“The hell with you, Sarge, if I may say so with proper respect for your rank.”
“Let’s you and him fight,” I said to Green. “I’ll catch him when he drops.”
Dayton laid his note pad and ball-point aside very carefully. He stood up with a bright gleam in his eyes. He walked over and stood in front of me.
“On your feet, bright boy. Just because I went to college don’t make me take any guff from a nit like you.”
I started to get up. I was still off balance when he hit me. He hooked me with a neat left and crossed it. Bells rang, but not for dinner. I sat down hard and shook my head. Dayton was still there. He was smiling now.
“Let’s try again,” he said. “You weren’t set that time. It wasn’t really kosher.”
I looked at Green. He was looking at his thumb as if studying a hangnail. I didn’t move or speak, waiting for him to look up. If I stood up again, Dayton would slug me again. He might slug me again anyhow. But if I stood up and he slugged me, I would take him to pieces, because the blows proved he was strictly a boxer. He put them in the right place but it would take a lot of them to wear me down.
Green said almost absently: “Smart work, Billy boy. You gave the man exactly what he wanted. Clam juice.”
Then he looked up and said mildly: “Once more, for the record, Marlowe. Last time you saw Terry Lennox, where and how and what was talked about, and where did you come from just now, Yes—or no?”
Dayton was standing loosely, nicely balanced. There was a soft sweet sheen in his eyes.
“How about the other guy?” I asked, ignoring him.
“What other guy was that?”
“In the hay, in the guest house. No clothes on. You’re not saying she had to go down there to play solitaire.”
“That comes later—when we get the husband.”
“Fine. If it’s not too much trouble when you already have a patsy.”
“You don’t talk, we take you in, Marlowe.”
“As a material witness?”
“As a material my foot. As a suspect. Suspicion of accessory after the fact of murder. Helping a suspect escape. My guess is you took the guy somewhere. And right now a guess is all I need. The skipper is tough these days. He knows the rule book but he gets absent-minded. This could be a misery for you. One way or another we get a statement from you. The harder it is to get, the surer we are we need it.”
“That’s a lot of crap to him,” Dayton said. “He knows the book.”
“It’s a lot of crap to everybody,” Green said calmly. “But it still works. Come on, Marlowe. I’m blowing the whistle on you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Blow it. Terry Lennox was my friend. I’ve got a reasonable amount of sentiment invested in him. Enough not to spoil it just because a cop says come through. You’ve got a case against him, maybe far more than I hear from you. Motive, opportunity, and the fact that he skipped out. The motive is old stuff, long neutralized, almost part of the deal. I don’t admire that kind of deal, but that’s the kind of guy he is—a little weak and very gentle. The rest of it means nothing except that if he knew she was dead he knew he was a sitting duck for you. At the inquest if they have one and if they call me, I’ll have to answer questions. I don’t have to answer yours. I can see you’re a nice guy, Green. Just as I can see your partner is just another goddam badge flasher with a power complex. If you want to get me in a real jam, let him hit me again. I’ll break his goddam pencil for him.”
Green stood up and looked at me sadly. Dayton hadn’t moved. He was a one-shot tough guy. He had to have time out to pat his back.
“I’ll use the phone,” Green said. “But I know what answer I’ll get. You’re a sick chicken, Marlowe. A very sick chicken. Get the hell outa my way.” This last to Dayton. Dayton turned and went back and picked up his pad.
Green crossed to the phone and lifted it slowly, his plain face creased with the long slow thankless grind. That’s the trouble with cops. You’re all set to hate their guts and then you meet one that goes human on you.
The Captain said to bring me in, and rough.
They put handcuffs on me. They didn’t search the house, which seemed careless of them. Possibly they figured I would be too experienced to have anything there that could be dangerous to me. In which they were wrong. Because if they had made any kind of job of it they would have found Terry Lennox’s car keys. And when the car was found, as it would be sooner or later, they would fit the keys to it and know he had been in my company.
Actually, as it turned out, that meant nothing. The car was never found by any police. It was stolen sometime in the night, driven most probably to El Paso, fitted with new keys and forged papers, and put on the market eventually in Mexico City. The procedure is routine. Mostly the money comes back in the form of heroin. Part of the good-neighbor policy, as the hoodlums see it.
CHAPTER 7
The homicide skipper that year was a Captain Gregorius, a type of copper that is getting rarer but by no means extinct, the kind that solves crimes with the bright light, the soft sap, the kick to the kidneys, the knee to the groin, the fist to the solar plexus, the night stick to the base of the spine. Six months later he was indicted for perjury before a grand jury, booted without trial, and later stamped to death by a big stallion on his ranch in Wyoming.
Right now I was his raw meat. He sat behind his desk with his coat off and his sleeves rolled almost to his shoulders. He was as bald as a brick and getting heavy around the waist like all hard-muscled men in middle age. His eyes were fish gray. His big nose was a network of burst capillaries. He was drinking coffee and not quietly. His blunt strong hands had hairs thick on their backs. Grizzled tufts stuck out of his ears. He pawed something on his desk and looked at Green.
Green said: “All we got on him is he won’t tell us nothing, skipper. The phone number makes us look him up. He’s out riding and don’t say where. He knows Lennox pretty well and don’t say when he saw him last.”
“Thinks he’s tough,” Gregorius said indifferently. “We could change that.” He said it as if he didn’t care one way or another. He probably didn’t. Nobody was tough to him. “Point is the D.A. smells a lot of headlines on this one. Can’t blame him, seeing who the girl’s old man is. I guess we better pick this fellow’s nose for him.”
He looked at me as if I was a cigarette stub, or an empty chair. Just something in his line of vision, without interest for him.
Dayton said respectfully: “It’s pretty obvious that his whole attitude was designed to create a situation where he could refuse to talk. He quoted law at us and needles me into socking him. I was out of line there, Captain.”
Gregorius eyed him bleakly. “You must needle easy if this punk can do it. Who took the cuffs off?”
Green said he did. “Put them back on,” Gregorius said. “Tight. Give him something to brace him up.”
Green put the cuffs back on or started to. “Behind the back,” Gregorius barked. Green cuffed my hands behind my back. I was sitting in a hard chair.
“Tighter,” Gregorius said. “Make them bite.”
Green made them tighter. My hands started to feel numb.
Gregorius looked at me finally. “You can talk now. Make it snappy.”
I didn’t answer him. He leaned back and grinned. His hand went out slowly for his coffee cup and went around it. He leaned forward a little. The cup jerked but I beat it by going sideways out of the chair. I landed hard on my shoulder, rolled over and got up slowly. My hands were quite numb now. They didn’t feel anything. The arms above the cuffs were beginning to ache.
Green helped me back into the chair. The wet smear of the coffee was over the back and some of the seat, but most of it was on the floor.
“He don’t like coffee,” Gregorius said. “He’s a swifty. He moves fast. Good reflexes.”
Nobody said anything. Gregorius looked me over with fish eyes.
“In here, mister, a dick license don’t mean any more than a call
ing card. Now let’s have your statement, verbal at first. We’ll take it down later. Make it complete. Let’s have, say, a full account of your movements since ten P.M. last night. I mean full. This office is investigating a murder and the prime suspect is missing. You connect with him. Guy catches his wife cheating and beats her head to raw flesh and bone and bloodsoaked hair. Our old friend the bronze statuette. Not original but it works. You think any goddam private eye is going to quote law at me over this, mister, you got a hell of a tough time coming your way. There ain’t a police force in the country could do its job with a law book. You got information and I want it. You could of said no and I could of not believed you. But you didn’t even say no. You’re not dummying up on me, my friend. Not six cents worth. Let’s go.”
“Would you take the cuffs off, Captain?” I asked. “I mean if I made a statement?”
“I might. Make it short.”
“If I told you I hadn’t seen Lennox within the last twenty-four hours, hadn’t talked to him and had no idea where he might be—would that satisfy you, Captain?”
“It might—if I believed it.”
“If I told you I had seen him and where and when, but had no idea he had murdered anyone or that any crime had been committed, and further had no idea where he might be at this moment, that wouldn’t satisfy you at all, would it?”
“With more detail I might listen. Things like where, when, what he looked like, what was talked about, where he was headed. It might grow into something.”
“With your treatment,” I said, “it would probably grow into making me an accessory.”
His jaw muscles bulged. His eyes were dirty ice. “So?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I need legal advice. I’d like to co-operate. How would it be if we had somebody from the D.A.’s office here?”
He let out a short raucous laugh. It was over very soon. He got up slowly and walked around the desk. He leaned down close to me, one big hand on the wood, and smiled. Then without change of expression he hit me on the side of the neck with a fist like a piece of iron.
The blow traveled eight or ten inches, no more. It nearly took my head off. Bile seeped into my mouth. I tasted blood mixed with it. I heard nothing but a roaring in my head. He leaned over me still smiling, his left hand still on the desk. His voice seemed to come from a long way off.
“I used to be tough but I’m getting old. You take a good punch, mister, and that’s all you get from me. We got boys over at the City Jail that ought to be working in the stockyards. Maybe we hadn’t ought to have them because they ain’t nice clean powderpuff punchers like Dayton here. They don’t have four kids and a rose garden like Green. They live for different amusements. It takes all kinds and labor’s scarce. You got any more funny little ideas about what you might say, if you bothered to say it?”
“Not with the cuffs on, Captain.” It hurt even to say that much.
He leaned farther towards me and I smelled his sweat and the gas of corruption. Then he straightened and went back around the desk and planted his solid buttocks in his chair. He picked up a three-cornered ruler and ran his thumb along one edge as if it was a knife. He looked at Green.
“What are you waiting for, Sergeant?”
“Orders.” Green ground out the word as if he hated the sound of his own voice.
“You got to be told? You’re an experienced man, it says in the records. I want a detailed statement of this man’s movements for the past twenty-four hours. Maybe longer, but that much at first. I want to know what he did every minute of the time. I want it signed and witnessed and checked. I want it in two hours. Then I want him back here clean, tidy, and unmarked. And one thing more, Sergeant.”
He paused and gave Green a stare that would have frozen a fresh-baked potato.
“—next time I ask a suspect a few civil questions I don’t want you standing there looking as if I had torn his ear off.”
“Yes, sir.” Green turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly.
Gregorius bared his teeth at me. They needed cleaning—badly. “Let’s have the exit line, chum.”
“Yes, sir,” I said politely. “You probably didn’t intend it, but you’ve done me a favor. With an assist from Detective Dayton. You’ve solved a problem for me. No man likes to betray a friend but I wouldn’t betray an enemy into your hands. You’re not only a gorilla, you’re an incompetent. You don’t know how to operate a simple investigation. I was balanced on a knife edge and you could have swung me either way. But you had to abuse me, throw coffee in my face, and use your fists on me when I was in a spot where all I could do was take it. From now on I wouldn’t tell you the time by the clock on your own wall.”
For some strange reason he sat there perfectly still and let me say it. Then he grinned, “You’re just a little old cop-hater, friend. That’s all you are, shamus, just a little old cop-hater.”
“There are places where cops are not hated, Captain. But in those places you wouldn’t be a cop.”
He took that too. I guess he could afford it. He’d probably taken worse many times. Then the phone rang on his desk. He looked at it and gestured. Dayton stepped smartly around the desk and lifted the receiver.
“Captain Gregorius’ office. Detective Dayton speaking.”
He listened. A tiny frown drew his handsome eyebrows together. He said softly: “One moment, please, sir.”
He held the phone out to Gregorius. “Commissioner Allbright, sir.”
Gregorius scowled. “Yeah? What’s that snotty bastard want?” He took the phone, held it a moment and smoothed his face out. “Gregorius, Commissioner.”
He listened. “Yeah, he’s here in my office, Commissioner. I been asking him a few questions. Not co-operative. Not co-operative at all … How’s that again?” A sudden ferocious scowl twisted his face into dark knots. The blood darkened his forehead. But his voice didn’t change in tone by a fraction. “If that’s a direct order, it ought to come through the Chief of Detectives, Commissioner … Sure, I’ll act on it until it’s confirmed. Sure … Hell, no. Nobody laid a glove on him … Yes, sir. Right away.”
He put the phone back in its cradle. I thought his hand shook a little. His eyes moved up and across my face and then to Green. “Take the cuffs off,” he said tonelessly.
Green unlocked the cuffs. I rubbed my hands together, waiting for the pins and needles of circulation.
“Book him in the county jail,” Gregorius said slowly. “Suspicion of murder. The D.A. has glommed the case right out of our hands. Lovely system we got around here.”
Nobody moved. Green was close to me, breathing hard. Gregorius looked up at Dayton.
“Whatcha waiting for, cream puff? An ice-cream cone maybe?”
Dayton almost choked. “You didn’t give me any orders, skipper.”
“Say sir to me, damn you! I’m skipper to sergeants and better. Not to you, kiddo. Not to you. Out.”
“Yes, sir.” Dayton walked quickly to the door and went out. Gregorius heaved himself to his feet and moved to the window and stood with his back to the room.
“Come on, let’s drift,” Green muttered in my ear.
“Get him out of here before I kick his face in,” Gregorius said to the window.
Green went to the door and opened it. I started through. Gregorius barked suddenly: “Hold it! Shut that door!”
Green shut it and leaned his back to it.
“Come here, you!” Gregorius barked at me.
I didn’t move. I stood and looked at him. Green didn’t move either. There was a grim pause. Then very slowly Gregorius walked across the room and stood facing me toe to toe. He put his big hard hands in his pockets. He rocked on his heels.
“Never laid a glove on him,” he said under his breath, as if talking to himself. His eyes were remote and expressionless. His mouth worked convulsively.
Then he spat in my face.
He stepped back. “That will be all, thank you.”
He turned and went b
ack to the window. Green opened the door again.
I went through it reaching for my handkerchief.
CHAPTER 8
Cell No. 3 in the felony tank has two bunks, Pullman style, but the tank was not very full and I had the cell to myself. In the felony tank they treat you pretty well. You get two blankets, neither dirty nor clean, and a lumpy mattress two inches thick which goes over crisscrossed metal slats. There is a flush toilet, a washbasin, paper towels and gritty gray soap. The cell block is clean and doesn’t smell of disinfectant. The trusties do the work. The supply of trusties is always ample.
The jail deputies look you over and they have wise eyes. Unless you are a drunk or a psycho or act like one you get to keep your matches and cigarettes. Until preliminary you wear your own clothes. After that you wear the jail denim, no tie, no belt, no shoelaces. You sit on the bunk and wait. There is nothing else to do.
In the drunk tank it is not so good. No bunk, no chair, no blankets, no nothing. You lie on the concrete floor. You sit on the toilet and vomit in your own lap. That is the depth of misery. I’ve seen it.
Although it was still daylight the lights were on in the ceiling. Inside the steel door of the cell block was a basket of steel bars around the Judas window. The lights were controlled from outside the steel door. They went out at nine P.M. Nobody came through the door or said anything. You might be in the middle of a sentence in a newspaper or magazine. Without any sound of a click or any warning—darkness. And there you were until the summer dawn with nothing to do but sleep if you could, smoke if you had anything to smoke, and think if you had anything to think about that didn’t make you feel worse than not thinking at all.
In jail a man has no personality. He is a minor disposal problem and a few entries on reports. Nobody cares who loves or hates him, what he looks like, what he did with his life. Nobody reacts to him unless he gives trouble. Nobody abuses him. All that is asked of him is that he go quietly to the right cell and remain quiet when he gets there. There is nothing to fight against, nothing to be mad at. The jailers are quiet men without animosity or sadism. All this stuff you read about men yelling and screaming, beating against the bars, running spoons along them, guards rushing in with clubs—all that is for the big house. A good jail is one of the quietest places in the world. You could walk through the average cell block at night and look in through the bars and see a huddle of brown blanket, or a head of hair, or a pair of eyes looking at nothing. You might hear a snore. Once in a long while you might hear a nightmare. The life in a jail is in suspension, without purpose or meaning. In another cell you might see a man who cannot sleep or even try to sleep. He is sitting on the edge of his bunk doing nothing. He looks at you or doesn’t. You look at him. He says nothing and you say nothing. There is nothing to communicate.
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