Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Bribe Money by Frank B. Long

He was a little boy, facing a man’s deadly problem. For he’d seen a gangdom chief — giving hush money to his dad!

Inspector Peter McGowan looked up quickly from his desk when Lieutenant Detective Dillard walked into his office and shut the door firmly behind him.

“He made a complete statement, sir — with two gold shields present,” Dillard said. “You said you preferred not to be there when we went through the usual routine. About the only thing we didn’t do was take his fingerprints. That can wait. It all seemed so unnecessary—”

“It had to be that way,” Inspector McGowan said. “I’m sure you can understand why.”

“I think I can, sir. But at the same time—”

“It was homicide, justifiable or not,” McGowan said. “Under the circumstances — very personal ones in this case, Lieutenant — I had to insist on the strictest adherence to routine.”

“I can’t see how he had the strength to kill a man weighing a hundred and ninety pounds with an andiron,” Dillard said. “Gierson’s skull was practically crushed. But his story stands up. If he’d changed it in any way—”

Inspector McGowan cut him short with an impatient wave of his hand. He was a handsome man in the prime of life, with keen gray eyes and only slightly graying hair. But now there was a weariness in his every look and gesture, as if most of his customary energy had drained away overnight.

“Where is he now?” he asked.

“He’s just outside, sir. He wanted me to talk to you first.”

“Why?” Inspector McGowan asked.

Dillard shook his head. He was half McGowan’s age, but he seemed suddenly almost paternal in his solicitude. “I’m afraid he’s taking it pretty hard, sir. He feels guilty, somehow, as if he’d committed a crime he’s convinced he’ll have to atone for.”

He paused an instant, then blurted out: “If you want my honest opinion, sir, he should have a medal pinned on him. He hates to face you, but I can’t understand why—”

Before Dillard could go on the door opened again, and a small boy walked into the room. Although Jimmy McGowan had just passed his thirteenth birthday, he did not look a day over eleven. It was hard to imagine, as Dillard had pointed out, how so frail a youngster could have killed a robustly built man by bringing an andiron into bone-fracturing contact with his skull.

But Tony Gierson was in the morgue now, and there was still a confirmatory stain on the rug in Inspector McGowan’s living room where the homicide had taken place.

“Sit down, son,” Inspector McGowan said. “I’m mighty proud of you. I want you to know that. We’ll be going home in half an hour or so. But first there are one or two questions I’d like to ask you and we can talk here just as well as at home.”

He nodded at Dillard. “You can go now, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m more grateful than I can say.”

Dillard gave Jimmy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, swung about and strode to the door.

As soon as it had closed behind him Jimmy McGowan seated himself in the chair directly in front of his father’s desk, and drew up his legs straddle-fashion, as if aware that otherwise they would not have quite reached the floor.

“What is it you want to ask me about, Dad?” he said. “I killed him because I had to. If I hadn’t he’d have kidnaped me and to get me back you’d have been forced to drop all of the charges against him. I couldn’t see you doing that, Dad. He’s a vicious racketeer, and if your hands were tied there’d be no way the new administration could rid the city of him.”

Inspector McGowan tightened his lips and stared at his son incredulously for a moment, as if the lad’s adult way of coming straight to the point had taken him by surprise.

But before he could say a word in reply the phone at his elbow started ringing.

He uncradled the receiver and raised it to his ear.

Jimmy McGowan stirred restlessly as his father listened to what the voice at the other end of the line was saying. The inspector listened for a full minute in complete silence.

But his face registered at first startlement, then momentary uncertainty and finally, unmistakable relief.

“I might have known,” he said at last. “If we got more breaks like that the papers wouldn’t be riding us so hard. I hardly dared hope— All right, Cross. I’ll check with you again later. My son’s here now, and I’m about to have a talk with him.”

The eyes that he trained on his son when he hung up were curiously noncommittal.

“Jimmy,” he said, after a pause. “I want you to tell me again exactly what happened. Take your time. You’re not talking to Captain Henderson now, or Lieutenant Dillard. No stenographer is taking down your — well, I suppose we might as well call it a confession. That’s over and done with. Just go ahead now and tell me in your own words.”

“There isn’t much to tell, Dad,” Jimmy said, wetting his lips and slightly averting his eyes. “Nothing that you don’t already know. Gierson just rang the bell and when I opened the door he walked in and said that I would have to come with him. He said there was a car outside, with two other men in it. But he was hoping he wouldn’t have to go to the window, and signal them to come upstairs and — rough me up. He said: ‘Don’t make any trouble for me. If you do, your father may not get you back alive.’ ”

“What happened then, son?” Inspector McGowan asked.

Jimmy appeared to be having difficulty in meeting his father’s gaze. But McGowan had seemingly no intention of calling his son’s attention to the fact, for the look that had come into his eyes was not lacking in warmth.

“He turned away for a moment, toward the door, as if he wanted to make sure he hadn’t forgotten to close it. Or maybe he thought he heard a noise outside in the hallway, or something. I made a dash for the fireplace, picked up the andiron and hit him as hard as I could on the back of the head. I hit him three times. He... he just dropped to the floor and rolled over on his face. It was pretty awful, Dad. The blood—”

“I know, son,” Inspector McGowan said. “But kidnaping is a capital crime and to defend yourself as you say you did took great courage and presence of mind. The awfulness of it you couldn’t help.”

The inspector arose from his desk and walked to a shadowed corner of the office. When he returned to the desk he was holding the andiron in his hand.

Jimmy’s eyes widened when he saw it, and he forgot to sit straddle-fashion in the chair. His legs dangled a half-inch from the floor, but he seemed no longer to care.

His eyes were riveted in dismay on his father’s face.

“Jimmy,” McGowan said. “I want you to show me exactly how you did it. I’ll be Gierson, understand? I’ll just look toward the door, and while my head is turned you raise the andiron and hit me where you hit him.”

A faint smile flickered for an instant across Inspector McGowan’s lips, but there was no real humor in it.

“Not as hard, of course,” he said. “Just a slight tap on the back of my head.”

“Dad, I couldn’t—” Jimmy started to protest. “It would be—”

“As a favor to me, son? There’s just one small thing I’m not absolutely clear about. You want to be a policeman, don’t you, ten years from now? The best way to start is to be the kind of policeman’s son an inspector who earned his badge the hard way can be proud of.”

“Well, all right, Dad,” Jimmy said, descending from the chair, and taking the andiron from his father’s hand.

Inspector McGowan turned without a word, walked a few paces toward the door and came to an abrupt halt, keeping his head turned.

“All right, son,” he said. “I’m waiting.”

After a moment Inspector McGowan felt something cold touch the back of his head.

Instantly he swung about.

Jimmy cried out in alarm and the andiron went clattering to the floor.

McGowan stood staring at his son for an instant in complete silence, sadly shaking his head.

“I gave you plenty of time,” he said. “And you were certainly in no danger. But you dropped the andiron the instant I turned. Why?”

“I... I don’t know, Dad.”

“I think I do,” inspector McGowan said. “You felt guilty about lying to me. Your story held up when you told it to a half-dozen police officers who are trained to spot lies. But you couldn’t keep up the pretense with me, your own father, and that was the only really critical test.

“Look at it this way, son. The chances are strong he’d have turned after the first blow, since he was built like an ox. And if he had turned, you never could have hit him twice more. I don’t think you hit him at all. In fact, I’m sure of it. It would have taken a special kind of hardness, no matter how desperate the situation. You either can or you can’t, son, and either way it’s no disgrace.”

Jimmy went back to the chair and sat down, letting his legs dangle again. This time he made no attempt to evade his father’s gaze, but there was a look of anguish in his eyes.

“You’re right, Dad,” he said. “He didn’t come to the apartment to kidnap me. Even if he had I never could have struck him with that andiron. I might have grabbed it up, but I couldn’t have used it to bash in his head.”

“All right, son,” Inspector McGowan said. “Now let’s have the truth.”

Jimmy hesitated for the barest instant, his lips tightening at the corners in a way that seemed incongruously adult. “I... I saw you counting the money, Dad.” He spoke the words quickly and looked away, one hand going up to brush back his hair.

“You saw me—”

“Last night, when you thought I was in bed. I went to the kitchen to get a glass of milk, and when I saw the light was still on in the living room I... well, you don’t like me to get anything out of the icebox when it’s so late, and I was afraid you’d hear me, and I thought that if I said good night again you wouldn’t mind so much. But when I saw how worried you looked I didn’t think it was such a good idea. I stayed out in the hall for about a minute, though, and I saw you get up and put the money in the wall safe.”

Inspector McGowan’s lips had set in tight lines, and for an instant there was a silence between father and son. McGowan stared out through the wide office window. “So you think it was bribe money. Is that it, son?”

The anguished look had returned to Jimmy’s eyes, as if he was wondering if his father knew just how much it was costing him to go on.

“I guess you didn’t expect Gierson to call this morning, did you, Dad? If you had, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have gone downtown so early.”

“Go on, Jimmy,” Inspector McGowan said.

“When the bell rang and I opened the door he came into the living room and said he had to sea you right away. I told him that you were downtown, that you’d left an hour earlier than you usually do. I told him I didn’t know why. I should have known better than to let him in. But when I asked who it was and he identified himself through the speaking tube I guess I must have been remembering the money, or something.”

“That’s when you should have told him I wasn’t there,” Inspector McGowan said. “I’ve cautioned you often enough about letting anyone into the apartment when you’re alone. You knew who Gierson was, and what he might be capable of.” McGowan’s voice was strained. “That money must really have bugged you.”

“I don’t think it did, Dad. I didn’t really think you’d actually take a bribe. It was just something I... I couldn’t quite put out of my mind. So when Gierson—”

“Don’t try to spare my feeling by soft-pedaling it, son,” McGowan said. “It bugged you, all right. So you finally let him in. What did he say when you told him I wasn’t there?”

“He was angry, Dad. Sort of threatening. I think he was frightened as well, or he never would have said what he did. It was as if I’d just sort of... well, faded out for a minute and he forgot that you weren’t there, and that I was listening with both ears. He said that everything had gone wrong, that he was in trouble, and you would be, too. He said it might be too late to stop what he was afraid would happen.”

“Talking to himself, you mean, ranting and raving and putting most of the blame on me. Is that what you’re trying to say, son?”

Jimmy nodded. “That’s the way it was, I guess. But only for about a minute. He calmed down a little when he saw me looking at him as if I didn’t know what it was ill about. I knew how important it was to give him that idea. He grabbed me by the shoulder and said: ‘All right, I’ll phone your father from here. Get lost. Go for a walk and come back in twenty minutes.’

“I didn’t want to leave him alone in the apartment. But what could I do? He’d have made me go, no matter what I said. So I went.”

“He must have spent a few minutes thinking over what he was going to say to me on the phone,” Inspector McGowan said. “No call came through. What did you do when you left the apartment?”

“I just drifted around the neighborhood for fifteen or twenty minutes,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t have a dime to phone you with. Anyway, talking about him didn’t seem such a good idea, with Sergeant Bergor or someone else listening in.”

“You’d just about decided to stop giving me the benefit of the doubt. Was that it? The money, on top of what you’d heard Gierson say—”

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“What did you do when the twenty minutes were up?” McGowan asked, staring past his son at the harbor view far below.

“I went back to the apartment.”

“And when you got there?”

“He was lying by the fireplace with— It was awful, Dad, like I said. There was blood on the andiron and blood on the rug. I could have picked the andiron up and left my fingerprints on it, but I didn’t touch it. I was going to say I’d killed him, and you’ve told me that if you want to be believed tampering with the evidence is the worst thing you can do. You pile up complications for yourself.

“So I just kept going over in my mind what I was going to say when I had to make a statement, as I knew I’d be asked to do. I knew I’d have to be careful and not talk too much. They didn’t scare me, Dad. I don’t know why exactly. With you it was different—”

“Was the door ajar when you left the apartment?” Jimmy’s father asked. “I mean, did you forget to slam it after you?”

“I may have, Dad. After Gierson told me to get out I was too worried to think about it. I just remember getting into the elevator and going down to the street.”

“So anyone trailing him could have walked in without ringing, and picked up the andiron. A minute or two after you went down in the elevator.”

“I guess it could have happened that way,” Jimmy said.

Inspector McGowan looked at his son steadily for a moment. “When you finally did phone me I got there in about twenty minutes, with the siren wide open, and you told me you’d struck him three times with the andiron and killed him dead. Why did you make up that kidnaping story? The truth now. Whom were you trying to protect?”

“You, Dad,” Jimmy said. “I thought you knew.”

“I know now, yes. But I didn’t when you walked into this room a few minutes ago.”

Inspector McGowan did not remove his eyes from his son’s stricken face. “I was right here all morning. How could I have had anything to do with—”

“There are lots of ways, Dad,” Jimmy said. “You’re an inspector of police. You could have—”

“All right, son, say it. What I said about the truth still goes.”

“You could have arranged to have it done. If the whole police department is shot through with corruption—”

A look of sadness came into Inspector McGowan’s eyes. “Listen to me, son,” he said. “Listen carefully, and ten years from now maybe — just maybe — you’ll still want to be a policeman, despite what you’ve just said.

“Gierson wasn’t bribing me to drop the investigation, and it wasn’t payoff money you saw me counting. But sometimes a police department that isn’t corrupt — and the D.A. as well — has to make what is known as a deal. There’s no other way of securing convictions. We’d gathered enough evidence to send Tony Gierson to the chair. But he’d agreed to testify in court against the entire organization, including two Mr. Bigs, one who dwarfed him and one who was just about on his level.

“As for the money, it was their last big take. He turned it over to me last night. I immediately notified the D.A. It’s downstairs now in the vault, to be returned to the rightful owners, when certain legal technicalities have been cleared away. The D.A. felt that if I got downtown with it early this morning it would be all right to keep if in the wall safe overnight. Not really overnight, just from two to seven. That’s why I left the apartment so early this morning.”

Inspector McGowan paused an instant, then went on slowly: “The phone call l got a moment ago clears everything up. They’ve got the man who killed Gierson through some fast, extremely clever lab work. His prints on the andiron, for one thing, which you wisely didn’t touch. Just one, actually — a bad one — but they brought it out.

“He’s Marty Cauvin, a hired killer. He probably would have silenced Gierson in the usual way, with a bullet, if seeing that andiron hadn’t given him a better idea. Killing him that way, in my apartment, would have made it look bad for me, if all the details of the deal hadn’t been on the record. They are, of course, but he had no way of being sure of that and it probably seemed a gamble worth taking.

“As for Gierson, he thought that he’d completely covered himself, that the organization had no idea that he was going to sing in the courtroom. But he must have suddenly discovered otherwise, and that’s what he meant when he said that everything had gone wrong. Apparently he came to the apartment to warn me and to accuse me of not giving him protection.”

For the third time since he had walked into the office Jimmy found himself unable to meet his father’s gaze.

Inspector McGowan stood up, walked around the desk and put his arm around the shoulders of the small, seated figure.

“It’s all right, Jimmy,” he said. “You thought your old man was in serious trouble and you went to bat for him, all the way. I can’t be angry with you for that.”

Jimmy looked up and gulped. “You really mean it, Dad? You’re not just saying that, to keep me from feeling bad?”

“Of course I mean it son,” Inspector McGowan said. “Suppose we go home now and see what’s on TV. We both need a little relaxation, after what we’ve been through.”