Death of a Pusher

by Deming, Richard

  “The skipper isn’t that generous,” he said darkly. “I think we’d better resign from the force.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Lincoln,” I mimicked the captain. “Just be there at three.”

  When we checked in at three, we found Spangler alone in his office. Today he was in one of his pleasanter moods. Waving a benign hand at a couple of chairs, he said, “Sit down, boys. Sorry I had to bring you in early. The others will be along in a minute.”

  Carl and I looked at each other. The symptoms of impending bad news were becoming clearer all the time. The captain never calls us boys unless he has a particularly nasty assignment for us.

  Only moments after we had taken seats, Lieutenant Wynn, Hank Carter, and Captain Hugh Ellis of Homicide arrived. This seemed to be everyone who was coming, because Spangler got down to business as soon as they were seated.

  “The D.A. is a little upset over last night’s development,” he said. “As you all know, Benny Polacek was supposed to set up his wholesaler this evening, but of course that’s all off now. Dollinger’s first reaction was to have us pull in Councilman White for questioning about the murder, but I suggested we talk to the chief before we went off half-cocked.”

  “Did you talk to him?” Captain Ellis asked.

  “I talked to both the chief and the commissioner, Hugh. I think the commissioner must have discussed the matter with the mayor, because he had quite definite instructions when he phoned back.”

  Hugh Ellis, lean and slightly stooped and near retirement age, looked impressed. “What did he have to say?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute, Hugh.”

  Spangler now included all of us. “We’re involved in a rather delicate matter here. We have a city councilman accused by a now-deceased witness of dealing in wholesale narcotics. And he’s also at least tentatively a murder suspect. Of course a suspect’s status makes no difference in a police investigation, but just to avoid possible repercussions, I thought it best—or, rather, Captain Ellis and I thought it best—to clear procedure with the top echelon.”

  Status made no difference, hell, I thought. In St. Cecilia a motor cop could get busted to foot patrol for giving a ward heeler a speeding ticket. So long as the evidence against Goodman White had seemed open-and-shut, and the district attorney himself had been directing the investigation, it hadn’t disturbed Spangler to have a couple of his men closing in on the city councilman. But he wasn’t about to start moving against a man with White’s political influence on mere suspicion without advance clearance from above.

  “The commissioner has ordered a thorough investigation of both matters,” Spangler went on. “And he wants a definite answer. If Mr. Goodman White is guilty of either or both crimes, he wants it proved. If he isn’t, he wants his innocence definitely established.”

  Translated, that meant that the big brass had conferred on Councilman Goodman White and had decided they had to know one way or the other. If he was engaging in activities which might embarrass the administration, they meant to throw him to the wolves. If he wasn’t, they wanted him cleared of all suspicion.

  Spangler said, “Since the case involves both my division and Captain Ellis’s, Commissioner Mason wants coordinated effort between us. He’s asked me to supervise the investigation personally and have the Homicide team assigned to the case report directly to me instead of to you, Hugh.”

  Captain Ellis shrugged. “Suits me, Maury.”

  That figured, I thought. If Goodie White was innocent, the brass didn’t want him riled too much. And there wasn’t a better man on the force to handle delicate situations than Maurice Spangler. He had the knack of never offending anyone who counted, always managing to maneuver between opposing pressures so that in the end every person involved felt he had been on his side, even though they all ended mad at each other.

  Spangler cleared his throat. “Now for the strategy of the investigation. The commissioner has suggested that both the Homicide team and the Narcotics team be kept on the case. As a matter of fact, because of the importance of the matter, he’s ordered that the four of you be relieved of all duty except this investigation.”

  Wynn asked, “Does that mean Carter and I will be placed on detached duty with you, sir?”

  Captain Spangler nodded. “That’s right. And in order to coordinate effort, I feel you should be unified into a single four-man team. You’ll be in charge, of course, Lieutenant Wynn, and Carter, Rudowski, and Lincoln will take orders from you.”

  He threw Carl and me bright smiles while we glared back at him speechlessly. The omens of catastrophe had been right, but I had never expected such dire catastrophe.

  Robert Wynn glanced at me with the anticipatory smile of a cat regarding a cornered mouse.

  “That’s all, I guess,” Spangler said crisply. “Wynn, you may stay a moment for detailed instructions. You stick around to listen in, too, Hugh, if you want, so you’ll know what’s going on.”

  Carl, Hank Carter, and I silently filed from the office. When the door closed behind us, Carter’s normally morose face split into the widest grin I ever saw on it.

  “Welcome aboard the ‘Bounty,’ boys,” he said. “You’ll love Captain Bligh.”

  “Don’t call us boys,” I snapped at him. “It has unpleasant significance.”

  Carl Lincoln said solicitously, “You going to do it here, Matt, or wait until you get outside?”

  “Do what?” I demanded.

  “Kill yourself.”

  “Go to hell,” I instructed him. “And that’s an order.”

  After a time Captain Ellis and Lieutenant Wynn came out of Spangler’s office. Ellis walked on through the squadroom and out into the hall, presumably to return to Homicide.

  Wynn said to me in his crispest army-colonel tone, “Captain Spangler wants to see you, Rudowski. Soon as he’s finished with you, we’ll have our own little conference.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said sourly, and re-entered the captain’s office.

  When I was seated, Spangler said in an apologetic tone, “I know you don’t get along very well with Bob Wynn, Rudowski, but this was the commissioner’s idea, so I had no choice. It’s only a temporary arrangement, so try not to rub him wrong. O.K.?”

  “Did you give him the same advice?” I growled.

  The captain waved this aside. “Wynn’s a little G.I., but he’s a pretty good cop.”

  “A little, hell,” I said. “He’s a goddamned martinet.”

  “Now that’s enough of that,” Spangler said sharply. “I expect you to get along with Wynn.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said with a sigh.

  “That’s better. There’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve already discussed this with Wynn, but in Homicide they aren’t subject to the same pressures we sometimes are, so they aren’t as used to exercising tact.”

  I knew what was coming. What he meant was that Homicide cops seldom had to worry about stepping on influential toes, because the brass made no effort to protect murderers. They made no effort to protect people involved in the narcotics racket, either, but that was only a third of our division’s business. We were also concerned with vice and gambling, and most rackets controlled by local politicians involved one or the other. As a consequence we were walking a tightrope most of the time. In St. Cecilia it was dangerous to arrest, or even investigate, the wrong people for crimes less than dope peddling or murder.

  “We have a definite green light to let the chips fall where they may,” Spangler went on. “But there’s no point in uselessly antagonizing a man with Goodman White’s influence.”

  This was the sort of thing which had kept Maurice Spangler in office for so many years. Since he was subject to more pressure than any man on the force, by all rights he should have had more enemies than any other division head. But he actually had none with any influence. It was apparent why. Even with a go-ahead from the commissioner himself, he wanted to make sure Goodie White didn’t get mad at him in case the man turn
ed out to be innocent. Spangler always coppered his bets.

  I said, “We’ll be tactful, Captain. And I’ll try to keep Wynn in line.”

  Spangler looked relieved. “Fine, Rudowski. I knew I could count on you. That’s all.”

  Back in the squadroom I found Wynn, Carter, and Lincoln gathered around a corner table. I joined them.

  “Our first step is to locate and question Polacek’s girl friend, April French, and this mysterious man named Charlie,” Wynn announced. “If we find the girl, we should be able to get Charlie’s identity from her. There’s no April French listed in either the phone book or the city directory, Rudowski.”

  If he expected me to make some comment to this, I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. I merely looked wise.

  “Now, here are first assignments,” the lieutenant went on. “Lincoln, get on the phone and start calling theatrical agents to see if anyone knows of April French. If you don’t hit pay dirt that way, you can start making the rounds of theaters and night clubs that use chorus girls. O.K.?”

  “Yes, sir,” Carl said. He moved over to another table and started leafing through the yellow section of the phone book.

  “Carter, you run over to the coroner’s office and see how far they’ve gotten with the autopsy. Then stop by Fingerprints and the Crime Lab and get whatever they have. Get going.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hank Carter said in a relieved voice, glad to get away from his partner.

  As Carter hurried from the squadroom, Wynn said to me, “You run over to the Arden apartment and talk to Beverly Arden, Rudowski. Last night I got warrants as material witnesses for both her and her brother, but I didn’t serve them. It was just to keep things under control in case either one tried to get cute. I put two around-the-clock guards on their door armed with the warrants and had a third cover the back. One guard was instructed to accompany Norman to the hospital this morning and stick with him all day. The other was to keep Beverly from leaving for any reason but medical attention. So she should be home.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, standing up.

  “I also got a search warrant for both the apartment and persons of Norman and Beverly Arden,” the lieutenant said. “The guard assigned to Beverly has it. I left instructions for Norman to be searched before he was permitted to leave for the hospital this morning, just in case he tried to carry off a gun for disposal. You can search the apartment.”

  I had to admit he was thorough. I was beginning to agree with the captain’s opinion that he was a pretty good cop, when he spoiled it.

  “It shouldn’t take you more than an hour to search the apartment and get Beverly’s story,” he said. “What you’ll be looking for is the murder weapon, in case I haven’t made that clear. When you’re through, come straight back here. It isn’t necessary to stop for refreshments in some bar en route.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then turned my back and marched out of the squadroom.

  CHAPTER 8

  At 427 Clarkson Boulevard, a single uniformed cop was seated in a wooden chair in the hallway outside Apartment 2-A. His face was familiar, though I couldn’t attach a name to it, but he knew who I was.

  Coming to his feet, he said, “Afternoon, Sergeant Rudd.”

  “Hi,” I said. “The other guard off with Dr. Arden?”

  He nodded. “Accompanied him to the hospital this morning.”

  “He search him?”

  “Uh-huh. His person and his medical bag. Nothing.”

  “Heard anything from the girl?”

  He nodded again. “She looked out once about noon and asked why I was here. I showed her the material-witness warrant and explained I wouldn’t serve it if she stayed inside. She shut the door, and I haven’t seen her since. She’s quite a babe.”

  I held out my hand. “Lieutenant Wynn says you have a search warrant too. I’ll take that.”

  “Sure,” he said, producing it.

  Sticking it in my inside breast pocket, I rang the doorbell.

  After a few moments the door opened. As the cop in the hall had said, she was quite a babe. Slim and dark, with a pale, flawless complexion and big, liquid brown eyes, she wore lounging pajamas with gold bottoms and a long-sleeved black top. The pajama pants prevented me from seeing what kind of legs she had, except that they were long and straight. The upper part of her body was lovely, though. I got the impression that she wore no brassiere, and even though she was rather full-bosomed, she was firm fleshed enough so that her symmetry wasn’t in the least marred by the apparent lack of support.

  Taking off my hat and showing my badge, I said, “I’m Sergeant Matt Rudd, police, Miss Arden. May I come in?”

  She looked me up and down with unsmiling appraisal before nodding briefly and stepping aside.

  Walking into the front room, I glanced around. It was furnished much as the place across the hall, with inexpensive but adequate furniture. The layout wasn’t quite the same, though, for there was an open door off the front room which I could see led into a bedroom. In Benny Polacek’s apartment the only bedroom had been off the center hall. This seemed to be a five-room apartment instead of only a four-room.

  Pushing the door closed, Beverly Arden moved past me to the sofa, her round little bottom moving back and forth rhythmically as she walked. Seating herself, she indicated the place next to her and said, “Sit down, Sergeant.”

  There were two easy chairs and a rocker in the room, but since she preferred me next to her, I obliged. I didn’t sit close, though, and I discreetly set my hat between us. I leaned against the sofa arm, half facing her, and she positioned herself similarly at the other end.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

  “Matt Rudd.”

  “You don’t look like a policeman, Matt. Though I guess you’re big enough. You must go two-twenty or thirty pounds.”

  “Only a little over two hundred. I’m hollow.”

  She smiled slightly. “You really don’t look like a policeman. I would have taken you for an actor. Not in movies. You’re not that handsome. But perhaps a stage actor.”

  “Why?” I inquired with raised brows.

  “You have such expressive eyes.”

  I winced slightly. My eyes are the cross I have to bear. Sooner or later nearly every new woman I meet makes some crack about my eyes. In the mirror they just look like eyes to me, but women seem to find in them something I can’t see. When the boys in the squadroom want to get under my skin, they call me “Browneyes.” Then they get out of the way fast.

  I said, “You have pretty eyes yourself, among other attributes,” and deliberately dropped my gaze to her full bust for a moment before raising it to her face again.

  I did it to get even for her crack about my eyes, but it failed to embarrass her. She merely said, “Thank you,” in an amused voice and shifted her position, no doubt deliberately.

  I decided it was time to get down to business.

  “I guess you know why I’m here,” I said. “Want to tell me about last night?”

  The slight smile on her face faded, she drew her feet up under her and hugged herself as though she suddenly felt a cold draft.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “I never saw the man’s face. He was behind me in the kitchen doorway.”

  “How do you know it was a man, then?”

  She looked at me reproachfully. “You meant that as a trick question. I was just beginning to like you, but if you’re going to be all policeman, we won’t be friends.”

  “I want to be friends,” I assured her. “I retract the question. How do you know it wasn’t a woman?”

  The faint smile almost, but not quite, touched her face again. “When the shots sounded, I turned in time to catch a glimpse of his back.”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me the whole story?” I suggested.

  “All right,” she said agreeably. “I had been sitting here alone watching television all evening. Norman was reading in his room with
the door closed, because he hates television. It was pretty warm last night, so I had the front door open for cross ventilation. About a quarter of ten Mr. Polacek stuck his head in the door and asked if I’d like a cup of coffee.”

  “He do that often?” I asked.

  “Not very. Usually only when he’d been out somewhere, got home early, and didn’t feel like going to bed. He’d been out last night, because he didn’t come from his apartment. I heard him come up the stairs.”

  “Over the television?”

  She looked reproachful again. “You’re still asking policeman questions.”

  “That’s what I am,” I said reasonably.

  “I thought you wanted to be friends.”

  “Let’s be policeman-witness now and friends afterward,” I suggested.

  “Umm, that sounds interesting. What did you ask me?”

  “How you heard Polacek come up the stairs with the television on.”

  “Oh, yes. With the hall door open, I naturally had the sound turned very low. In an eighteen-unit apartment building you learn to consider your neighbors, even though the building’s supposed to be soundproof.”

  “It is?” I said. That explained something which had been puzzling me since last night. Even though Apartments 2-A and 2-B were isolated at the far end of the second-floor hall, I wondered why no other tenants had come to investigate the shots. With the door of 2-B open, the sound must have reverberated up and down the hallway.

  “Yes,” she said. “But with the night so warm, I thought perhaps other people had their doors open, too, and I didn’t want to disturb them.”

  “Before Polacek got home, did you hear anyone else moving about in the hall?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t recall hearing anyone.” Then her eyes widened. “You think perhaps the killer was lurking out there waiting for him?”

  “I don’t know. Did Polacek act as though anything were on his mind? Did he seem worried?”

  She thought again. “Not that I noticed, but I hardly knew him well enough to judge if there were anything different about him last night. He was merely a neighbor who occasionally dropped in for a few moments, and occasionally asked me or Norman, or sometimes both of us, over for a cup of coffee. Never for a drink—just coffee. He didn’t drink.”