Hoodwink

TWELVE

The Hall of Justice was a massive gray stone building on Bryant Street, south of Market, not all that far from Skid Row and the Tenderloin. It looked just like what it was; you could take away all the signs and bring somebody in from Iowa or rural New Hampshire and ask him what the building was, and he’d tell you in two seconds flat. On gray days it looked even more austere, and this was a gray day. The fog had come in sometime during the night, along with a chill wind, and built a high overcast that wiped out the nice summery weather we’d been having.

It being Sunday, there was available street parking on Bryant. I put my car into a slot a half-block away, went down and inside, and rode one of the elevators up to where they had the holding cells on the top floor. I filled out a form, and one of the cops on duty took it and went away somewhere. It took him ten minutes to find his way back. Five minutes after that, I was ushered through a metal detector and then into the visitors’ room, where I sat myself down in one of the screened-off cubicles. And another three minutes after that, Dancer was brought in.

He was wearing one of the orange jumpsuits the city and county provide for their prisoners; it looked as incongruous on him as a dress. He walked like a man in pain, and one look at his eyes told you he was suffering plenty. The whites were gray and bloody, the pupils a runny brown color. The effect was of something-eggs, maybe-that was spoiled and decomposing. He winced as he sat down, dug the heels of his hands into his temples, and grimaced. Then he put those eyes on me. And through the wire mesh and the hangover dullness, I was looking at a frightened man.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse, brittle. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“I figured I owed you this much.”

“What did that prick Pitchfield say to you on the phone?”

“Not much. Just that he wanted you to plead guilty and you weren’t having any.”

“Fuck him. I didn’t kill Colodny; why should I plead guilty? ‘Cop a plea,’ he says. ‘They’ll let you off with second-degree, and you won’t do more than six or seven years in jail. Jesus!”

“It doesn’t look good for you, Russ, you know that.”

“I don’t care how it looks. I’m no murderer.”

,

were pretty drunk yesterday …”

“So I was drunk. I’ve been drunk a thousand times in my life, and I never killed anybody. Why would I want to kill Colodny? I didn’t have any motive.”

“The police must think you did.”

“Sure-that ‘Hoodwink’ crap. They say I got him to come to my room on some pretext and then shot him. They found a portable typewriter in Colodny’s room that matches the typeface on that note he slipped me, so they know he was behind the extortion scam. And one of the others told them about the scuffle we had in the hotel bar and that there was bad blood between us back in the pulp days. That was all the cops needed.”

“You did attack him in the bar,” I said.

“Yeah, all right. But there’s a big difference between cuffing somebody around and shooting him.”

“What about the gun? You’d never seen it before?”

“No. The cops think I stole it from Cybil, but that’s crazy too. I never knew she had a gun. Why would she pack one around with her?”

“She claims she brought it with her for demonstration purposes on her private eye panel. But she might have had another reason.”

“What reason?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me that.”

He wagged his head.

“Did you talk to her Friday night? Have an argument with her?”

“No. What kind of argument would I have with her?”

“The kind where you lose your head, maybe, and swat her one.”

“Are you nuts? I’d never lay a hand on Cybil.”

“Somebody did Friday night. She’s got a bruise on her cheek to prove it.”

“Colodny,” Dancer said.

“Why Colodny?”

“He was the kind to hit women. He did it once, with this love-pulp writer he was bedding back in the forties, right in front of everybody at a Pulpeteers’ meeting. Just because she was kidding around. Ivan Wade took a poke at him for it. Ivan’s a bastard but he respects women.”

“But why would Colodny have hit Cybil?”

“Maybe she said something to him and he didn’t like it. He screwed her out of money, too, just like he did the rest of us.”

“I know all about that. But it’s not enough; there has to be a specific motive for his murder. Did Cybil or any of the others have one that you know about?”

“No.”

“Something from back in the forties, maybe?”

“How would I know what went on between Colodny and anybody else, back then or since? I hadn’t seen him in thirty years, for Christ’s sake. Or any of the others in almost that long.”

His voice had risen until it was a scratchy whine. The guard, standing against the wall behind Dancer, frowned over at us. I said, “Take it easy, Russ. I’m listening to you and I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m on your side.”

He ran his tongue over lips that looked blistered. The fear in him settled below the surface again, but it was plain that he was having to struggle to maintain his control. The hangover was not helping matters; his hands kept plucking at each other, and you could almost see his nerves jangling.

I said, “Do the others have alibis for the time of the shooting?”

He nodded jerkily. “The cops say so.”

“Unshakeable alibis?”

“They didn’t tell me that. They can’t be, can they?”

“Let’s hope not. Suppose we go over again what happened yesterday. Can you remember it any better today?”

“Part of it, yeah. I’ve been over it a dozen times in my head.”

“All right. You were out drinking Bloody Marys with one of the convention people-”

“Benny. His name was Benny something.”

“Benny, right. What time did you get back?”

“I’m not sure. Around eleven, I think.”

“Then what?”

“We split up and I went upstairs to my room.”

“Did you talk to anybody on the way?”

“No. I think I stopped to bang on Ozzie Meeker’s door, see if he wanted to buy me a drink. But he wasn’t in.”

“Did you lock your door after you went inside?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Can you remember if the room was empty?”

“It must have been. Why? You think somebody could’ve been hiding in there when I came in?”

“It’s possible. But if there was anybody there or anything out of the ordinary, you were too drunk to notice.”

“Yeah. Too frigging drunk to notice.”

“After you came in, did you go straight into the bedroom?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Or maybe you sat down to have a drink first.”

“Uh-uh. No.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because I didn’t have any booze in the room.”

I frowned at him through the mesh. “What about the bottle that was on the couch? You remember that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, and frowned back at me. “A quart of rye.”

“How did it get there if it wasn’t yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re sure you didn’t carry it up with you?”

“Pretty sure. I don’t drink rye; it’s an Eastern hooch.”

“Who does drink it among the Pulpeteers?”

His mouth pulled down at the corners. “The only one I know of was Colodny. That’s all he drank in the old days.”

“Well, he could have brought the bottle in with him. But why? Why come to your room in the first place? And how did he get in, if you didn’t let him in?”

“I didn’t. Maybe he got a key somewhere.”

“Maybe. But that still doesn’t explain why he was there.”

Dancer shook his head: a study in raw misery.

“Did you see Colodny yesterday morning, before you went out drinking with Benny?”

“No.”

“Was he around when you got back to the hotel?”

“No.”

“Then the last time you saw him was when?”

“At the party on Friday night.”

“Did you say anything to him there?”

He pressed his knuckles across the bridge of his nose, trying to remember. “I was a couple of sheets to the wind then, too; a deal my agent had been trying to put together fell through. And I was still pissed about that note he’d slipped me. I think I said something to him about watching his step or I’d fix his wagon …“He broke off as he realized the significance of that. Then he said, “Ah, Christ,” and pawed his mouth out of shape.

“Lots of people overhead this, I suppose?”

“Enough. Bohannon and Ramsey and Ozzie Meeker were all there. One of them probably told the cops about it. But I didn’t mean it like it sounds. I wasn’t threatening his life.”

I said, “What did Colodny say in response?”

“He didn’t say anything. He just walked away.”

“Did you have any other contact with him that night?”

“No. He didn’t stay long at the party.”

“Let’s get back to yesterday. You said the gunshot woke you up.”

“Yeah. It was loud as hell.”

“Did you know what it was right away?”

“No. I was still drunk.”

“But you got up right away.”

“A few seconds, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“Some noises, I think.”

“Before you got into the other room.”

“Yeah.”

“What sort of noises?”

“Just noises. A cry or yell or something, then some other sounds. None of it is clear in my head.”

“Okay, you went into the other room after a few seconds. What did you see?”

“Colodny lying there dead.”

“Anything else? Movement, anything out of place?”

“No.”

“What did you do then?”

“I guess I picked up the gun. Stupid goddamn thing to do but I did it. Then you started beating on the door and came inside. That’s all.”

“I hope so, Russ,” I said. “I hope you’ve told me everything and all of it is the truth. If I find out different, it’s quits.”

He brightened a little. “You’ll help me? You’ll find out what really happened?”

“I’ll do what I can, as long as the police have no objections. But don’t expect miracles. I’m not all that good.”

“Sure you are. I saw the way you handled things in Cypress Bay; I read about those other cases of yours in the papers. If anybody can get me out of here it’s you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said again. “No promises.”

“I don’t have any money,” he said, “you know that. But you clear me of this, I’ll find a way to pay you. I mean that-I will.”

“That’s something we can talk about later.” I got up on my feet. “I’ll let Pitchfield know I’m working for you so he won’t keep after you to enter a guilty plea.”

I left him there like a supplicant behind the wire mesh and took the elevator down to General Works. One of the homicide inspectors on duty was Klein; I asked him if Eberhardt had come in today, and he told me yes and that he was in his office. “But he’s in a foul mood,” Klein said. “He’s liable to bite your ass if you go in there.”

“I’ll take my chances. What’s eating him, anyway?”

“I don’t know. He’s been like that all week.”

Klein buzzed him for me, got growls I could hear across the desk, and passed word that I’d have to wait. I waited twenty minutes, watching nothing much going on in the squadroom. Then Eberhardt buzzed out and let me go have an audience.

The air in his office was layered blue with pipe smoke and hot enough to grow orchids. A portable heater glowed on one side of his desk-that in addition to the building’s heating system. Eberhardt was in his shirt sleeves, pawing through a mess of papers, puffing away on a scarred apple briar. Grayish beard stubble coated his cheeks, — his shirt was wrinkled and had a stain of some kind on the front, and his tie was askew. His features still had that blurred look I had noticed yesterday. The bags under his eyes were heavier, too, as if he had slept little or not at all last night.

As soon as I shut the door he said, “You got ten minutes, no more. I’m up to my ass in paperwork today.”

“Sure. How come you’ve got it so hot in here?”

“It’s not hot in here.”

“It must be eighty, Eb, with that heater on.”

“It’s my office, I’ll keep it as hot as I like.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at me, glaring. “You come here for a reason? If you just want to ask dumb questions, get the hell out.”

He was beginning to worry me. But prodding him about it would only make him more close-mouthed. Eberhardt was not a man you could prod about anything.

I went over and sat down in one of the chairs before his desk. “I’m here about Russ Dancer.”

“Klein’s got your statement outside for you to sign.”

“I already signed it. I don’t mean that.”

“What then?”

“I’ve been upstairs talking to Dancer,” I said. “He swears he didn’t kill Frank Colodny.”

“So?”

“I believe him, Eb.”

“I might have known it.” He put the pipe back in his mouth and made angry gnawing sounds on the bit. Then he said, “I suppose you want permission to conduct your own investigation.”

“That’s what I had in mind.”

“You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, you know that?” It was something he’d said to me before, many times, but this time there was real rancor in the words. “Always getting mixed up in murder cases, always playing the champion role like one of your lousy magazine private eyes. And I’m supposed to hop to it every time you come sucking around for a favor. You think I like any of that? I got enough grief in this job without stumbling over you every time I turn around.”

I didn’t say anything. Just sat there looking at him.

“Ah, the hell with it. What’s the use in talking to you? “You don’t listen.”

“I’m listening now,” I said.

“Sure you are. Well, listen to this. Dancer is guilty; he’s as guilty as they come. And its your testimony that makes it conclusive.”

“The locked-room angle,” I said.

“That’s right, the locked-room angle. Dancer’s room was on the sixth floor, for starters. The windows were all locked from the inside, and there’s nothing outside any of them except a sheer wall and thin air. The access hall is a cul-de-sac, and that door was locked when you got to it. The connecting door with Oswald Meeker’s room was locked on both sides. You and the maid were out in the main hallway, with a clear view both ways along it, and you both swear the shot came from inside Dancer’s room. Less than a minute later you let yourself in and found Dancer with a gun in his hand and the body on the floor behind him. Okay, bright boy. Go ahead and tell me how he can be innocent and somebody else knocked off Colodny.”

“I can’t tell you how. Unless one of the doors was gimmicked…”

“Well, you can get that idea out of your head. The lab boys went over them; they fit snug in the jamb, both of them, and both bolts turn hard, and there’s no indication of tampering. They’re willing to swear that nobody could have pulled any of that fancy fictional crap, like strings on the dead bolt, even if there had been time for it. Which there wasn’t. You think this is a fancy killing? Like hell it is. It’s a crime of passion, just like ninety percent of all homicides. Premeditated, maybe; that’s up to the courts to decide. But you can’t make one of those goddamn impossible crime things out of it.”

“I’m not trying to,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure angles. Suppose the killer-somebody other than Dancer, for the sake of argument-came out through the hall door and slipped into the room opposite, six-nineteen? There was enough time for somebody to do that; it was at least ten seconds from the time I heard the shot until I got to where I could see into the cul-de-sac.”

“Oh sure, right. And Dancer waved bye-bye to him and locked up again after he left.”

“What if the killer had a key? That hall door can be locked from the outside with a key.”

“Yeah. He came out, locked the door, and disappeared-all in ten seconds. Where did he go, wise guy? Room six-nineteen was vacant, and there aren’t any missing keys to it, and that door wasn’t tampered with either. The maid and a bunch of other citizens were out in the hallway, so he couldn’t have gone by them. You think maybe he hid in the storage closet for a couple of hours and then slipped away when nobody was looking?”

I held up my hands, palms toward him. “Okay, I’m convinced. But was there an extra key to Dancer’s room-on Colodny’s body, maybe?”

“No. The only key he had was the one to his own room. He got inside Dancer’s because Dancer let him in.”

“Well, not necessarily. He could have bribed somebody to let him in with a passkey. The maid, for instance.”

“Nuts. We checked her out; she’s been at the hotel twenty-five years. Nobody lasts that long in a ritzy joint like the Continental without being honest.”

“Somebody else, then. The point is, Colodny could have already been inside the room when Dancer showed up.”

“The hell he could.”

“Why couldn’t he? Eb-”

“Two reasons, that’s why.” He pointed the pipe stem at me again. “In the first place, the maid knocked on Dancer’s door about fifteen minutes before the shooting because it was her time to go in and clean the room. When she didn’t get any answer she assumed nobody was home and used her passkey to let herself in. She found Dancer passed out in the bedroom and beat it out of there. But she was around long enough to swear that the front room was empty and the bathroom, which she could see into because the door was open, was also empty. And if you say anything about a guy hiding under the bed, I’ll laugh in your face.”

“She could have been lying,” I said doggedly.

“Why would she lie?”

“It was just a thought. How long was she in the hallway before I showed up?”

“Half a minute or so. She’d just come out of the next room past the cul-de-sac, six-twenty-one.”

“Did she see or hear anything?”

“Not until you appeared and the gun went off. Listen, get the hell off the maid; her story’s straight, and she’s not involved.” Another jab with the pipe. “And here’s your second reason why nobody could have been hiding in Dancer’s room: how would he have got out after Colodny was dead? What do you think this mythical killer did-wave a magic wand and dematerialize?”

The smoke in there was beginning to irritate my lungs; I could feel my chest tightening up. Now that I had been off tobacco for a couple of years, I no longer had any tolerance for it. I felt like getting up and opening the window to let in some air. But if I did it would only make Eberhardt more antagonistic than he already was.

I said, “Dancer told me all the other Pulpeteers have alibis for the time of Colodny’s death.”

“That’s right,” he said, and then pulled a face. “Pulpeteers. Of all the silly damn names for a bunch of grandfather types. Where’s the dignity in something like that?”

“They were young when they thought it up.”

“Pulp writers,” he said. “And private eyes. Bah.”

“Eb, will you tell me how the alibis break down?”

“No. Listen, I’ve had enough of your questions.”

“If none of them is airtight, somebody could have slipped away for a few minutes. Or somebody could be lying to protect somebody else-”

“Don’t you hear good?”

“Look, Eb, I’m only-”

“I said that’s enough!” He slapped the pipe down on his desk; ashes and half-burned tobacco sprayed out over the litter of papers. “Your time’s up. Get the hell out of here. And don’t come sucking around again for free information. I’m sick of looking at your goddamn wop face.”

There were still some things I wanted to know about besides the alibi breakdown: the typewriter that had been found in Colodny’s hotel room; the bottle of rye whiskey in Dancer’s room. But he was pretty upset, face all blood-dark, and provoking him would only get me upset too. His cutting remarks had already begun to fray the edges of my temper-the one about my “goddamn wop face” in particular. We had traded ethnic insults for thirty years, but this was the first time either of us had ever put malice into one.

“Okay,” I said, “I’m going. Maybe you’ll decide to be a human being again one of these days. Not to mention a friend. Let me know if that happens.”

I shoved up out of the chair, pivoted around it, and went over to the door. I had my hand on the knob when he said, “Wait a minute,” in a much quieter voice.

I came around. “What?”

The anger had drained out of his face; he was sitting slump-shouldered now, and all of a sudden he seemed old and tired and wasted-looking. He had let down his defenses finally-and what I was looking at was naked anguish.

“Dana left me,” he said.

It was a flat statement, without inflection, but there was so much emotion wrapped up in it that I could feel the skin ripple along my back. “Ah Jesus, Eb …”

“Last Sunday. Week ago today. I went out to Candlestick to watch the Giants play, I came home, she had all her bags packed.”

“Why!” “Twenty-eight years we’ve been married. Not all of them good, but most of them. I thought it was a good marriage. I thought I was a decent husband.” He let out a heavy breath, picked up the apple briar and stared at it blindly. “I think she’s been having an affair,” he said.

I tried not to wince. “Is that what she told you?”

“Not in so many words. But there’ve been signs, little things, little signals for three or four months. And she wouldn’t tell me where she was going. All she’d say was that the marriage wasn’t working, she was going to file for divorce-‘I’m sorry, Eb,’ she said, and out the door. Twenty-eight years, and ‘I’m sorry, Eb,’ and out the door.”

“Do you… have any idea who it is?”

“No. Does it matter? I figured, okay, she’s hav ing a fling. I didn’t like it but I could accept it. I had a couple of things in my time, I never told you about them but I did. So did Dana, once, a long time ago. She told me about that one, everything, and I forgave her, and I told her about it both times I strayed, too. It was a good marriage, goddamn it. It was.”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind, come back …”

“Not this time. She’s gone. It’s over, finished, she’s gone. But I still love her, you know? I still love the bitch.”

I did not say anything. What can you say?

He looked up at me-big, stolid, tough Eberhardt, the original Rock of Gibraltar. And in his eyes there was some of the same mute appeal that I had seen in Dancer’s eyes only a little while ago.

“What am I going to do?” he said. “What the hell am I going to do?”