Death on the Waterfront

by Robert Archer

  “I haven’t the slightest doubt of it. You’d probably get a mistrial or a hung jury, too, if either of the defendants had a lawyer worth a hoot in hell,” murmured Stern, “but that doesn’t disprove my point any more than the rest of your speech. You don’t have to tell me about the hit-or-miss methods of modern crime detection—I’ve seen too many men framed and railroaded to further a political career—oh, don’t look insulted and injured, McArthur; I’m speaking generally—or to win a promotion or satisfy the newspapers or just because the law-enforcement officials were lazy or stupid or both. I don’t say the average convicted person is framed or railroaded but I do say that too damn many of them are; and I also say that if you got your indictments on the basis of the evidence we’ve got against either Jackson or Powers the chances are better than your ninety-nine out of a hundred, McArthur, that you’d be wrong.

  “Take Jackson first—you don’t have to listen, Nicholson, we’ve been over this once before—Jackson may be a lot of things, but he is not a congenital idiot—you can’t be a complete fool and be a labor leader these days—and yet, if the fellow did these jobs you’ve got to admit he needs a nurse. He’s left a trail pointing to himself that a boy scout could follow. First he has a fight with one victim just before he kills him so that everyone will be sure to see the connection; then he kills the guy with a weapon everybody will be sure to trace when he could as easily have used a piece of gas pipe; then he hides out so we’ll be sure to look for him. Next he starts his campaign against victim number two by calling up and identifying himself so that everyone will know he was on the ground when the deed was done; then he hops into a stolen car and takes a witness along, just in case, and he gets subtle and wrecks the car and leaves his witness, who is a pal of his, beside the wreck so the well-known authorities will have a conundrum to sink their teeth into. But the best piece of nincompoopery he saves for the last. After he’s bumped his second victim and the butler walks into the room—the butler, mind you, who took his telephone call and knows he said himself that he would be in this very house at that very minute—ten o’clock—he cracks the fellow gently over the head and makes sure he’ll be alive to testify. If that guy’s guilty he’ll never burn as long as there’s a nut house left in the country.”

  “All right, he’s crazy, so what?” shouted Nicholson. “These murders could have been the work of a madman—as a matter of fact, they show all the earmarks. Look at the brutal way they were done. Look at the chances the guy took——”

  “The guy who committed these murders may be crazy,” said Stern, “but he’s crazy like a fox. He’s got you fellows barking up the wrong tree and if his luck holds and the blessed authorities don’t use their heads he’ll keep you there. Of course he’s taken chances—he’s in a hurry and desperate—but he’s taken damn few chances he didn’t have to take—that’s what makes me wonder why Powers is still alive; this guy’s not squeamish; he’s ruthless, and another murder more or less wouldn’t mean a thing—”

  “You’re ignoring the possibility of Powers’ having killed Murdock,” snapped McArthur. “I’m damned if I’ll sit here and be lectured——”

  The sheriff, who had been listening attentively, interrupted: “Wait a minute, Mac,” he said sharply. “Don’t you get yourself overheated again. This young feller’s not being very diplomatic, considering he’s out of his own bailiwick, but I never did see much use in diplomacy, myself, except when you’re talking to reporters or to a jury. Anyway, listening to him ain’t hurt me none. As far as the butler killing Murdock is concerned, I think, myself, you’re off on the wrong foot and I’ll tell you why. You heard the doc say he’d stake his reputation that those marks on Powers’ head weren’t self-inflicted? Well, I saw ‘em myself while they were being bandaged, and we discussed ‘em before you came. Remember, the man was hit twice, and it ain’t likely he’d be able to do that himself. Then, too, you take the mark on the right temple; that was a glancing blow, and it glanced off to the right and down. Try hitting yourself that way and see what you get. And the other blow, the one the doc says put him to sleep, landing above the hairline almost on top of the head. It was a good, healthy wallop, too, and the doc says if Powers didn’t have a thicker head than most men it would have split his skull. Nope. I’m bettin’ Powers didn’t have anything to do with killing his boss, unless you want to play around with the idea that the butler was in cahoots with someone and his side-kick crossed him or something. I guess that’s possible, but there’s one thing we don’t want to overlook—Powers could have had nothing to do with the actual murder and still swipe the money.” He turned to Stern. “I wish you’d tell me one thing, though, young feller,” he said a little plaintively. “What’d you ask the butler about them keys for? That’s got me kinda stumped.” .

  “Skip that for the time being, will you?” requested Stern. “I don’t quite know what I was driving at yet, myself. I think I’ll stop sounding off for a while, until I hear what Miss Whosis has to say. I’ll confess I’d like to hear an explanation of why Murdock had ten grand in his safe.”

  The old sheriff nodded his head. “Yeah, I guess maybe we are wastin’ our time ‘presumin’ as Powers calls it. Miss Cosimo should be able to tell us about that money if anybody can. ‘Fore we have her in, though, there’s one thing I’d like to say: she’s a tartar if ever I saw one, and it’s my guess we’ll get more out of her by goin’ slow and easy than by shoutin’.”

  McArthur followed his habit of clearing his throat before speaking. Then he said, “It would be best, I think, if someone spoke to the press. If you have no objections, Sheriff——“ He moved tentatively toward the door.

  “Go ahead and talk to ‘em if you feel like it,” growled Christy, “but don’t say nothin’ you’ll have to take back later.”

  “I think I may be trusted to be discreet,” McArthur retorted angrily. “After all, this is not my first case.”

  The sheriff followed McArthur out of the room, returning presently to usher in a large, striking woman with flashing dark eyes and black hair piled high on her head. Nellie Cosimo wore a neat, dark blue dress and flat-heeled shoes. She marched into the room as stiffly erect as a soldier on parade and stood surveying Nicholson and Stern while the sheriff introduced them. Then she nodded curtly to each and sat down in the chair that had been occupied by Powers, her feet flat on the floor, her large, powerful-looking hands folded in her capacious lap. Despite her plain, utilitarian clothes, she looked a little like a mid-Victorian painting of one of the more substantial goddesses of ancient Rome.

  The sheriff began a little speech about police routine, evidently intended to pacify this formidable creature and put her at her ease, but he had not completed his first sentence before she interrupted.

  “Please,” she said in a surprisingly beautiful, well-modulated voice, “it’s not necessary to tell me why you want to question me, though I don’t know what I can tell you that will help to find the man who committed this horrible crime.”

  The sheriff looked a little abashed. “You were Mr. Murdock’s secretary,” he said. “It seems to me you ought to be able to help us a lot.”

  Miss Cosimo’s chin came up, tilting her head back. “I was Mr. Murdock’s private secretary for fifteen years. If there is anything you want to know about his business or his personal idiosyncrasies I think I can tell you but I fail to see how such information will help you find his murderer. As a matter of fact, I fail to see how you expect to find him at all by sitting here. Why don’t you get out and do something?”

  “Have you any suggestions that might help us?” asked Stern softly. “Any suspicion as to who might have murdered your employer?”

  “I?” Nellie Cosimo looked coldly at her questioner. “I know nothing about what happened here this morning except what the authorities chose to tell me.” Her voice rose, and her tone became hard and sharp. “But I can tell you what every decent, intelligent citizen will know—that this crime is the work of the Communists—those lawl
ess, Godless creatures who are trying to ruin every honest businessman in this country, just as they were trying to ruin Mr. Murdock.”

  The sheriff coughed and looked across at Nicholson. Stern’s face behind his glasses was bland and disingenuous. “Could you be a little more specific?” he asked.

  “I can make no specific accusations because I have no firsthand knowledge,” said the woman, “but I can tell you what men I mean—I refer to the leaders of that anarchistic, un-American organization known as the Independent Longshoremen’s Club. As secretary to Mr. Murdock I have listened to their threats and intimidations and I know they would not stop at murder to gain their ends. Only in a democracy would such lawlessness be tolerated.”

  “Now looka here,” protested the sheriff hurriedly. “That kinda thing ain’t gonna get us nowhere. We all got a right to our political opinions but we ain’t here to debate ‘em; our job is to find out who killed Mr. Murdock. Can’t you give us somethin’ more to the point—like who threatened your boss, and when and what he said?”

  Nellie Cosimo looked scornful. She closed her mouth in a straight line and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “for American stupidity.”

  The sheriff’s blue eyes flashed wickedly for a moment, but he let it lay. “This money that you say was in the safe over there,” he asked. “What can you tell us about that?”

  “Mr. Murdock asked me to draw ten thousand dollars from his personal account day before yesterday and bring it to him here. I saw him place it in the inner compartment of the safe.”

  “Did he say what he wanted it for?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Wasn’t that a lot of money for him to keep in the house here?”

  “Yes,” said the woman slowly, “it was.”

  “Weren’t you curious about it?”

  “Curious?” The woman looked up as though the question surprised her. “Perhaps. It was none of my business.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sheriff hesitated a moment, as though to frame his next question, and Nicholson took advantage of the pause.

  “Do you know what the money was for?” he asked directly.

  Nellie Cosimo turned her black eyes in his direction. “No,” she said shortly.

  “Had you any suspicion?”

  “No.”

  Nicholson leaned forward. “Miss Cosimo, did Mr. Murdock employ a spy to report to him the doings of the labor union?” The woman’s eyelids flickered, veiling her eyes momentarily. Then she opened them wide and looked at Nicholson. “I don’t know,” she said in a low voice.

  “A man named Riorden was killed across the river last night,” persisted Nicholson. “Was he the spy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you said you knew all about Mr. Murdock’s business?”

  If Nellie Cosimo had been disconcerted by the sudden trend of the questioning she had recovered, “I was only his secretary,” she said tartly. “There may have been some things he did not tell me.”

  Nicholson asked one or two additional questions, getting nowhere. Stern was quiet, his eyes speculative. It was evident that he was much more interested in Nellie Cosimo than he had been in Powers.

  Finally Nicholson sat back and took out a fresh cigar which he began to chew disgustedly. The sheriff tried a new tack: “How come Murdock spent so much time at home during office hours?” he wanted to know.

  “He liked to work where it was quiet.”

  “And you were supposed to work with him here this morning? That it?”

  “Yes. He had some correspondence to dictate. He told me to come here this morning instead of going to the office.”

  “What time?”

  “He didn’t say. I assumed he meant the same time I report to the office—nine o’clock.”

  “And did you come at nine?”

  The woman’s smile was humorless. “I did not. My mother was ill, and I was late. You see, I live alone across the river near my work, but my mother has a house on this side in Lynnhurst. She is very old and has been ailing lately, and I have been staying with her when I could. Since Mr. Murdock wanted me here this morning I stayed with her last night, both because she is ill and because it is nearer. But this morning she was worse, and I spent an extra two hours doing what I could for her. That is why I did not arrive here until eleven.” She spoke casually, but there was something about the explanation that did not carry conviction. It was too pat and too quickly volunteered.

  “How did you come up from Lynnhurst this morning?” asked the sheriff.

  “By cab. My car was not working properly, and I was late and in a hurry. A state police car was parked just outside the gate, and the officer wouldn’t let us drive in.”

  “And that was the first you knew about what happened here?”

  “It was.”

  McArthur had re-entered the room and stood listening to the last few questions. Now he interposed one of his own. “What can you tell us about the butler, Powers, Miss Cosimo?” he asked.

  “Only that he is a coward and a sneak,” snapped the woman. “Mr. Murdock was a stern man and a meticulous one; often he had occasion to rebuke Powers, and because of that Powers hated him.”

  “Do you think Powers killed him?”

  The woman shook her head slowly. “No, he had not courage enough for that, but——”

  She hesitated, and Stern finished for her—“but he may have taken the money from the safe,” he said softly. “That’s what you intended to say, wasn’t it?”

  She glared at him defiantly. “I can speak for myself, young man. You don’t need to put words into my mouth.”

  Stern left it at that. A smile flickered on his lips for a moment and died as McArthur asked:

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Murdock’s will?”

  She answered quickly. “I am. The bulk of the estate goes to his wife and daughter. Mr. Murdock was kind enough to include a bequest of five thousand dollars to myself, and there are also smaller legacies for the other servants.”

  Stern’s brows lifted, but he said nothing. So the woman referred to herself as a servant, did she? And wasn’t there a faintly contemptuous note when she mentioned the sum Murdock had left her?

  McArthur thanked the woman and turned to the sheriff. “I believe Miss Cosimo has told us all she knows. I see no reason for our inconveniencing her further.” He seemed anxious to terminate the interview.

  The sheriff grunted. “For someone who’s supposed to know all about Murdock and his business, ‘pears to me she’s told us doggone little. But I guess we can question her again later on. I got just two more things I’d like to know now, and we’ll call it a day. First thing is”—he turned his mild blue eyes on the woman—“you know anyone who looks like the fellow Powers says hit him—tall, with curly black hair, and wears brown clothes? It’s not much of a description but it’s all we got to go on.”

  Nellie Cosimo was evidently hearing the description for the first time. As she listened a peculiar expression came into her eyes that might have been recognition, and she wet her lips with her tongue before she answered. But her voice gave no indication that she was not telling the truth. “I know of no one who answers that description,” she said.

  Nicholson said: “Some of the men you spoke of before, Miss Cosimo—the men from the union who conferred with Mr. Murdock—don’t some of them answer that description?”

  “They——“ Nellie Cosimo hesitated, and a little frown appeared between her eyes. She seemed to be thinking hard. “I cannot say,” she said finally. “I don’t remember.”

  Nicholson figuratively threw up his hands, and the sheriff sighed. “Just one more,” he said wearily. “Do you know if anything else is missing from the room besides the money?”

  “I can’t very well answer that until I’ve had a chance to look,” said the woman.

  The sheriff nodded. “All right. Suppose you go ahead and look right now.”

  The woman rose, and they watched her go to the saf
e and then to the table. Her fingers flew expertly over the papers scattered there. Then she looked up.

  “It’s such a mess,” she said. “I can’t be sure but I don’t think there’s anything important missing that I know of. Naturally there may have been something——”

  “Yeah, I know.” The sheriff got stiffly to his feet. “We won’t be needin’ you any more for a while, Miss Cosimo.” He grinned at the woman. “Don’t run away though. We might think up some more things we want to ask you.”

  The woman said tartly, “I won’t run away. I’ll be at the Eastcoast offices or at home if you want me. I live at 25 Vine Street across the river.”

  Nicholson looked at the woman sharply, started to speak, and then he changed his mind. Twenty-five Vine Street was a block away from the spot where Riorden’s body had been found in the truck the night before.

  “Hey, Cap,” he said excitedly, “who do you think’s here?...Jackson!”

  “What!” shouted Nicholson. “Where is he?”

  “I was goin’ to tell you. He’s down in the squad room,” said Tripp. “He’s got an old gent and a dame with him. He’s all bandaged up like he’s been through a rock crusher, and the old guy with him says he’s a doctor. The old guy is dynamite.”

  “You idiot! Get him up here. I want to talk to him right now. I don’t care who’s with him.”

  “Shall I bring the old guy and the dame?” asked Tripp.

  “I don’t care who you bring, so long as it’s Jackson. Get the hell out of here.”

  Tripp went out, and Nicholson turned a face that was almost beaming toward Stern. “Well, son, what do you say now?”

  “I’ll wait and see,” said Stern.

  PART THREE

  1. Escape

  CHRIS JACKSON opened his eyes and closed them quickly as a thousand stampeding horses galloped through his brain. Pain pounded his eardrums, and he groaned involuntarily. After a moment the stampede passed, and he fought nausea and great swirling eddies of unconsciousness. He lay still until the revolutions of his stomach slowed to a halt and his brain cleared; slowly the pain receded to a dull, throbbing ache.