Jigsaw

7

There’s nothing like a little homicide to give an investigation a shot in the arm. Or the chest, as the case may be. Albert Weinberg had been shot in the chest at close range with a .32-caliber pistol. His demise caused Brown to have a heated argument with the hospital intern who kept insisting he should be kept there under observation, and who refused to give him back his trousers. Brown called Carella, who brought his partner a pair of pants, a clean shirt, and his own spare gun. The two men had a hurried consultation while Brown dressed, deciding that Carella should go out to Calm’s Point for a chat in Italian with Lucia Feroglio, the late Carmine Bonamico’s sister-in-law. In the meantime, Brown would go over to the Ferguson Gallery, presumably closed on a Sunday, let himself into the place (against the law, but what the hell), and do a little snooping around. The nurse came in as Brown was zipping up his fly.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she asked.

“I’ll get back in, if you’ll join me,” Brown said, grinning lecherously, and the nurse fled down the corridor, calling for the intern. By the time the intern got to the room, the detectives were in the main lobby downstairs, setting up plans for contacting each other later in the day. They nodded to each other briefly, and went out into the June sunshine to pursue their separate pleasures.

Carella’s pleasure was the Church of the Holy Spirit on Inhurst Boulevard in Calm’s Point. He had first stopped at Lucia Feroglio’s garden apartment where he was told by her neighbors that the old lady went to 9:00 Mass every Sunday morning. He had then driven over to the church, where Mass was in progress, and asked the sexton if he knew Lucia Feroglio, and if he would mind pointing her out when Mass broke. The sexton seemed not to understand any English until Carella put five dollars in the box in the narthex. The sexton then admitted that he knew Lucia Feroglio very well, and would be happy to identify her when she came out of the church.

Lucia must have been a beauty in her youth; Carella could not understand how or why she had remained a spinster. A woman in her seventies now, she still walked with a tall, erect pride, her hair snowy white, her features recalling those of ancient Roman royalty, the aquiline nose, the full sensuous mouth, the high brow and almond-shaped eyes. The sexton nodded toward her as she came down the broad sunwashed steps. Carella moved to her side immediately and said, “Scusi, Signorina Feroglio?”

The woman turned with a faint half-smile on her mouth, her eyebrows lifting in mild curiosity. “Sì, che cosa?” she asked.

“Mi chiamo Steve Carella,” he answered. “Sono un agente investigativo, dal distretto ottanta-sette.” He opened his wallet and showed her his detective’s shield.

“Sì, che vuole?” Lucia asked. “What do you want?”

“Possiamo parlare?” Carella asked. “Can we talk?”

“Certo,” she said, and they began to walk away from the church together.

Lucia seemed to have no aversion to holding a conversation with a cop. She was warm, open, and cooperative, speaking in a Sicilian dialect Carella understood only incompletely, promising him she would tell him everything she knew about the photographic segment she had inherited from her sister. As it turned out, though, she knew nothing at all about it.

“I do not understand,” Carella said in Italian. “Did you not tell the insurance investigator that the full picture reveals where the treasure is?”

“Ma che tesoro?” Lucia asked. “What treasure?”

“The treasure,” Carella repeated. “Did you not tell Mr. Krutch about a treasure? When you gave him the list and the photograph?”

“I know nothing of a treasure,” Lucia said. “And what list? I gave him only the little piece of picture.”

“You did not give him a list with names on it?”

“No. Nor has Mr. Krutch given me the thousand dollars he promised. Do you know this man?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“Would you ask him, please, to send me my money? I gave him the picture, and now it is only fair to expect payment. I am not a wealthy woman.”

“Let me understand this, Miss Feroglio,” Carella said. “Are you telling me that you did not give Mr. Krutch a list of names?”

“Never. Mai. Never.”

“And you did not tell Mr. Krutch about a treasure?”

“If I did not know it, how could I have told him?” She turned to him suddenly, and smiled warmly and quite seductively for a woman in her seventies. “Is there a treasure, signore?” she asked.

“God only knows, signorina,” Carella answered, and returned the smile.

The best burglars in the world are cops.

There are three types of alarm systems in general use, and the one on the back door of the Ferguson Gallery was a closed-circuit system, which meant that it could not be put out of commission merely by cutting the wires, as could be done with the cheapest kind. A weak current ran constantly through the wires of the closed-circuit system; if you cut them, breaking the current, the alarm would sound. So Brown cross-contacted the wires, and then opened the door with a celluloid strip. It was as simple as that, and it took him no longer than ten minutes. In broad daylight.

The gallery was empty and still.

Sunshine slanted silently through the wide plate-glass windows fronting Jefferson Avenue. The white walls were pristine and mute. The only screaming in the place came from the colorful paintings on the walls. Brown went immediately to the blue door on the far wall, opened it, and stepped into Bramley Kahn’s office.

He started with Kahn’s desk. He found letters to and from artists, letters to patrons, a rough mock-up of a brochure announcing the gallery’s one-man show to come in August, memos from Kahn to himself, a letter from a museum in Philadelphia, another from the Guggenheim in New York, a hardbound copy of Story of O (the first few pages of which Brown scanned, almost getting hooked, almost forgetting why he had come here), a trayful of red pencils and blue pencils, and in the bottom drawer a locked metal cash box — and a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson. Brown tented his handkerchief over the revolver, picked it up by the butt, and sniffed the barrel. Despite the fact that Albert Weinberg, his late partner, had been slain with a .32-caliber weapon, this gun did not seem to have been fired lately. Brown rolled out the cylinder. There were six cartridges in the pistol, one in each chamber. He closed the gun, put it back into the drawer, and was reaching for the cash box when the telephone rang. He almost leaped out of Steve Carella’s borrowed trousers. The phone rang once, twice, again, again, again. It stopped suddenly.

Brown kept watching the instrument.

It began ringing again. It rang eight times. Then it stopped

Brown waited.

The phone did not ring again.

He lifted the gray metal cash box from the bottom drawer. The lock on it was a simple one; he opened the cash box in thirty seconds. It contained anything but cash. He found a partnership agreement between Kahn and Geraldine Ferguson, a certificate for 200 shares of IBM stock, Kahn’s last will and testament, three United States Savings Bonds in fifty-dollar denominations, and a small, white, unmarked, unsealed envelope.

Brown opened the envelope. There was a slip of white paper in it:

However lousy a bank robber Carmine Bonamico may have been, he was sure good at cutting out paper dolls. If this wasn’t the second half of the list Krutch had brought to the squadroom, Brown would eat the list, the photograph, the first chapter of Story of O, and maybe O herself. He quickly copied the names in his notebook, replaced the fragment in its envelope, put the envelope and everything else back into the cash box, locked the box, and replaced it in the bottom drawer of the desk. His attention was captured by the painting of the nude on the opposite wall. He went to it, lifted one edge, and peeked behind it. Reaching up with both hands, he took the heavy painting off the wall. There was a small black safe behind it. Brown knew that people who used safes or combination locks with any frequency would often leave the dial just a notch or two to the right or left of the last number. This facilitated constant opening, since all you then had to do was give the dial a single twist each time, rather than going through the whole boring rigmarole. He was moving the dial a notch to the left of the number showing when he heard the back door of the gallery being opened. Swiftly, he moved behind the door of Kahn’s office, and threw back his jacket.

The butt of Carella’s borrowed .38 protruded from a holster at his waist. He drew the gun now and stood silently listening to the footsteps that clattered across the white tile floor toward Kahn’s office. The footsteps stopped just outside the open door. Brown held his breath. The man was in the doorway now, his shadow falling into the room across the gray rug. Brown did not want the man to be Bramley Kahn. Breaking and entry was breaking and entry, and Brown did not want a suit filed against the city; Brown did not want to get kicked off the force; Brown did not want to be smothered again by the ghetto he had escaped.

The first things that registered were the thick handlebar mustache and the glinting blue eyes.

“Hello, Krutch,” Brown said.

Irving Krutch whirled.

“Hey,” he said. “Hi.”

“Didn’t you see that decal on the back door? ‘These premises are protected by the Buckley Alarm System.’ ”

“I cross-contacted the wiring,” Krutch said.

“That makes two of us. Was it you who called ten minutes ago?”

“Yes. I wanted to make sure nobody was here.”

“Somebody was here,” Brown said.

“So I see.”

“What do you want, Krutch?”

“The same thing you want. We’re in this together, remember?”

“I thought you were letting us handle it.”

“I figured you might need a hand.”

Brown holstered the gun, went to the safe again, moved the dial a notch to the left, then two notches, then three, trying to open it after each move, and getting no results. He tried the same sequence to the right, and when he got nothing, he turned to Krutch and said, “I do need a hand. Grab one end of this painting.”

“Have you found anything?” Krutch asked.

Brown hesitated. “No,” he said.

They lifted the painting and hung it in place. Brown stepped back from it, walked over to the wall again, and tilted one corner of the frame.

“A little to the other side,” Krutch said.

“How’s that?”

“Perfect.”

“Let’s go,” Brown said.

“I’d sure like to know what’s in that safe,” Krutch said.

“So would I. What’s your guess?”

“A little piece of a picture.”

“How are you on safecracking?”

“Lousy.”

“So am I. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Krutch asked.

“You’re going to fix those alarm wires. I’m going to visit Geraldine Ferguson.”

“Fix the wires? I can get arrested if I’m caught doing that.”

“I may arrest you, anyway,” Brown said. “You’re in here illegally.”

“So are you.”

“An off-duty cop on the prowl. Cruising by, saw the back door ajar, came in and discovered a burglary in progress.”

“I’m your partner,” Krutch protested.

“I had another partner, too. Albert Weinberg, who right now is on ice downtown.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Krutch said.

“Who suggested you did?”

“Carella.”

“Well, maybe he’s just a suspicious person,” Brown said.

“How about you? What do you think?”

“I think you were with a young lady named Suzie Endicott from seven-thirty until whenever it was Carella came to see you. That’s what you told him, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So why would I have any reason to doubt you?”

“Look, Brown...”

“I’m looking.”

“I want that lost NSLA money; I want it very badly. But not badly enough to kill for it. Nothing’s worth that much. Not even my career.”

“Okay.”

“I just want to get that straight between us.”

“It’s straight,” Brown said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

Geraldine Ferguson was in her pajamas when she opened the door.

“Oh, hell,” she said.

“That’s right, Miss Ferguson,” Brown said. “Here come de fuzz.”

“He’s admitting it,” she said in surprise, and then smiled. “Come in. I admire honest men.”

The living room resembled an annex to the gallery — white walls, muted furniture, huge canvases glaring with color, twisted sculptured shapes on pedestals. Gerry swayed across the rug like a dancer, tight little behind jiggling in the blue silk pajama bottoms, black hair caught in a ponytail that bounced between her shoulder blades.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked. “Or is it too early?”

“It’s almost one o’clock,” Brown said.

“Name it.”

“I’m on duty.”

“So? When did cops get so lily-white, you should pardon the expression?”

“I like to keep a clear head when I’m working,” Brown said.

“Okay, keep a clear head,” Gerry said, and shrugged. “I’ll have a drink, though, if you don’t mind. I find Sundays very boring. Once I’ve read the comics and Martin Levin, there’s just nothing exciting left to do.”

“Who’s Martin Levin?” Brown asked.

Gerry went to a bar over which hung a white canvas slashed with jagged black streaks of paint. She poured a liberal shot of bourbon onto the ice in a short glass, lifted the glass, said, “Here’s to improved race relations,” and drank, eying him steadily over the glass.

“Miss Ferguson...”

“Gerry,” she corrected.

“Gerry, a man was killed last night...”

“Who?” she said immediately, and put the glass down on the bar top.

“The man who visited you several times. The one who said he was Al Reynolds. Or Al Randolph.”

“What was his real name?”

“Albert Weinberg.” Brown paused. “Ever hear of him?”

“No,” Gerry said, and picked up her glass again. “What’s your real name?”

“Arthur Brown.”

“You’re putting me on,” she said, and smiled.

“No, that’s it. Detective Second/Grade, 87th Squad. Want to see my shield?”

“Why?”

“You’re supposed to ask for identification.”

“I don’t like to do anything I’m supposed to do,” Gerry said.

“On Wednesday night...”

“How’d we get back to Wednesday?”

“I just took us there,” Brown said impatiently. “On Wednesday night, two men killed each other in a brawl...”

“Who?”

“That’s not important, Gerry. What is important is that one of them had a piece of a photograph in his hand...”

“Are we going to start on that again? I already told you...”

“Miss Ferguson,” Brown said, “I’ve got some questions to ask you concerning murder and armed robbery. I’d like to ask those questions here in comfortable surroundings, but I can just as easily ask them uptown, in the squadroom.”

“What’s that, a threat?”

“No, it’s a realistic appraisal of the situation.”

“After I was nice enough to offer you a drink,” Gerry said, and smiled. “Go on, I promise to be quiet.”

“Thank you. We have good reason to believe that the fragment in the dead man’s hand was part of a larger photograph showing the location of the money stolen from the National Savings and Loan Association six years ago. We also have good reason to believe that you have another piece of that picture, and we want it. It’s as simple as that.”

“What smoked you out, Arthur?” she asked. “What made you drop the phony cover? Are you afraid somebody else might get killed?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“Me?”

“Possibly. Whoever’s got a piece of that picture is in danger. For your own safety...”

“Bullshit,” Gerry said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The day the cops start worrying about anybody’s safety is the day...” She banged the glass down on the bar top. “Who do you think you’re kidding, Arthur?”

“Miss Ferguson, I’m not...”

“And make up your goddamn mind! It’s either Miss Ferguson or it’s Gerry. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Then I think I’d prefer Miss Ferguson.”

“Why? Are you afraid of me or something? Big strong Superspade afraid of a snippety little girl?”

“Let’s knock off the ‘Superspade’ crap, shall we?” Brown said.

“You ever been to bed with a white girl?” Gerry asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Want to try?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Believe it or not, Miss Ferguson, my fantasies don’t include a big black Cadillac and a small white blonde.”

“I’m not a blonde.”

“I know that. I was merely...”

“Stop getting so nervous. I’ll bet your palms are wet.”

“My palms are dry,” Brown said evenly.

“Mine aren’t,” Gerry said, and turned away from him to pour herself another drink. The living room was silent. “You married?” she asked. “I am.”

“That’s okay. I’ve been to bed with married spades, too.”

“I don’t like that expression, Miss Ferguson.”

“Which? Married?” she asked, and turned to face him, leaning on the bar. “Grow up, Arthur.”

Brown rose from the sofa. “I think maybe we’d better head uptown,” he said. “You want to get dressed, please?”

“No, I don’t,” Gerry said, and smiled, and sipped at her bourbon. “What’ll the charge be? Attempted rape?”

“I don’t have to charge you with anything, Miss Ferguson. I’m conducting a murder investigation, and I’m entitled...”

“All right, all right, don’t start spouting legalities. Sit down, Arthur. Oh, do sit down. I’d much rather talk here than in some stuffy old squadroom.”

Brown sat.

“There, isn’t that better? Now — what would you like to know?”

“Do you have a piece of the photograph?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“My brother-in-law gave it to me.”

“Louis D’Amore?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just before the holdup.”

“What’d he say about it?”

“Only that I should hold onto it.”

“How come he gave it to you, and not your sister?”

“My sister’s a scatterbrain, always was. Lou knew who the smart one was.”

“Did he give you the list, too?”

“What list?”

“The list of names.”

“I don’t know anything about a list of names.”

“That’s a lie, Gerry.”

“No, I swear. What list?”

“A list that has your name on it, among others.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You’re lying, Gerry. Your partner has half of that list. Where’d he get it?”

“I don’t know anything about a list. What’s it supposed to be?”

“Forget it,” Brown said. “Where’s your part of the snapshot?”

“In the gallery safe.”

“Will you turn it over to us?”

“No.”

“I thought you said...”

“I said I’d answer your questions. Okay. I’ve done that. There’s no law that says I have to give personal property to the police.”

“I can think of one,” Brown said.

“Yeah, which one?”

“How about Section 1308 of the Penal Law? A person who conceals, withholds, or aids in concealing or withholding any property, knowing the same to have been stolen...”

“Is the photograph stolen property?”

“It indicates the location of stolen property.”

“How do I know that? Lou gave me a tiny little corner of a photograph and asked me to hold onto it. That’s all I know.”

“Okay, I’m telling you the photograph shows the location of the NSLA loot. Now you know.”

“Can you prove it?” Gerry said, and smiled. “I don’t think so, Arthur. Until you find the money, you can’t say for sure it even exists. And you won’t find the money until you put the whole picture together. Tch, tch, such a dilemma. Why don’t we go into the other room and ball a little?”

“I’d rather not, thanks.”

“I’d drive you out of your mind, Arthur.”

“You already have,” Brown said, and left.