Lady Killer (87th Precinct), page 15
“How would I know?” she said. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“I’m here to identify this man,” Hawes said. “Do you know him?”
She looked at the picture. “No,” she said. She handed it back to Hawes.
“Never saw him before?”
“Never.”
“Possibly with Jo? Would he be one of Jo’s friends?”
“All of Jo’s friends are my friends. I never saw him with that man. Unless it’s a bad likeness.”
“It’s a pretty good likeness,” Hawes said. He folded the picture and put it in his pocket. His last chance seemed to have evaporated. If Jo Cort was on a fishing trip, there was no way to reach him before 8:00 tonight. There was no way to show him the picture. There was no way to identify the potential killer. Hawes sighed. “A fishing trip,” he said disgustedly.
“He likes fishing.”
“What else does he like?”
For the first time since he’d been in the apartment, Hawes saw Felicia smile. “Me,” she said.
“Mmm,” Hawes answered, refusing to comment on the taste that makes horse races and ball games. “Where’d you meet him?” he asked.
“He picked me up,” she said.
“Where?”
“On the street. Does that shock you?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, that’s the way it happened. Are you familiar with The Quarter?”
“Downtown? Yes.”
“I was walking there one Wednesday. Our big show is Tuesday night, the Coal Hour. It’s our only live show. We sort of relax right after it, generally take Wednesdays off unless there’s a crisis in the office. I went down there that Wednesday to buy some jewelry. They have these unusual jewelry shops down there, as you may know.”
“Yes,” Hawes said. He looked at his watch. Why was he wasting time here? Why didn’t he get back to the squadroom, where the company was congenial and pleasant?
“I was looking in one of the shop windows at a beautiful gold bracelet when I heard a voice behind me. It said, ‘Would you like me to buy that for you?’ I turned. A rather pleasant-looking man with a mustache and chin whiskers was standing behind me.”
“Jo Cort?” Hawes asked.
“Yes. At first, I thought he was a Quarter artist. Because of the mustache and beard, you know. I said to him, ‘Can you afford it?’ He went into the shop and bought it for me. It cost three hundred dollars. That was the beginning of our relationship.”
It figured, Hawes thought, and he began to form his own impressions of Jo Cort, a bearded jerk who’d spend three hundred dollars to pick up a girl like Felicia Pannet.
“He always wear this beard?” he asked, thinking of bearded men he had known in the past. One had grown the chin brush to hide the lack of a jaw. Another—
“Always,” Felicia said. “He grew it when he was eighteen, and he’s kept it ever since. I imagine he grew it because he was 4-F. A punctured eardrum. The beard made him feel more manly, I supposed. At a time when all of his friends were pretending to be men because of their uniforms. It’s really quite attractive.” She paused. “Have you ever been kissed by a man with a beard?”
“No,” Hawes said. “I prefer my men with long sideburns instead.” He rose. “Well, thanks a lot, Miss Pannet,” he said.
“Is there anything you want me to tell Jo when I see him again?”
“By the time you see him again,” Hawes said, “it’ll be all over.”
“What will be all over?”
“It,” he said. “You might tell him that he picked an inconvenient time to go fishing. He might have been able to help us.”
“I’m sorry,” Felicia said, and again her voice indicated no regret.
“Yeah, well, don’t lose any sleep over it.”
“I shan’t.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“May I ask a personal question?” Felicia said.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“That white streak in your hair. Where did you get it?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m attracted by oddities.”
“Like Jo Cort’s beard and mustache?”
“I’ll admit his beard attracted me.”
“That and the three-hundred-dollar bracelet,” Hawes said.
“It was a very unusual approach,” Felicia said. “I don’t usually allow myself to be picked up on the street.” She paused. “You still haven’t answered me.”
“I got stabbed once,” Hawes said. “They shaved the hair to get at the wound. When it grew back, it was white.”
“I wonder why,” she said, expressing real interest.
“It probably turned white from fright,” Hawes said. “I’ve got to be going.”
“If you ever want television work…” she started.
“Yes?”
“You’d make a good menace. In a spy story. The streak in your hair is loaded with intrigue.”
“Thanks,” Hawes said. At the door, he paused. “I hope you, and Mr. Cort, and the beard are very happy together.”
“I’m sure we will be,” Felicia Pannet said.
From the way she said it, he didn’t doubt a word of it.
It was 7:35 P.M.
In twenty-five minutes The Lady would become a target. In twenty-five minutes the threat would become a reality, a potential killer would become a real killer.
It was 7:36 P.M.
In twenty-four minutes a Luger would spit bullets into the night. A woman would fall. A phone would ring, and the desk sergeant would say, “87th Precinct,” and the call would be transferred upstairs, and Homicide North and Homicide South and police headquarters and lab technicians and assistant medical examiners would be called in to deal with a fresh homicide.
It was 7:37 P.M.
A pall of gloom had settled over the squadroom. Bert Kling was anxious to get home. He’d had a trying day at the waterfront, but he waited now with his leather jacket slung over his arm, waited for something to break, waited for Byrnes to pop out of his office and shout, “Bert! I need you!”
It was 7:38 P.M.
They sat around the desk looking at the letter again, Meyer, Carella, and Hawes. Meyer was sucking cough drops. His throat was worse, and he blamed it on the heat.
I WILL KILL THE LADY TONIGHT AT 8.
WHAT CAN YOU DO ABOUT IT?
The answer was in each of the detectives’ minds.
NOTHING.
We can do nothing about it.
“Maybe it is a dog,” Meyer said, sucking on his cough drop. “Maybe it’s a dog called Lady.”
“And maybe it isn’t,” Hawes said.
“Or maybe it’s that hooker,” Carella said. “Marcia. The Lady. If it’s her, we’re okay. She’s covered, isn’t she?”
“She’s covered,” Hawes said.
“Lady Astor, too?”
“She’s covered,” Hawes said again.
“Pete didn’t send anybody to the ballet, did he?”
“No,” Hawes said. “Bannister’s clean. He didn’t look anything like that damn picture.”
“And nobody at the diner could identify it, huh?” Meyer asked. He swallowed and reached for another cough drop.
“I only saw one of the partners,” Hawes said. “The other one’s out of town.” He paused. “The first one had the right idea, all right.”
“Anybody want one of these?” Meyer asked, extending the box.
The other man ignored him. “What idea was that?” Carella asked.
“He was heading for a beer as soon as the eating crowd thinned. A place right down the street, he said. That’s for me, too. As soon as I get out of here. You fellows join me? I’m buying.”
“Where’s the diner?” Carella asked, interested.
“Huh?”
“The diner.”
“Oh. Thirteenth and The Stem.”
“Near that bar, isn’t it?”
“What bar?”
“The Pub. The bar where Samalson might have lost the glasses. The Pub. That was on North Thirteenth and Amberly.”
“You think there’s a connection?” Hawes asked.
“Well,” Carella said, “if the guy ate at the Jo-George Diner, maybe he stopped for a drink at The Pub down the street. Maybe that’s where he found Samalson’s binoculars.”
“Where does that lead us?”
“No place,” Carella admitted. “But maybe it rounds out the picture.” He shrugged. “I’m just batting it around.”
“Yeah,” Hawes said.
It was 7:40 P.M.
“This guy at the diner couldn’t identify it, though, huh? The picture?” Meyer asked.
“No. It was a bum lead. All George wanted to talk about was how much he loved his partner, Jo. A son to him, that kind of kick. George is an orphan, all alone in the world. He’s attached himself to this kid.”
“Kid?” Carella asked.
“Well, he’s thirty-four. But that’s a kid to George. George is fifty-six.”
“Funny partnership,” Carella said.
“They met a long time ago.”
“The usual partnership setup?”
“What do you mean?”
“In case of death, where there are no relatives, the surviving partner gets the business.”
“I suppose so,” Hawes said. “Yes. George mentioned that it was the usual partnership setup.”
“Then if George kicks off, his partner inherits the diner, right? You said George was all alone in the world, didn’t you? No relatives to make claims?”
“That’s right,” Hawes said. “What are you thinking?”
“Maybe Jo is getting itchy for George to drop dead. Maybe he’s going to help him along tonight at eight.”
Mention of the time caused each of the men to look up at the clock. It was 7:42 P.M.
“Well, that’s a nice theory, Steve,” Hawes said. “Except for a couple of items.”
“Like?”
“Like…Does George sound like a lady?”
“Mmm,” Carella said.
“And most important, we showed that picture to both George and the girlfriend of Cort. Neither of them recognized it. Our killer ain’t Jo Cort.”
“What made you think George was a lady, Steve?” Meyer asked. “The heat getting you?”
“Is he a queer or something?” Carella asked, refusing to drop it. “This George character?”
“Nope. I’d recognize it, Steve. He was legit.”
“I was thinking…you know…some tie-in with The Lady.” He tapped the letter. “But if he’s not…well…” He shrugged.
“No, no,” Hawes said, “you’re on the wrong track.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Carella said. “I just thought…Well, the motive looked damn good.”
“It’s too bad it doesn’t fit with the other facts,” Meyer said, smiling. “Maybe we can change them to fit your theory, huh, Steve?”
Carella grinned. “I’m getting weak. This has been a busy day.”
“You coming for a beer?” Hawes asked. “When this is all over?”
“Maybe.”
“He had the right idea, George did,” Hawes said. “As soon as his place cleared out, he was heading for this.” Unconsciously, his finger tapped the Ballantine sign that had been used to form the figure eight in the letter. And then his finger stopped.
“Hey!” he said.
“The eight,” Carella said.
“You think…?”
“I don’t know.”
“But…”
“Is the killer telling us? Is he telling us where?”
“A bar? At eight? Is that it?”
“Holy Jesus, Cotton, do you think so?”
“I don’t know. Steve…”
“Hold it, Cotton. Now hold it.”
The men were sitting on the edge of their chairs. The clock on the wall read 7:44 P.M.
“If it’s a bar…Could it be The Pub?”
“It could. But who?”
“The Lady. It said The Lady. But if this damn eight had a hidden meaning…The Lady. The Lady. Who?”
The men were silent for a moment. Meyer took another cough drop and threw the box onto the desk.
“George may be headed for The Pub,” Carella said. “He said a bar down the street, didn’t he? And that’s where Samalson lost the glasses. Maybe George is the victim. Cotton, I can’t see it any other way.”
“The Lady? How the hell can George Laddona be The Lady?”
“I don’t know. But I think we—”
“Holy…!”
“What?” Carella stood up. “What?”
“Oh, Jesus. Translate it! You’re Italian, Steve. Translate Laddona. The Lady! The Lady!”
“La donna!” Carella said. “Oh, my aching…Then he wants to be stopped. Goddammit, Cotton, the killer wants to be stopped! He’s told us who and where. The killer—”
“But who’s the killer?” Hawes asked, rising. And then his eye fell on the cough drop box on the desk, and he shouted, “Smith! Smith!”
And then they ran like hell out of the squadroom because the clock on the wall read 7:47 P.M.
Standing on top of the garbage can in the alley alongside The Pub, the man could see into the small window directly to the table where George Laddona was sitting.
He had not been wrong, then. He had known George’s habits well enough to realize that he would stop at The Pub again tonight on the way home from the diner, would sit at his regular table, and would order a large schooner of beer. And when that was consumed, he would order another…Except that tonight he would not order another, he would never order another glass of beer again because at 8:00 he would die.
The man looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was 7:52.
In eight minutes, George Laddona would die.
He felt a sudden sadness. It was a thing he had to do, of course. It was the only way he could see. And he had planned it very well, had planned it so that he would be in the clear, so that even if he was suspected of motive, the facts would never tie in with him, the facts would never tie in with the man who’d be seen running down the street after the shooting.
And then to his own apartment. And then, tomorrow morning, back to work, unchanged, seemingly the same. Except that he would have committed a murder.
Would they stop him?
Had his letter been too subtle? Well, of course, he could not tell them. Could he have come right out and told them? But hadn’t there been enough hints, hadn’t he cleverly indicated what was going to happen, and shouldn’t they have figured it out?
They had certainly figured out the rest. They hadn’t been laggard about that, by God. He thought of the apartment he’d rented on Twelfth Street, the sleazy dump where he’d planned to spend the night, a place within walking distance of the shooting. He could no longer do that. They had found the apartment, had almost captured him. He could still remember shooting it out with the redheaded cop. That had been exciting, exhilarating. But now he couldn’t use the apartment; he’d have to return to his own apartment. Was that wise? Suppose someone saw him? Should he simply wander the streets tonight? Should he put on the—
He stopped his thoughts abruptly and looked at his watch again.
7:55.
He reached into his pocket, felt something soft and warm, was surprised for an instant, and then remembered. And then his hand closed on something cold and hard, and he pulled it from his pocket, and the dim moon in the already dark sky illuminated the Luger with a deadly glitter.
He checked the magazine. It was a full clip.
Those magazines he had left in the apartment. Could they be traced? It didn’t matter. He didn’t have a license for the gun. Would they trace it to the man from whom he’d bought it? No, that was unlikely. He’d bought it in the neighborhood, and he was sure it was a stolen gun. The man he’d bought it from had had all sorts of things to sell. This was some neighborhood, all right, some neighborhood, and still it had been good to him. It would be even better to him. After tonight it would be better.
He clicked off the safety.
It was 7:57.
He rested the Luger on the windowsill and carefully took aim at the back of George Ladonna’s head. On his left wrist, the second hand of his wrist watch moved, and moved, and moved. The minute hand suddenly lurched. He saw it move, actually saw it move. It was 7:58. Would they stop him? He doubted it. The fools. The stupid fools.
Carefully, he kept his hand steady and waited.
At 8:00, just as he was going to fire, Cotton Hawes burst into the alley mouth.
“Hey!” he shouted. “You!”
The gun went off, but the killer’s hand had yanked back an instant before he’d fired. Hawes lunged at him. The man turned, the Luger in his fist. Hawes leaped.
The gun went off again, and then the garbage can and the man rolled down clatteringly onto the alley floor. The gun was coming up again, turning to point at Hawes, a graceful weapon with a lethal discharge. Hawes swung. The gun went off wide. He swung again. He felt his fist collide with the man’s face, and again he struck. And now the day’s punishment, the heat, and the chase, and the seeming futility of the senseless desperation welled up in Hawes, exploded into his fists so that he battered the man until he was senseless.
And then, sighing heavily, he dragged him out of the alley mouth.
Inside The Pub, George Laddona was still trembling. The bullet had whacked into the tabletop, missing his head by perhaps two inches. He sat with a puzzled expression on his face, and his hands shook, and his lips shook as Hawes tried to explain.
“It was your partner,” he said. “Jo Cort. It was your partner who shot at you, Mr. Laddona.”
“I don’t believe it,” George said. “I just don’t believe it. Not Jo. Jo wouldn’t try to kill me.”
“He would if he had a money-hungry girlfriend,” Hawes said.
“You mean…you mean she was behind this?”
“Not actually,” Hawes said. “At least, I don’t think so. She didn’t tell him to kill you, if that’s what you mean. Felicia Pannet isn’t the kind of girl who’d spend the rest of her life with a murderer. But she let him know what she wanted, and this probably seemed to him the only way he could get it for her.”
