Leopold's Way

by Edward D. Hoch

  “I was down at the bar till around eleven,” the man said sullenly. “Then I went home.”

  “Flown was killed around eleven. Ever do any skindiving?”

  “Me? You kidding?”

  Someone in the crowd around the fish barrel yelled at Reever to get back to work. Leopold stood in the corner a few minutes, watching. Then he went over to the man. “Did you know Thad Proctor, too?”

  Reever frowned. Finally he answered, “We get to know all the regular fishermen. Sure I knew him.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be in touch with you.”

  Driving back downtown, Leopold felt he had accomplished something. Frank Reever was a link between the two murdered men—he had known the fisherman, Proctor, and he admitted having threatened Dr. Flown. It was something for the boys to work on…

  But, by Tuesday morning, Leopold’s fire had cooled. The Reever lead seemed remote and the calendar on his desk made the coming Saturday night loom large with another possible killing. Well, all right, if he didn’t get a break by Saturday he could put a dozen police boats out on patrol. He might even persuade the Safety Commissioner to ban all boats from the harbor. Or were two murders the end of it?

  Fletcher poked his head into the office. “The Commissioner was looking for you yesterday on those harbor killings, Captain.”

  “I was working on them.”

  “I told him that. But he doesn’t think a captain of Homicide should have to pound the pavements himself. Said that’s what you’ve got us for.”

  “Hell! Does he want this nut or doesn’t he?” Leopold exploded. “I could use another ten men on this case! Oh, Browning, come in.”

  Browning had appeared in the doorway behind Fletcher, holding a stapled sheaf of typewritten sheets. “Here’s the dope, Captain. Every skindiver within fifty miles.”

  “How many are there?” Leopold asked eagerly.

  “I counted 252 on the mailing list of that newsletter, and we picked up an additional 28 names at the area stores—I mean, names that weren’t on the newsletter list. I’ve combined them into one master list—280 names and addresses, arranged alphabetically. Of course, not all these people are active skindivers. Some just have a casual interest in it.”

  “Leave one copy with me, and you and Fletcher start working down the other one. Get help if you need it. Check every name, report anything suspicious. Oh, one other thing, Browning. Get me a list of expert swimmers in the area—the college swimming team, that sort of thing. Just in case we’re on the wrong track with this skindiver angle.”

  Leopold went carefully through the skindiver list, studying each name in an attempt to jog some dormant memory: Adams, Aldrich, Anderson, Appelbaum, Babcock, Bailey, Bauer, Beckerman, Bentley, Bishop, Bond, Brown, Brozzi, Burns, Callario, Childs…

  His eyes skipped to the P’s, but there was no Proctor. Also no Reever, and no Mrs. Flown. Which proved nothing, really. But the thought of Mrs. Flown reminded him of unfinished business. He left the list on his desk and reached for his hat.

  This time Mrs. Flown was sober. But she was in no better spirits. He found her working in the garden behind the house, and she was on the defensive from the beginning. “You trying to pin Oscar’s murder on me?”

  Leopold said, “Only if you’re guilty, Mrs. Flown.”

  “I was with a dozen people when he was shot.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. Did you know this other man who was killed—Thad Proctor?”

  “The fisherman?” She made it a dirty word. “Of course not.”

  “Your husband ever have any dealings with him?”

  “He never mentioned a Thad Proctor to me.”

  “Can you give me a list of your husband’s patients, Mrs. Flown?”

  “Some. The hospital would have the rest.”

  She took Captain Leopold into the house and he went through the names. He could not recall seeing any of them on the skindiver list. So he thanked her and drove downtown to the hospital, where he obtained a list of all the patients Flown had treated there during the past year. Again, there was nothing familiar about any of the names.

  Leopold went to bed early that night. He was awakened at eleven thirty by his bedside telephone. “Hello?” he mumbled.

  “Captain, this is Browning. I’m at the harbor. There’s been another one.

  “Another one?” His mind snapped into focus.

  “Another killing.”

  Leopold cursed. “Meet me at the police boat. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes!”

  Leopold stood beside Browning in the sea-swept bow of the police boat as it churned through the harbor, its high-powered searchlight sweeping the water in random arcs. They followed a zigzag route leading nowhere, and before they had completed their second pass the police captain was convinced it was useless.

  “It’s been a good forty-five minutes,” he said. “Time enough to swim to any of those boats or to shore. We’re wasting our time.” He ordered the police boat to head in toward the battery of lights that marked the scene of the latest crime.

  It was a converted whaleboat fitted with sails and an eight-horsepower motor, an odd sort of craft even for this portion of the Sound. Leopold guessed it had come from up north, somewhere along the New England coastline.

  There was a young man in swimming trunks aboard, crying like a baby over the body of a pretty girl. She had been shot. The bikini she was wearing accented the youthful curves of her body. Leopold dropped the canvas with a sigh.

  “I’m Captain Leopold, Homicide. Suppose you tell me what happened.”

  The young man looked up, his eyes still blurred with tears. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

  “Did you see the killer?”

  “Yes. We were going for a late swim. Jean had already changed to her suit, and I was below getting into mine. I felt the boat sway a bit, heard Jean scream. There…there was a shot. I ran up on deck and saw a figure in shiny black bending over her. It was horrible—he seemed to be looking at the wound his bullet had just made. Even though he saw me, he stayed long enough to fire one more shot into her. Then he went over the side. I went in after him, but I lost him in the dark. So I came back on board, and…”

  Leopold turned to one of the uniformed men. “You got their names?” he asked softly.

  “He’s Martin Irving, and the girl’s name is Jean Young. Down from the Cape, pulled in tonight. Hadn’t heard about the murders, Irving says.”

  “Engaged?”

  The patrolman shook his head. “Week’s vacation together. Just shacking up.”

  “All right. If the Doc finds she was pregnant, let me know right away.”

  Browning edged forward. “You think the guy killed her, Captain?”

  “Maybe. Two bullets in this one. Change of pattern. He could have heard about our murders and decided to tie in.”

  They stood around while photographers snapped flash photos and the doctor made a preliminary examination. As the body was being carried ashore, Leopold asked the medic what he thought. “Funny thing,” the doctor answered. “Looks to me like the first shot killed her. Why he would stop for a second shot this time beats me.”

  “Let me have your report first thing in the morning.”

  Leopold went home, but he did not sleep. He spent the rest of the night pacing the floor, seeing the mysterious figure in its glistening black skindiver’s suit.

  On Wednesday morning the papers had a ball: HARBOR PHANTOM KILLS AGAIN! THIRD MURDER IN 11 DAYS! Leopold read it all, even the editorial he could have written himself. “Citizens demand action.” Sure they did!

  Fletcher slipped some typed sheets onto Leopold’s desk.

  The Captain skimmed through the lab reports. Not pregnant. First shot passed through the body, killing her instantly. Slug not recovered, probably skidded overside. Second shot in the chest as she lay on the deck. Bullet identical with the ones that had killed Flown and Proctor.

  He picked up the report on Martin Irving. Apparently the you
ng man had been a hundred miles away at the time of the first and second murders, each of which had been committed on a Saturday night.

  Leopold flicked a button on his desk. “Browning?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Find out if this fellow Irving does any skindiving back home. And assemble everyone for a meeting right after lunch. We’ve got to move fast if we’re going to get the newspapers off our backs.”

  But the noon editions moved faster. The morning’s HARBOR PHANTOM KILLS AGAIN! had been replaced by POLICE HELPLESS AGAINST MADMAN. And when Leopold returned from lunch, the hallway outside his office was crowded with reporters. He slipped through another door before they noticed him, and buzzed Fletcher, Browning, and the others.

  When they were all in the tiny office, Leopold lolled back in his chair in his deceptively sleepy manner. “Killings—three in eleven days. All by the same man, with the same gun, and you wouldn’t bet he’s through yet. Our skindiving killer may be nuts—but even nuttiness can make sense of a sort.

  “The killer may be after just one of the victims. It’s the old A, B, C theory, in which only A or B or C is the real victim, the others serving merely to confuse the issue. Bearing this out is the fact that we’ve found nothing linking the three victims together. A second possibility is that he hates people with boats. Any people, any boats.”

  “That would make him a nut,” Fletcher agreed.

  “But not too much of a nut,” Leopold said dryly. “If this Martin Irving is telling the truth, the skindiver paused over his third victim long enough to fire a second bullet into her, though it must have been obvious to him she was dead. Why risk capture or identification in order to fire an apparently unnecessary bullet? Because the first bullet had passed clean through her and was lost. Looks to me as if the skindiver took the time and risk to fire that second shot just so we’d have a bullet to compare with the ones from the other two victims’ bodies. This man may be mad, but he’s intent on making us believe the killings are connected.

  “That would also explain the use of a pistol rather than a knife. It’s next to impossible to prove three people were stabbed with the same knife, but with the same gun there’s proof positive. It’s important enough for our killer to bother with a waterproof holster, which must certainly slow down his movements.”

  “You’re sure it’s a skindiver?” Browning asked.

  “The evidence all points to it, and this fellow Irving claims he actually saw him. I think we can reasonably assume it’s someone on this master list. We’ve got to redouble our efforts to check out every name. I want some action by tomorrow!”

  And he got it, surprisingly enough. At ten the next morning, which was Thursday, Fletcher caught him returning from the usual pep talk in the Commissioner’s office. “I got someone for you, Captain.”

  “Who?”

  “Appelbaum, one of the skindivers. He’s been talking up a skindivers’ club in the harbor. Sort of a nut on the subject—wanted all boating banned on week-ends. I’ve got him outside.”

  “Get him in here!”

  Appelbaum was a youngish, intense man with an athlete’s body and a fanatical look in his eyes.

  “Am I to be charged?” he asked in a rasping voice. “If so, I demand a lawyer.”

  “Calm down,” Leopold told him. “Tell me about your scheme for the harbor, Mr. Appelbaum.”

  “Is this about those three murders?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just wanted to clear out the boats on Saturdays and Sundays, so our skindivers’ club could explore the harbor area.”

  “Did you ever go diving out there? At night?”

  “It would be damned dangerous. Nobody but a nut would dive around those power boats.”

  “Some nut did. Where were you Tuesday night?”

  “Out with my girl.”

  “And last Saturday?”

  “At a movie—alone.”

  “A week ago Saturday?”

  “At a poker game.”

  “You have a fast memory.” Then, to Fletcher, “Check him out and let me know what you find.”

  Leopold went back to his office to brood over the piles of reports. Then he got out a Department of Commerce chart of the harbor and studied it for a long time. It told him nothing.

  Toward evening Fletcher came back, looking discouraged.

  “I checked Appelbaum out. The poker game alibi is cast-iron, although the other two have holes in them. If the same guy did all three jobs, he’s in the clear.”

  Leopold stared out the window at the lowering sun. “Could it be that’s why the same gun was used?—to make it look like one killer when it was actually several? Three men, passing the gun on from one to another, enabling one of them to always have an unbreakable alibi?”

  “Three nuts?” Fletcher asked. “Three nuts who are expert skindivers—and killers, too?”

  “You’re right,” Leopold sighed. “Mass murder like this is a one-man crime.”

  Fletcher nodded and went out, closing the office door behind him. For some time Leopold stared out the window again, watching the lights of the city as they turned on for still another night. He felt sick.

  Finally he pulled out the long list and went over it once more, from Adams to Zwigg. But it always came out the same…

  Browning came in with a harbor map. “Can I bother you a second, Captain? I think I’ve got an idea on the phantom.”

  Leopold’s eyes lit up. “Let’s hear it.”

  Browning spread the chart out on Leopold’s desk. “The killer had to come from somewhere—right? I don’t think he came off another boat; that would be too risky. We might search them and find his gun and suit, or someone might see him climbing on board, or notice the same boat in the area on all three occasions. No, I think he swam from land.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Leopold agreed. “Keep talking.”

  “Well, the harbor is open to the Sound on the southeast, which leaves land on the other three sides. Did he come from the southwest? I don’t think so—it’s true a finger of marshland stretches out into the water there, but it disappears at high tide, and the last two murders were committed around high tide.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “The diver must be operating from one hidden spot where he can get into his gear unnoticed. Look at this chart again: the entire northwest quadrant is taken up with bathing beaches and the casino grounds. He certainly wouldn’t take a chance on entering or leaving the water there, with midnight lovers and beach parties in full swing. Due north of the harbor are the docks, another busy area night and day. It narrows down to the northeast quadrant—where there are a number of cottages, but also one or two fairly deserted stretches. He wouldn’t be a cottage owner—crazy killers don’t strike that close to home. So that leaves one of these stretches of bluff right along here.” His finger jabbed at the map. “I know this area, Captain—it’s quite rocky, with not enough land below the bluff for a beach. It would be perfect for our man. It’s my hunch he has his gear and the gun hidden there.”

  Leopold felt a rising excitement. “It’s worth a try. Good work.”

  “Want me to run you out there tonight, Captain?”

  “Get your car—I’ll be down in five minutes!”

  The bluffs overlooking the harbor were pale in the moonlight, a little sinister. Below, in the silvery waters, Leopold could see that the killings had taken their toll of the pleasure craft. The usually crowded area now held only three boats, and one of these was the police launch, on patrol duty.

  Leopold followed the younger man down over the slippery rocks. Browning was right—this would be the perfect base for the killer’s operations. Lonely, remote, yet only a five-minute swim to the harbor anchorage area.

  “Down this way, Captain,” Browning whispered, hopping noiselessly to the next half-buried rock. “Keep it quiet, Captain. This might be another of his nights.”

  “I don’t think he’d try anything with that police boat out the
re,” Leopold whispered back.

  “You never know with a nut.”

  They crept along the rocks, watching for evidence of recent human presence. Around them now was only the sound of the water, ever in motion, ever changing.

  “What’s that?” Browning gripped Leopold’s arm. “There!”

  It was a bundle wrapped in rubber sheeting, hidden in a crevice between two boulders. Browning went in for it, lifting it carefully out for Leopold’s examination. Leopold removed the sheeting. A black-painted air tank…a black rubber suit…flippers…a mask…Leopold had a fleeting sense of exhilaration.

  “All here. You were right, Browning.” He unzipped the waterproof pouch, not surprised to find it empty. “At least, it’s all here but the gun.

  “The gun’s here, Captain.”

  Leopold looked up. Browning was raising the glistening .38, slowly, as if he had all eternity to train it on the captain’s middle.

  “The gun’s here, Leopold. And this time it’s for you.”

  Leopold stood very still on the rock, his death a mere tightened finger away. He stood very still and he said distinctly, “You killed those three people, Browning?”

  Browning’s eyes were as wild as they had been in Leopold’s office a few days before. “Damned right I killed them. You had that A, B, C business all figured out, Leopold—all but the payoff. I killed Doc Flown and Proctor and that girl just to cover up my real pigeon—you. In a minute you’ll be dead and I’ll have a perfect story. We surprised the phantom and he shot you. The bullet will match and no one’s going to doubt it. You’ll just be D after A, B, C. And they’ll probably give you a medal with your funeral, Leopold, which is more than you gave me!”

  “You deserved what you got, Browning.” I must keep him talking, Leopold thought.

  “I’ve spent two years of my life planning how I’d get even with you for busting me back to a beat. That’s why the first three killings had to be on boats. I knew when you tumbled to the skindiving, you’d request an officer with skindiving experience to work with you on the case. And I was the only man in the department who could qualify. It takes a good detective to think up a perfect crime, Captain!”