by Kane, Henry
“Love to,” she said.
“I’m going to dance,” I said to Falkner.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Dance.”
We left him staring resolutely at Tamville’s door. I was about to tell her that it was a sure-pop that I’d be having nightcaps with her at her apartment, when I saw him, coming down the stairs—my clown, all blown up in a balloon costume.
“Sorry,” I said, “business.” I danced her off to a side but by then my clown had gone into Tamville’s room.
I looked for Falkner and found Falkner looking for me. The knight who had been at the door was walking toward the bar and we grabbed at him.
“Can we go in too?” I asked him.
“Oh, no, sir. Mr. Tamville was ready for the Persian prince and the clown. No one else. And now, while that clown’s in there, I’m going to have me a couple of quick ones.”
Right then, the shots came.
Three gunshots from Tamville’s room.
And then we were running, trying to push our way through the crowd. Everybody was running.
And then we were there, in Tamville’s room, and Tamville was there, quite dead, but the clown was not there. Tamville lay on the floor with a hole through the bridge of his nose. A gun lay near him.
But the clown was not in the room.
And the French doors were wide open.
Falkner’s cops cleared the crowd away. He sent two of them out to the garden for a look-around, and ordered the other four: “Nobody leaves the house! They all stay here!” Then he closed the wood-paneled door and we were alone in the room: Falkner and I and Tamville.
Falkner pinky-lifted the gun and brought it to a desk. He sat down and looked at it. I went to the mantel.
“It was here when I saw it last,” I said. “It’s not here now.”
“What?” he said.
“That opal deal.”
“See if it’s in any of his pockets.”
I went through his clothes. It wasn’t on him.
“It’s not on him,” I said.
“Funny,” Falkner said. He was studying the gun.
I went back to the mantel. “The little box is here,” I said. “But not the ring.”
“Funny,” Falkner said.
“What the hell’s funny about it?” I said.
“Come here.”
I went to him at the desk.
“Look,” he said, pointing at the gun. “Look at the barrel.”
I looked. There were peculiar scratches on it.
“What do you think?” he said.
“Looks like the marks of a silencer.”
“That’s what’s funny,” he said.
“What’s funny?” I said. “We all heard three shots, didn’t we? That’s funny.”
“Could be,” I said, “a silencer was used on this gun some time before. Then it’s not funny any more, is it?”
“Could be,” he said. “Only they look like fresh scratches.”
“Could be,” I said, “the silencer that was used before was used some time recently before.”
“Could be,” he said. He lifted his eyes from the gun, looked toward the mantel, looked toward Tamville. “If the thing isn’t there,” he said, “and isn’t on him, it figures that whoever shot him took it. But we’ll give the room a going-over anyway.”
The two cops who had gone out to the garden came back through the French doors. One of them was carrying a clown’s costume.
“We found this here under a bush out there,” he said.
“Thanks, Cassidy,” Falkner said. “Now wrap this gun and beat it into town. Go real fast. I want it thoroughly checked. And I want a full report on it by the time I get back.”
“Yes, sir,” Cassidy said. He took the gun carefully and went out of the room.
Falkner lifted the phone and called the local police. He gave them a quick sketch of the events and requested a wagon-load of experts. He said thanks and hung up. Then he sighed and sat back. After a while, he pointed a long finger at the clown’s costume.
“Looks bad for Mr. Benson,” he said, “doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t look good,” I said.
19
Cops piled in and cops went to work. The entire house was searched—with no results. A guest list was secured from one of the servants, and that was checked against the guests. Every one was present and accounted for except George Benson. By now, of course, the party was over and the guests were clamoring to be permitted to go home. Falkner agreed on condition that each guest would submit to being personally searched. No one objected. Each guest was frisked before being permitted to leave.
Patricia Hill came to me and inquired as to whether I would go with her. I told her I couldn’t just then, but that I would join her, if she would have me, later at her apartment. She said she would love to have me. She said that three other couples were coming, aside from Blattner and Jessica. “That makes ten people,” she said, “including you and me. I’ll need help as a host. So please hurry.”
“Doesn’t anybody care,” I said, “that a guy just died?”
“Nobody seems to,” she said. “Everybody’s high, at least, a little high. Perhaps none of them were really his friends. For myself, I hardly knew him. Promise to hurry, Peter?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Then they were all gone, and then our work was done, and then I was riding to town with Sergeant Ernest Falkner.
“I’m going to stop off at George Benson’s place,” Falkner said. “Where is it?”
“Thirty-eighth and Madison. I’ll show you. Do you expect to find him there?”
“I don’t know what to expect. If he’s skipped, he’s skipped. But if he’s there, then he’s there for me personally. Because then he’s going to brazen. And that I’d like to handle while it’s hot, personally.”
We stopped at the edge of town and I went with him to a telephone. He called Headquarters and talked to ballistics. He listened a long while and then he said, “Yes, bring it with you. Meet me at Thirty-eighth and Madison.”
At Thirty-eighth and Madison we were met by a young policeman who gave Falkner a gun. The young policeman stayed downstairs while Falkner and I went up to Benson’s apartment. We rang the bell and waited. Benson himself opened the door. He looked pale and tired.
“Oh,” he said. “Mr. Chambers.”
“My name is Falkner,” Falkner said.
“I was just going to call you, Mr. Chambers,” Benson said. “Just going to call Tamville’s place.”
“Now?” I said.
“I was tied up until now.”
“Tied up, were you?” Falkner said. “Couldn’t get loose for a moment, could you?”
“As a matter of fact, I couldn’t. I mean that literally. Literally, I was tied up. I was bound and gagged. I was only just now able to finally wriggle loose.”
“So that’s the way it’s going to be,” Falkner said.
“Who is this?” Benson said.
“Detective-sergeant Ernest Falkner,” I said. “Of Homicide.” “And this,” Detective-sergeant Ernest Falkner said, displaying the gun, “is your gun, Mr. Benson. Serial numbers prove it’s your gun. Fingerprints are smudges, but ballistics show that this is the gun that killed him. So any way you look at it, Mr. Benson, you are, as they say, slightly up the creek.”
“Killed?” he said. “Killed whom?” He turned to me. “What is he talking about?”
“Robby Tamville was murdered,” I said.
“Tamville? Murdered?”
“Look,” Falkner said. “It’s a little bit of open and shut. Let’s get it straight, though. Do you deny that you killed the guy? Do you deny that you latched on to that little trinket from King Tut or somebody?”
“Of course I deny it.”
“Figures. Figures if you’re here, you’re going to brazen. Probably got that ring hidden out pretty good by now.”
Again Benson turned to me. “What in heaven’s name is he talking ab
out?”
Falkner put a hand on his shoulder and turned him back. “I’m talking about this, Mr. Benson. Listen hard, please. You were seen going down the stairs, clown costume, mask and all. You were seen going into his room.”
“I … I was seen!”
“That much we know,” Falkner said. “Now let me do a bit of conjecturing.”
“Conjecturing?” Benson said.
“He showed you the ring,” Falkner said slowly, “and when you had it in your hand, you shot him. You had to hurry to get out, so when you dropped the gun, there just wasn’t time to stop to retrieve it. You ran out through those open French doors. You dropped the clown uniform on the grounds, and beat it back to town. That’s it, pal. You were seen going in, it’s your gun, the bullets from that gun killed him, and you were the only guest missing. Now do you mean to tell me that with all that staring you in the face, you’re going to try to brazen? Don’t try, Mr. Benson. Where’s that ring?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Just a minute,” I said.
“Butt out,” Falkner said.
“No,” I said. “Let’s be fair. You’ve given him a rundown but I don’t think you’ve mentioned everything. Let’s mention everything.”
“Like what?” Falkner said.
“Well, Tamville was killed by one bullet, right? One bullet through the bridge of the nose. That right?”
“Yes.”
“But we heard three shots. Right?”
“Right.”
“But there was no sign of the other two bullets. Nothing in the walls, nothing like that. How’s about it, Sergeant? Have you thought about it?”
“Of course I have.”
“Any explanation?”
“Sure. Tamville was on the floor, near enough to those open French doors. This guy pegged three bullets at him. Two missed. One hit. The other two slugs are probably outside there in the garden. I’ve got the local cops looking for them. Figures they’ll turn up. Satisfied?”
“Question, please?”
“Shoot.”
“How many bullets were left in the gun?”
“None,” he said.
“You mean all that gun contained was three bullets?”
“Don’t ask me,” Falkner said. “Ask him.”
“Mr. Benson,” I said. “How’s about that?”
“May I see the gun, please?” Benson said.
Falkner gave him the gun. Benson examined it.
“I believe,” Benson said, “it is my gun.”
“Well, that’s real big of you to admit it,” Falkner said.
“Do you generally load it with only three bullets?” I said.
“I’m never sure,” Benson said. He looked toward Falkner. “I have a license for it, sir.”
“Okay, so you have a license for it,” Falkner said.
“Mr. Benson,” I said. “What about only three bullets in it?”
“I can’t say how many bullets were in it. I took target practice only the other day. I loaded it many times. When I was finished, I don’t know how many bullets were left in it.”
“Okay,” Falkner said. “That’s enough of that. Let’s get down to cases.”
“Just one other thing,” I said. “Do you have a silencer, Mr. Benson?”
“No.”
“Do you expect him to admit it?” Falkner said.
“What about the silencer, Sergeant?” I said.
“You explained it yourself, Peter. The silencer thing could have happened any time before. This bird could have tried it on for size, here at home. He could have thrown it away when he decided not to use it.”
“Mr. Benson,” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Chambers?”
“You’ve heard it all now. There’s a lot of damning evidence. It’s your turn now. Can you give us any explanation?”
“I can only tell you what happened.”
“Okay,” Falkner said. “Get it over with. Tell us.” He told us.
According to him, someone rang his doorbell early in the evening. He answered it, opened his door. There was no one there. He stuck his head out for a look, and he was struck on the back of the head. That was all he knew. When he regained consciousness, he was bound and gagged. He worked hard and long at trying to untie himself, and he finally did, just before we arrived. He had looked about, thinking it had been a robbery. Nothing had been stolen, however, except his clown costume and his gun.
“That your story?” Falkner sighed deeply.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a story,” Falkner said, “and it has all the usual elements of a phony story. But … I’m a fair cop. Let’s just shake it up a little. All right, Mr. Benson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were bound and gagged. Correct?”
“Yes.” “Okay, show us some proof. Bound? Show me rope, cord, wire, something. Gagged? Show me tape. Show me. Show me something!”
“I shall be happy to show you, Sergeant Falkner.” Benson went to a couch and took two wrinkled ties from it and two handkerchiefs. “I was tied with these ties. One of the handkerchiefs was stuffed into my mouth, the other was bound around my mouth.”
“Whose are these?” he said.
“They are my own.”
Falkner lifted helpless hands in the air, spoke to me. “What am I supposed to say to that, huh? A guy wrinkles a couple of his own ties, chews on a couple of his own handkerchiefs, and expects that to back up a cockeyed alibi story. What am I supposed to say to that? Why, his own lawyer will laugh at him.”
“Look,” Benson said. “Please look. I have a bump on my head. Where I was struck.”
“Everybody’s got bumps on their heads, Mr. Benson.” Falkner flicked a glance at me. “Even Hart had a bump on his head, the autopsy showed. Mr. Chambers got a bump on his head only yesterday.” He went to Benson. “Bumps on the head are not alibis, Mr. Benson. People are always bumping their heads. Let’s go, please.”
“Go?” Benson said, looking about wildly. “Go? Go where?”
“I’m sorry,” Falkner said, “but I’ve got to take you downtown.” And outside, in the street, Falkner turned to me. He was hot, angry, tired, and overworked. “Where are you going to be?” he said.
“When?”
“Now.”
“Aren’t I going with you?”
“You are not. Where’ll I be able to reach you?”
“At Patricia Hill’s.”
“Where’s that?”
“441 Park.”
“You’ll be there?”
“I will.”
“Okay, you’d better. Because when I get finished with this guy, I’m coming up for you. Please think about it, Peter. You left a large sum of money with Mr. Perkowski and you told him it had something to do with Jonathan Hart. I haven’t pressed you, but I’m going to. So, think, my boy, and expect me. And I’m not coming as a friend, Peter. I’m coming as a policeman.”
“Come any way you please, my friend.”
20
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one little bit. The guy had shown me a check for a quarter of a million, certified. The guy had hired me as a bodyguard and had paid me a fee. Now, would a reasonable man planning murder and robbery—would a reasonable man do it that way?
Perhaps—for an unusual cover-up.
But would he pull it that raw? Would he have just gone in there, and be seen going in? Would he have done a shooting that he must have known would be heard? Would he have just beat it like that, through the French doors; just blow, and leave his costume behind?
Perhaps—if the man had an immense ego, and enough confidence in his alibi.
But—if he was that clever—then he should have been more clever.
To me, his weakest point—was the strongest point in his favor.
If he were planning an alibi after as brazen a job as that—then that alibi should have been much more powerful, much more convincing. Certainly, if it were an alibi, he could have provided himself
with rope, or tape, or wire. Or, if he were that clever, he could have arranged to be securely bound and gagged, and he could have arranged to have had us find him that way.
I looked at it from every angle.
And from whatever angle I looked—I didn’t like it.
I turned off Madison and strolled up Park and suddenly I thought about my wonderful city. Where else could a pirate in the dark of night thoughtfully meander on a city street and hardly get a second look from a passerby?
But I did not press my luck.
I hailed a cab, and I was transported to my destination with the usual running fire of monologue from the front seat and no more than a querulous squint or two from the rearview. At 441, I rang the bell of Dr. P. P. Hill’s downstairs apartment, and, almost at once, I was part of a small masquerade party that was hitting it up on all cylinders. There was music from the Hi-fi, highballs and lowballs in manifest profusion, dancing that Was either madly solo or tensely close in partnership, laughter that was giggly or strident, many sandwiches, much peanuts, and four lovely women practically naked (who else would dare to wear those costumes except lovely women?), and one miraculous devil, with a shapely shining red body, her face flushed now, her eyes sparkling, her black hair wild and flying.
Everybody’s mask was off.
Jonathan Hart was dead, Robby Tamville was dead, George Benson was in the can, but here everybody’s mask was off and everybody looked happy.
Except me.
My mask was off but I am certain I did not look happy.
If it weren’t for my particular interest in the good doctor, Miss Patricia Hill, I’d have been out of my pirate’s attire, and into my normal saloon costume, and, morose and solitary, I would have been lapping up joy-juice and hating the world. I was in the mood. I was ready to get more loaded than a docked ship after a longshoremen’s strike. Instead, I applied myself assiduously to the doctor’s Scotch, until the doctor took me by the hand and led me on an inspection tour of the apartment.
There were eight rooms. Business must have been real good for the doctor. Five of the eight rooms were the apartment: big living room where the masqueraders were living it up, dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms. The other three rooms (really a separate apartment with a separate entrance) were the office: waiting room, consulting room, and X-ray room. In the X-ray room, the doctor showed me her equipment, the X-rays, the fluroscope, the stuff. But I was much more impressed with the doctor’s personal equipment, and suddenly, I grabbed her hair, pulled her close, held her tight and kissed her.