He had just finished the article when Doc Painter came in and sat down heavily.
“Hello, Jack,” said Painter. “I been lookin’ for you.”
“Yes?” Jackson did not look up. “What’s on your mind, Doc?”
“Well.” Painter hesitated, and Jackson looked up curiously. He saw that Painter’s long horse face was drawn and worried. With his solemn face and lanky stooped figure he looked like the walking delegate for a gravediggers’ union.
He coughed. “It’s about this morning, Jack. I had nothing to do with bringing in those hoodlums.”
“I wondered about that,” said Jackson frankly. “You and Jim were cooking up something.”
Painter met his gaze. “I was for the strike. I still am but I’m for the union, first, last, and all the time. I just wanted you to know.” Suddenly all the bitterness and frustration of the last two days welled up in Jackson, and he saw red. His long arms shot out, and his fingers fastened themselves about Painter’s throat. “You lie, damn you,” he shouted. “You’ve never been for the union. You’ve never been for anybody but Doc Painter. You were a ship’s doctor once—you’d know how to tear out a man’s throat—you’d know how to strangle one with a rope. Damn you, I believe——”
Though Jackson was stronger and younger Painter was no weakling. He broke Jackson’s hold on his throat with his elbows and grappled. The two swayed back and forth half out of their chairs and half across the table.
The door opened, and a large, square bulk filled the aperture. “What the hell’s goin’ on in here?”
Jackson dropped Painter and swung on the intruder. “Who wants to know?”
The large man swung back his coat.
“Oh, I know you’re a cop,” said Jackson. “I saw you downtown yesterday and even if I hadn’t I can spot a flatfoot a block away. Now close that door and get out. This is a private office.”
“Smart guy,” said the cop. “I gotta notion to do a little work on you myself. I’m lookin’ for Jackson. You’re him, ain’t you?”
“You got a warrant?”
“No,” the cop admitted.
“All right then, get out of here until we finish our business.”
“You’re Jackson all right,” said the cop. He grinned. “Okay, make it snappy.” He paused at the door. “If there’s a murder in here I’ll be a witness,” he said.
When the door closed Painter was on his feet eyeing Jackson warily. “What the hell’s the matter with you, you crazy bastard,” he hissed. “You try a stunt like that again——”
Jackson held up a pacific hand. “Okay, Doc, I’m sorry. I’m jumpy today but I had no excuse to fly off the handle that way. It doesn’t get us anywhere. What do you say we shake and call it quits?”
Painter’s glance dropped momentarily to the outstretched hand. ‘Tine thing,” he growled sullenly. “First you jump me like a wild man and try to strangle me and accuse me of being a murderer or worse and then you just say shake and let’s forget it.”
“What else do you want? I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“All right.” Painter extended a grudging hand. His eyes were still wary.
“No hard feelings,” said Jackson.
“No hard feelings, only next time you get a yen to rassle, I’ll be ready for you. Don’t think I won’t.”
Jackson grinned. “I’ll remember.”
There was a slightly embarrassed silence for a moment, and then Painter dropped Jackson’s hand and jerked his head toward the outer room. “Maybe you better find out what’s eating the flatfoot?”
“Those bulls think they run the works.” Jackson turned and jerked open the office door. “Okay, Ferdinand,” he called. “You can come in now.”
The big man came forward scowling, “You’re a cop fighter, too, ain’t you?” he asked. “One of these days somebody’s goin’ to wrap a club around your neck, smart guy. I’d do it myself only we got strict orders to stay neutral in this strike ruckus.”
Jackson looked him in the eye. “It would be a swell fight while it lasted.”
The cop grunted. “Get your hats, both of you. Captain Nicholson wants to see you.”
“Pinch?” asked Jackson, closing the office door and following the officer down the stairs.
“Naw,” the cop flung over his shoulder. “I got orders to handle you guys with kid gloves so’s you can’t squawk we’re bustin’ up your strike.”
“My, my,” murmured Jackson, “how times have changed.”
A squad car was drawn up at the curb with a uniformed chauffeur in the front seat. Colletti and Bullethead Sangster sat in the rear.
“Is the captain giving a party?” asked Jackson.
“He told me to bring in you guys, and I’m doin’ it,” explained the cop. “Come on, get in there. You’re lucky it ain’t the wagon.”
Jackson and Painter got in, and the car swung around the block and headed south under the el structure.
Sangster said, “Hi, Jack.”
“This big baboon pick you up on the picket line?” asked Jackson.
“Yeah. He won’t tell us what the score is, except it ain’t a pinch.”
Jackson leaned forward and tapped the cop on the shoulder. “What’s it all about, Commissioner?” he asked politely.
“I wouldn’t know,” said the cop. “I just work here.”
2. Blind Alleys
During that morning and early afternoon Stern had been busy in the office. The business had included a session with the district attorney from which Stern emerged sore and disheartened. His boss talked as though he thought Stern carried the water-front labor situation around in his back pocket.
It was three o’clock by the time the somewhat deflated young D.A. got around to visiting Nicholson’s office, and in the meantime much had happened. Fingerprints had been found in the old house from which Jackson had escaped. They belonged to the thug, Moe Silver, whom Jackson had recognized in the kidnap car, and Moe had made a statement implicating Weller.
Incidentally, the statement practically eliminated both Weller and Jackson as suspects in the murder of John Murdock. Nicholson had talked to Mayme Burke, and her testimony checked with the statement. McArthur had worked on Tommy Burke for three hours that morning, and although Burke had stuck to his blackmail story McArthur was convinced that Burke had murdered Murdock and stolen the ten thousand dollars.
Stern winced when he heard this last; McArthur was stupid and pompous, but he had a case against Burke and he would make it stick in court, too, if somebody didn’t turn up the real murderer. If anyone did that it would probably have to be Stern himself, since as a result of Silver’s testimony Nicholson had become more convinced that the two murders were not connected.
“Coincidence,” said Nicholson, “sheer coincidence. There’s not one bit of real evidence to show that these two killings were done by the same person. And there’s plenty to show they weren’t. Now that Jackson’s alibied on the Murdock business practically every blamed suspect we’ve got has an alibi for one murder or the other. Listen to the record.”
He flipped the pages of his notebook.
“Melius: In saloon when Riorden was killed. Home in bed next morning until nine o’clock. Had breakfast at a lunch counter at nine-thirty. One of these alibis could be a phony, but not both of them, and of the two, the Riorden one is the weakest.
“Burke: Hanrahan, the cop on the beat, saw him at twelve-thirty. He got to Edna’s at fifteen minutes to one. Fifteen minutes is too short a time for him to have dressed up in a monkey suit, killed Riorden, disposed of the clothes, shoes, and weapon, and turned up ten blocks away.”
Stern said nothing. There was a flaw in this reasoning. A man could do a lot in fifteen minutes under pressure. Also, there was a way Burke could have killed Riorden before Hanrahan came on the scene. The back door to the saloon was only two blocks away from the scene of the murder, and bartenders didn’t pay much attention to drunks when they went to the toilet. But there was
no point in arguing the matter. Nicholson continued with his list.
“Gordon, Sangster, and Colletti alibi each other for the Riorden business, and both Sangster and Colletti were at work on the docks from seven-thirty on, next morning.”
“They couldn’t have gotten much sleep,” murmured Stern irrelevantly.
“They didn’t get any.” Nicholson turned a page. “I’ll say one thing for these babies—they’re tough. I guess they have to be.”
“Gordon couldn’t have killed Murdock either,” said Stern softly. “Unless there was something screwy about that clock on the dashboard of the car.”
“You mean it could have been stopped after the accident? I checked on that, and from the way the clock was smashed Sheriff Christy says it isn’t likely.”
Stern nodded.
“That leaves two of the union boys,” Nicholson went on, “Painter and Jackson. Painter’s landlady still swears he was home at twelve o’clock the night Riorden was killed, and he’s got the same alibi as Sangster and Colletti for the next morning. He went to work as usual.”
“And that leaves Jackson.”
“Yes, by God, it leaves Jackson.” Nicholson closed his notebook with a bang. “No matter how you chew it, we always come back to that guy. He’s still a winner for my money.”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
Nicholson looked at his watch. “In about a half an hour I’ll tell you. I’m rounding up the whole bunch of them for a little talk.” Stern sighed. “I don’t suppose it’s any use trying to convince you that there’s a tie-up between these two murders?”
“Show me one bit of real evidence.” Nicholson spread out his hands.
“There’s evidence and evidence, if you know what I mean,” said Stern. “I can’t produce any snapshots of the crime but I can tell you what happened at Murdock’s yesterday morning.”
“How do you do it?” asked Nicholson rudely. “Second sight?”
“With mirrors.” Stern grinned. “Scoff all you please, but here’s where I give you a key to the whole case. First, who called Murdock’s yesterday a.m. and why. By this time we know most of the answer to that one. Jackson called at seven-thirty, and Powers answered on the house phone. Then at seven-fifty Mayme called Murdock on the private phone, and right after that Murdock made his outgoing call. Burke says he phoned Murdock at eight-ten, and that checks not only with the time the phone company says the last call came in, but also with what the counterman in the all-night lunch say s. I think we have to believe at least that part of Burke’s story, and that means that if he did kill Murdock it was not a premeditated murder. But we’ll let that pass for the time being and go on to what actually happened in that library yesterday morning.
“The murderer was Murdock’s first guest. What time he arrived we don’t know, but, assuming it wasn’t Burke, he was through with his business and left before Burke showed up a few minutes to ten. Burke came in, took one look at Murdock’s body, and heard Powers at the hall door. He didn’t stay around long after he slugged Powers but before he left he did hear an automobile out in the drive. That automobile accounts for a lot of things. It accounts for the fact that Powers didn’t see the safe open when he came in and didn’t see Murdock’s keys on the desk top. It also accounts for Burke’s story that Murdock’s desk drawer was open but the safe was closed. The murderer forced the desk drawer, but he couldn’t force the safe. He didn’t have the keys and either found what he wanted or didn’t have time to search Murdock’s body for them.
“After Powers was slugged and Burke left someone came into that room, found Powers out cold on the floor and Murdock dead, calmly took the keys from the murdered man’s pocket, opened the safe, and went away with the ten grand.”
“Why couldn’t Powers have taken the ten grand himself?” asked Nicholson. “That’s just an idea. It doesn’t mean I’m following you on all the rest of it.”
“Powers could have,” said Stern, ignoring the remainder of Nicholson’s speech, “but I don’t think he did.”
“Then——”
“Take it easy,” interrupted Stern. “All I’m trying to do is outline what must have happened.”
“You still haven’t shown me any evidence that the two cases tie up.” Nicholson didn’t like being interrupted, and it made him that much more stubborn.
Stern sighed. “Well, there’s motive——”
“Motive! Ten thousand dollars isn’t a motive, eh?”
“Supposing I told you the murderer didn’t get the ten grand?”
“You’d have to prove that and to prove it——”
“Never mind.” Stern held up his hand wearily. “That’s the trouble; I can’t prove it. So far it’s just a hunch. How about a couple more suspects on your list?”
“For instance?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Stern seemed to have lost interest in the subject. “There’s the butler Powers and Nellie Cosimo, but then they’re both alibied for the Riorden kill—they were both on the other side of the river. And then there’s Mayme Burke——”
“Mayme Burke!” exploded Nicholson. “For Christsake, you’re not serious, are you?”
Stern grinned. “Maybe not. But I still say the two murders form a pattern, and you won’t solve one without the other.” Nicholson didn’t bother to answer. He sat back in his swivel chair and lit a cigar. There was a self-satisfied smile on his face that said as plainly as words that for once he had this young smart aleck over a barrel and was enjoying it. The smile hurt Stern, but his face remained bland and emotionless. They sat silently for a short while, and presently Sergeant Tripp stuck his head in the door.
“We got those union guys downstairs now, Cap,” he said.
“All of ‘em?”
“The whole kit and kaboodle,” nodded the sergeant.
For the third or fourth time Nicholson had returned to the details of the crap game and was going over them patiently and stubbornly, trying to find some chink, no matter how small, in which to insert a wedge.
“Look, you birds,” he growled. “Every other guy we questioned in that game said he drifted out of the circle at some time or other. Now you can’t tell me you didn’t do the same thing. Gordon”—he swung on Whitey as the most articulate of the crap players—“can you swear that neither Sangster nor Colletti left that game from the time you joined it till the kid came back from the truck?”
“I wasn’t watching ‘em every minute of the time,” said Whitey. “I had my own fish to fry.”
“If they had been in the game shooting you would have known they were there, wouldn’t you?”
This was familiar ground, and they had been over it several times before.
Whitey said irritably, “Like I told you, sometimes they were shootin’ and sometimes they were just makin’ side bets. That’s the kind of game it was.”
“Did you leave the game?”
“I told you that too. I left the game once for maybe two minutes and went over behind a truck on the other side of the lot because my teeth were floatin’. I came right back.”
Nicholson turned to Sangster and Colletti. “How about you two? Did you see Gordon leave and come back?”
“I see him,” said Colletti. “He go and come back jus’ like he says.”
Sangster nodded. “I didn’t see him go but I saw him come back. He couldn’t have been gone long, or I would have noticed.” Nicholson took a lacerated stub of cigar from between his teeth and tossed it angrily at a cuspidor. It missed.
“Oh yeah,” said the captain disgustedly.
Stern asked, “How far is it from the other side of the parking lot to the truck where Riorden was found?”
“About a hundred yards, I guess,” said Gordon.
“Could you see the truck from where you were?”
“I don’t remember. I wasn’t interested.”
“You didn’t notice anyone around the truck?”
“No, I told you.”
“Or anyone coming
or going across the street?”
“There wasn’t a soul across the street.”
Nicholson pounced. “How do you know there wasn’t?”
“What d’ya mean, how do I know?”
“Just this,” said Nicholson. “There’s no light in that end of the parking lot. There’s none across the street. There could have been someone over there.”
“Oh, for Godsake,” said Whitey. “That’s what I said, ain’t it?”
“You were too positive,” said Nicholson. “You’re lying, Gordon.”
“Suit yourself,” said Whitey.
“You’re damned right, I will,” snapped Nicholson. “Either you tell me who you saw, or I’m holding you as a material witness.” Nicholson was clutching at straws and his threat was two thirds bluff. It was not the first threat he had made that afternoon, and he had no confidence in it. He was a trifle surprised when it bore fruit.
Sangster, the big Negro, said calmly, “I’m gettin’ sick of this. You want to know who Whitey saw across the street, I’ll tell you....It was me.”
Sangster’s story was simplicity itself. He left the crap game a few minutes before Gordon and for the same reason, the only difference being that he had headed across the street toward the parked truck. Reaching the truck, he had noticed a figure in the shadows and recognized Riorden. Riorden had said he was waiting for someone. They had talked a little, and Sangster had gotten the impression that Riorden was nervous and wanted to be left alone. The Negro had gone back to the crap game, arriving there a minute or two before Gordon. Later, when questioned by the police, Sangster kept quiet for obvious reasons and also because he did not see how his story would help in discovering the identity of the murderer.
Neither Sangster nor Gordon remembered the time of this episode, although both agreed that it was some time before the discovery of Riorden’s body and that Gordon’s absence from the crap game had not been over two or three minutes and Sangster’s ten at most. They had seen no one else and had nothing further to add.
The tantalizing quality of this narrative drove Nicholson well-nigh frantic. It was like a ray of light seen momentarily through the chink of a door that had been suddenly slammed shut. He went over the story from a dozen different angles, only to find it always the same, simple, logical, and almost too flawless to be true. Finally he gave up and went into whispered consultation with Stern.
Death on the Waterfront Page 21