Jigsaw

9

Never let it be bruited about that just because a homicide victim also happens to be an ex-con, the police will devote less time and energy to finding out who has done him in. Perish the thought! In this fair and democratic land of ours, the rich and the poor, the powerful and the meek, the honest citizen and the wrongdoer are all afforded equal protection under the law, even after they’re dead. So, boy oh boy, did those guys work hard trying to find out who had left the hole in Albert Weinberg’s chest!

To begin with, there are a lot of people who have to be informed when someone inconsiderately gets himself knocked off. Just informing all these different people takes a lot of time. Imagine having to call the Police Commissioner, and the Chief of Detectives, and the District Commander of the Detective Division, and Homicide, and the Squad and Precinct Commanding Officers of the precinct where the body was found, and the Medical Examiner, and the District Attorney, and the Telegraph, Telephone and Teletype Bureau at Headquarters, and the Police Laboratory, not to mention the police photographers and stenographers — the list alone is longer than the average laundry list, and just try phoning in a dirty shirt to the local laundryman. All that vast machinery of law enforcement ground into immediate action the moment it was discovered that Albert Weinberg had a hole in his chest; all those oiled gears smoothly meshed and rotated in the cause of justice; all those relentless preventers of crime and pursuers of criminals called upon their enormous reservoir of physical courage and stamina, their mental acumen, their experience, intelligence, their brilliance even — and all in an attempt to discover who had shot and killed the man who once upon a time had beat up a little old lady for the sum of seventeen dollars and thirty-four cents.

Actually, most of the physical courage and stamina, the mental acumen, the experience, intelligence and brilliance was being expended by Detectives Meyer Meyer and Cotton Hawes of the 87th Squad; Carella (who had discovered the corpse) being elsewhere occupied. Meyer and Hawes did not have much trouble taking apart the apartment; whoever killed Weinberg had already done a very good job of that. They decided after a thorough search of the place that Brown’s surmise was a correct one. The killer had been after Weinberg’s pieces of the photograph, and had apparently been successful in finding them. Meyer and Hawes questioned all of the tenants in the building and discovered that three of them had heard a very loud noise shortly after midnight. None of these people thought it either necessary or advisable to call the police. In this neighborhood, policemen were not exactly looked upon as benefactors of the people, and besides the sounds of gunfire were somewhat commonplace, day or night. So both detectives went back to the squadroom to consult the timetable Irving Krutch had so thoughtfully typed up for Steve Carella:

The day doorman outside Krutch’s apartment building corroborated that Krutch had come home from work at about 6:00 P.M., and that they had had a brief discussion about the wonderful weather, so different from last June’s weather, when the city was sweltering in the grip of a ninety-degree heat wave. He put Meyer and Hawes in touch with the night doorman who stated that Krutch had called down for a taxi at approximately 8:30, and had left the building with a young lady shortly thereafter. He had personally given Krutch’s destination to the cab driver: The Ram’s Head at 777 Jefferson Avenue. He further reported that Krutch and the young lady had come back to the apartment shortly before midnight and that he had not seen either of them leaving again at any time during his tour of duty, which ended at 8:00 A.M. Meyer and Hawes went over the building’s entrances very carefully, though, and discovered that anyone who chose not to be seen by either the doorman or the elevator operator had only to take the service steps down to the basement and leave the building through the side-street exit door, where the garbage cans were stacked.

The reservations book for The Ram’s Head noted a reservation for “Irving Krutch, 2” at 8:45 P.M. on the night Albert Weinberg was murdered. The headwaiter, a man named Maurice Duchene recalled Mr. Krutch and a young lady being there, and also recalled recommending the Chateau Bouscaut ‘64 to them. He said that Mr. Krutch had ordered a bottle and had commented that the wine was delicious. Mr. Krutch had tipped him three dollars when he left the restaurant at about 10:30.

A call to the local affiliate of the National Broadcasting Company ascertained the fact that one of Johnny Carson’s guests that night had been Buddy Hackett and that he had come on almost immediately after the monologue, sometime before midnight.

There was nothing left to do but talk to Suzanne Endicott.

Ask any cop whom he would rather interview, an eighty-year-old lady with varicose veins or a twenty-two-year-old blonde wearing a see-through blouse, just ask any cop.

Suzanne Endicott worked in a swinging boutique called The Nickel Bag, and she was wearing a leather miniskirt and a blouse through which her breasts were clearly visible. Her attire was very disconcerting, especially to policemen who were rather more used to eighty-year-old ladies with varicose veins. Detective Meyer Meyer was a married man. Cotton Hawes was a single man, but he, too, seemed to be having difficulty concentrating on the questions. He kept thinking he should ask Suzanne Endicott to go to a movie with him. Or something. The shop was thronged with young girls similarly though not identically dressed, miniskirts and tights, headbands and shiny blouses, a veritable aviary of chirping young birds — Meyer Meyer hadn’t even enjoyed the Hitchcock film. Suzanne Endicott fluttered here and there, helping this young lady with a pants suit, that one with a crocheted dress, the next with a sequined vest. Between flutterings and chirpings and quick glimpses of nipples and thighs, the detectives tried to ask their questions.

“You want to tell us exactly what happened that night?” Meyer asked.

“Oh, sure, I’d be happy to,” Suzie said. She had the faintest trace of a Southern accent in her speech, Hawes noticed.

“Where are you from originally?” he asked, thinking to put her at ease, and also thinking he would definitely ask her to go to a movie or something.

“Oh my, does my accent still show?” Suzie said.

“Just a little,” Hawes said, and tried a gentle, understanding smile that did not seem appropriate to his massive height, nor his fiery red mane, nor the white streak in the hair over his left temple, the result of a knifing many years back.

“I’m from Georgia,” she said. “The Peach State.”

“It must be lovely down there in Georgia,” Hawes said.

“Oh yes, just lovely,” Suzie said. “Excuse me, just one teeny little minute, won’t you?” she said, and dashed off to where a striking brunette was coming out of one of the dressing rooms. The brunette had on bright red velvet hip-huggers. Hawes thought he might go over and ask her to go to a movie or something.

“I feel as if I’m backstage at the Folies Bergère,” Meyer whispered.

“Have you ever been backstage at the Folies Bergère?” Hawes whispered back.

“No, but I’m sure it’s just like this.”

“Better,” Hawes said.

“Have you ever been?”

“Never.”

“Well, here I am, back again,” Suzie said, and smiled, and tossed her long blond hair and added, “I think they were a bit too snug, don’t you?”

“What’s that?” Meyer said.

“The pants she had on.”

“Oh, sure, a little too snug,” Meyer said. “Miss Endicott, about the night Weinberg was killed...”

“Oh, yes, that was just dreadful, wasn’t it?” Suzie said.

“Yes, it was,” Hawes said gently and tenderly.

“Although I understand he was a criminal. Weinberg, I mean.”

“Who told you that?”

“Irving did. Was he a criminal?”

“He paid his debt to society,” Hawes said tenderly and gently.

“Oh, yes, I suppose he did,” Suzie answered. “But still.”

“In any event,” Meyer said, passing a hand over his bald pate and rolling his china-blue eyes, “he was killed, and we’re conducting an investigation into his murder, and we’d like very much to ask you some questions about that night, if it’s not too much trouble, Miss Endicott.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Suzie said. “Would you please excuse me for just one teeny minute?” she said, and went over to the cash register where a leggy redhead was standing with several sweaters in her arms, waiting to pay for them.

“We’ll never get out of this joint,” Meyer said.

“That wouldn’t be too bad,” Hawes said.

“For you, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. For me, if I don’t get home in time for dinner, Sarah’ll kill me.”

“Why don’t you run on along then?” Hawes said, and grinned. “I think I can handle this alone.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Meyer said. “Trouble is, you see, we’re supposed to find out who killed Weinberg. That’s the trouble, you see.”

“Well, here I am back again,” Suzie said, and smiled, and tossed her long blond hair. “I’ve asked Michelle to spell me, so I don’t think we’ll be interrupted again.”

“That’s very kind of you, Suzie,” Hawes said.

“Oh, not at all,” she answered, and smiled again.

“About that night...”

“Yes,” she said, alert, and responsive, and eager to cooperate. “What would you like to know?”

“First, what time did you get to Irving Krutch’s apartment?”

“It must have been about seven-thirty,” Suzie said.

“How long have you known Mr. Krutch?” Hawes said.

“We’ve practically been living together for four years,” Suzie answered, her big brown eyes opened wide.

“Oh,” Hawes said.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“We have separate apartments, of course.”

“Of course.”

Meyer cleared his throat. “What... uh... what was I saying?” he said, turning to Hawes.

“Time she got there,” Hawes said.

“Oh yes. Seven-thirty, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Suzie said.

“And what did you do when you got there?”

“Irving gave me a martini. Two martinis, in fact. I love martinis. Don’t you just adore martinis?” she asked Hawes.

“Mmm,” Hawes said.

“Were there any visitors while you were there?”

“None.”

“Any phone calls?”

“Yes.”

“Would you happen to know from whom?”

“From a detective. Irving seemed very happy when he hung up.”

“Are you engaged or something?” Hawes asked. “Is that it?”

“To be married, do you mean?”

“Yes, to be married.”

“Oh, no, don’t be silly,” Suzie said.

Meyer cleared his throat again. “What time did you leave the apartment?” he asked.

“About eight-thirty. I think it was eight-thirty. It could have been a teeny bit earlier or a teeny bit later. But I think it was around eight-thirty.”

“And where did you go?”

“To The Ram’s Head.” She smiled up at Hawes. “That’s a restaurant. Have you ever been there?”

“No. No, I haven’t.”

“It’s very nice.”

“What time did you leave the restaurant, Miss Endicott?”

“About ten-thirty. Again, as I said, it might have been a teeny bit...”

“Yes, but it was around ten-thirty.”

“Yes.”

“And then what did you do?”

“We went for a walk on Hall Avenue, and looked in all the store windows. We saw some marvelous lounging pajamas in Kilkenny’s. Italian, I think they were. Just, oh so colorful.”

“How long did you walk on Hall Avenue?”

“An hour or so? I guess it was an hour or so.”

“And then what did you do?”

“We went back to Irving’s apartment. What we do, you see, is we either go to Irving’s apartment or to my apartment. I live downtown in The Quarter,” she said, looking up at Hawes. “Do you know Chelsea Street?”

“Yes, I do,” Hawes said.

“121/2 Chelsea Street,” she said, “apartment 6B. That’s because of hard luck.”

“What is?”

“The 12 1/2. It should be 13, but the owner of the building is superstitious.”

“Yes, there are lots of buildings in the city like that,” Hawes said.

“Lots of buildings don’t even have a thirteenth floor,” Suzie said. “That is, they have a thirteenth floor, but it’s called the fourteenth floor.”

“Yes, I know.”

“12 1/2 Chelsea Street,” she said, “apartment 6B, Hampton 4-8100.” She paused. “That’s my telephone number.”

“So you went back to Mr. Krutch’s apartment at about eleven-thirty,” Meyer said, “and then what did you do?”

“We watched television for a while. Buddy Hackett was on. He’s a scream. Don’t you just adore Buddy Hackett?” she said, looking up at Hawes.

“I adore him, yes,” Hawes said, and Meyer gave him a peculiar look. “He’s very comical,” Hawes said, ignoring the look.

“He’s just adorable,” Suzie said.

“What did you do after watching television?” Meyer said.

“We made love,” Suzie said.

Meyer cleared his throat.

“Twice,” Suzie added.

Meyer cleared his throat again.

“Then we went to sleep,” she said, “and in the middle of the night this Italian detective knocked on the door and started asking all sorts of questions about where we were and what we were doing. Is he allowed to do something like that, come around in the middle of the night, and bang on the door, and ask dumb questions?”

“Yes, he is,” Hawes said.

“I think that’s awful,” Suzie said. “Don’t you think that’s awful?” she asked Hawes.

“Well, it’s a job,” Hawes said, and smiled weakly, and tried to avoid Meyer’s glance again.

“Did either of you leave the apartment at any time between eleven-thirty and three A.M.?” Meyer asked.

“Oh, no. I told you. First we watched television, and then we made love, and then we went to sleep.”

“You were there all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Both of you.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Krutch didn’t leave the apartment at all.”

“No.”

“If you were asleep, how do you know whether he left or not?”

“Well, we didn’t go to sleep until about maybe two o’clock. Things take time, you know.”

“You were awake until two A.M.?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Krutch did not leave the apartment?”

“No.”

“Did he leave the bedroom?”

“No.”

“Not at any time during the night?”

“Not at any time during the night.”

“Okay,” Meyer said. “You got anything else, Cotton?”

“Is that your name?” Suzie asked. “I had an uncle named Cotton.”

“That’s my name,” Hawes said.

“After Cotton Mather?”

“That’s right.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence?” Suzie said. “I think that’s a marvelous coincidence.”

“You got anything else to ask?” Meyer said again.

“Well... yes,” Hawes said, and looked at Meyer.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Meyer said.

“Okay,” Hawes said.

He watched as Meyer picked his way through the milling girls in the shop, watched as Meyer opened the front door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“I have only one further question, Suzie,” he said.

“Yes, what’s that?”

“Would you like to go to a movie with me? Or something?”

“Oh, no,” Suzie said. “Irving wouldn’t like that.” She smiled and looked up at him with her big brown eyes. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “really I am, but Irving simply wouldn’t like that at all.”

“Well, uh, thanks a lot for your cooperation, Miss Endicott,” Hawes said. “Thank you very much, I’m sorry we — uh — broke into your day this way, thanks a lot.”

“Not at all,” Suzie said, and rushed off to another beautiful brunette who was emerging from yet another dressing room. Hawes looked at the brunette, decided not to risk further rejection, and went outside to where Meyer was waiting on the sidewalk.

“Did you score?” Meyer asked.

“Nope.”

“How come? I thought it was a sure thing.”

“So did I. I guess she thinks Krutch is just adorable.”

“I think you’re just adorable,” Meyer said.

“Up yours,” Hawes answered, and both men went back to the squadroom. Hawes typed up the report and then went out to talk to a grocery store owner who had a complaint about people stealing bottles of milk from boxes stacked up in back of the store, this in the wee hours of the morning before the store was opened for business. Meyer went to talk to an assault victim and to show him some mug shots for possible identification. They had worked long and hard on the Weinberg Case, yeah, and it was now in the Open File, pending further developments.

Meanwhile, on the ferry to Bethtown, two other cops were working very hard at sniffing the mild June breezes that blew in off the River Harb. Coatless, hatless, Carella and Brown stood at the railing and watched Isola’s receding skyline, watched too the busy traffic on the river, tugboats and ocean liners, a squadron of Navy destroyers, barges and scows, each of them tooting and chugging and sounding bells and sending up steam and leaving a boiling, frothy wake behind.

“This is still the cheapest date in the city,” Brown said. “Five cents for a forty-five-minute boat ride — who can beat it?”

“I wish I had a nickel for all the times I rode this ferry with Teddy, before we were married,” Carella said.

“Caroline used to love it,” Brown said. “She never wanted to sit inside, winter or summer. We always stood here on the bow, even if it meant freezing our asses off.”

“The poor man’s ocean cruise,” Carella said.

“Moonlight and sea breezes...”

“Concertina playing...”

“Tugboats honking...”

“Sounds like a Warner Brothers movie.”

“I sometimes thought it was.” Brown said wistfully. “There were lots of places I couldn’t go in this city, Steve, either because I couldn’t afford them or because it was made plain to me I wasn’t wanted in them. On the Bethtown ferry, though, I could be the hero of the movie. I could take my girl out on the bow and we could feel the wind on our faces, and I could kiss her like a colored Humphrey Bogart. I love this goddamn ferry, I really do.”

“Yeah,” Carella said, and nodded.

“Sure,” Robert Coombs said, “I used to have a piece of that picture.”

“Used to have?” Brown asked.

“Used to have, correct,” Coombs said, and spat on the sidewalk in front of the hot-dog stand. He was a man of about sixty, with a weather-beaten face, spikes of yellow-white hair sticking up out of his skull like withered stalks of corn, an altogether grizzled look about him as he sat on one of the stools in front of his establishment (Bob’s Roadside) and talked to the two detectives. The hot-dog stand was on Route 24, off the beaten path; it was unlikely that a dozen automobiles passed the place on any given day, in either direction.

“Where’d you get it?” Carella asked.

“Petey Ryan give it to me before the holdup,” Coombs said. His eyes were a pale blue, fringed with blond lashes, overhung with blond-white brows. His teeth were the color of his brows. He spat again on the sidewalk. Brown wondered what it was like to eat food prepared at Bob’s Roadside.

“Why’d Ryan give it to you?” Carella asked.

“We was good friends,” Coombs said.

“Tell us all about it,” Brown suggested.

“What for? I already told you I ain’t got the picture no more.”

“Where is it now?”

“Christ knows,” Coombs said, and shrugged, and spat.

“How long before the holdup?” Carella said.

“How long what?”

“When he gave you the picture.”

“Three days.”

“Petey came to you...”

“Correct.”

“And handed you a piece of a snapshot...”

“Correct.”

“And said what?”

“Said I should hang onto it till after the hit.”

“And then what?”

“Then he’d come collect it from me.”

“Did he say why?”

“In case he got busted.”

“He didn’t want to have the picture on him if the police caught him, is that it?”

“Correct.”

“What did you think about all that?” Brown asked.

“What should I think? A good friend asks me to do a favor, I do it. What was there to think?”

“Did you have any idea what the picture meant?”

“Sure.”

“What did it mean?”

“It showed where they was ditching the loot. You think I’m a dope?”

“Did Petey say how many pieces there were in the complete photograph?”

“Nope.”

“Just told you to hang onto this little piece of it until he came to collect it?”

“Correct.”

“Okay, where’s the piece now?”

“I threw it in the garbage,” Coombs said.

“Why?”

“Petey got killed. Cinch he wasn’t going to come back for the piece, so I threwn it out.”

“Even though you knew it was part of a bigger picture? A picture that showed where they were dropping the NSLA loot?”

“Correct.”

“When did you throw it out?”

“Day after the hit. Soon as I read in the paper that Petey got killed.”

“You were in a pretty big hurry to get rid of it, huh?”

“A pretty big hurry, correct.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to get hooked into the holdup. I figured if the picture was hot, I didn’t want no part of it.”

“But you accepted it from Petey to begin with, didn’t you?”

“Correct.”

“Even though you knew it showed where they planned to hide the proceeds of a robbery.”

“I only guessed that. I didn’t know for sure.”

“When did you find out for sure?”

“Well, I still don’t know for sure.”

“But you became sufficiently alarmed after the robbery to throw away the scrap Petey had given you.”

“Correct.”

“This was six years ago, right, Mr. Coombs?”

“Correct.”

“You threw it in the garbage.”

“In the garbage, correct.”

“Where was the garbage?”

“Where was the what?”

“The garbage.”

“In the back.”

“Out back there?”

“Correct.”

“You want to come back there with us, and show us where you threw it in the garbage?”

“Sure,” Coombs said, and got off the stool, and spat, and then led them around to the rear side of the hot-dog stand. “Right there,” he said, pointing. “In one of them garbage cans.”

“You carried that little tiny piece of the photograph out back here, and you lifted the lid of the garbage can and dropped it in, is that right?”

“Correct.”

“Show us how you did it,” Brown said.

Coombs looked at him curiously. Then he shrugged, pinched an imaginary photograph segment between his thumb and forefinger, carried it to the nearest garbage can, lifted the lid, deposited the non-existent scrap inside the can, covered the can, turned to the cops, and said, “Like that. That’s how I done it.”

“You’re lying,” Brown said flatly.

Neither of the two detectives, of course, knew whether or not Coombs was lying, nor had their little charade with the garbage can proved a damn thing. But public relations has a lot to do with criminal investigation and detection. There is not a red-blooded citizen of the US of A who does not know through constant exposure to television programs and motion pictures that cops are always asking trick questions and doing trick things to trap a person in a lie. Coombs had seen his share of movies and television shows, and he knew now, knew with heart-stopping, faceblanching, teeth-jarring certainty that he had done something wrong when he walked over to the garbage can, and lifted the lid, and dropped in the imaginary photo scrap, something that had instantly told these two shrewd investigators that he was lying.

“Lying?” he said. “Me? Lying?” He tried to spit again, but his throat muscles wouldn’t respond, and he almost choked, and then began coughing violently.

“You want to come along with us?” Carella said, sternly and pompously, and in his most legal-sounding voice.

“Wh... wh... wh...?” Coombs said, and coughed again, his face turning purple, and then put one hand flat against the rear wall of the hot-dog stand, head bent, and leaned against it, and tried to catch his breath and recover his wits. They had him cold, he knew, but he couldn’t figure what the charge would be, and he tried to buy time now while the big black cop reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs with vicious-looking sawtooth edges — oh Jesus, Coombs thought, I am busted. But for what?

“What’s the crime,” he said, “the charge,” he said, “what’s the, what’s the, what did I do?”

“You know what you did, Mr. Coombs,” Carella said coldly. “You destroyed evidence of a crime.”

“That’s a felony,” Brown said, lying.

“Section 812 of the Penal Law,” Carella said.

“Look, I...”

“Come along, Mr. Coombs,” Brown said, and held out the handcuffs.

“What if I... what if I hadn’t thrown out the thing, the picture?” Coombs asked.

“Did you?”

“I didn’t. I got it. I’ll give it to you. Jesus, I’ll give it to you.”

“Get it,” Brown said.

A ferryboat is a good place for speculation. It is also a good place for listening. So on the way back to Isola, Carella and Brown each did a little speculating and a little listening.

“Four guys in the holdup,” Brown said. “Carmine Bonamico, who masterminded the job...”

“Some mastermind,” Carella said.

“Jerry Stein, who drove the getaway heap, and two guns named Lou D’Amore and Pete Ryan. Four altogether.”

“So?”

“So figure it out. Pete Ryan gave one piece of the snapshot to his aunt Dorothea McNally and another piece to his good old pal Robert Coombs...”

“Of Bob’s Famous Roadside Emporium,” Carella said.

“Correct,” Brown said, “Which means, using a method known as arithmetical deduction, that Ryan was at one time in possession of two pieces of the snapshot.”

“Correct,” Carella said.

“Is it not reasonable to assume, therefore, that each member of the gang was likewise in possession of two pieces of the snapshot?”

“It is reasonable, but not necessarily exclusive,” Carella said.

“How do you mean, Holmes?”

“Elementary. You are assuming there are only eight pieces of the full photograph. However, using other multiples of four, we can equally reason that there are twelve pieces, or sixteen pieces, or indeed...”

“My guess is eight,” Brown said.

“Why the magic number eight?”

“If you were planning a heist, would you go cutting a picture into twelve parts? Or sixteen?”

“Or twenty?” Carella said.

“Would you?”

“I think it’s a goofy idea to begin with,” Carella said. “I wouldn’t cut up a photograph at all.”

“My guess is eight. Four guys, two pieces each. We’ve now got six of them. My guess is we’ll find number seven in Gerry Ferguson’s safe. That’ll leave only one piece to go. One, baby. One more piece and we’re home free.”

As Robert Burns, that sage Scottish poet once remarked, however, the best laid plans...

That afternoon, they went down to the Ferguson Gallery with a warrant obliging Geraldine Ferguson to open her safe. And though they searched it from top to bottom and found a lot of goodies in it, none of which were related to any crime, they did not find another piece of the photograph. By the end of that Monday, they still had only six pieces.

Six.

Count ‘em.

Six.

As they studied these assembled pieces in the midnight silence of the squadroom, something struck them as being terribly wrong. There was no sky in the picture. And because there was no sky, neither was there an up nor a down, a top nor a bottom. They were looking at a landscape without perspective, and it made no sense.