Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  I kept a sharp eye on the map, made the right turns, and suddenly there I was. It was a small residential community of perfectly nice houses and lawns. A nice place for nice people with nice families to live. A place no better, no worse that I could see, than that where Councilman Steve Fletcher had lived in Albany.

  Carlton Kraswell’s house was a modest two-story affair on a corner lot with a couple of trees and a swing in the yard and a car in the driveway. Which somehow seemed all wrong. I don’t know why, I guess somehow I’d expected a mansion with an iron gate and Dobermans prowling the grounds. But here he was, just an ordinary respectable citizen like everybody else.

  I began to have serious doubts. Or I should say, I continued to have serious doubts.

  I backed my car up to a point where I could observe the front door of the house without being seen. Sat and waited.

  I must say, the whole thing looked very unpromising. The only bright spot was the car in the driveway. For one thing it was a Mercedes. For another thing, it was there, indicating the owner was probably home.

  But when would he come out, that was the question. Well, he might come out to get his paper. But there were no newspaper boxes by the road. That surprised me. I would have expected there to be a Trenton Times or News or what have you, with red or green or yellow metal boxes on poles at the foot of the drives. But there weren’t. Nor were there mailboxes. These Trenton people got neither papers nor mail. So if Carlton Kraswell were indeed home, there was no reason for him to come out unless he wanted to go somewhere.

  But he didn’t. An hour went by. Nothing happened. I was beginning to manufacture hollow ruses by which to flush the Kraswell from his den. A phone call, first to see if he was home, and second to try to get him out of it. But what would I say? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe the minute he said, “Hello,” I’d recognize his voice. Am I that good at voices? Was his voice that distinctive a one? Had he disguised his voice when he posed as Marvin Nickleson? What would be the point of that? How the hell should I know?

  No, you gotta have a ruse. A letter. A special delivery letter. “It’s the post office, Mr. Kraswell, we have a special delivery letter for you.” That would do it fine. If that’s the way the post office works around here. If special delivery letters aren’t actually delivered. But how could they be, with no mailboxes.

  As if on cue, a mail truck rounded the corner, rumbled up the hill. It stopped in front of Kraswell’s driveway. The mailman got out, walked up the drive to the house.

  I couldn’t believe it. The guy had a special delivery letter for Kraswell, just like I thought, and was going to ring Kraswell’s bell.

  He didn’t. He took a bunch of letters from his bag, stuck ’em in a box on the wall by the door.

  So. That was why there were no boxes by the road. These guys got delivery up the drive.

  The mailman got back in his truck and drove off.

  I sat and waited. Come on schmuck. The bait’s in the trap. Go for it.

  It was forty-five minutes later, and I was seriously considering the phone idea again when the front door opened. A man stepped out on the porch. He must have been sleeping late, because he was wearing a blue bath robe. I looked at him, and somehow all my feeling of incompetence and futility melted away.

  I smiled with immense satisfaction as the man I’d known as Marvin Nickleson riffled through the mail, snuffled once from the cold, and tugged at his scraggly moustache.

  35.

  I WASN’T GOING TO tackle him alone. I know that blows my image as a private detective, but then again, what doesn’t? And this was a guy who shot people. Or at least had them shot, if he hadn’t actually pulled the trigger himself. Somehow I thought he had. I couldn’t help thinking of the guy as an actor—after all, he’d played the part of Marvin Nickleson—and as an actor, I figured him for a one-man show.

  At any rate, for me, getting shot is kind of a low priority. I mean, when I write down a list of things to do tomorrow, you’ll never see getting shot on it. And seeing as how I didn’t have a gun to shoot back with, tackling Carlton Kraswell alone didn’t seem like such a hot idea. No, I was gonna need help.

  I drove back to New York and hunted up MacAullif.

  Who wasn’t pleased to see me.

  He grimaced, he rubbed his hand over his face, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and said, “Why me?”

  “Come on, MacAullif—”

  “No, you come on. Why do you have to bring me this?”

  “I need help.”

  “You always need help. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

  “Hey, it’s not like I’m asking you to square a parking ticket. This guy’s a murderer.”

  “Of course he’s a murderer. People who kill people usually are. You went looking for a killer, you found him. What do you want me to do, stand up and cheer?”

  “I told you. I need help.”

  “Yeah, but why me?”

  “I know you.”

  “That’s hardly my fault. A guy who gets mixed up in murder investigations is gonna meet a few cops.” MacAullif snatched up the phone, punched the intercom but ton. “Daniels, get the Willford file and get in here.”

  I stared at MacAullif. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I’d expected sarcasm and derision, but not an out-and-out refusal.

  “You saying you won’t help me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why not?”

  MacAullif winced and shook his head. “Why not? The man asks me why not? All right, how’s this?” MacAullif ticked off the points on his fingers. “One: it’s not my case. Two: I solved my ax murder, but I got four more cases pending, and one’s a triple homicide. Three: New Jersey’s out of my jurisdiction. Four: you’re a pain in the ass. You can’t stay out of trouble, and every time things start getting a little sticky you come running in here looking for help. I run five hundred license plates for you, that’s still not enough. Five: you got no proof. Six: you’re a pain in the ass again. You want me to run down to New Jersey where I got no jurisdiction and arrest a guy for murder where you got no proof. Now if I listen to you long enough, you probably got some harebrained scheme for getting proof, but if I do that this department’s gonna go to hell, I’m going to be in hot water, and it’ll probably take five years off my life.”

  The door opened and Daniels, one of MacAullif s young detectives, came in carrying a file folder.

  “Sir,” he said.

  “Ah, Daniels,” MacAullif said, with elaborate sarcasm. “If you could just hang on a moment. I know you got that triple homicide to deal with, but first I gotta take care of this asshole’s personal problems.” MacAullif turned back to me. “Now, where was I? Six? Seven? Probably doesn’t matter. I think you get the idea.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  MacAullif shook his head. “An idea gotta hit you over the head with a hammer? It’s not my case. This upstate police chief—it’s his case. You want the Jersey cops to move on this guy, any authority to do so’s gotta come from him.”

  I frowned. “The guy is not too swift.”

  “Maybe not, but he’s in charge.”

  “And he thinks I did it.”

  “I like him already. O.K. I told you what to do. Get the hell out of here.”

  I did. I got the hell out of there. And I thought about it. And I got my car and I headed for Poughkeepsie.

  On the way up, I thought things over. All in all, it wasn’t that bad. MacAullif was right, of course. It was Creely’s case, and like it or not, I was gonna have to work with him.

  Creely was a small town cop, and his facilities weren’t that good, and as I told MacAullif, he wasn’t that swift to begin with. Plus the fact he had me pegged for the killer.

  That was on the minus side. On the plus side was the fact he was a small town cop and his facilities weren’t that good, but despite that he had refused assistance and was trying to handle the case himself. Which put him in a hell of a position. Having told the s
tate cops to fuck off, if he couldn’t come up with something soon his ass was on the line. He might not want help solving the case, but the thing was, he had to solve it. By now that much must have dawned on him. And by now he must have found out that the evidence against me was not piling up as he had hoped, and that, coupled with Sergeant Clark’s assurance that I had not committed the crime, must be giving him serious doubt. He was in a mess, and by now he must be feeling pretty desperate to get out of it. So he ought to be inclined to listen.

  Or so I hoped.

  I pulled up in front of the police station. The sign was hanging on the door, so I guess Creely still was chief. How long that remained true probably depended on whether he cracked the case.

  I pushed the door open and walked in.

  They were all there. Creely, Davis, and Chuck. For once, Creely wasn’t chewing gum. That’s because he was having lunch. He had a sandwich in one hand, and a can of Coke in the other. He was leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk. Davis and Chuck were sitting around eating sandwiches too. They gave the impression of a bunch of guys after work hanging out and shooting the shit.

  They all looked up when I walked in.

  Creely grinned and shook his head. “Well, speak of the devil and here he is.”

  So. They’d been talking about me. Somehow that didn’t bode well.

  “Well, Mr. Hastings,” Creely said. “You’re a little early, aren’t you? Your arraignment’s not till next week.”

  “I know.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  I took a breath. “I came to tell you who killed Julie Steinmetz.”

  Creely waved it away. “Oh, we know that.”

  Shit. They had their own favorite candidate. Now I not only had to sell ’em on my theory, I had to talk ’em out of theirs. Unless, of course, their favorite candidate was still me.

  “You do?” I said.

  “Oh sure,” Creely said. “Of course, we can’t prove it. But we know who did it all right.”

  “Well, that must be pretty frustrating,” I said. “I’m really sorry. Unless, of course, you still think it’s me.”

  Creely grinned. “Oh,” he said. “So that’s why you’re here. No, no. Don’t give it another thought. We know it wasn’t you.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh, sure. Even without Sergeant Clark vouching for you, we know you didn’t do it. You’re not the type. And as your lawyer says, even if you were the type, you couldn’t be that stupid.” Creely shrugged. “But then on the other hand, if you really still think we might fancy you for this crime, maybe you are that stupid. But set your mind at rest. We know it wasn’t you.”

  “Well, this may surprise you, but I’m kind of glad to hear it.”

  “Yeah, well don’t go celebrating all over the place. We still got you for obstruction of justice. Which is exactly the sort of thing I do peg you for, and the charge just might stick.”

  “Fine, but that’s not what I’m here for.”

  “Right, right,” Creely said. “You’re here to tell us who killed Julie Steinmetz.” Creely waved his Coke at Davis and Chuck. “Pay attention, boys. I’m sure this is going to be good.” Creely shook his head. “You fucking amateurs are such a pain in the ass, you know it? I can’t ignore your theory or I’ll catch heat for it, and now I’ll have to waste a lot of time running down a bunch of false clues.”

  Jesus Christ. I was tempted to walk out. If Creely didn’t think I was the murderer, who gave a damn what he thought?

  Except for that obstruction of justice charge. And the fact I couldn’t bear to think of letting that prick Carlton Kraswell get away.

  “All right,” Creely said. “Go ahead. Tell us your theory.”

  “Gee fellas,” I said. “I feel kind of out of my league here. Why don’t you just tell me who did it, and then I won’t have to embarrass myself by being wrong.”

  Creely frowned. “Well now, you have to understand. We haven’t got a shred of evidence. Nothing. Zip, So we’re talking strictly off the record here. If you quote me on this I’ll deny it.” He jerked his thumb at Davis and Chuck. “So will they.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I wouldn’t quote you to a soul. I’m in enough trouble already.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “So tell me. Who did it?”

  Creely took a bite of his sandwich, chewed it, cocked his head. “Well,” he said, “the way we dope it out, it’s gotta be Carlton Kraswell of Trenton, New Jersey.

  36.

  I STARED AT CREELY. “What?”

  “Yeah, that’s the way we see it.”

  “Carlton Kraswell of Trenton, New Jersey?”

  “Best we can tell.”

  I sank down into a chair. “Son of a bitch.”

  Creely grinned. “That surprise you?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Oh yeah? Who did you think it was?”

  “Carlton Kraswell of Trenton, New Jersey.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be so surprised. You happen to be right.” Creely cocked his head at Davis and Chuck. “You get the feeling this guy ain’t used to being right?”

  I shook my head. Looked at Creely. “Would you mind telling me how you figure that?”

  Creely shrugged. “I would assume the same way that you do. When Davis was arresting you, a car pulled into the driveway of the motel, backed right out again. Naturally, Davis caught the license number. PO-422. We ran the plates. Found out it was registered to Kevin Drexel, of the Albany City Council. Julie Steinmetz was originally from Albany, which made a connection likely. So we immediately checked on the City Council to see if they had any matters pending in which Julie Steinmetz might have an interest. Her mother owns a farm up there, the new highway’s going through, and the land’s to be rezoned. If her mother makes out, other people don’t. The people who don’t are a Manhattan firm that owns the land, and the stockholder with the controlling interest in the company is Mr. Carlton Kraswell of Trenton, New Jersey.”

  I rubbed my head. I felt as if I were in a daze. “Would you mind if I asked you something?” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How long have you known this?”

  Creely shrugged. “Oh, for a while. Not the whole thing, of course. But the general idea. Let’s see now, you were arrested on Friday, right? We ran the plates right away, got the lead to Kevin Drexel on the City Council. But we couldn’t check it out then. We were a little busy, what with you, and the bullet, and the body, and the state cops and all that. And then we were into the weekend. We didn’t want to move on the City Council then, because we didn’t want to make any waves. At least, not till we were sure of our ground. We let it go till Monday, when the City Hall’d be open, and we could check it out in the normal course of business.

  “Meanwhile, we checked out the background. Found out we could link Julie Steinmetz with Kevin Drexel from when she used to live there. They’d actually dated for a while. And, of course, we knew about her mother living there on the farm.

  “Monday we checked with the City Council, found out about the highway going through, the zoning ordinance, the whole bit.

  “The rest was just legwork.”

  It should have amused me to hear him say that. Somehow it didn’t. “Tell me something,” I said. “When you checked on the City Council—did you let ’em know what you were after?”

  “Shit no,” Creely said. “When you’re messing with something political, it’s a hot potato, you don’t want to make any waves. Politicians are skittish, excitable, a pain in the ass. You handle ’em with kid gloves. You let ’em know what you’re after, you never get what you want. And the first thing you know, someone with political pull’s calling someone with enough clout to put pressure on you to back off. Then you got a real mess.”

  Creely shook his head. He jerked his thumb. “No, I sent Davis and Nothnagel up there in plain clothes and had them feed ’em a line. What’d you tell ’em, Davis?”

&nbs
p; Davis took a pull on his soda. “Oh, some bullshit story. We posed as out-of-town reporters looking into a parking violation scandal.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh, good lord.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I rubbed my head.

  “Hey,” Davis said. “I know it sounds stupid as hell, but it worked. The simple stuff usually does. I swear the woman never knew what we were after.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t,” I said.

  “So,” Creely said, “that gave us all we needed to know about the City Council. After that, we checked out the other members. Even found a guy who matches your description of the man in the check-hat. Guy by the name of Steve Fletcher.”

  “I see,” I said. “Tell me something—these councilmen, Drexel and Fletcher—did you talk to them?”

  Creely wrinkled up his nose. “Christ no. What would be the point? They wouldn’t tell us nothing, and then if it turned out they were involved, the fat would be in the fire. No, that would be stupid as hell.”

  “It certainly would,” I said.

  “Naw,” Creely said. “We just poked around real quiet like and dug out the dirt.

  “Here’s what we got. It turns out there’s another city councilman—a Harvey Lipscomb—ever hear of him?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yeah, well other people have. The guy’s got a bit of a reputation. For having his hand out, you know? You want to bribe a city councilman in Albany, Lipscomb’s the man to see. So naturally we start checking up on him.

  “Now at the same time we’ve been working from the other end, finding out who owns the property this zoning ordinance is gonna affect. We’d come up with Carlton Kraswell. When we start checking up on him it gets interesting, ’cause Kraswell has ties in Albany, and if we go back enough years we find we can link Kraswell with Lipscomb.”

  Creely had finished his lunch. He unwrapped a stick of gum and fed it into his mouth, chomped it up. “Which gave us the picture. Julie Steinmetz tried to feather her mother’s nest by bribing city councilmen to change a zoning ordinance. Naturally, the first person she approached was Lipscomb. Which was too bad for her. Because Lipscomb was in bed with Kraswell, who happened to be on the other side. And who had probably already bribed him to vote the other way.