by Ed McBain
The cops at the 87th thought he was pretty big, but that's because they had seen Havilland in action. He was not easy to miss when he was in action. He used his hands a lot. He liked to hit people, so to speak. Well, maybe he didn't really like to hit them, but he did hit them all the time, and it seemed as if he enjoyed it while he was doing it.
Cops like Steve Carella and Bert Kling didn't find it strange that Havilland enjoyed hitting people. They knew why he did. They didn't approve of it, but they knew why. They disliked him intensely. There wasn't a cop in the 87th, uniformed or detective, who really liked Havilland. They were sorry he got it, but not because they really liked him. They just didn't like to see cops getting killed. It made them think about becoming plumbers or bartenders.
Havilland, however, had once been a nice cop. That's the truth. Carella knew him when, and Meyer knew him when, and Lieutenant Byrnes knew him when, and a lot of other cops at the 87th knew Havilland before he became a bull.
He became a Havilland-bull as differentiated from a Carella-bull or a Kling-bull. He became a real bull. A bull who snorted and farted and burped and gored and roared and boffed like a bull. A bull. Havilland was simply a bull.
He became a bull because he decided there was no percentage in being a nice-type happy-guy smiling-faced cop. The way he decided was like this.
He was walking along one day minding his own business when he spotted a street fight in progress, and it seemed as if a lot of kids were ganging up on one nice-type happy-guy smiling-faced kid, and so Havilland stepped in like a hero. The kids, who'd been content up to then to be bashing in the head of a fellow street fighter, decided it would be more fun to play the Anvil Chorus on the head of Roger Havilland. Havilland had drawn his service revolver by that time, and he very politely fired a few shots into the air to let the boys know the Law was on the scene. One of the boys, not being terribly impressed by the Law, brought a lead pipe down on Havilland's right wrist and knocked the gun from his hand. That was when the other boys became musicians in earnest.
They played a chorus of Chopsticks and then a few bars of Night on Bald Mountain and then they did their famous version of To a Wild Rose, by which time they had succeeded in breaking Havilland's arm in four places. They also succeeded in leaving his face looking like a pound of chopped chuck, ground twice, thank you.
The compound fracture hurt. It hurt like hell. It hurt worse than hell because the doctors had to break the arm all over again since it would not set properly the first time around. Havilland had just made Detective 3rd Grade, and he thought perhaps the broken arm would kick him clear off the force. It didn't. It healed. Roger Havilland was a whole man again, except for the queer mental quirk his do-gooder intrusion had produced. He had, of course, been on the business end of a lead pipe before. No cop in the 87th survived very long if he didn't know how to cope with an arm swinging a lead pipe or a ball bat or a wrench or a broom or any one of a number of homemade weapons. But he had never been beat up while actually trying to help someone. Havilland even suspected that the kid he'd been trying to help was one of those who'd kicked him after he'd fallen and was dragged into an alley. This was certainly no way to treat a good Samaritan. This wasn't even a way to treat a bad Samaritan.
Sitting alone in his hospital room, Havilland figured it out. As far as he was concerned, they could all go and. Every last one of them could go and. Their mothers could go and. Their fathers could go and. The whole world could go and. Roger Havilland was watching out for Number One. Everybody else could go and. In Macy's window.
It was unfortunate.
A lot of people suffered because of what half a dozen kids did to Roger Havilland a long time ago.
Looking at it in another way, if Havilland had had the gumption to stick to his original premise, he might still be alive today. That's the trouble with people. You find a streak of human nature in almost every one of them. If Havilland could have stuck to being an out-and-out rat, he'd have been all right. No. He had to get noble.
Which is why it was funny the way he got killed.
He had left the squad at about 10.35. He'd told Carella and Hawes, who were working with him, that he wanted to check the streets. Actually, he was going down to get a cup of coffee, and then he would go home. When he got home, he would call Carella and say, 'Everything's quiet. I'm heading home.' When a cop's been on the force awhile, he learns these little tricks.
It was a pretty nice night and Havilland, only because he wanted a little air before he went into the subway, decided he really would walk around the streets a little. He was not looking for trouble. Havilland was one of those cops who consciously avoid trouble. If trouble came to Havilland, he would not back away from it. But look for it? No. Not Havilland. He would leave that to the heroes. The world was full of heroes.
Sometimes, the streets of the 87th were nice. It didn't have anything to do with the people in them. Havilland hated the people in the streets of the 87th. As far as he was concerned, all spies could go and. All kikes could go and. All wops could go and. All niggers could go and. In fact, all people could go and. Except Number One.
It was just that sometimes everything got quiet in the streets and you could feel the heartbeat of a city there, especially on a night close to summer when the sky was a shade of off-black, and the moon hung in the sky like a whore's belly button, and you smell the perfume of the city. On nights like that, Havilland remembered perhaps that he'd been born in the city, and that he'd once played Kick the Can on the city's streets, and that he'd once been in love with an Irish girl named Peggy Muldoon. This was a night like that.
So he walked the streets of the precinct, and he didn't say hello to anybody because everybody could go and. But he walked with his shoulders back and his head high and a sort of lopsided grin on his massive face, and he felt pretty good, even though he hated to admit it to himself.
There was a grocery store at the end of the street, and the man who owned the grocery store was called Tony Rigatoni, and everybody called him Tony-Tony, and Havilland decided he would stop in on Tony-Tony to say hello, even though he didn't particularly like Tony-Tony. It didn't hurt a man to say hello to someone before he went into the subway.
That is when the funny thing happened.
As Havilland approached Tony-Tony's grocery, he saw that someone was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the store. The person was well dressed and didn't look at all like a hood or a wino, and perhaps Havilland had drunk too deeply of the heady June air. Whatever the reason, Havilland didn't walk up to the man and say, 'Get on your feet, punk,' as was his wont to do. He sort of ambled over to him slowly and casually and then, standing in front of the plate glass window of the shop, he politely inquired, 'Are you all right, mister?'
Now this was a throwback to the day Havilland had stepped into that street brawl to defend the kid who was getting his lumps. This was a definite throwback, and perhaps Havilland felt that warning trigger click someplace inside his head because his hand snapped slightly upwards toward his shoulder holster, but it snapped too late.
The man on the sidewalk got up with a sudden lurch. He threw his shoulder against Havilland's chest and sent him flying backwards into the plate glass window. Then he ran off down the sidewalk.
Havilland didn't know that Tony-Tony was lying behind the counter of his grocery, badly beaten. He did not know that the young man had entered Tony-Tony's store and held him up, or that Tony-Tony had fired a shot from the .22 he kept under the cash register as the young man was departing. He did not know that Tony-Tony had collapsed from his beating immediately afterwards, or that the young man on the sidewalk was carrying a .22 calibre slug in his shoulder, which had dumped him on the sidewalk in the first place. He didn't know any of these things.
Havilland knew only that he was flying backwards, off balance. He knew only that he collided with the plate glass window, and that the window shattered around him in a thousand flying fragments of sharp splinters. He felt sudden pain, and he
yelled, with something close to tears in his voice, 'You bastard! You dirty bastard! You can go and—' but that was all he said. He never said another word.
One of the shards of glass had pierced his jugular vein and another had pierced his windpipe, and that was the end of Roger Havilland.
Around the corner, the young man got into a 1947 Dodge and drove away. An old lady saw him screech away from the kerb. She did not notice the licence-plate number of the car. When the car had left, she bent down to examine the sidewalk and blinked when her hands came away wet with blood.
There were a lot of old ladies around the grocery store when Detective Cotton Hawes arrived. He had left Carella back at the squad and hopped into a patrol car the moment the squeal came in. He stepped out of the car now, and the crowd parted respectfully because this was the Law, and Cotton Hawes indeed looked like the Law. His red head towered above the crowd, the white streak looking like the lightning crease on the head of Captain Ahab. Or at least on the head of Gregory Peck.
The patrolman standing in the grocery-store doorway walked to him as he approached. He did not recognize Hawes. He blinked at him.
'I'm Detective Hawes,' Hawes said. 'Steve Carella's catching. He sent me out.'
'This ain't so good,' the patrolman said.
'What isn't?'
'Proprietor of the store's been beat up bad. Cash register's been cleaned out. You know Havilland?'
'Havilland who?'
'Rog Havilland. He's on the squad.'
'I was introduced to him,' Hawes said, nodding. 'What about him?'
'He's sitting in the window.'
'What?'
'He's dead.' The patrolman grinned slightly. 'Funny, huh? Who'd have ever thought anything could kill Rog Havilland?'
'I don't see anything funny about it,' Hawes said. 'Get this crowd back. Is the proprietor inside?'
'Yes, sir,' the patrolman said.
'I'm going in. Get into the crowd and get the names and addresses of any eyewitnesses. Do you know how to write?'
'Huh? Of course I know how to write.'
'Then start writing,' Hawes said, and he went into the shop.
Tony Rigatoni was sitting in a chair, a second patrolman standing alongside him. Hawes spoke to the patrolman first.
'Call Carella,' he said. 'Tell him we've got a homicide. This was reported as a stickup. Tell him the corpse is Roger Havilland. Do it quick.'
'Yes, sir,' the patrolman said, and he left the shop.
'I'm Detective Hawes,' Hawes said to Rigatoni. 'I don't think I know your name, sir.'
'Rigatoni.'
'What happened, Mr Rigatoni?'
He looked at Rigatoni's face. Whoever had beaten him had done a merciless job.
'This man come in the shop,' Rigatoni said. 'He tell me empty the cash register. I tell him go to hell. He hit me.'
'What'd he use?'
'His hands. He wear gloves. In June. He hit me hard. He keep hitting me. The shade on my door, he pulled down when he come in, you know?'
'Go ahead.'
'He come around behind the counter and empty the register. I got the whole day receipts in there.'
'How much?'
'Two hundred, three hundred, something like. Son of a bitch takes it.'
'Where were you?'
'On the floor. He beat me bad. I could hardly stand. He starts running out the shop. I get up. I keep a gun in the drawer under the register. A .22. I got a licence, don't worry. I shoot him.'
'Did you hit him?'
'I think so. I think I see him fall. Then I get dizzy, and I collapse.'
'How'd Havilland crash that window?'
'Who the hell is Havilland?'
'The detective who smashed through your window.'
'I didn't know he was a bull. I don't know how that happened. I was out.'
'When'd you come to?'
'Five minutes ago. Just before I called the cops.'
'How old was this man? The one who held you up?'
'Twenty-three, twenty-four. No older.'
'White or coloured?'
'White.'
'What colour hair?'
'Blond.'
'Eyes?'
'I don't know.'
'Didn't you notice?'
'No.'
'How was he dressed?'
'A sports jacket. A sports shirt, no tie. Gloves. Black gloves.'
'Did he have a gun?'
'If he had one, he didn't use it.'
'Moustache?'
'No. He was a kid.'
'Notice any scars, birthmarks, anything like that?'
'No.'
'Was he alone?'
'All alone.'
'Did he walk away or drive away?'
'I don't know. I told you. I was out. Like a light. Son of a bitch almost broke my jaw. I ever see him again…'
'Excuse me, sir,' one of the patrolmen said from the door.
Hawes turned. 'What is it?'
'We got an old lady out here.'
'Yeah?'
'Says she saw the guy get into a car and drive away.'
'I'll talk to her,' Hawes said, and he walked out of the shop.
'This is her,' the patrolman said.
Hawes looked at the woman. It would have been easy to believe, at first glance, that the woman was a crackpot. She had straggly grey hair which she had not bothered to comb since she had grown it. In all likelihood, she had not washed since the city had had its last water-scarcity scare. She wore a tattered green shawl and shoes which looked as if they belonged to her grandson who was stationed with the Air Force in Alaska. A faded red rose was pinned to the green shawl. And to substantiate the early impression of a crackpot, one of the other women in the crowd whispered, 'That's Crazy Connie.'
It would have been easy to believe she was a crackpot.
But even in a precinct like the 30th, Hawes had learned that the ones who look like crackpots are very often sane and reliable witnesses. In fact, the sober-looking citizens very often turned out to be the nuts. So he gently led the old woman away from the crowd and into the grocery store, holding her elbow, the way he would have held the elbow of his own grandmother. Crazy Connie seemed to enjoy the notoriety. She looked up at Hawes as if she had won him on a blind date and was terribly pleased with her good fortune. Hawes, grinning like a courtier, led her to a chair.
'Won't you sit down, madam?' he said.
'Miss,' Crazy Connie corrected.
'Ah yes, of course. What is your name, Miss?'
'Connie,' she answered. 'Connie Fitzhenry.' Her voice was clear and bold. It did not at all sound like the voice of a crackpot.
'Miss Fitzhenry,' Hawes said pleasantly, 'one of the patrolmen tells me you saw a man get into a car and drive away. Is that right?'
'What's your name?' Connie asked.
'Detective Hawes,' he said.
'How do you do?'
'How do you do? Is that right?'
'Is what right, sir?' Connie asked.
'That you saw a man get into a car and drive away?'
'I did indeed,' Connie said. 'Do you know how old I am?'
'How old, Miss Fitzhenry?'
'Seventy-four. Do I look seventy-four?'
'I would say you weren't a day over sixty.'
'Would you really?'
'I would really.'
'Thank you.'
'About this man…'
'He came running around the corner,' Connie said, 'and he got into a car and drove away. I saw him.'
'Was he carrying a gun?'
'No, sir.'
'Any other weapon?'
'No, sir.'
'What makes you think he was the man who held up Mr Rigatoni?'
'I didn't say I thought he was the man who held up anyone. I'm only saying he came around the corner and got into a car and drove away.'
'I see,' Hawes said, and he began to think he'd judged wrongly this time. Connie Fitzhenry was showing all the signs of a first-grade crackpot. 'What I'm d
riving at, Miss Fitzhenry,' he said, 'is why you felt the man was in any way suspicious.'
'I got my reasons,' Connie said.
'What are they?'
'My reasons.'
'Yes, but…'
'You think this young man held up Mr Rigatoni?' Connie asked.
'Well, we're trying to…'
'What did he look like?' Connie asked.
'Well…'
'What colour hair did he have?'
'Blond,' Hawes said.
'Mmm-huh. Eyes?'
'We don't know.'
'What was he wearing?'
'A sports shirt with no tie. A sports jacket. And black gloves,' Hawes answered, suddenly wondering how he had got on the wrong end of the interrogation stick. He looked at Connie. Connie wasn't saying a word. 'Well?' he asked.
'Well what?'
'Well, is that the man you saw?'
'That's the man I saw, all right.'
'Well!' Hawes said. 'Now we're getting somewhere.'
'I knew there was something fishy as soon as he pulled away from the kerb,' Connie said. 'I didn't need your description.'
'What made you think so?'
'Why, the man was bleeding,' Connie said. 'His blood is all over the sidewalk around the corner.'
Hawes nodded to the patrolman, and the patrolman left the shop to check on Connie's statement.
'Did you happen to notice the licence plate on the car?'
'Yes, I noticed it,' Connie said.
'What number was it?'
'Oh, I didn't notice the number. I just noticed there was a licence plate on the car.'
'What year and make was the car?' Hawes asked. 'Would you know that?'
'Of course I would. You don't think I do, do you? You don't think a seventy-four-year-old woman wonders about such things. Well, I can tell you the year and make of any car on the road. I've got good eyes. Twenty-twenty vision even though I'm seventy-four years old.'
'What was the…'
'That car across the street there is a 1954 Buick. The one behind it is a Ford station wagon, 1952. The one…'
'How about the one that man got into?' Hawes asked.
'You don't think I know, do you?'
'I think you do know,' Hawes said. 'I just wish you'd tell me.'