Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “Here you are.”

  “What’s this?”

  “That’s a picture of the woman I was hired to follow. The woman I was told was Monica Dorlander.”

  Creely studied the picture. “Nice looker.”

  “I thought so too.”

  Creely turned to the two officers. “Either of you guys get a look at the body?”

  They shook their heads.

  “No, sir,” Chuck said. “I think Davis did.”

  “Well, that don’t help us much. He’s on his way to the morgue.” Creely turned back to me. “This is the woman you were supposed to follow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She doesn’t look anything like Monica Dorlander.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why did you think she was?”

  I took a breath. How many times did I have to say it? “I told you. I was set up.”

  “You were lied to?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were told the woman in this picture was Monica Dorlander?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?

  I took another breath. “My client. Marvin Nickleson.”

  The door opened and another officer came in. They sure grew ’em young around here. I guess those with any gumption got the hell out.

  He had a man with him. An elderly gentleman with a flowing mane of white hair.

  “That him?” Creely said.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” the officer said, leading him for ward.

  “All right,” Creely said to the white haired man. “I want you to take a good look at this guy and tell me if you’ve ever seen him before?”

  The man peered at me, frowned, shook his head.

  “Never saw him before in my life,” he said.

  I looked at Creely. “Don’t tell me,” I said.

  Creely grinned. “That’s right, Mr. Hastings. Good guess. Allow me to present Mr. Marvin Nickleson.”

  16.

  “YOUR NAME’S MARVIN NICKLESON?”

  “Right.”

  “You work for Croft, Wheelhouse and Green?”

  “Yes.”

  “As a graphics artist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me take a guess. You live on East 14th Street?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Creely looked at me. “You know this man?”

  “Never saw him before in my life.”

  “You know his name, address, and where he works, but you don’t know anything about him?”

  “I know his name because you just told me. I know where he works because I was told that’s where he works. I know his address ’cause when I called information to get his phone number I was told they had no Marvin Nickleson on 83rd Street, but they had a Marvin Nickleson on East 14th Street. I didn’t call that number ’cause I knew it wasn’t him.”

  “It is him.”

  “Yes and no.”

  Creely closed his eyes. “Hold on a minute. You were going to call Marvin Nickleson?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you want his number?”

  “I wanted to call Monica Dorlander.”

  “Why would you get Marvin Nickleson’s number to call Monica Dorlander?”

  “I thought it would be the same number.”

  “Why would it be the same number?”

  “Because Monica Dorlander was his wife.”

  During this exchange Marvin Nickleson’s eyes had been darting back and forth between Creely and me like a guy watching a tennis match. Now they widened and his mouth fell open. Creely turned to him. “You know Monica Dorlander?”

  Marvin Nickleson blinked. “Who?”

  “Monica Dorlander. You know Monica Dorlander?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not married to Monica Dorlander?”

  Marvin Nickleson looked utterly bewildered.

  “No.”

  “And you never were married to Monica Dorlander?”

  “No.”

  “How about Julie Steinmetz?”

  “Who?”

  “Julie Steinmetz. You never heard of Julie Steinmetz? You’re not married to Julie Steinmetz?”

  “No.”

  “How about Judy Felson?”

  “Who?”

  “You never heard of Judy Felson?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not married to Judy Felson?”

  “No.”

  Creely was still holding the picture I’d given him. “How about this? You ever seen this woman before?”

  Marvin Nickleson looked at Creely. Then at the picture. Then up at Creely again. “No,” he said.

  Creely rubbed his head. “Great.” He turned to the officer who’d brought Marvin Nickleson in. “O.K. Run him down to the morgue. Introduce him to Monica Dorlander.”

  “Sir?”

  “The woman with Davis. You’ll find them down there. Put ’em together and ask ’em if they know each other. While you’re down there, have him look at the body.”

  As with Monica Dorlander, the word body had a chilling effect on Marvin Nickleson. “Body. Whose body?”

  Creely nodded. “Yeah. That’s the question.”

  The officer led Marvin Nickleson out.

  Creely turned to me. “I can’t wait to hear your explanation for this.”

  “I was hired by a man who told me his name was Marvin Nickleson. He told me the woman in the picture was his wife, Monica Dorlander, and he hired me to follow her. Now you know as much as I do.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Creely said. “What I don’t know is why. Why would he do that?”

  That was indeed the question.

  I was saved from having to answer it by the arrival of two more cops, this time in a uniform I recognized. They were state police. The state cops were older than Creely’s men, though not as old as Creely. They also had an air of authority about them—cold, hard, determined.

  The stockier of the two pushed forward. “Chief Creely?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sergeant Dickerson. State police. We understand you’ve apprehended a suspect.”

  Creely wheeled his belly around in the sergeant’s direction, put his hands on his hips. “Oh, you understand that, do you?”

  “That’s right. Is that him?”

  “That depends what you mean by him.”

  “I’m referring to the man who stayed at the Pine Hills Motel as Alan Parker, but whose car is registered to Stanley Hastings.”

  “You ran the registration?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Good. I’m glad to have the confirmation.”

  “So are we. Well, sir, we’re here to take the suspect back for questioning.”

  Creely stuck out his jaw. “You’re what?”

  “We’re here to bring in the suspect. Plus any evidence you may have gathered.”

  Creely’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, is that right?”

  Sergeant Dickerson smiled condescendingly. “Chief, this is a murder investigation.”

  “I know it’s a murder investigation.”

  “Well, that’s why we’re here. To bring in the suspect.”

  “On whose authority?”

  Dickerson smiled again. “Chief, this is a small town with a limited force. Under the circumstances, in a murder case the state police have the authority to lend assistance to the local officer—”

  “Lend assistance?” Creely’s gum was going like crazy. “That’s a good one. Lend assistance. I know what that means. That’s a euphemism for taking over the investigation.”

  Sergeant Dickerson frowned. “Chief, no one wants to step on your toes here, but we have this murder that has to be cleared up. You must be aware that the state police—”

  “I’m aware that the state police poke their nose in anywhere they possibly can.”

  “Now look, Chief—”

  “Authority.”

  “What?”

  “I asked you what authority.”

  “And I told you
.”

  “You told me bullshit. Lend assistance. Standard practice. Yeah, that’s right. We’re a small town. If I run into trouble in my investigation, I can request assistance from the state police and you guys can provide it. I don’t recall my requesting any assistance, do you? Until I do, I’m in charge. This case is in my jurisdiction. This is my prisoner and you’re not taking him nowhere. Now, you tell the cocksuckers back at headquarters this is my murder investigation and I’m in charge here. Now if they wanna voluntarily render assistance I haven’t asked for, I want reports on everything they do, I want every officer responsive and responsible to me.

  “And that goes for you too. You guys been poking around that motel, you give me everything you got.”

  Sergeant Dickerson’s face had darkened during the beginning of the tirade, but by now he had composed himself and was back to his superior smirk. He gave the other officer a look. “Sure, Chief,” he said. “If that’s how you want it.”

  “Fine,” Creely said. “You guys got anything for me?”

  “Yes, we do,” Dickerson said.

  “Well, let’s have it,” Creely said.

  Dickerson smiled that superior smile again. “Oh, sure, Chief. Now I wouldn’t wanna tell you your business, but do you really want to discuss it in front of the suspect here?”

  Creely gave me a look. For a second I thought he was going to say yes, just so he wouldn’t have to concede Dickerson had scored a point. But he thought better of it.

  “Nothnagel,” he barked, and I finally learned Chuck’s last name—with a mouthful like that no wonder Davis called him Chuck.

  “Sir?” Chuck said.

  Creely jerked his thumb. “Chain him up again.”

  Chuck took me in the back room and chained me to the pipe again. He went back out, doubtless to give Chief Creely moral support.

  Leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  And what great thoughts they were. Monica Dorlander wasn’t Monica Dorlander, Marvin Nickleson wasn’t Marvin Nickleson, the state police and the local police were fighting over who had the right to arrest me, and I was in the back room chained to a pipe, but aside from that I was doing great.

  I came back to the question Creely had asked me before the state cops barged in: why? That was a biggie all right. I knew what had happened. An unknown man had hired me to follow an unknown woman and he’d used the names of real people for both himself and her. I knew why he’d used real names. He was afraid I might start backtracking him, and if so he wanted the information to check out. He’d given me the name Monica Dorlander because that was the name of a person who lived in the building of the woman he wanted me to follow. So in case I disregarded his instructions, as I in fact did, by calling information or talking to the doorman, in either instance Monica Dorlander would check out. And in his case he’d made up the convenient bogus story about moving to a rooming house with no phone, and given me a work address which on the one hand was genuine, but on the other hand I was not supposed to call. I hadn’t, but if I had, just to check up on him, they would have confirmed they had a Marvin Nickleson working there. And since he’d forbidden me to call him at work, even if I called the company to confirm he actually worked there, I wouldn’t be apt to ask to talk to him.

  Yeah, that’s why he’d used the names. But the big why, why he’d done it at all, that I had no idea.

  The door opened. Chuck came in, unlocked the handcuffs and led me back out again.

  The place was quiet. The state cops were gone. For a moment I thought the room was empty. Then I saw Chief Creely sitting at his desk. The reason I missed him was he wasn’t sitting up straight. His chair was tipped back, and he was slumped down in it. He looked exhausted, drained, like a prizefighter in his corner between rounds.

  If so, the sight of me was like the bell for round ten. Creely’s muscles stiffened. The chair tipped forward. Creely put his hands on the arms and heaved himself out of it. He stood looking at me for a moment. Then he leaned forward and picked up something from his desk.

  It was a plastic ziplock bag. I knew it well, because my father-in-law happens to manufacture them. Funny what thoughts flash through your mind at a time like that. Thinking about the bag, when what I was really looking at was the contents.

  It was a gun.

  Creely came around the desk and lumbered over to us. He held up the bag.

  “Take a look at this,” he said.

  I looked.

  It was a gun all right. It wasn’t a revolver, so it must have been an automatic. There endeth my expertise with guns.

  Creely looked at me. “You ever see this before?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’m scared to death of guns.”

  Creely snorted contemptuously. I couldn’t tell if it was because he believed me, or because he didn’t.

  Creely handed the plastic bag to Chuck. “Here. Run this down to the lab in Newburgh. And when you turn it over to the cocksuckers, you make it clear the reports come directly to me. You got that? Not to the state police. Here. To me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Chuck went out.

  Creely turned to face me. “I’m going to give you one more chance. You sure you never seen that gun before?”

  “Is that the murder weapon?”

  Creely grimaced. “Jesus Christ. What is it with you, you keep asking me questions? I ask you a question, you don’t answer, you ask me a question back. Who’s in charge here? The state cops think they are. You think you are. Look here. I’m in charge. You’re in deep shit. I ask the questions, you answer. You don’t like it, we resume your love affair with the pipe in the back room.

  “Now. I was being nice and giving you another chance. Perhaps I should say your last chance. So tell me. Have you ever seen that gun before?”

  “No.”

  Creely nodded. “Fine. Glad to hear it. Now about your question. The one you thought was more important than mine. Was it the murder gun? Well now, that’s what it’s going to the lab to see. They’ll fire some test bullets through it, and then they’ll send over to the morgue, and if the cocksuckers over there haven’t made a mess of the fatal bullet, they’ll be able to tell.”

  “Fatal bullet?”

  “Oh yeah. Best we can tell, she was shot once in the heart. There’s no exit wound, so the bullet’s still in the body. So if the medics don’t fuck it up, we can get a match.”

  Creely cocked his head at me and chewed his gum. “I don’t know why I’m the one giving out all the information here, but I’m just a nice guy so I’ll tell you.

  “Odds are it’s the fatal gun. It’s been recently fired. There’s one bullet shy of a full load in the magazine. Plus we found a shell casing from an automatic on the motel room floor. We ought to be able to match up the mark from the firing pin on the shell casing, as well as matching the fatal bullet. Now that has yet to be done, but I would say it’s safe to assume this was the murder weapon.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  Creely smiled. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For asking. See, I knew with a guy as inquisitive as you, if we just talked long enough eventually you’d ask the right question. The one I’ve been waiting to answer.”

  Creely unwrapped a fresh stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. I figured he was doing it just to prolong the suspense. To make me ask him again.

  I couldn’t help myself. I did.

  “Where did you find it?”

  He chewed his gum. Shrugged. “State cops found it. Weren’t going to let me have it, either. Sons of bitches. Gonna take the gun and you too. Cocksuckers.”

  Creely shook his head. Frowned. Then his face brightened. “Oh, but you asked me where. Funny you should ask.” He cocked his head at me and his smile was rather smug. “It was in the glove compartment of your car.”

  17.

  STANLEY HASTINGS’S Interpretation of Dreams.

  Despite the
code alarm, my car has been broken into many times. It’s not that hard to do. The lock itself is simple. You stick in a screwdriver, turn, and the door pops open.

  Of course when that happens the code alarm goes off and the ignition cutoff switch kicks in, leaving the car thief with a loud wailing car that won’t start. No car thief wants to hassle with that when he can walk a few blocks and find another car that doesn’t have a code alarm. So though my car’s been broken into many times, it’s never been stolen.

  But the lock is vulnerable. And after each successive break in it becomes more so—the casing a little looser, the hole slightly more enlarged. (I never repair it of course— it would be a waste of money, and what would be the point?) So by now it was so bad that, if even I, the most inept of detectives, whom a locked door usually stymies, should happen to lose my keys, I could probably get in.

  And someone had. They’d picked the lock and popped the door open. The alarm had gone off. They’d taken the murder gun and put it in the glove compartment. Then they’d locked and closed the door and walked off.

  The alarm had woken me, slowly, groggily. And as I said, my alarm is the kind that goes for a minute and shuts off. I’d woken up, baffled, confused, with no conscious recollection of having heard an alarm.

  But having dreamed someone stole my car.

  All of that came to me in a flash, of course, the moment Creely told me about the gun in the glove compartment. The murderer had put it there after the crime. I also realized of all the spots the murderer could have chosen, that was probably the one I liked least. No wonder the state cops were so hot for my bod. The only wonder was how Creely had talked them out of it. The only explanation must have been that it really was his jurisdiction, and if he wanted to tell them to go roll a hoop, he could.

  And he had. And on reflection, I couldn’t blame him. After all, here it was, probably his first murder case. And with the gun in the glove compartment, he had to figure he had it all wrapped up. Under those circumstances, why the hell should he let someone else take the credit for it?

  He stood there looking at me. He was grinning sardonically like a Cheshire cat, and chewing his gum like a contented cow.

  I knew what he was doing. He had dropped his bombshell, and now he was watching me to see if I’d break.