Leopold's Way

by Edward D. Hoch

  “It’s ended already, as far as Slater and I are concerned.”

  Leopold shook his head. “Watts didn’t kill him.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What?”

  “Nobody. It was an accident.”

  “Accident!” Slater snorted. “Since when do killers strangle kids by accident?”

  “No one strangled Tommy. He strangled himself, trying to duplicate a trick he’d seen in the circus.”

  They looked at Leopold, unbelieving, uncertain.

  “There’s a man there who spins on a rope tied around his neck. Tommy tried it, and it killed him.”

  Slater snorted. “You forget he was on his way to the circus when he died.”

  Leopold sighed and brushed a hand across his eyes. “But he’d already been there once, the night before. His father told you so. He saw the spinning man, and on his way to the circus for the second time he decided to try the trick. He tied a rope in one of those trees, and tied the other end around his neck, and then he strangled to death…”

  “And nobody saw this?”

  “It’s far back from the street, and who would pay attention to a kid in a tree, anyway? By the time the rope had tightened around his throat, he couldn’t call for help.”

  The D.A. thought about it. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Maybe. Go ahead and prove it.”

  Leopold led the way through the grass of the vacant lot, toward the waiting trees. “There was no wet grass on his shoes, so we knew he’d been here before the rain started. He had to be doing something for those missing fifteen minutes, and I finally decided this was it.”

  They followed him, less unbelieving now. “What happened to the rope?” Slater asked.

  “Since it wasn’t still around his neck, it must be still in the tree. Tommy’s struggles, and perhaps the rain hitting it, loosened the knot of the rope and his body fell to the ground. The tree limb, released of its burden, shot back up—hurling the rope high up into the branches.”

  “A good theory, but we’ve still got a confession.”

  “Will you believe me if we find the rope?”

  “I suppose so.”

  They paused beneath the tree, in the spot where the body had been found. And the three of them looked up, into the sheltering branches of the tree.

  And it was there.

  Curling among the branches like some waiting serpent.

  “There’s your rope,” the D.A. said. “I guess that finishes it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s going to tell his parents?”

  Leopold sighed. “I am, I guess.”

  He walked away from them, across the lot to the waiting house. This was the toughest part, now, when there was no villain for the parents to punish.

  No revenge, only sorrow.

  He rang the doorbell and waited, and presently Mister Cranston came.

  “Oh…Captain Leopold! Do you have any news?”

  Leopold sighed and walked through the doorway. “Yes, I have some news…”

  (1962)

  Death in the Harbor

  DR. OSCAR FLOWN WAS a yachtsman. The joy of his life was a 47-foot twin Diesel cruiser with a fiberglass hull, built to his specifications in England. It could accommodate six people and a crew of two, and only a week-end of bad weather or an emergency case kept him from enjoying the warmth and splendor of the Sound by starlight. His boat, the High Flown, was usually anchored in the harbor within rowing distance of the yacht club; and if its 3’2” draft kept it inconveniently far from shore at this point, it also discouraged some of the livelier drunks frequenting the club on Saturday nights from invading its decks.

  It was an odd combination of circumstances that found Dr. Flown alone aboard his craft at eleven o’clock on this Saturday night. His wife and the two youths who served him week-ends as a makeshift crew had gone ashore—the boys for groceries and Mrs. Flown to meet the couples who were to join them on an overnight cruise. Dr. Flown had stayed behind, mainly to call the hospital about an operation he had performed in the morning.

  He had just replaced the radio telephone in its cradle when he felt the cruiser lurch slightly. It might only have been the passing wake of another boat, but he knew that none had passed. Was someone climbing aboard?

  “Who’s there?” the doctor called out, not really expecting an answer. He went up on deck to satisfy himself it was his imagination.

  He saw the thing clearly in the moonlight and had just time enough to ask, “What do you want?” before he dropped to the deck wondering why he had to die.

  The black waters rippled for a moment, then crystallized again.

  Leopold had a headache. Sitting there shuffling the Monday morning reports around on his cluttered desk, he groaned at the injustice of it all. Two or three drinks the night before, and he was suffering like an alcoholic.

  “Morning, Captain.”

  Leopold shoved the unread reports aside. “Good morning, Fletcher. What happened over the week-end?”

  “Not much. Knifing down by the marsh. We got a boy locked up. And you probably saw in the papers that Doc Flown shot himself on his boat.”

  Leopold nodded. “I never figured Doc for that.”

  “Who did? Funny case, too.”

  “Funny?” Leopold reached for a cigarette, remembered that smoking always made his headache worse, and changed his mind.

  “Funny. Flown radiophoned the city hospital to check on a patient just before he did it. Nurse says he even joked with her. And he didn’t leave a note.”

  “Any chance it was murder?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “He was alone on the boat. The shot attracted some people on shore and they rowed out and found him. They all swear they saw nobody leave the yacht.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “Fell overboard, I guess. We didn’t find it.”

  “Powder burns?”

  “Inconclusive. Could be the gun was fired from several feet away.”

  Leopold sighed. “Spend a little time on it, Fletcher. Check out his wife for boy friends, disgruntled patients, that sort of thing. Just in case.”

  That was the way things still stood in the Flown case on the following Saturday evening, just after dusk, when in the same harbor a tramp fisherman named Thad Proctor had the back of his head blown off by a contact shot from a .38 revolver. Like Dr. Flown, Proctor had apparently been alone aboard his ancient, paint-peeling trawler when it happened.

  The harbor was calm beneath a warmish Sunday morning sun. Overhead a few noisy gulls circled; the only other sound was the gentle slap of water against the dockside.

  To Leopold, it did not seem a day for investigating murder, and the trawler tied to the dock did not seem a vehicle worthy of the crime. It was a smelly old tub full of fish pens. On deck, just behind the pilot house, stood the trawl winch; farther back, the fish checker. It was a boat designed for the work of the sea, not of the police.

  “Where was he found?” Leopold asked Fletcher.

  “The companionway by the pilot house door. He was a mess.”

  “Alone on the boat, I understand.”

  Fletcher said, “Just like Dr. Flown, Captain. And the papers have already linked them up.” He handed Leopold the first section of the Sunday Chronicle. An eight-column banner screamed, SECOND VICTIM FOR HARBOR PHANTOM?

  “Have we got a report on the bullet yet?”

  “I just called the lab. Same gun killed both of them.”

  “Then the paper’s right,” Leopold said. “Where’s this man’s brother?”

  Fletcher nodded toward a shabby fisherman on the trawler’s deck, and Leopold climbed aboard. “You’re Bill Proctor?”

  “Might call me that.”

  “Your brother Thad have any enemies?”

  “Who doesn’t?” The fisherman’s jaws kept grinding away at a plug of tobacco.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Boat was tied up right here. I’d bee
n in town and was coming back when I heard the shot.”

  “See anyone?”

  The man spattered a glob of tobacco juice on the deck. “Nobody. Thought I heard a splash to starboard, but I didn’t see anything come to the surface.”

  Leopold frowned. “Anybody else hear this?”

  “A lot of them heard the shot.”

  “How about you? Ever fight with Thad?”

  The man looked surprised. “We were brothers. We fought.”

  “You don’t seem too sorry he’s dead.”

  “Should I be? Now the boat’s all mine.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “He was a good man, though.”

  Leopold returned to where Fletcher was waiting. “Only the brother? No other family?”

  “None.”

  “This one certainly has nothing in common with the Flown case.”

  “Nothing but the bullet, Captain.”

  “That’s right, nothing but the bullet. What about Flown’s wife?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “They had their troubles. Oh, and a patient of Doc’s died last month—it blew up a storm.”

  Leopold lit a cigarette, watching a seagull head into the sun. “Tell me more.”

  “A ten-year-old boy was hit by a car a few months back and badly injured. Flown was the family doctor. The kid died a couple of weeks back. Doc Flown ruled he died of pneumonia, not as a result of the accident. The mother and father are furious. They blame Flown, not only for their son’s death, but for keeping them from collecting the insurance they had on the kid.”

  “Accident policy?”

  “Yeah. All they got was a settlement on the hospital bills.”

  “What are their names?”

  “A Mr. and Mrs. Reever. Here’s the address.”

  Leopold pocketed the paper. “You stay here and see what you can find out about this Proctor. And, Fletcher, when you get back to headquarters, run through the IBM cards and find me a cop who knows something about skindiving. I want him assigned to these cases.”

  “Skindiving?” Fletcher echoed.

  “That’s right,” Captain Leopold said. “Have him in my office first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Mrs. Oscar Flown greeted Leopold in a Chinese-silk housecoat with a half-empty glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. Middle-aged, perhaps beautiful once, now a drunk.

  She led him into a living room big enough for a bowling alley, and poured him a drink without asking if he wanted one.

  “It’s about your husband, Mrs. Flown.”

  “Isn’t everything?” she said, making it a sort of sob. “I buried him Thursday and I haven’t been sober since.”

  “It’s not suicide any more, Mrs. Flown. The same gun killed another man last night. Dr. Flown was murdered.”

  Her shaky hand tried to set down the glass. It overturned, spilling its contents over the table top. “Even dead, Oscar’s a troublemaker,” she sobbed.

  “You didn’t get along with him?”

  “I got along with his money. He and his crummy patients could have rotted in that hospital for all I cared. I’m not drinking because he’s gone, damn him—I’m drinking because the money’s gone.”

  Leopold got to his feet. “I’ll be back when you’re sober, Mrs. Flown.”

  “That’ll be the day. Don’t you want your drink?”

  “Not right now, thanks.”

  He drove across town to a far different kind of house, a dull frame structure in a shabby neighborhood, and rang the Reevers’ bell. If they were home, they chose not to answer. The dingy street was empty even of children, and Captain Leopold felt uncomfortably alone. Finally he gave up and drove away.

  In the morning Leopold was at his desk before nine. He did not bother with the accumulation of routine week-end reports; instead he turned his attention to the lab sheets and other reports on the Flown-Proctor case. He had hardly begun when Fletcher stuck his head into the office.

  “Captain, I’ve got Patrolman Browning outside.”

  “Browning? Jack Browning? What for?”

  “He’s the only man in the department with skindiving experience.”

  “Browning?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Fletcher said, grinning.

  “Well? Send him in!”

  Leopold hastily reached for a cigarette. Of all the men in the department it had to be Jack Browning! Tall, handsome, a devil with the women. The best man on the Vice Squad until two years ago, when Leopold had had to bust him back to a beat cop for departmental violations. Browning thereafter had no love for Leopold, and the Captain avoided him whenever possible.

  Leopold was shaking his head when Browning came in, handsome as ever.

  “You wanted me, Captain?”

  “I sent for a man with skindiving experience. It turns out you’re elected. I hope you won’t let personal feelings stand in the way of your doing a good job.”

  “Of course not,” Browning said, sounding insincere. “What’s the job?”

  “The two killings in the harbor—Dr. Flown last week-end, and now this fisherman, Thad Proctor. Both killed with the same gun, both while they were apparently alone on their boats.”

  Browning pulled up a chair and sat down. “You think the killer was a skindiver?”

  “It figures. With a Scuba tank and mask, the killer could have escaped unnoticed from Dr. Flown’s yacht. And the fisherman’s brother thinks he heard a splash after the shot.”

  “What’s the motive?”

  “He might be a nut of some sort. If so, there may be more killings. We’ve got to find him fast.” Captain Leopold sat forward in his chair. “How would a skindiver transport a gun underwater?”

  “Simple. A waterproof pouch of some sort. There are several on the market.”

  Leopold frowned. “The gun bugs me. Why use a gun at all? A knife would be a lot safer—no noise. Skindivers usually carry knives, don’t they?”

  Browning nodded. “But maybe the killer’s a woman, or a man who doesn’t like knives. It takes strength and a certain kind of guts to kill with a knife.”

  “And maniacs have both.” But Leopold still looked unhappy. “How can we get a list of all the skindivers in this area?”

  Browning thought for a moment. “Two ways, Captain. A local Scuba group puts out a sort of newsletter. Goes to about two hundred names. I can latch onto that list easy enough. The second possibility is the supply stores. Those air tanks have to be filled, and there are only three places in town that do it. Since most customers of that sort have charge accounts or are known to the clerks, I should be able to get another list there and check the two lists against each other.”

  “Okay, Browning, go to it. Try to have a report for me by tomorrow morning.”

  For a time, after Browning went out, Leopold sat watching the comings and goings of the city below. Somewhere down there stalked a killer, a man or a woman who appeared, murdered, and vanished like a phantom. Had Dr. Flown and Thad Proctor been the random victims of a psycho, or had they been coldly chosen pawns in an overall plan whose design was still obscure?

  He dialed the harbor patrol and spoke briefly to the officer on duty. “This is Captain Leopold of Homicide. I want a boat dockside on twenty-four-hour duty, ready to move out at five minutes’ notice. That’s right…I’ll clear it with the Commissioner.”

  He hung up and thought some more. All right, suppose Flown was the real objective, and Proctor’s murder was only a cover for it. Suppose…He suddenly remembered that he should talk to the Reevers.

  The street was as silent as it had been on Sunday. But this time, after his second ring, a tired-looking woman with gray hair answered the door.

  “Yes, that’s my name. What are you selling?”

  Leopold showed her his shield. “I’ve got a few questions to ask you, Mrs. Reever.”

  “If it’s about the dog, we don’t know a thing! He’s been gone all week. Anyway, it wasn’t him that bit that woman.”

  Leopold smiled. “It’s not about the dog,
Mrs. Reever. It’s about Dr. Flown.”

  The woman stepped aside and he entered a room with dirty windows. The room looked as tired as she did. “I can’t say I was sorry to hear about him dying. That man killed my Donald, and after that he does us out of the insurance money from the accident policy.”

  “Mrs. Reever, if you really believe Dr. Flown was responsible for your son’s death, you can’t also hold that the accident caused it. You can’t have it both ways.”

  She waved a hand in listless despair. “I don’t know. Talk to my husband.”

  “Did either of you ever threaten Dr. Flown’s life?”

  “I don’t know what my husband said.” Her eyes flashed into vicious life for a moment. “Him and his damn yacht—bought with blood money from poor people like us!”

  “I’d like to talk to your husband, Mrs. Reever. Where can I find him?”

  “At work! He puts in an honest eight hours every day. Down at the Harbor Fish Market.”

  As Leopold made his way through the fish markets, seeking Frank Reever, it occurred to him that a man working daily among these sights and sounds and smells might at times find his eye wandering across the stretch of open water to the yacht basin, might find himself increasingly resentful of the plush life there, just out of reach. A man like Frank Reever might even decide to do something about it.

  Reever was big, built like a gorilla. His handshake was a closing vise, his breath a blowtorch of fishy decay. “Police?” the man growled. “What about?”

  “About the murder of Dr. Flown. I understand you made certain threats against him.”

  Someone wheeled in a new barrel of fish, and the men around them got to work. Reever seemed glad of the break in the routine; he led Leopold to an out-of-the-way corner. “Sure, I threatened him. What he did to my kid, he deserved to die. I told him someday I’d come out to that fancy yacht of his and work him over good with a fish knife.”

  “Did you?”

  “He was shot, wasn’t he? If it was me, I’d ’a’ used a knife.”

  “Where were you a week ago Saturday night?”

  “Home with my wife. Or maybe down at the bar for a while.”

  “Which was it?”

  “You think I killed him?”

  “I’m just asking you where you were,” Leopold said. “If that’s too tough a question, Reever, I can give you plenty of time down at headquarters to think up a good answer.”