Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here!

by Ed McBain

  They carried the register to a couch upholstered in faded red velvet. With the book supported on Carella’s lap, they unfolded the note Mercy Howell had received and began comparing the signatures of the guests with the only part of the note that was not written in block letters, the words “The Avenging Angel.”

  There were fifty-two guests in the hotel. Carella and Hawes went through the register once and then started through it a second time.

  “Hey,” Hawes said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Look at this one.”

  He took the note and placed it on the page so that it was directly above one of the signatures:

  “What you think?” he asked.

  “Different handwriting,” Carella said.

  “Same initials,” Hawes said.

  Detective Meyer Meyer was still shaken. He did not like ghosts. He did not like this house. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be in bed with his wife Sarah. He wanted her to stroke his hand and tell him that such things did not exist, there was nothing to be afraid of, a grown man? How could he believe in poltergeists, shades, Dutch spirits? Ridiculous.

  But he had heard them, and he had felt their chilling presence, and had almost thought he’d seen them, if only for an instant. He turned with fresh shock now toward the hall staircase and the sound of descending footsteps. Eyes wide, he waited for whatever new manifestation might present itself. He was tempted to draw his revolver, but he was afraid such an act would appear foolish to the Gormans. He had come here a skeptic, and he was now at least willing to believe, and he waited in dread for whatever was coming down those steps with such ponderous footfalls—some ghoul trailing winding sheets and rattling chains? Some specter with a bleached skull for a head and long bony clutching fingers dripping the blood of babies?

  Willem Van Houten, wearing his red velvet slippers and his red smoking jacket, his hair still jutting wildly from behind each ear, his blue eyes fierce and snapping, came into the living room and walked directly to where his daughter and son-in-law were sitting.

  “Well?” he asked. “Did they come again?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Adele said.

  “What did they want this time?”

  “I don’t know. They spoke Dutch again.”

  “Bastards,” Van Houten said, and then turned to Meyer. “Did you see them?” he asked.

  “No, sir, I did not,” Meyer said.

  “But they were here,” Gorman protested, and turned his blank face to his wife. “I heard them.”

  “Yes, darling,” Adele assured him. “We all heard them. But it was like that other time, don’t you remember? When we could hear them even though they couldn’t quite break through.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Gorman said, and nodded. “This happened once before, Detective Meyer.” He was facing Meyer now, his head tilted quizzically, the sightless eyes covered with their black reflecting glasses. When he spoke, his voice was like that of a child seeking reassurance. “But you did hear them, didn’t you, Detective Meyer?”

  “Yes,” Meyer said. “I heard them, Mr. Gorman.”

  “And the wind?”

  “Yes, the wind, too.”

  “And felt them? It…it gets so cold when they appear. You did feel their presence, didn’t you?”

  “I felt something,” Meyer said.

  Van Houten suddenly asked, “Are you satisfied?”

  “About what?” Meyer said.

  “That there are ghosts in this house? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To ascertain…”

  “He’s here because I asked Adele to contact the police,” Gorman said.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because of the stolen jewelry,” Gorman said. “And because…” He paused. “Because I…I’ve lost my sight, yes, but I wanted to… to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind as well,”

  “You’re quite sane, Ralph,” Van Houten said.

  “About the jewelry…” Meyer said.

  “They took it,” Van Houten said.

  “Who?”

  “Johann and Elisabeth. Our friendly neighborhood ghosts, the bastards.”

  “That’s impossible, Mr. Van Houten.”

  “Why is it impossible?”

  “Because ghosts…” Meyer started, and hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Ghosts, well, ghosts don’t go around stealing jewelry. I mean, what use would they have for it?” he said lamely, and looked at the Gormans for corroboration. Neither of them seemed to be in a supportive mood. They sat on the sofa near the fireplace, looking glum and defeated.

  “They want us out of this house,” Van Houten said. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they said so.”

  “When?”

  “Before they stole the necklace and the earrings.”

  “They told this to you?”

  “To me and to my children. All three of us were here.”

  “But I understand the ghosts speak only Dutch.”

  “Yes, I translated for Ralph and Adele.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When did you discover the jewelry was missing?”

  “The very instant they were gone.”

  “You mean you went to the safe…”

  “Yes, and opened it, and the jewelry was gone.”

  “We had put it in the safe not ten minutes before that,” Adele said. “We’d been to a party, Ralph and I, and we got home very late, and Daddy was still awake, reading, sitting in that chair you’re in this very minute. I asked him to open the safe, and he did, and he put the jewelry in, and closed the safe and…and then they came and…and made their threats.”

  “What time was this?”

  “The usual time. The time they always come. Two forty-five in the morning.”

  “And you say the jewelry was put into the safe at what time?”

  “About two-thirty,” Gorman said.

  “And when was the safe opened again?”

  “Immediately after they left. They only stay a few moments. This time they told my father-in-law they were taking the necklace and the earrings with them. He rushed to the safe as soon as the lights came on again…”

  “Do the lights always go off?”

  “Always,” Adele said. “It’s always the same. The lights go off, and the room gets very cold, and we hear these…strange voices arguing.” She paused. “And then Johann and Elisabeth come.”

  “Except that this time they didn’t come,” Meyer said.

  “And one other time,” Adele said quickly.

  “They want us out of this house,” Van Houten said, “that’s all there is to it. Maybe we ought to leave. Before they take everything from us.”

  “Everything? What do you mean?”

  “The rest of my daughter’s jewelry. Some stock certificates. Everything that’s in the safe.”

  “Where is the safe?” Meyer asked.

  “Here. Behind this painting.” Van Houten walked to the wall opposite the fireplace. An oil painting of a pastoral landscape hung there in an ornate gilt frame. The frame was hinged to the wall. Van Houten swung the painting out as though opening a door and revealed the small, round, black safe behind it. “Here,” he said.

  “How many people know the combination?” Meyer asked.

  “Just me,” Van Houten said.

  “Do you keep the number written down anywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Hidden.”

  “Where?”

  “I hardly think that’s any of your business, Detective Meyer.”

  “I’m only trying to find out whether some other person could have got hold of the combination somehow.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” Van Houten said. “But highly unlikely.”

  “Well,” Meyer said, and shrugged. “I don’t really know what to say. I’d like to measure the ro
om, if you don’t mind, get the dimensions, placement of doors and windows, things like that. For my report.” He shrugged again.

  “It’s rather late, isn’t it?” Van Houten said.

  “Well, I got here rather late,” Meyer said, and smiled.

  “Come, Daddy, I’ll make us all some tea in the kitchen,” Adele said. “Will you be long, Detective Meyer?”

  “I don’t know. It may take a while.”

  “Shall I bring you some tea?”

  “Thank you, that would be nice.”

  She rose from the couch and then guided her husband’s hand to her arm. Walking slowly beside him, she led him past her father and out of the room. Van Houten looked at Meyer once again, nodded briefly, and followed them out. Meyer closed the door behind them and immediately walked to the standing floor lamp.

  The woman was sixty years old, and she looked like anybody’s grandmother, except that she had just murdered her husband and three children. They had explained her rights to her, and she had told them she had nothing to hide and would answer any questions they chose to ask. She sat in a straight-backed squadroom chair, wearing a black cloth coat over bloodstained pajamas and robe, her handcuffed hands in her lap, her hands unmoving on her black leather pocketbook. O’Brien and Kling looked at the police stenographer, who glanced up at the wall clock, noted the time of the interrogation’s start as 3:55 A.M., and then signaled that he was ready whenever they were.

  “What is your name?” O’Brien asked.

  “Isabel Martin.”

  “How old are you, Mrs. Martin?”

  “Sixty.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “On Ainsley Avenue.”

  “Where on Ainsley?”

  “657 Ainsley.”

  “With whom do you live there?”

  “With my husband Roger, and my son Peter, and my daughters Annie and Abigail.”

  “Would you like to tell us what happened tonight, Mrs. Martin?” Kling asked.

  “I killed them all,” she said. She had white hair, a fine aquiline nose, brown eyes behind rimless spectacles. She stared straight ahead of her as she spoke, looking neither to her right nor to her left, ignoring her questioners completely, seemingly alone with the memory of what she had done not a half hour before.

  “Can you give us some of the details, Mrs. Martin?”

  “I killed him first, the son of a bitch.”

  “Who do you mean, Mrs. Martin?”

  “My husband.”

  “When was this?”

  “When he came home.”

  “What time was that, do you remember?”

  “A little while ago.”

  “It’s almost four o’clock now,” Kling said. “Would you say this was at, what, three-thirty or thereabouts?”

  “I didn’t look at the clock,” she said. “I heard his key in the latch, and I went in the kitchen, and there he was.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a meat cleaver I keep on the sink. I hit him with it.”

  “Why did you do that, Mrs. Martin?”

  “Because I wanted to.”

  “Were you arguing with him, is that it?”

  “No. He was locking the door, and I just went over to the sink and picked up the cleaver, and then I hit him with it.”

  “Where did you hit him, Mrs. Martin?”

  “On his head and on his neck and I think on his shoulder.”

  “You hit him three times with the cleaver?”

  “I hit him a lot of times, I don’t know how many times.”

  “Were you aware that you were hitting him?”

  “Yes, I was aware.”

  “You knew you were striking him with a cleaver.”

  “Yes, I knew.”

  “Did you intend to kill him with the cleaver?”

  “I intended to kill him with the cleaver.”

  “And afterwards, did you know you had killed him?”

  “I knew he was dead, yes, the son of a bitch.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “My oldest child came into the kitchen. Peter. My son. He yelled at me, he wanted to know what I’d done, he kept yelling at me. I hit him, too, to get him to shut up. I hit him only once, across the throat.”

  “Did you know what you were doing at the time?”

  “I knew what I was doing. He was another one, that Peter. Little bastard.”

  “What happened next, Mrs. Martin?”

  “I went in the back bedroom where the two girls sleep, and I hit Annie with the cleaver first, and then I hit Abigail.”

  “Where did you hit them, Mrs. Martin?”

  “On the face. Their faces.”

  “How many times?”

  “I think I hit Annie twice, and Abigail only once.”

  “Why did you do that, Mrs. Martin?”

  “Who would take care of them after I was gone?” Mrs. Martin asked of no one.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell us?” Kling asked.

  “There’s nothing more to tell. I done the right thing.”

  The detectives walked away from the desk. They were both pale. “Man,” O’Brien whispered.

  “Yeah,” Kling said. “We’d better call the night DA right away, get him to take a full confession from her.”

  “Killed four of them without batting an eyelash,” O’Brien said, and shook his head, and went back to where the stenographer was typing up Mrs. Martin’s statement.

  The telephone was ringing. Kling walked to the nearest desk and lifted the receiver. “87th Squad, Detective Kling,” he said.

  “This is Donner.”

  “Yeah, Fats.”

  “I think I got a lead on one of those heaps.”

  “Shoot.”

  “This would be the one heisted on Fourteenth Street. According to the dope I’ve got, it happened yesterday morning. Does that check out?”

  “I’ll have to look at the bulletin again. Go ahead, Fats.”

  “It’s already been ditched,” Donner said. “If you’re looking for it, try outside the electric company on the River Road.”

  “Thanks, I’ll make a note of that. Who stole it, Fats?”

  “This is strictly entre nous,” Donner said “I don’t want no tie-in with it never. The guy who done it is a mean little bastard, rip out his mother’s heart for a dime. He hates niggers, killed two of them in a street rumble four years ago, and managed to beat the rap. I think maybe some officer was on the take, huh, Kling?”

  “You can’t square homicide in this city, and you know it, Fats.”

  “Yeah? I’m surprised. You can square damn near anything else for a couple of bills.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Danny Ryder. 3541 Grover Avenue, near the park. You won’t find him there now, though.”

  “Where will I find him now?”

  “Ten minutes ago, he was in an allnight bar on Mason, place called Felicia’s. You going in after him?”

  “I am.”

  “Take your gun,” Donner said.

  There were seven people in Felicia’s when Kling got there at 4:45. He cased the bar through the plateglass window fronting the place, unbuttoned the third button of his overcoat, reached in to clutch the butt of his revolver, worked it out of the holster once and then back again, and went in through the front door.

  There was the immediate smell of stale cigarette smoke and beer and sweat and cheap perfume. A Puerto Rican girl was in whispered consultation with a sailor in one of the leatherette booths. Another sailor was hunched over the jukebox, thoughtfully considering his next selection, his face tinted orange and red and green from the colored tubing. A tired, fat, fifty-year-old blonde sat at the far end of the bar, watching the sailor as though the next button he pushed might destroy the entire world. The bartender was polishing glasses. He looked up when Kling walked in and immediately smelled the law.

  Two men were seated at the opposite end of the bar.

  One of them was wear
ing a blue turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and desert boots. His brown hair was cut close to his scalp in a military cut. The other man was wearing a bright-orange team jacket, almost luminous, with the words Orioles, SAC lettered across its back in Old English script. The one with the crew cut said something softly, and the other one chuckled. Behind the bar, a glass clinked as the bartender replaced it on the shelf. The jukebox erupted in sound, Jimi Hendrix rendering “All Along the Watchtower.”

  Kling walked over to the two men.

  “Which one of you is Danny Ryder?” he asked.

  The one with the short hair said, “Who wants to know?”

  “Police officer,” Kling said, and the one in the orange jacket whirled with a pistol in his hand, and Kling’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and the gun went off.

  There was no time to think, there was hardly any time to breathe. The explosion of the gun was shockingly close, the acrid stink of cordite rushed into his nostrils. The knowledge that he was still alive, the sweet rushing clean awareness that the bullet had somehow missed him was only a fleeting click of intelligence accompanying what was essentially a reflexive act. The .38 came free of its holster, his finger was inside the trigger guard and around the trigger, he squeezed off his shot almost before the gun had cleared the flap of his overcoat, fired into the orange jacket, and threw his shoulder simultaneously against the chest of the man with the short hair, knocking him backward off his stool. The man in the orange jacket, his face twisted in pain, was leveling the gun for another shot. Kling fired again, squeezing the trigger without thought or rancor and then whirling on the man with the short hair, who was crouched on the floor against the bar.

  “Get up!” he yelled.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  “Get up, you son of a bitch!”

  He yanked the man to his feet, hurled him against the bar, thrust the muzzle of his pistol at the blue turtleneck sweater, ran his hands under the armpits and between the legs while the man kept saying over and over again, “Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot.”

  He backed away from him and leaned over the one in the orange jacket.

  “Is this Ryder?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Frank…Frank Pasquale. Look, I—”