by Ellery Queen
“What do you think, Hinch?” Furia asked suddenly.
Hinch looked up.
“You think we ought to cut out, like Goldie says?”
Hinch got to his feet. He seemed to go up and up indefinitely. Goldie took one look at the expression on his face and stepped back into the kitchen.
“I think,” Hinch said deliberately, “I’m going to make myself another drinkee.”
* * *
Fure was uptight all Saturday evening, brooding over at Hinch getting smashed in his corner.
Furia had his right hand stuck under his coat like Napoleon. But he wasn’t dreaming of new worlds to conquer, he wanted the Colt in his shoulder holster handy just in case, at least that was Goldie’s analysis. This whole thing is a bust why did I ever tie in with these cockamamies? Better watch your step, girl, this could wind up with fireworks.
There was almost a fight over the TV. Furia wanted the TV on, Hinch wanted the radio on. The nine o’clock movie was a remake of The Maltese Falcon, I like that old fat guy, Furia said, he’s real cool. Goldie said he’s also been real dead for years it’s somebody else in this version, why doesn’t Hinch take the radio into the den then everybody’s happy. Hinch said to hell with you bitch I like it right here. Furia said I want to see Humphrey Bogart and that’s it and Goldie said he’s dead too, Fure. Fure said according to you everybody’s dead and Hinch said in a peculiar way so let that be a lesson to you. And he wasn’t looking at Goldie when he said it. Goldie decided to go to the bathroom in case the argument heated up.
In the end Hinch took the radio into the den and Furia watched his movie. He kept complaining all through that it stank I liked the fat guy and Bogey better.
But Goldie noticed that he turned his chair so he could keep one eye on the den.
Come eleven o’clock there was Furia standing in the doorway of the den.
“What you listening to?” he asked Hinch.
“What do you think?” Hinch said. There were about three fingers left in the bottle of Smirnoff’s.
“At the signal it will be exactly eleven o’clock,” the announcer said. “This is Station WRUD, the Voice of Taugus Valley. Now for the news.”
“What do you got to listen to the news for?” Furia said. “We heard it on the six o’clock.”
“You don’t want to hear it don’t,” Hinch said. “Me, I want to hear it.”
“They didn’t find us, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Furia said. Hinch said nothing. “That’s a joke, son.”
Hinch said nothing.
Furia stayed where he was, looking at Hinch. He kept his hand under his coat.
Goldie turned the TV off in the living room so she could listen, too. From the living room.
National news. Statewide news. Then the saxophone voice said, “One of the three teenagers injured in today’s two-car accident at Tonekeneke Falls which took the life of nineteen-year-old Alison Springer of Southville died this evening at the New Bradford Hospital. He was Kelly Wilson, Junior, eighteen, of Haddison. The two surviving teenagers are still listed in critical condition.
“Review of the additional salary upgradings proposed for New Bradford town employees last week has been completed, First Selectman Russ Fairhouse announced today, and the revised salary schedule will be brought before a town meeting next Friday night at eight p.m. in the New Bradford High School cafeteria.
“A combined meeting of the Women’s Auxiliaries of the fire departments of Taugus Valley will be held Monday evening at eight o’clock at the home of Mrs. Jeanine Lukenberry of Stonytown to complete plans for the joint pre-Christmas rummage sale for the benefit of Better Fire Prevention.”
“Aaaa, turn it off,” Furia said. “Who’s interested in that crap?”
“I am,” Hinch said, not moving.
“-a footnote to the Lighter-Side-of-the-News item we broadcast on our six o’clock news,” the baritone sax was playing.
“See what I mean?” Hinch said. “You got to wait for the good stuff. What’s the matter, Fure, you nervous?”
“Listen here, you-”
“Shut up,” Hinch said quietly, “I want to hear this.”
Furia’s ear-points began to turn red. But he shut up.
“-seems that Willie is a persistent little cuss,” the voice chuckled. “When Chief John Secco sent him home this afternoon, Willie didn’t go home. He went back to Old Bradford Road and, as he told WRUD’s Lighter-Side-of-the-News reporter this evening, ‘I scouted around, they don’t believe me about the man with the stocking over his face I’ll prove it to ‘em, I seen him throw that stocking away.’ To everyone’s surprise but Willie’s he did just that. He went back to New Bradford police headquarters with a woman’s nylon stocking which he claimed he found under the privet hedge in front of Officer Wesley Malone’s house, where the alleged housebreaking took place. Chief Secco sent an officer over to the Malone place with the stocking, and Mrs. Malone identified it as one of hers which she had had drying on her clothesline and which had disappeared days ago. ‘It must have been Rags that did it, she’s the Cunninghams’ dog next door, she’s always stealing things off my line,” Mrs. Malone told the officer. Willie was sent home with a personal escort, Officer Mert Peck. Officer Peck advised Willie’s father to take Willie on a tour of the woodshed, which Willie’s father said he sure as heck was going to do. Please don’t report any howling you may hear from that section of New Bradford. It’s just Willie learning that free enterprise doesn’t always pay.
“In one minute the music of the Taugus Rock Quarriers. But first, a message from-”
Hinch snapped the radio off. He turned about and began a leisurely survey of Furia. Furia’s hand dug deeper under his coat.
“Hinch,” Furia said. “I don’t know from no stocking. That’s the word.”
“If you say so, Fure.” Hinch held out the Smirnoff. “Need a little snort?”
Furia snarled, “That ‘11 be the day,” and backed out.
* * *
Furia looked up the Malones’ number in the book and dialed.
Right away Malone’s voice said hoarsely, “Yes?”
“It’s me,” Furia said. “Don’t bother trying to trace this call, fuzz, it’s a public booth a long ways from you. Well?”
“I haven’t got it,” Malone said. “For God’s sake, I told you and told you. Look, there was a boy in town here who saw the thief sneak into my house Thursday and come out with the black bag-”
“I know, we heard it on the radio,” Furia said. “You and your missus played it cool, that was smart, fuzz. But I don’t care who took it. I want it back.”
“I told you-! How is my little girl?”
“She’s okay. So far. Did you think I was kidding, Malone? I want that bread or you never see your kid again.”
“How am I supposed to do it? Why don’t you get it through your head that you lost out on this deal through no fault of anybody and let Barbara go?”
“No dice,” Furia said. “Look, it don’t have to be the payroll. I ain’t particular. Any twenty-four grand ‘11 do. Work on it, Malone. I’ll call you.”
“Damn you, where would I get-?”
Furia hung up and stepped from the booth outside the railroad station. It was Sunday morning and Freight Street looked like Gary Cooper’s town at high noon. When he turned around there was Hinch.
“What are you doing here?” Furia snarled. “I thought I told you to stay in the house.”
“Cabin fever,” Hinch said.
Furia hesitated.
“I took the car, too,” Hinch said. “You want to make something of it?”
Furia began to walk.
Hinch swung into step. The crease between his pink eyes had smoothed out.
“I’ll give you a ride back,” Hinch said. “If you say please?”
* * *
“I should never have listened to you,” Malone stormed. “I should have told him Goldie had it and about the safe deposit box while I had him
on the phone.”
“That would have queered the whole setup, Wes,” John Secco said. “You heard Furia. It’s working. They’ve swallowed Rudd’s bait hook and line. That means it’s stewing around in Hinch’s head. He can’t possibly have missed it, dumb or not. Give him a chance. When he’s finally made up his mind that Furia crossed him he’ll call in for a deal.”
“But Goldie-”
“You said yourself she’d talk Furia out of it if you accused her. Then the whole thing might be shot. Don’t go complicating things now, Wes. Have a little patience.”
“But I can prove it to him!”
“How?”
“I forgot about the keys. When you rent a safe deposit box you get your own key, even a duplicate. So she’s got two keys to a Taugus National safe deposit box. All Furia has to do is search her and that’s it for Goldie.”
“Do you think a woman like that would be fool enough to keep them on her, Wes? She’s hidden them somewhere. That was the first thing I thought of.” Secco shook his head. “Go up to Ellen.”
Malone went upstairs. Ellen was in bed with a slight fever. She had an icebag on her forehead and her eyes were closed.
He sat down and thought of Barbara. Everything else was boiling around.
Chief Secco sucked on his pipe downstairs beside the telephone.
Thank God I was raised the son of a farmer.
A farmer grew patience the way he grew grass.
* * *
The call came two hours before daylight on Tuesday morning. Secco was sleeping on the cot in the kitchen near the wall extension, Malone on the sofa in the parlor beside the phone. He had it off the cradle before it rang twice. Secco was a breath behind picking up the extension.
“Hello?” Malone said.
“This Malone?” It was the cougar voice, the cougar voice, pitched in a mutter.
“Yes? Yes?”
“This is Hinch. You know. Look, I can’t talk long, I had to wait till they were corked off good before I could use the phone. I’ll make a deal.”
“Yes?”
“I want out. I’ll turn state’s evidence. Do I get a deal?”
“Yes,” Malone said, “yes.”
Secco came running in noiselessly. He put his lips to Malone’s ear and whispered, “Ask him where they are.”
“Yes,” Malone said again. “Where is the house?”
“I don’t know where, I mean the street. Some crummy back road. It ain’t far.”
“Telephone number,” Secco whispered.
“What’s the phone number there?”
“7420.”
“7420.”
Secco wrote it down.
“Can you get my girl out of there, Hinch?”
“Fure took all the artillery. Anyways, Goldie’s got her sleeping in with her and she locked the door.”
“Then don’t try anything. Stay put. We’ll be out there. If you see a chance after we show, make a break for it with Barbara. Anything happens to my daughter it’s no deal, Hinch, you get the book thrown at you. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” Hinch muttered. He hung up.
Malone hung up.
He sat back and looked at the chief. Secco said briskly, “Don’t sit there, Wes. Hand me the phone.”
Malone handed it to him.
Secco dialed 411. It took a long time for the local information operator to answer. He waited patiently. When she answered he said, “This is John Secco. Who’s this, Margaret?”
“Sally, Chief.”
“Sally. This is an emergency. Who in town has the number 7420?”
He waited again.
“Thanks, Sally. Keep quiet about this.” He hung up. “It’s on Maccabee Road, the Thatcher place. They closed it up for the winter. Wes?”
“I’m listening, John,” Malone said.
“Why don’t you go up and tell Ellen about this? I’ve got a police department to round up.”
“John.”
Secco stopped in the act of picking up the phone again. “What, Wes?”
“Maybe one man could get in and cover Furia before he can wake up-”
“You mean you.”
“Give me a gun.”
Secco shook his head. “You said yourself Furia sleeps like a cat, so no one man’s going to take him in bed. Anyway, Wes, you’re too involved, you’d be sure to mess it up. This is going to be a delicate business even with a squad. Let me handle it regulation procedure. It’s the right way. The only way.”
“She’s my child-”
“And you’re one of my officers, Wes. One of them.”
“All right,” Malone said. “But, John, I swear to you, if anything goes wrong-”
“How well have you done by yourself?” John Secco asked.
They stared at each other.
“Loney? What’s going on down there?”
Malone went upstairs running away.
Tuesday
The Deal
Malone went into action chewing on doom. I have no part or place in this, I知 the only one without a uniform or a gun, John doesn稚 trust me, I should never have gone to him, Ellen was right, it痴 not John痴 fault what else can he do it痴 his job, the fault is all mine I had no business becoming a cop. Being a cop is like being a Marine and what kind of Marine did I make. I should have handled this by myself all the way through. How could it have come out worse than this?
They were a force of twenty-two men, eight New Bradford officers besides Chief Secco and Malone, and a dozen troopers. They were packing shotguns and carbines and tear gas launcher attachments and gasmasks from the state police barracks and enough ammunition to face down a riot mob, no missing ingredient but the barricades.
And all for what. They don’t begin to realize the kind of kill-crazy kook they’re up against, a show of force like this is going to put his back up like a skunk and make him piss his stink, he’ll see all the dreams he dreamed of hate and glory in whatever shit pile he was dragged up in come true and he’ll go out blazing away and taking Bibby with him and me too I’ll be there I’ll be there to go with her. And what Ellen gets out of the deal is two graves side by side in New Bradford Cemetery. Poor kid. You rate better.
Unless… unless Hinch wants to live more than he’s scared of Furia. And wanting will find the brains he wasn’t born with to figure out a way to get on top. Get the better of Furia before it’s too late. You’re my ace, Hinch. In this hole I’m in.
One man one vote. That’s what it comes down to. Furia against Malone. Furia against Hinch. Not Furia against twenty-two law officers creeping up with funk in their mouths and guns in their hands.
“Don’t worry, Wes,” Chief Secco said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Give me a written guarantee?”
“What you are and how you operate,” Secco said. “That’s the only guarantee there is, Wes.”
There was no communication after that.
The cars were left a quarter mile from Maccabee Road and they made their professional approach in the predawn lugging their weapons and ammo and masks to the Thatcher place like a platoon of grunts on search-and-destroy, every man’s face tight as a secret, every tongue tasting the death of somebody else. Can’t John see that? They’re disciplined and they’re set to follow orders but let Furia draw blood and see what happens.
John John. Bibby…
Come on Hinch.
Chief Secco’s operational plan was an attack in force while the enemy’s guard was down. Furia was not aware that his hideout was blown, he had no reason to post a lookout, they would have all the advantages of near darkness and a sleeping or sleepy foe, and overwhelming surprise would carry the day. A noiseless entry front and back, coordinated, the main group with rubbers over their shoes sneaking upstairs, Secco knew the old house well it was built in 1799 the chestnut floors were all creaked out and the stairs heavily carpeted… one burst into Furia’s room, heave a couple of gas cans, and that would be it. The child was sleeping with the woman in
another bedroom according to Hinch, an auxiliary force would handle that at the same time. The woman was too smart to try anything foolish and Hinch was spoken for. If Furia elected or was able to shoot it out he would be blasted into a better world by a dozen guns before he could get his weapons up.
The sky was turning gray and there was just enough light to see by. Chief Secco had had the men synchronize their watches and every eye was on a second hand. There were eight men behind trees to the front of the house, eight men behind trees at the rear, and three men to each side hiding in shrubbery.
The men behind the house could see the back door broken half off its hinges where the gang had got in. The problem was the front door. It was shut and probably locked. They had debated whether to make entry in a body through the back door but decided to carry out the original plan. Sergeant Louis Lombard of the troopers had a picklock for tumbler locks and a can of 3-in-l to oil the hinges as a precaution against squeaks. The men at the rear were to give him forty seconds to get the front door open before they made their move.
Six men were to remain on guard outside against the impossibility that the gunman might break away from the force inside.
How could it go wrong?
It did. At zero minus fifty seconds Sergeant Lombard, allowing an extra ten seconds for his approach, ducked out from behind his tree. He was forty-three years old and he had a son fighting in Vietnam. He was a large man with large hands. In one he carried the oil can and the picklock, in the other his weapon. He ducked out from behind his tree and doubled over began to run on the balls of his feet across the lawn toward the front door. He was no more than a third of the way to the door when Furia shot him from a downstairs window, one-and-two-three. His favorite number. Because of the poor light the first shot missed Lombard’s heart and smacked into the shoulder of the arm carrying the oil can and the picklock. The oil can and the picklock flew up and over his head. The second shot struck him in the business hand and the revolver went off from the convulsion of his trigger finger. The weapon dropped in a plumbline to the grass. The third shot zinged over his head and struck the tree behind which Malone was hiding. The sergeant became a crab, by instinct skittering on all fours away from his death, shattered right hand between body and grass holding his shattered left shoulder.