Jim Latson, followed by his patrolman-secretary, had ambled up. “Sounds like he’s doing it, Dave, old boy. Hi, Harry. Getting plenty?”
Harry Weber’s face lost that taunting grin. “Hello, Chief.”
And there it was again. Dave Corday was entitled to be called Chief, but no one ever gave him the courtesy; after all, he was Chief Deputy of the District Attorney’s office. It was a job calling for education, experience, tact, brains. Really, he rated higher than anybody in the police department; but no one ever thought so. The minute Latson appeared any place, any time, everyone turned to him. But a district attorney rated much higher.
“I’m just trying to get a howgozit on the Guild case,” Harry said.
Jim Latson said at once, “The District Attorney’s office is well satisfied that the department was justified in arresting Ralph Guild; but, mindful of his oath to protect the innocent as well as prosecute the guilty, Chief Deputy David Corday is not yet prepared to say that the evidence against Ralph Guild is complete.”
“You know I can’t turn that in, Chief,” Harry Weber said. “If I phoned that to the desk, they’d take the dime for the phone call out of my pay.”
“Okay,” Jim Latson said. “That’s what you get for heckling the D.A.’s office. If you’d been a good boy, you might have picked up a story. Come on, Dave.” And somehow he managed to leave Harry Weber unsatisfied but not angry. It was a pretty good trick.
Chapter 9
THE INTERVIEW ROOM AT THE JAIL was sunny; but that was about all that could be said for it. The furniture consisted of four straight chairs and a swivel chair, all bolted to the floor; the single table had no drawers because a man could whip out a desk drawer and bean a district attorney.
Jim Latson had had to leave his gun out at the front gate; Dave Corday was not carrying one. They entered the interview room, and Latson waved at the swivel chair. “Your honor, D.A.”
Dave Corday said, “Some day I’m going to shove that deferential grin down your throat.”
“Any time, Dave, any time. Want me to quote some more police manual to you? Want me to quote the part about physical fitness of all personnel? About periodic physical examinations? Or shall I quote you my last rating in judo?”
“I don’t want you to quote anything to me!” Dave Corday said.
Jim Latson was calm. “Shush.” He gestured at the door into the jail proper. It was opening. Ralph Guild came in, followed by a turnkey. The officer looked at Jim Latson who made a gesture with his thumb; the turnkey went out again. Ralph Guild stood in front of the closed door uncertainly.
“Sit down, Ralph,” Jim Latson said. “You know who we are?” He told him their names and titles, and added, “This is just a talk. We’re not nearly as hot as my boys who have been handling you. We’ve arrived; they’re ambitious.”
Ralph Guild didn’t smile. But after a moment, he moved toward the straight chair Jim Latson had indicated. He wore the standard jail clothes, old Marine dungarees—war surplus—on which the name of the jail had been block-printed below each knee, on the left breast, and between the shoulder blades. The dungarees didn’t fit too well.
Jim Latson looked at Corday, which he didn’t have to do; it was up to the district attorney to question. Corday said, “Before we start this talk, Ralph, I want you to notice there are no reporters in this room, neither electronic or personal. In other words, you can talk freely. So, is there anything you want to tell us?”
Guild’s accent had gotten worse since he had been arrested. His English was good, but his g’s and th’s were badly slurred. He said, “Gentlemen,” first and then stopped uncertainly. Suddenly his words came in a spurt. “Please, they tell me the baby has come, my wife—Could I see my wife, gentlemen?”
Corday gave Latson a theatrical look, got one back. Then both men shrugged.
“I don’t see why not,” Latson said. “If you’re cooperative, I’m sure Mr. Corday would give me permission to have one of my boys take you over to the hospital. Mr. Corday recently lost his wile himself; he’s sympathetic.”
Dave Corday heard the prisoner say, “Oh, I’m sorry,” through the roaring that his blood was making in his ears. He swallowed hard, and said, “Yes, yes, of course, no objection. Anything more you want to say?”
“Only that I didn’t kill Miss DeLisle. She was a very nice lady, very good to me.” The voice was sad as November sweeping the last dead leaves out of a street; it was obvious that Ralph Guild already saw himself convicted and executed. Dave Corday had a picture, wholly sympathetic for the moment, of Guild’s background; a Czech of thirty would have no mature or adolescent memory of a fair government, of any kind of government except that of a foreign secret service organization.
Corday said, “This is the United States. If you are innocent, you will have plenty of chance to prove it. Who is your lawyer?”
“Mr. Justin.”
Jim Latson coughed. Jule Justin was low-ranking man on the public defender’s totem pole; only the fact that he was the mayor’s nephew kept him there. The gamin Trib had once said that Jule Justin was to the executioner as a plunger was to a plumber: a friend.
“Well, exactly,” Dave Corday was saying. “Mr. Justin is a native-born citizen, graduated from one of our best universities. Why, he is connected with the mayor.”
Jim Latson said, “First you tell him everything’s on the up and up in this country, Dave. Then you imply that being related to the mayor is what a guy needs. Stick to one story or the other.” He leaned forward, tapped on the table that separated them from Guild. “Ralph, here’s the real scoop—the truth, if you don’t understand. If you get into court and pull something that clears you, it will hurt Mr. Corday’s record, it will hurt the record of my whole department.”
Ralph Guild made a European gesture—hands spread, shoulders hunched almost to his ears. The law officers both had the same thought—get an all-American jury, a few gestures like that’ll finish him. Guild said, “What can I say? She gave me the necklace, because she said having a baby was the most important thing in the world for a woman, and—” He paused. “It was a funny expression she used, about the necklace. Very much slang. I try to remember it—Yes. And having a new piece of jewelry would put icing on it for my wife. Icing, yes. I had to ask the checker—a nice lady, my friend—to explain it.”
Jim Latson said, “But you didn’t give her a receipt or anything. If you did, it wasn’t among her papers.”
Dave Corday said, “I think we’ve got enough. Guild, you might as well know; I do not believe you. Let’s go, Jim.” He reached in front of Latson and pressed the buzzer for the turnkey; his lips were a thin set line as he sat—per regulations—until Ralph Guild had been taken back into the jail. Then he turned to face the astonished look of Jim Latson. “We’ll have to let him go, Latson.”
Latson said, “For goodness’ sake, why?”
“That one thing: the slang expression. He asked the checker about it! He probably asked some of the other waiters or cooks first. Two, three days before she was killed! They’ll remember. Waiters and cooks are great ones for chattering; I used to wash dishes up in the capital when I was going to the university.”
Jim Latson whistled. “Yeah. You would get that. A lawyer. And there’s also the business about her not having called room service that night.”
Dave Corday said, “Oh, that’s covered. Anybody who ever took a course in cross-examination knows it is impossible for a witness to swear that anyone was present during a whole evening; he could have slipped around to DeLisle’s when he was out on another call or supposed to be in the men’s room or—it doesn’t matter. But this business of the checker and the slang phrase, the cake on the icing—that’s a real big stinker.”
Jim Latson said softly, “You’re sure this room isn’t bugged?”
“Sure.”
Jim Latson fished a thin, pale cigar out of his pocket. He had his cigars sent from New York, and he was sparse with them; most of the time he co
ntented himself with cigarettes. But now he bit the end off with care, spat that end on the floor, and lit up with precision. There was, of course, a sign in the room that said that Peter Poldear, Sheriff of the County, forbade smoking.
Jim Latson said, “Dave, drop it. Drop the act, poodle-boy. Frame the checker if you have to; she’s a woman, isn’t she? Send her up for streetwalking. I’ll loan you a guy off the vice squad if you need him. Because I love you.”
Dave Corday stared.
“It won’t wash, Dave,” Jim Latson said. “You started out to frame me. So okay, I maybe thought more of you for it. I’d have done the same for you, if you were worth it, which you’re not. Then you got cold feet and decided to let Guild take the rap, to drop your efforts—your feeble, floor-wetting efforts—to fix me. Now something’s put some red into your pus-colored blood, and you’re going back to framing me, dropping Guild. Don’t do it, boy.”
The words poured out in a smooth, effortless purr; Jim Latson had never raised his voice.
“I’m on the level,” Dave Corday said. His voice sounded too eager, and he hated himself for it. “On the level. A witness testifies that he talked about those turquoise beads days before the murder, and we’re done for.”
“I told you. Get rid of the witness. Get rid of all the witnesses. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Dave Corday was on his feet; his fist pounded the interview table. “I’m not dropping it! I’m going to nail you, Latson. I was ready to make friends again, call it even, but no stinking cop talks to me that way. I’m going to get you!”
“One question,” Jim Latson said. “One word. How?”
If he had hated his own meeching voice before, Dave Corday hated worse the ranting sound now. “I don’t know,” he shouted. “But there are always two stages in a case. Where you know who’s guilty, and where you can prove it! And I know who shot Hogan DeLisle. You did, and all the losing of prints and finagling of—”
Jim Latson’s arm shot out and grabbed Dave Corday’s wrist, hard. The pressure and the pain were enough to shut Corday’s mouth in surprise. He followed Jim Latson’s glance and saw the door opening; he kept quiet.
Peter Poldear, sheriff of the county—in effect, jailer—came in, genial, stupid looking, self satisfied. “Saw your prisoner had gone back down, boys,” he said. “Thought we might chew the rag awhile. Who do you like for governor, Jim? I hear the gov’s swinging for the U. S. Senate, ain’t gonna run again.”
“Well, I don’t like you, Pete, or Dave here. Congressman Patrice might do; or the mayor.”
“Yeah,” Pete Poldear said, “but—”
The two voices droned on. It was noticeable, Dave Corday thought bitterly, that Poldear had asked the question of Jim Latson, though Latson was civil service and Dave Corday was, theoretically at least, in politics.
The gossip was drowned out by the blood in his ears. He hated Jim Latson! Just that. And he knew now why he had made his move, why he had planned so well, and hidden so artfully in Hogan DeLisle’s apartment; because he could never be a whole man, a top dog, so long as Latson was around. Jim Latson had been riding him since he first came to the city, went on the D.A.’s staff.
Latson had been a detective-sergeant then. He had nicknamed Corday “Country Boy,” and it had taken years to get rid of it. He had—
His own name called him back to the conversation. Pete Poldear was saying, “Dave, what’s with this Guild case? I just got notice that Frederick Van Lear’s filed as associate counsel with that punk Justin.”
Dave Corday said, “Van Lear?”
Jim Latson whistled. “Hey. Frederick Van Lear hasn’t taken a criminal case in years, and there’s no dough in this one—not that he needs money… Hey. It must be the old boy’s got his eye on the state capital. This is a case with plenty of newspaper angles.”
Dave Corday said, “Yes. Yes. Guild has no friends, no money.”
“A good guy to send up,” Peter Poldear said jovially.
“I’d better have a talk with Van Lear,” Dave Corday said. He was thinking: If Frederick Van Lear finds out about that checker—”
“Let me do it,” Jim Latson said. “Let me talk to the old fox. We don’t want any slip-ups, Dave.”
Dave Corday went deaf with rage again.
Chapter 10
CAPTAIN MARTIN had long since come to the realization that he would probably never be an inspector; most certainly never anything higher than that. Examination marks, good conduct and seniority had carried him where he was; here the line separated routine police work and politics; and Martin was not fool enough to think he could out-politic the Jim Latsons of the city.
Therefore he didn’t try.
His work was superb. As head of Homicide, he had once looked up the figures and found that he had a higher percentage of cases solved than had any city of comparable size and population in the United States. Having found this out, he destroyed his notes and his neat chart; he told his wife and no one else.
If a thing like that got out, he reasoned, he’d be called on to make speeches at police conventions. The Chamber of Commerce, or the Kiwanis, or someone might get to bragging on him. And this sort of thing started intra-departmental jealousy, and the next thing you knew, a fifty-year-old captain was buttoned up in blue serge, running a precinct house. Martin, a man with brains and reasoning power, wanted a job where he could use them; and such jobs are not found in a precinct commander’s routine.
The DeLisle case had not particularly interested him at first. A quick glance at the dead girl’s apartment had told him this was not a robbery case; jewelry well worth a heist-man’s time was left in plain view.
Not robbery and not, the clothing told him, rape; therefore blackmail or any one of the motives lumped together as passion; one of those killings that happen when one partner in an affair moves out or wants to move out to more stimulating activities.
Routine.
The arrest of Ralph Guild had surprised him; in the sense that a man picking up a sugar jar in a cafeteria is surprised when he finds it empty. Captain Martin’s quick, unruffled mind said at once, “Sure. He stole the cheap beads, she found out, he was going to lose his job. So, bang.”
The “bang” had now become “bang (?).” The good mind was now beginning to reject the obvious.
That the News-Journal would try and get Guild off was nothing. The News-Journal was backing Frederick Van Lear—who was their attorney and one of their directors—for a political office, that was what that meant. But that Van Lear would pick this particular case, with a dozen easier looking ones on the docket—that had significance.
Yeah.
Cap Martin leaned back, put his feet on the desk. A buzzer was at his hand; it would take him only a moment to get the file on Guild… But he knew enough. It was just a matter of putting things together a little differently.
So: The hour of the killing would indicate that she had been at a nightclub or at a private home. Which, and with whom?…
He let that go for a moment. She had come home, opened her door, walked in and been shot, at once… Yeah. Lights were not on in the bedroom or bathroom, and that kind of dame would head at once for a good place to repair her face or—
He picked up the phone, asked for the medical examiner. “Two questions, Doc, both easy. Did DeLisle’s shoes fit her, and what was the state of her lipstick?”
The M.E. chuckled. “Marty, you’re something. We just got the bullets out and checked her stomach for food. She’d eaten about two hours before. Want to know what?”
“Chicken sandwich?”
Another chuckle. “Close enough. Club sandwich—bacon, tomato, and either chicken or turkey.”
“Can you tell which?”
Captain Martin permitted himself a slow smile. He was about to unveil one of those little bits of knowledge that so astounded his colleagues and even, after all these years, his wife. The sputtering on the other end of the telephone was his reward. Doc was asking what possib
le business of the Homicide Squad it could be if the dead girl ate chicken or turkey in her sandwich.
“Easy,” Cap Martin said. “Restaurants always make a club sandwich out of turkey. Private homes almost always use chicken. Could tell you why, but you don’t deserve it. Want to know where she was.”
“Call you back,” the M.E. said.
Cap Martin said, “And if her feet were tight in her shoes, and had she fixed her lipstick after she came home.”
“I get you,” the M.E. said. “Put ’em together, you’ll know whether she was alone.”
“Right.” He hung up the phone, and gave the ceiling of his office a hard stare. He had been a fool. Never judge a case an easy one. There’s a rule that ought to be hung in every squad room in the country.
He’d take a run out to Guild’s house, take a News-Journal man with him since they were obviously in with this Van Lear who now thought he could clear Guild.
Cap Martin called headquarters press room, asked for the News-Journal, and got Harry Weber. He said, “Come on up here. Something for you.”
Then he used his memory. Koch and Lyons had made the pinch. He told Jake, his patrolman-secretary, to get them out to Guild’s house, to wait for him.
By which time, the M.E. had called back. He said, “In your own language, Marty: tight shoes, fresh lipstick, turkey.”
Cap Martin said, “Thanks,” hung up, got his hat and coat. Young Weber was in the outer office. Cap said, “Can you keep something off the record?”
Harry Weber said promptly, “Not if it’s something I can find out some place else.”
“I’ll take a chance. Here it is: I’m pretty sure now a man took DeLisle home.” Then he stood, waiting; Weber’s answer would tell him a lot about the kid.
Finally Harry Weber said, “If you’re right, this man was the murderer or a witness who fled the scene.”
They were moving downstairs now. Cap Martin nodded. Smart boy. A dumb one would jump to the conclusion that the unidentified man was the murderer.
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