  He made an impatient gesture. “I didn’t have to shut her up, for cripes sake. If Artie hadn’t sent me, I was going to talk him into letting me handle it, so I’d get to her first. I figured I’d collect the five hundred and tell her to keep her mouth shut. Then I’d tell Artie I’d belted her around a little and she promised she wouldn’t pull the stunt any more. Artie wouldn’t have gone after her again, so long as he thought she’d been learned a lesson. He’s got more on his mind than straightening out tarts. That kind of stuff he delegates to the hired help.”

  “Not always,” I said. “I happen to know of one girl he beat up.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “Never mind. It still looks to me as though you had a hell of a good motive to kill the girl.”

  “If I had, you think I’d admit ever being near the place?” he demanded.

  He had a point there. I didn’t think he was either intelligent enough or subtle enough to attempt getting away with a partially true story. If he were guilty, it would be more in character for him to deny everything and squawk for a lawyer. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Okay,” I said. “Tentatively I’ll accept your word that you didn’t kill her. What time did you get to her apartment?”

  “About a quarter of two. When nobody answered the door, I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I walked in and found her in the bedroom. God, she was a sight! Somebody had beat her face all out of shape before he strangled her. I wiped off the front doorknob where I’d touched it and scrammed out of there fast.”

  I examined him in silence for a time. Eventually I said, “Her purse was on the dresser. Did you collect the five hundred?”

  He shook his head. “All I wanted was to be gone. I came back to the tavern and told Artie what had happened. It’s only about ten minutes from Kitty’s place to here, so I got back about two. Artie said just to sit tight, and if anybody asked, neither of us left the tavern all day. You going to relay this on to the homicide cops?”

  “You don’t think I’d sit on a material witness, do you?”

  In an earnest tone he said, “Listen, Rudd, I’ll make you a proposition. Give me twenty-four hours before you turn me in, and maybe we can break the case for you.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and Artie. If I tell him a witness saw me enter the apartment building, and you’re going to blow my alibi wide open, I know he’ll get to work on it. Cripes, even if he wasn’t interested in protecting me, he won’t want it all over the papers that his chief assistant was arrested as a material witness in the murder of one of his call girls. Because to protect myself, I’d have to tell why I went to Kitty’s place.”

  “What the devil can you and Artie do that Homicide Division can’t do better?”

  “We’re on the inside. The other call girls are going to tell us things they’d never tell the cops. Artie can get them all together in a group and put on the pressure. The girls all know each other’s business, and if there’s anything at all they know about Kitty which might bear on her murder, we’ll find it out. We’ll have to deliver you the killer in self-defense. And you can take the credit.”

  “I’m not interested in credit,” I said. “All I want is the killer to turn over to Homicide. What makes you think Artie won’t work just as hard to get you off the hook if you’re in jail?”

  “Why should he? If you pull me in, the whole inside story comes out. I can’t explain why Artie sent me to Kitty’s place without telling that she was one of his call girls. And once the papers tie him into the call-girl racket, he’ll say the hell with it. I know him. He’ll throw me to the wolves. He doesn’t have to worry about being tagged for the murder because he never left the tavern. The only lever you’ve got to make him work on the case is keeping his name out of the papers.”

  After musing over this, I decided it made sense. “I’ll give you until this time tomorrow night,” I decided. “If you haven’t come through with anything by then, you can talk to the homicide cops from a cell. And they get the full story, including your little sideline racket with the girls.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s fair enough. I’ll go talk to Artie right now.”

  “You don’t have to wait until the deadline to let me know how you’re doing,” I told him. “The minute you hear anything, phone me either at home or at the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division. My home number’s in the book under Mathew Rudd.”

  “Sure, Sarge,” he said. Pushing open the door, he climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, looking in at me. “Thanks for the break.”

  “I’m not doing you any favors,” I growled at him. “You get twenty-four hours because I think you and Artie really may be able to get farther than Homicide Division. If you don’t come through, I’ll toss you in the can so fast, you’ll still be spinning when the door clangs shut.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said soothingly. “We’ll come through.”

  He pushed the door shut; I started the engine and drove away. In the rear-view mirror I could see him still standing there gazing after me until I swung left at the next corner.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was after midnight when I got to headquarters. I found Carl Lincoln in the squadroom taking a coffee break. He eyed me glumly.

  “You coming back to work?” he asked. “I just booked my third. All from the same room, using different bellboys. The girls are going to love the bellhops at the Grove Hotel.”

  “We’re through for the night,” I said. “Let’s knock off, check out of the Grove and go home.”

  “Suits me. What have you been doing?”

  I gave him a brief rundown on my night’s activities. When I got to the part where Jake Stark had admitted finding Kitty dead, his eyebrows shot up.

  “You turn him over to Homicide?” he asked.

  I explained that I had given him a twenty-four-hour grace period, and why. Carl gave his head an unbelieving shake.

  “You’ll get yourself boarded and kicked off the force, Matt. Holding back evidence that important almost makes you an accessory.”

  “Calculated risk,” I said. “If I do have to pull him in tomorrow night, I wasn’t planning to mention to anyone I gave him twenty-four hours. Let’s get out of here.”

  We drove back to the Grove Hotel in our separate cars, checked out and called it a night. I was in bed by one A.M.

  Ten minutes later I was drifting off to sleep when my bedside phone rang. The peal jolted me fully awake. Sitting up, I switched on the bedlamp and picked up the phone.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Rudd?” a low voice whispered in my ear.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This is Jake Stark. I can’t talk too loud, because I’m phoning from a filling station and the guy is listening.”

  “All right,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I think I’ve got the answer, but I can’t give it over the phone. Can you meet me somewhere?”

  “Tonight?” I asked.

  “It can’t wait until morning. By then it will be too late.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “I’m phoning from a station at Kosciuszko and Tal
cott. There’s a bar right across the street called Cybulski’s Tavern.”

  I knew the place because the flat where I was born and where my parents still lived was on Kosciuszko Street. I suppose every city with a large Polish segment has a Kosciuszko Street, named for the Revolutionary War general who is the favorite hero of Polish-Americans.

  “Be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

  It took me five minutes to dress and strap on my gun. It was only a little after one fifteen when I climbed in my car.

  I don’t have a garage, but the apartment building where I live has a paved parking lot behind it, with a space reserved for each tenant. Backing out of my slot, I pulled into the alley.

  In the rear-view mirror I saw a figure rise from the floor of the back seat. Cold metal touched the back of my neck.

  A gruff, unfamiliar voice said, “Just keep going east down this alley, mister. As far as it goes.”

  I started to slow down. “Who are you and what’s the pitch?”

  “I’m the guy who’s going to blow your head off if you don’t do like I say,” he snapped. “Keep both hands on the wheel and keep driving.”

  I decided not to argue. I kept driving straight ahead along the alley until I reached the first cross street. I slowed there, crossed the street and entered the alley.

  “Bring out your gun with your left hand,” he ordered. “Hold it by the barrel and pass it over your shoulder.”

  I don’t claim to be a deductive genius, but it didn’t take genius to deduce there must be some connection between Jake Stark’s phone call and the man in the back seat. Pretty obviously Jake never had any intention of meeting me at Cybulski’s Tavern. The call had been designed merely to get me into my car so that my back-seat companion could take over.

  It followed that Jake, either on his own or in conjunction with Little Artie Nowak, had decided there was a simpler way to avoid newspaper publicity than solving the murder of Kitty Desmond. You don’t have cops kidnapped and expect to get away with it if the cop is later around to testify. So there was little doubt in my mind that it wasn’t planned for me to be around later. This had to be a one-way ride.

  I had an aversion to co-operating in my own murder. I decided to make things as difficult as possible.

  “I’m not carrying a gun,” I said.

  “Don’t try to give me that,” he snarled. “Who ever heard of a cop without a gun?”

  “I never carry one off duty,” I said.

  “The hell you don’t. Cops carry a gun all the time.”

  “Not this one,” I said. “Want me to stop so you can shake me down?”

  “Cross this next intersection,” he ordered. “Stop halfway between it and the next street. Then keep your hands on the wheel and don’t move a muscle. Understand?”

  “I understand,” I said.

  Crossing the intersection, I drove another half block along the alley and braked the car. I sat perfectly still with my hands on the wheel.

  Except for the brief glimpse when he rose from the floor, I hadn’t been able to see my assailant in the rear-view mirror because he was seated directly behind me. Even that single glimpse had been merely of a shadowy figure. I had no idea of the man’s size or what he looked like.

  The gun muzzle pressed tighter against my neck and his left hand patted beneath both arms and at my waist on the left side. Then he transferred the gun to his left hand and patted my right side.

  Like all plain-clothes men on the force, I was armed with a snub-nosed thirty-eight caliber detective special. And like most detectives, I carried the holster on my belt. Usually detectives carry their guns either on the left side, butt facing forward for a cross draw, or centered on the right side. I happen to like mine farther back, directly over my right hip pocket. With my back pressed against the seat, it was in a position he couldn’t reach unless I leaned forward.

  I hoped he was stupid enough not to order me to lean forward. It wasn’t an exaggerated hope because in my experience most hired guns are incredibly stupid. They have to be close to animal level in order to kill for hire.

  This one wasn’t any brighter than I had expected him to be. Shifting his gun back to his right hand again, he growled, “Okay, copper. Start driving again.”

  I pulled ahead. After several blocks, still in the alley, I ventured to ask, “Do we have any particular destination?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Straight ahead.”

  Finally, as might be expected, we came to a cross street where the alley failed to continue on the other side. Not wanting to disobey orders, I was contemplating driving straight on across the street, over the curb and through the plate-glass window of the furniture store directly in front of us, when he decided to amend the order.

  “Right turn here,” he instructed. “Then left at the next corner.”

  By now we were well into the third district, which covers three wards on the east side of town along the river front area. The same river runs past the Riverside Country Club west of town, skirts St. Cecilia’s north edge and curves south to form its eastern boundary. There is a vast difference between the west-side water front and the east side, though. Out near the country club there are sand beaches, big estates and summer cottages. On the east side there are docks, warehouses, crummy taverns and cat houses. The population is predominantly Italian, Greek and Puerto Rican, with a smattering of Poles who have infiltrated from the south-side Polish section, which abuts the third district.

  I didn’t understand why we were heading this way instead of south. It’s not easy to get away with murder in St. Cecilia, because no amount of political influence will get you official protection. So it behooves the potential murderer to plan very carefully to avoid exposure. If Little Artie Nowak had issued the order for my execution, his own bailiwick seemed the safest place to carry it out. For while officialdom wouldn’t stand for murder in St. Cecilia, the average man in the street down in Artie’s ward wouldn’t dream of reporting anything Artie did. In that section he probably could have gunned down the mayor on the street without a single witness coming forward to report having seen it.

  But on the east side Little Artie Nowak didn’t carry any more weight than I did. It seemed an odd area for him to have a murder performed.

  We were now traveling on Sible Street, which runs clear down to the docks. We passed Fourth, which is the beginning of the warehouse area. From here on there were only dark warehouses and no residences or taverns; the streets were absolutely deserted. We crossed Third Street and I began to wonder if the plan was simply to drive onto the dock, where the man in the back seat would shoot me and dump me in the river.

  I might have known the plan wouldn’t be that simple, however. If murder is dangerous in St. Cecilia, the murder of a cop is doubly dangerous. Whoever had planned this wouldn’t want any corpus delicti.

  The man in the back seat said, “Turn right at Front Street.”

  Front Street edges the dock area. There are no buildings beyond it, only the expanse of the dock and the river. I turned as directed.

  A half block later he said, “The second building after this one. Head in to face that truck entrance and peep your horn once.”

  The designated building was a two-story warehouse and the truck entrance was in its center. I swung right and braked the car to a halt facing the corrugated iron door.

  “Peep your horn,” the man repeated.

  No other cars were in sight, but there was always the chance that a cruising squad car might be within hearing distance and would come to investigate a prolonged horn blast. I bore down on the horn button and kept my palm there.

  This was a mistake. The gun barrel bounced off the top of my head, making me see constellations. I took my hand off the horn button and let my head reel. After a few seconds the dizziness subsided to a dull throb.

  The man in the back seat didn’t say anything. His action had been sufficient to make his point.

  The corrugated iron door slid upward and light poure
d through it into the street. I drove inside and the door immediately came down behind us. We were in a big, barn-like room with a concrete floor. Wooden crates were piled along the walls, but the center area was bare. A single overhead bulb with a green shade lighted the room.

  The man in the back seat left the car. “All right,” he said. “You can get out now.”

  CHAPTER 15

  As I pushed open the car door to climb out, I got my first view of my kidnapper. He was a tall, bulky man of about forty with narrow eyes, a beak nose and a startlingly soft, rosebud mouth. He wore a wrinkled seersucker suit and a Panama hat. I had never seen him before, which rather surprised me. I thought I knew most everyone in town with any sort of underworld connections, at least by sight. If this was one of Artie Nowak’s hoods, he must have been a recent employee.

  I was acutely conscious of the gun on my right hip, but it would have been suicide to attempt to draw it as I climbed from the car. The bulky man had backed off to leave a safe amount of room between us and he had a forty-five automatic centered on my stomach.

  “Keep your hands in plain sight,” he instructed.

  When I was out of the car and had pushed the door shut behind me, he said, “Now you can put your hands on top of your head.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw two other men approaching from the direction of the overhead sliding door. I told myself that a second, more thorough shakedown was almost certain to be given me, and that if I was going to use my gun at all, now was the time to make the break.

  A few months previously everyone on the St. Cecilia force from detective grade on up was put through the F.B.I. gun course. Among other things we were taught was that you can draw and outshoot a man who has you covered by falling sideways as you draw. The theory is that it takes a split second for him to react to the danger and press the trigger, and even if his reaction is fast, he will almost invariably fire without shifting the position of the gun, so that the shot will pass over your head.