Stern’s gaze shifted to the gas radiator. “If you don’t mind I’ll stay here a while,” he murmured. “I want to check the gas meter and look around a little.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Nicholson tolerantly. “The boys have been over everything with a fine-tooth comb. This is one time you’re definitely wet, Hawkshaw.”
“Maybe.” Stern did not look up.
“Okay, if you want to waste your time go ahead. I’ll tell the precinct cop downstairs you’re snooping around so’s he won’t plug you by mistake.”
Stern nodded absently. “Thanks.”
The police captain gave an irritated grunt and went out. Stern, left alone, began a patient and methodical examination of the apartment. He knew that he was going over ground already covered by experts, but that did not bother him. Experts had been looking for positive facts, while the evidence Stern sought was purely negative. He had to satisfy himself definitely that those things which he was seeking were not there.
He reexamined the door and gave minute attention to the windows. He squatted on his heels for some time in front of the gas radiator and went over walls and baseboard inch by inch. Having finished with the front room, he repeated the same meticulous operations in the rear room and in the bath and tiny kitchen. At last he had demonstrated two purely negative premises to his complete satisfaction: the first, that no one could have forced an entrance to the apartment during the night; and the second, that there was no outlet other than the radiator from which gas could have escaped into the room. As a corollary to these two major observations were several minor ones: that the gas radiator could not have been extinguished accidentally, that the apartment contained no unexplored hiding place, that Nellie Cosimo had been an addict of sex-story magazines, that someone had burned paper recently in the bathroom.
From the apartment Stern proceeded to the floor below, checking pipes and outlets for clues that he did not expect to find. Finally he reached the basement and stood for a long time gazing fixedly at the gas meter. The meter was ordinary in every respect, and the shutoff valve in the pipe above it needed only a glance to prove that it had not been tampered with for a long time—probably months. Well, that was that.
As he climbed the basement stairs he cursed himself again for a stupid, egocentric idiot. He had underestimated the murderer, and that underestimation had amounted to criminal negligence. He alone had been fully aware of the danger and yet, by his own actions, he had given the murderer an opportunity. And the murderer had acted swiftly, with split-second timing and an accurate estimate of the advantages offered by special conditions over which he had had no control. Did the opportunism of the killer argue for subtlety, cleverness, and daring, or for a growing desperation? Stern thought the latter, for while the plan had worked it had been extremely foolhardy. Nellie Cosimo might have been saved. She would have been saved if a certain young assistant D. A. had used the brains God had given him—and if Nellie had been saved she might have talked and the killer been trapped. The plan had succeeded only because of Stern’s stupidity and the killer’s cursed luck.
But the plan had worked, and the killer had successfully removed the greatest obstacle to his continued freedom. For it was plain that Nellie had known who the killer was—had been, perhaps, the only person left alive who did know positively—and now Nellie was dead. And there was little consolation in the fact that the killer had been forced to expose himself in the commission of this latest crime, for the evidence resulting from that exposure was not legal proof and would not be worth a dime in court. The man was free and would remain free until definite proof was available—or until he stubbed his toe or was trapped.
Stern paused on the stairs and laughed mirthlessly. Nellie Cosimo’s little brick house had been a trap, and the smart trapper had sat down alongside his snare and watched the bait being stolen from under his very nose. After this tragic fiasco did he dare to bait another trap?
He went slowly out into the street. On the sidewalk he paused, his brow wrinkled in concentration, and stood staring at the pavement between his feet for so long that the precinct cop stationed on the stoop got curious and came over.
“You lose something, Counselor?” he asked.
Stern straightened his shoulders and looked up. His mouth curved in a slow, wry grin. “Nope, I found it,” he said. “You’re a native of these parts, Officer. Where’s the nearest food that’s fit to eat? My stomach thinks I’m training to be a bloodhound.”
PART FIVE
1. Bait
STERN, brow still wrinkled in thought, dawdled over his belated breakfast to such an extent that the diner began to fill with noon-hour customers before he had finished. Finally he picked up his check and slid of! the stool but instead of approaching the cashier’s desk, he squeezed into the phone booth and called the Longshoremen’s Union Hall. He asked for Jackson and was lucky enough to find him in.
“How come?” he asked when the longshoreman’s deep voice came over the phone. “I took a chance but I hardly hoped to catch you. Thought you’d be on the picket line.”
Jackson was jubilant. “Picket line was called off an hour ago,” he announced. “The boys negotiated a settlement. The strike is won, and everybody’s going back to work.”
“Congratulations. Look, fellow, I have a sort of hypothetical question I want to ask you. Is there any way for an Eastcoast longshoreman to work the old racket of collecting two pay checks for one shift? You know, signing on for one job and then working on another?”
Jackson thought a moment. “Some of the boss stevedores used to work a stunt like that. They’d sign a man on and then forget about him, and he’d sneak off the dock and go work somewhere else. Of course the boss got his cut. But the union put its foot down on that stuff, and I doubt if you’d find any of the men willing to take a chance now. If they were caught it’d mean their union cards, and the boss stevie’d get the gate from the company. That graft’s not legitimate any more.”
“But it still could be done?”
“Yeah, sure. If anybody was dope enough to take the chance.”
“How would he get off the dock without being missed or spotted by the front office?”
“The boss stevie could give him a job where he wouldn’t be missed, and getting off the dock’s easy. There’s lots of ways, but the best would be to hook onto a tug or a railroad barge and ride across the river. Over there would be the safest place to shape the second job, anyway, and there’s always some kind of a boat around.”
Stern thanked him, evaded further discussion of the subject, and asked if Whitey Gordon and the other committee members were at the hall. Sangster, Painter, and Whitey were there, and Stern got Gordon on the phone and held a brief, low-voiced conversation with him, ending by saying, “Get over there and stay put, both of you. I want you out of the picture for a while.”
After leaving the diner the young attorney spent a very busy hour during the course of which he interviewed two bartenders, two landladies, and a prostitute and wound up in Mayme Burke’s hotel room in the theater district.
Mayme had just arisen and was inclined to be petulant. “I don’t know why I should talk to you at all, shyster,” she spat. “You put the finger on my brother, and now they’re trying to frame him for a murder rap. Show me one good reason why I shouldn’t have your fat little can bounced out of here.”
A remark about people who live in glass houses was on the tip of Stern’s tongue, but he succeeded in stifling it. If he was going to get any information from Mayme he would have to use diplomacy, and disparaging remarks about Miss Burke’s pleasing plumpness hardly came under that heading.
“I know your brother didn’t kill anyone,” he said, “and please believe me when I say Fm going to prove it. You can help me by answering one or two questions.”
After all, it was stretching a point to say that he knew Tommy Burke wasn’t a murderer. He didn’t actually know that Burke hadn’t killed Murdock—or Riorden, either, for tha
t matter. All he could swear to was that Tommy had had nothing to do with Nellie Cosimo’s death, because Tommy was in jail when it happened. However, he was a convincing liar, and Mayme half believed him, in spite of herself.
She lit a cigarette without offering one to her guest and threw herself down in a half-sitting, half-reclining position on the bed. The blue silk robe gaped open, revealing a generous portion of white thigh, and she made no effort to close it although she was obviously aware of the display. Stern recognized the gesture for what it was—not a come-on, but an insult—and felt a sudden desire to slap her contemptuous, too red mouth. He tried to ignore the exposed leg and look at the girl’s face, and Mayme caught his eye and smirked a bit at his discomfiture.
“All right,” she conceded. “Ask your damn questions, and I’ll tell you whether I’ll answer them. But make it snappy; I’ve got a rehearsal in an hour.”
Stern said bluntly, “Did Murdock ever tell you he had a stool pigeon planted in the union?”
Mayme shook her head. “John Murdock didn’t talk to me about his business.”
Several other questions along this line elicited the same response, and Stern tried another approach.
“Where did you keep the letters that were stolen?”
“Here—at the hotel.”
“When were they stolen?”
“A week ago. I went away for the week end, and Tommy, the little bastard, got the hotel clerk to give him my key.”
“When did you find out about it?”
“Tuesday. John called and told me that Tommy was trying to blackmail him. He asked me what to do about it. I told him I’d talk to Tommy.”
“Did you?”
“No. Tommy kept away from me. I didn’t see him until—afterward.”
“Do you think Murdock intended to pay the ten thousand dollars?”
“He had to. We were both afraid Tommy would do something foolish, like trying to sell the letters to a scandal sheet.” Mayme dropped her head. “It’s funny how important it seemed then,” she said, speaking half to herself.
She sounded sincere, and Stern’s owl eyes widened. He said quietly: “I’m sorry. Just one more question, and I’ll get out and stop bothering you. Was there anything wrong with your car when Jackson borrowed it?”
“That no good son of a bitch! That was a brand-new buggy,” said Mayme. “If I can figure any way to collect I’ll sue him for the repair bill.”
“But wasn’t there anything wrong before he took it?”
“Not a God damn thing. What are you trying to do? Save the louse some dough?”
“I was thinking about the clock,” said Stern.
“Oh, the clock—that,” said Mayme. “There was nothing wrong with it, only it was a half-hour fast. I was going to take it into the company next day and have it regulated.”
From Mayme Burke’s hotel Stern took a cab to the D. A.’s office and held a short consultation with his chief. He emerged with a cat-and-mouse smile behind his glasses, and the look was still there when he entered Nicholson’s office.
“Well,” said the police captain ungraciously. “What do you want now?”
Stern sat down and pushed his hat to the back of his head. “It looks like we both got worked over,” he said cheerfully.
Nicholson glowered. “You don’t have to be so damned gay. The commissioner is raising hell. The opposition newspapers keep calling up and hinting that there’s a tie-up between these other murders and the Cosimo woman’s suicide, and they’ve got him blamed near crazy.”
“You told him it was suicide and not to worry, I suppose.”
“I’m not that dumb. It looks like suicide, and damned if I don’t think it is suicide but I’m not committing myself. I told him I had every available man working on it and that I’d give him something definite on both that and the Riorden kill by Monday morning. I’d better make good on that, too, if I don’t want to lose my commission. The old man’s not fooling.” He paused and looked at Stern almost plaintively. “I’ve got Powers downstairs if you want to talk to him.”
“Later.” Stern flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the desk top. “Did you get the background reports on our trade-union friends yet?”
“All their history from a to z. You can read ‘em if you want to but you won’t find much. There’s not one lead in the bunch. Three of ‘em—Gordon, Burke, and Sangster—were born on this water front and lived here all their lives. They sort of grew up to be longshoremen. Painter’s been here about six years—used to be a ship’s doctor when the regulations weren’t as strict as they are now. Jackson was a college professor, of all things, before he went proletarian, and Colletti came over from Italy in 1930 and has worked on the water front ever since. Melius is a labor faker of twenty years’ standing, but he’s always been out in the open and what you might call legitimate.”
Stern waved the reports away. “I’ll take your word for it. What about alibis for last night?”
“What time?”
“Around ten-thirty.”
Nicholson looked puzzled. “Sangster and Colletti and Painter were at the Union Hall all evening—that is, they were in and out between there and the docks. Seems they had an idea there might be some trouble and volunteered along with about a dozen others to sleep in the hall and keep watch. Any one of ‘em could have gotten over to Cosimo’s place, although how they would have gotten in and turned on that gas I still can’t see.”
“Skip it.” Stern was leaning back in his chair with his eyes half closed. “What about the others?”
“Well, Gordon and Jackson were with you,” said Nicholson with a hint of malice. “They couldn’t have turned on the gas with you watching, could they?”
Stern said: “Ouch, don’t rub it in.”
“Melius was home packing around that time. His landlady——”
“I know,” Stern interrupted. “I saw her. And two of her roomers say the same thing. I never knew a fellow with so many alibis.”
“And Burke was in jail,” continued Nicholson dryly. “Maybe he did it by remote control.”
Stern rose and stretched. “Thanks. I think I’ll have a little talk with Powers.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, my friend, I have a hunch we’ll smoke this killer out between now and Monday.”
“Hunch,” growled Nicholson. “I’m sick of your damned hunches.” But the eyes that followed Stern out the door were as near to being wistful as the eyes of a tough cop could ever be.
It was late afternoon when Stern emerged from the tiny whitewashed visitors’ room where he had talked to Powers. He called Nicholson’s office on the desk phone in the corridor.
“I want you to do me another favor,” he told the captain. “Release Powers but put a tail on him and, for Godsake, don’t lose him. And keep a check on every person in the case for the next twenty-four hours.”
“How many dicks do you think this department has?” complained Nicholson. “It takes at least two good men to tail anybody successfully, and I can’t spare ‘em. Besides, they stand out like sore thumbs down there on the water front. I’m surprised somebody hasn’t put a slug on one or two of them just for fun. Some people don’t like cops.”
“I know,” agreed Stern. “I’m one of them. But do the best you can with the others and concentrate on Powers if you don’t want another murder.”
“Why the hell don’t you leave him where he is if you think it’s that bad? He can’t kill anybody in jail.”
“As far as releasing him is concerned, Mrs. and Miss Murdock are arriving in town late this afternoon, and he wants to meet them. Says if he don’t he’ll lose his job. Let’s not argue that last point.”
Nicholson spluttered at the other end of the line. “I don’t like it. What in hell screwy scheme are you cooking up?”
“None. But I think our murdering pal is going to do one of two things in the next twenty-four hours. Either try to blow or attempt another murder.”
“I think you’re crazy. As a matter of f
act, I know you are. But I’ll bite. Who’s he going to kill?”
Stern smiled into the mouthpiece. “I don’t know. It depends on how his mind works. The one thing I do know is that he’s panicky.”
Nicholson continued his protests, but he finally weakened and agreed to do what Stern asked. The assistant D. A. hung up and walked slowly down the long corridor to the street. He rode a bus uptown, got his car out of the garage, and started on the drive to keep his dinner appointment at Dr. Stevenson’s.
He was looking forward to the dinner in the doctor’s quiet, comfortable house. It would be a chance to relax the growing tension that was mounting and mounting until it was close to the breaking point—to discuss the case dispassionately and objectively. Perhaps such a discussion would bring to light some bit of evidence that had been overlooked—some proof that the murderer was the murderer. Since the events of the afternoon Stern was morally certain that he was right, and yet he could not make a move because he had not one bit of evidence that would stand up in court. True, he could build up a fairly strong circumstantial case against his suspect, perhaps even get a confession with a little of Nicholson’s persuasive help, but the chances against convincing a jury were too great, and this was one murderer for whom Stern did not want to leave the slightest loophole. Better to wait, hard as waiting was, for the murderer to make the first move and pray that this time the rat’s luck would not hold and there would be a slip—just one little, fatal slip that would spring the trap. Stern sighed, remembering that he had used the same reasoning in relation to Nellie Cosimo. Was the chance he was taking too desperate? No—this time things were different. The murderer was watched, and the potential victims were closely guarded—unless he was wrong and a fit subject for the psychiatric ward.
The first snow of the year was falling when Stern drove up to the curb before the terraced lawn of the Stevenson home. It was only a flurry and not persistent enough to stick to the black, wet pavement and sidewalks, but the lawn was white with it, and bushes and trees were sprinkled with a thin, confetti coating. In the early dusk the cheery lighted windows of the big house made a pretty picture, as full of friendly warmth and cheer as an old-fashioned greeting card. The fear and uncertainties engendered by ruthless murder seemed remote and unreal in this safe and comfortable world.
Death on the Waterfront Page 25