by Ed McBain
"Weren't you afraid it would make noise?" "We only give it a quick rap," Di Palermo said. "We didn't know somebody was home."
"What'd you expect to get in that apartment?" the Chief of Detectives asked.
"I don't know," Di Palermo said.
"Now, look," the Chief of Detectives said patiently, "you both broke into an apartment. Now we know that, and you just admitted it, so you must have had a reason for going in there. What do you say?"
"The girls told us," Anselmo said. "What girls?"
"Oh, some chicks," Di Palermo answered. "What'd they tell you?" "To bust the door." "Why?"
"Like that," Anselmo said. "Like what?" "Like for kicks." "Only for kicks?"
"I don't know why we busted the door," Anselmo said, and he glanced quickly at Di Palermo.
"To take something out of the apartment?" the Chief asked.
"Maybe a ..." Di Palermo shrugged. "Maybe what?"
"A couple of bucks. You know, like that." "You were planning a burglary then, is that right?" "Yeah, I guess."
"What'd you do when you discovered the apartment was occupied?"
"The lady screamed," Anselmo said.
"So we run," Di Palermo said.
"Next case," the Chief of Detectives said. The boys shuffled oft the stage to where their arresting officer was waiting for them. Actually, they had said a hell of a lot more than they should have. They'd have been within their rights if they'd insisted on not saying a word at the lineup. Not knowing this, not even knowing that their position was fortified because they'd made no statement when they'd been collared, they had answered the Chief of Detectives with remarkable naivete. A good lawyer, with a simple charge of unlawfully entering under circumstances or in a manner not amounting to a burglary, would have had his clients plead guilty to a misdemeanor. The Chief of Detectives, however, had asked the boys if they were planning to commit a burglary, and the boys had answered in the affirmative. And the Penal Law, Section 402, defines Burglary in first degree thusly:
A person, who, with intent to commit some crime therein, breaks and enters, in the night time, the dwelling-house of another, in which there is at the time a human being:
1. Being armed with a dangerous weapon; or
2. Arming himself therein with such a weapon; or
3. Being assisted by a confederate actually present; or ...
Well, no matter. The boys had very carelessly tied the knot of a felony about their youthful necks, perhaps not realizing that burglary in the first degree is punishable by imprisonment in a state prison for an indeterminate term the minimum of which shall not be less than ten years and the maximum of which shall not be more than thirty years.
Apparently, "the girls" had told them wrong.
"Diamondback, Two," the Chief of Detectives said. "Pritchett, Virginia, 34. Struck her quote husband unquote about the neck and head with a hatchet at three a.m. in the morning. No statement."
Virginia Pritchett had walked onto the stage while the Chief of Detectives was talking. She was a small woman, barely clearing the five-foot-one-inch marker. She was thin, narrow-boned, with red hair of the fine, spider-webby type. She wore no lipstick. She wore no smile. Her eyes were dead.
"Virginia?" the Chief of Detectives said.
She raised her head. She kept her hands close to her waist, one fist folded over the other. Her eyes did not come to life. They were grey, and she stared into the glaring lights unblinkingly. "Virginia?"
"Yes, sir?" Her voice was very soft, barely audible. Ca-rella leaned forward to catch what she was saying.
"Have you ever been in trouble before, Virginia?" the Chief of Detectives asked. "No, sir."
"What happened, Virginia?"
The girl shrugged, as if she too could not comprehend what had happened. The shrug was a small one, a gesture that would have been similar to passing a hand over the eyes.
"What happened, Virginia?"
The girl raised herself up to her full height, partly to speak into the permanently fixed microphone which dangled several inches before her face on a solid steel pipe, partly because there were eyes on her and because she apparently realized her shoulders were slumped. The room was deathly still. There was not a breeze in the city. Beyond the glaring lights, the detectives sat.
"We argued," she said, sighing. "Do you want to tell us about it?"
"We argued from the morning, from when we first got up. The heat. It's ... it was very hot in the apartment. Right from the morning. You . . . you lose your temper quickly in the heat." "Go on."
"He started with the orange juice. He said the orange juice wasn't cold enough. I told him I'd had it in the ice box all night, it wasn't my fault it wasn't cold. Diamondback isn't ritzy, sir. We don't have refrigerators in Diamondback, and with this heat, the ice melts very fast. Well, he started complaining about the orange juice." "Were you married to this man?" "No, sir."
"How long have you been living together?" "Seven years, sir." "Go on."
"He said he was going down for breakfast, and I said he shouldn't go down because it was silly to spend money when you didn't have to. He stayed, but he complained about the orange juice all the while he ate. It went on like that all day."
"About the orange juice, you mean?"
"No, other things. I don't remember what. He was watching the ball game on tv, and drinking beer, and he'd pick on little things all day long. He was sitting in his under-shorts because of the heat. I had hardly anything on myself."
"Go on."
"We had supper late, just cold cuts. He was picking on me all that time. He didn't want to sleep in the bedroom that night, he wanted to sleep on the kitchen floor. I told him it was silly, even though the bedroom is very hot. He hit me."
"What do you mean, he hit you?"
"He hit me about the face. He closed one eye for me. I told him not to touch me again, or I would push him out the window. He laughed. He put a blanket on the kitchen floor, near the window, and he turned on the radio, and I went into the bedroom to sleep."
"Yes, go ahead, Virginia."
"I couldn't sleep because it was so hot. And he had the radio up loud. I went into the kitchen to tell him to please put the radio a little lower, and he said to go back to bed. I went into the bathroom, and I washed my face, and that was when I spied the hatchet."
"Where was the hatchet?"
"He keeps tools on a shelf in the bathroom, wrenches and a hammer, and the hatchet was with them. I thought I would go out and tell him to put the radio lower again, because it was very hot and the radio was very loud, and I wanted to try to get some sleep. But I didn't want him to hit me again, so I took the hatchet, to protect myself with, in case he tried to get rough again."
"Then what did you do?"
"I went out into the kitchen with the hatchet in my hands. He had got up off the floor and was sitting in a chair near the window, listening to the radio. His back was to me."
"Yes."
"I walked over to him, and he didn't turn around, and I didn't say anything to him."
"What did you do?"
"I struck him with the hatchet."
"Where?"
"On his head and on his neck."
"How many times?"
"I don't remember exactly. I just kept hitting him."
"Then what?"
"He fell off the chair, and I dropped the hatchet, and I went next door to Mr. Alanos, he's our neighbor, and I told him I had hit my husband with a hatchet, and he didn't believe me. He came into the apartment, and then he called the police, and an officer came."
"Your husband was taken to the hospital, did you know that?" "Yes."
"Do you know the disposition of his case?" Her voice was very low. "I heard he died," she said. She lowered her head and did not look out past the lights again. Her fists were still folded at her waist. Her eyes were still dead.
"Next case," the Chief of Detectives said. "She murdered him," Bush whispered, his voice curiously loaded with awe. Carella
nodded.
"Majesta, One," the Chief of Detectives said. "Bronckin, David, 27. Had a lamp outage report at 10:24 P.M. last night, corner of Weaver and 69th North. Electric company notified at once, and then another lamp outage two blocks south reported, and then gunfire reported. Patrolman picked up Bronckin on Dicksen and 69th North. Bronckin was intoxicated, was going down the street shooting out lamppost fixtures. What about it, Dave?"
"I'm only Dave to my friends," Bronckin said.
"What about it?"
"What do you want from me? I got high, I shot out a few lights. I'll pay for the goddamn lights."
"What were you doing with the gun?"
"You know what I was doing. I was shooting at the lampposts."
"Did you start out with that idea? Shooting at the lamp-posts?"
"Yeah. Listen, I don't have to say anything to you. I want a lawyer."
"You'll have plenty opportunity for a lawyer."
"Well, I ain't answering any questions until I get one."
"Who's asking questions? We're trying to find out what possessed you to do a damn fool thing like shooting at light fixtures."
"I was high. What the hell, you never been high?"
"I don't go shooting at lampposts when I'm high," the Chief said.
"Well, I do. That's what makes horse races."
"Where were you Sunday night?" "What time Sunday night?" "About 11.40 or so." "I think I was at a movie."
"Which movie?"
"The Strand. Yeah, I was at a movie."
"Did you have the .45 with you?"
"I don't remember."
"Yes or no."
"I don't remember. If you want a yes or no, it'll have to be no. I'm no dope."
"What picture did you see?"
"An old one."
"Name it."
"The Creature from the Black Lagoon."
"What was it about?"
"A monster that comes up from the water."
"What was the co-feature?"
"I don't remember."
"Think."
"Something with John Garfield."
"What?"
"A prize-fight picture."
"What was the title?"
"I don't remember. He's a bum, and then he gets to be champ, and then he takes a dive."
"Body and Soul?"
"Yeah, that was it."
"Call The Strand, Hank," Carella said.
"Hey, what're you gonna do that for?" Bronckin asked.
"To check and see if those movies were playing Sunday night."
"They were playing, all right."
"We're also going to check that .45 with Ballistics, Bronckin."
"What for?"
"To see how it matches up against some slugs we've got. You can save us a lot of time."
"How?"
"What were you doing Monday night?"
"Monday, Monday? Jesus, who remembers?"
Bush had located the number in the directory, and was dialing.
"Listen," Bronckin said, "you don't have to call them. Those were the pictures, all right."
"What were you doing Monday night?"
"I... I went to a movie."
"Another movie? Two nights in a row?"
"Yeah. The movies are air-conditioned. It's better than hanging around and suffocating, ain't it?"
"What'd you see?"
"Some more old ones."
"You like old movies, don't you?"
"I don't care about the picture. I was only tryin' to beat the heat. The places showing old movies are cheaper."
"What were the pictures?"
"Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and Violent Saturday."
"You remember those all right, do you?"
"Sure, it was more recent."
"Why'd you say you couldn't remember what you did Monday night?"
"I said that?"
"Yes."
"Well, I had to think."
"What movie house was this?"
"On Monday night, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"One of the RKO's. The one on North 80th."
Bush put the receiver back into its cradle. "Checks out, Steve," he said. "Creature from the Black Lagoon, and Body and Soul. Like he said." Bush didn't mention that he'd also taken down a timetable for the theatre, or that he knew exactly what times each picture started and ended. He nodded briefly at Carella, passing on the information.
"What time did you go in?"
"Sunday or Monday?"
"Sunday."
"About 8:30."
"Exactly 8:30?"
"Who remembers exactly? It was getting hot, so I went into The Strand."
"What makes you think it was 8:30?"
"I don't know. It was about that time."
"What time did you leave?"
"About—musta been about a quarter to twelve."
"Where'd you go then?" I
"For some coffee and."
"Where?"
"The White Tower."
"How long did you stay?"
"Half-hour, I guess."
"What'd you eat?"
"I told you. Coffee and."
"Coffee and what?"
"Jesus, a jelly donut," Bronckin said.
"This took you a half-hour?"
"I had a cigarette while I was there."
"Meet anybody you know there?"
"No."
"At the movie?"
"No."
"And you didn't have the gun with you, that right?"
"I don't think I did."
"Do you usually carry it around?"
"Sometimes."
"You ever been in trouble with the Law?"
"Yeah."
"Spell it."
"I served two at" Sing Sing."
"What for?"
"Assault with a deadly weapon."
"What was the weapon?" Bronckin hesitated.
"I'm listening," Carella said.
"A .45."
"This one?"
"No."
"Which?"
"Another one I had."
"Have you still got it?" Again, Bronckin hesitated. "Have you still got it?"
Carella repeated. "Yes."
"How come? Didn't the police ..."
"I ditched the gun. They never found it A friend of mine picked it up for me."
"Did you use the business end?"
"No. The butt."
"On who?"
"What difference does it make?"
"I want to know. Who?"
"A... a lady."
"A woman?"
"Yes."
"How old?"
"Forty. Fifty."
"Which?"
"Fifty."
"You're a nice guy."
"Yeah," Bronckin said.
"Who collared you? Which precinct?"
"Ninety-second, I think."
"Was it?"
"Yes."
"Who were the cops?"
"I don't know."
"The ones who made the arrest, I mean."
"There was only one."
"A dick?"
"No."
"When was this?" Bush asked.
"Fifty-two."
"Where's that other .45?"
"Back at my room."
"Where?"
"831 Haven."
Carella jotted down the address. "What else have you got there?"
"You guys going to help me?"
"What help do you need?"
"Well, I keep a few guns."
"How many?"
"Six," Bronckin said.
"What?"
"Yeah."
"Name them."
"The two .45's. Then there's a Luger, and a Mauser, and I even got a Tokarev."
"What else?" "Oh, just a .22."
"All in your room?"
"Yeah, it's quite a collection."
"Your shoes there, too?"
"Yeah. What's with my shoes?"
"No permits for any of these guns,
huh?"
"No. Slipped my mind."
"I'll bet. Hank, call the Ninety-second. Find out who collared Bronckin in '52. I think Foster started at our house, but Reardon may have been a transfer."
"Oh," Bronckin said suddenly.
"What?"
"That's what this is all about, huh? Those two cops."
"Yes."
"You're 'way off," Bronckin said.
"Maybe. What time'd you get out of that RKO?"
"About the same. Eleven-thirty, twelve."
"The other one check, Hank?"
"Yep."
"Better call the RKO on North 80th and check this one, too. You can go now, Bronckin. Your escort's in the hall."
"Hey," Bronckin said, "how about a break? I helped you, didn't I? How about a break?"
Carella blew his nose.
None of the shoes in Bronckin's apartment owned heels even faintly resembling the heel-print cast the Lab boys had.
Ballistics reported that neither of the .45's in Bronckin's possession could have fired any of the fatal bullets.
The 92nd Precinct reported that neither Michael Reardon or David Foster had ever worked there.
There was only one thing the investigators could bank on. The heat.
Chapter FIFTEEN
at seven twenty-six that Thursday night, the city looked skyward.
The city had heard a sound, and it paused to identify the sound. The sound was the roll of distant thunder.
And it seemed, simultaneously, as if a sudden breeze sprang up from the North and washed the blistering face of the city. The ominous rolling in the sky grew closer, and now there were lightning flashes, erratic, jagged streaks that knifed the sky.
The people of the city turned their faces upward and waited.
It seemed the rain would never come. The lightning was wild in its fury, lashing the tall buildings, arcing over the horizon. The thunder answered the spitting angers of the lightning, booming its own furious epithets.
And then, suddenly, the sky split open and the rain poured down. Huge drops, and they pelted the sidewalks and the gutters and the streets; and the asphalt and concrete sizzled when the first drops fell; and the citizens of the city smiled and watched the rain, watched the huge drops— God, how big the drops were!—splattering against the ground. And the smiles broadened, and people slapped each other on the back, and it looked as if everything was going to be all right again.
Until the rain stopped.
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. It had burst from the sky like water that had broken through a dam. It rained for four minutes and thirty-six seconds. And then, as though someone had suddenly plugged the broken wall of the dam, it stopped.