Anything But Saintly

Chapter 22

There was no one in the tavern except Dinny, and he was behind the bar in a white apron. As usual, he had a beer before him.

The three of us lined up at the bar. I said, “When’d you become a bartender?”

He exposed glittering false teeth in a wide grin. “This morning. I guess Jake must be sick. It’s only temporary. Artie drafts me to pinch hit in emergencies every once in a while.”

I said, “This is Lieutenant Anderson and Sergeant Cole, Dinny. What’s your last name, anyway?”

“O’Toole.” He nodded to my companions. “One Irishman in a sea of Polacks. I think I’m the only Mick in the district.”

Anderson and Cole murmured acknowledgment to the introduction.

“Know where Artie is?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“When’d you last see him?”

“Left here about eight-thirty. Come over to my place and got me out of bed about eight. I only live in the next block. Said Jake wasn’t coming in and asked me to take over. Soon as we got back here, he had a double shot of whisky and left. That kind of shook me up.”

“What did?”

“Him having a double shot. He don’t drink nothing but coffee usually. He can’t. The stuff drives him nuttier than a coot.”

“Was he drunk?” I asked.

Dinny shrugged. “With Artie you can’t tell until he’s really got on a load. It hits him all at once. One minute he’s talking and acting dead sober, the next he’s talking thick-tongued and staggering around like he’s ready to fall down. You got to watch him both times, though. He goes so nuts on whisky, he don’t care about nothing.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Mention where he was going or when he’d be back?”

Dinny shook his head. “Never said a word. He did say the regular night bartender would be in at five, so I guess he don’t intend to be back all day.”

“You have any idea where he might be?”

The old man shook his head again.

Anderson asked, “Where’s he live?”

“In the flat upstairs. Only he ain’t there. I seen him drive off in his car.”

“Oh? What kind of car does he have?”

“A Caddy. Brand new one.”

“Sedan?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. White, with a tan top. It’s a real beaut.”

Lieutenant Anderson said to Cole, “Better get that on the air. They’ve probably got the registration from D.M.V. by now, but it won’t hurt anything.”

Cole walked outside to radio the information to the police dispatcher.

Dinny asked, “Has Artie done something that you fellows are looking for him?”

“We just want to talk to him,” I said. “Dinny, remember our conversation last night?”

“Sure,” he said with a grin. “I went home half stewed.”

“You told me about Jake being gone from the tavern for a while yesterday afternoon, but I don’t remember if I specifically asked you if Artie had ever left.”

The old man’s grin widened. “Sure you did. You asked if either one had left. But then we got to talking about beer and whisky, and when we finally got back on the subject, you only asked about Jake. So I told you about Jake.”

“Okay, now I’m asking about Artie. Did he leave the place too?”

Dinny pursed his lips. “That’s an awfully thirsty question.”

“We’re not going to play that game again,” I said definitely. “We’re investigating a murder. I want a straight answer.”

His eyebrows jumped upward. “A murder? Artie bump somebody?”

“Just come up with the answer.”

He pursed his lips again, then shrugged. “I guess a drink wouldn’t mean nothing anyhow. I can have all I want long as I’m behind the bar. Yeah, Artie had me take over the bar and left right after Jake did.”

Bingo, I thought. There went Little Artie’s alibi. “How long was he gone?”

Dinny ruminated, finally said, “Half-hour, about. Come back about one-thirty or a few minutes after.”

Ten minutes to Kitty’s apartment, ten minutes’ drive back. That left ten minutes to commit murder. I said, “He mention where he was going?”

“Sure. To the bank.”

“Where’s he bank?”

The old man shrugged. “You got me.” Then his face lit with inspiration and he turned to punch open the cash register. “He put the deposit slip in here.”

Lifting the coin receptacle, he rummaged beneath it and triumphantly brought out a duplicate deposit slip. “Manufacturers’ Trust,” he announced.

“Let me see that,” I said.

He passed the slip over. It was dated the previous day and listed a deposit of seven hundred and sixty-two dollars in cash, plus a number of checks.

Max Cole came back in at that moment. He said, “What’s up?”

I showed him the slip. “Artie left here yesterday afternoon right after Jake did and was gone about a half hour. But it seems he still has an alibi. He made a bank deposit at Manufacturers’ Trust.”

Cole examined the slip. “Manufacturers’ Trust. That’s at Benton and Coyle, right en route to the Desmond girl’s apartment. He could have made both in a half-hour.”

Anderson said dubiously, “He’d have to cut it pretty fine. It’d take the teller at least ten minutes to count up that much money. And usually you have to wait in line for a while.”

“We can settle that easily enough,” I said. “Let’s take a run over to the bank.” I handed the deposit slip back to the old man. “Does Artie always bank on Thursday, Dinny?”

Dinny scratched his head. “No, now that you mention it. Usually he goes on Friday. Thursday’s payday at most of the plants, and he cashes lots of checks Thursday night. So he’s always short of cash on Friday.”

Anderson and I exchanged glances. “Sounds like an excuse to get out of the place, doesn’t it?” the lieutenant said.

“Uh-huh. Let’s see what they say at the bank.”

At the Manufacturers’ Trust Company we were referred to an assistant vice president named Norman Tyson. When we had explained what we wanted, Tyson went off to the bookkeeping department to find out which teller had taken Little Artie’s deposit the previous day.

When he came back, he said, “Halliday at window four. I’ll take you over to explain what you want.” Then he cleared his throat and said, “Ah — gentlemen, will it be necessary for all three of you to question him? Couldn’t two of you wait here at my desk?”

Not wanting to disturb the decorum of the bank, we agreed to this. Cole and I waited as Harry Anderson went along with Tyson to be introduced to the teller at window four.

Max Cole glanced at a wall clock, took out a small bottle and popped a couple of pills in his mouth.

“How can you take pills without water?” I asked.

“If you had to take as much medicine as I do, you’d learn,” he said with a martyr-like satisfaction. “You can’t always get at water when a dose is due.”

I was on the verge of asking what these particular pills were for, but decided against it. I was afraid it would bring on a clinical description of whatever disease they were designed to combat.

Tyson and the lieutenant came back. Anderson said, “Sounds good. The teller says Artie came in a few minutes after one. There was no one waiting in line, so he got right to the window. He had the deposit slip, money and checks all in a night-deposit bag. He told the teller he had a couple of errands to perform, and would be back for the slip later. So he didn’t have any wait at all. The teller says he came back and picked up the slip around one-thirty.”

Max Cole said, “There goes his second alibi.”

Thanking Norman Tyson for his time, we left the bank.

Back in the F car, Anderson said, “Looks like Artie is our boy, huh? He set up one alibi, then covered with another in case the first fell down.”

“Well, there’s one other possibility,” I said slowly.

“What?”

“That his trip to the bank was legitimate, and that he just set up the other alibi to avoid trouble after Jake Stark told him Kitty was dead.”

“Yeah,” Cole put in. “Except that old man says he normally banks on Friday.”

“How about running me back to headquarters?” I suggested. “There isn’t anything else we can do until Little Artie and Nick Bartkowiak turn up.”

At headquarters we separated in the hallway where the Homicide squadroom is one way and the Vice squadroom the other.

Harry Anderson said, “Thanks for the assist, Matt. You were a big help.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said. “Don’t take any wooden pills, Max.”

“If you had to pay my medicine bill, you wouldn’t joke,” Max Cole said gloomily.

By the time I got out of Captain Spangler’s office after posting him on developments, it was nearly noon. I decided that it was time to phone Carl Lincoln and give him the news that he had to come back to work that afternoon.

When I called him at home, Carl said he was just having breakfast.

“It must be nice to be a drone,” I told him. “I got four hours sleep and logged in at eight-thirty this morning.”

“You did? What in the devil for?”

I told him what had happened after we separated last night, and brought him up to date on developments that morning.

Carl said, “Whew! The things that happen while I’m quietly sleeping.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But now your vacation is over. You can check in at one P.M.”

“Today?” he objected. “After working so late last night?”

“You only put in four or five hours last night, and you were off in the afternoon.”

“Split shift,” he said. “Some deal. What’s the schedule for this afternoon?”

“I thought we’d work the factory district for streetwalkers.”

“Oh joy,” he said sadly. “See you at one.”