Murders' Row

SIX

IT WASN’T EXACTLY a shattering surprise. The police had been too sure of themselves not to have what they considered positive identification.

The surprise was that it wasn’t the diminutive Bikini blonde whose cigarette I’d lit. This was the taller female member of the Polar Bear Club; the one who’d seemed to pay me no attention at the pool. She’d exchanged her bathing suit for a casually expensive-looking sweater-and-skirt outfit, and she looked older and more dignified with clothes on, but she still looked quite tall: a brown, handsome woman with dark hair brought back smoothly to a big knot at the nape of her neck.

I already had reason not to be fond of the lady-even with justification, nobody likes to be called a murderer- but seeing her at close range for the first time, I couldn’t help that special feeling of respect and admiration reserved for something unique. I mean, one gets tired of the sexy young carbon copies of Marilyn Monroe and Brigitte Bardot; one even gets bored with all the nice girls who used to be more or less Grace Kelly and are now more or less Jacqueline Kennedy, attractive though the prototypes may be.

This woman wasn’t outstandingly beautiful or strikingly seductive, but there was only one of her. She’d never look like anybody else. She had a real nose in her face, instead of something cute and indeterminate. She had a real mouth with real teeth-strong, white ones-and real eyes with real eyebrows. She was herself. It takes a certain amount of guts, these days. But it was no time to stand gawking at handsome ladies.

“Murderer?” I said sharply. “Who’s a murderer? You can’t pin anything like that on me!” I whirled on Crowell. “Listen, what kind of an identification do you call this? I’ve got a right to a proper line-up-”

“I’m trying very hard to protect your rights, Mr. Peters,” the white-haired man told me. “I asked you to go into the other office, remember? You refused.” He turned to the newcomers. “You’re sure, Mrs. Rosten?”

“Quite sure.”

“And you, Mr. Rosten?”

The man hesitated. He’d been at the pool, too; a dark, well-built chap with gray at the temples, very distinguished in appearance. Like the woman, he had the smooth rich tan you get by working at that and not much else. He also had the air of a man who’d achieved nothing in life except marrying money.

“I-I don’t really know,” he said.

“Of course you do, Louis,” he was told by his wife. “Why, there’s no possible doubt. That’s the man!”

“I was looking the other way,” he said uncertainly. “Also, I was freezing. I was just vaguely aware that Teddy had gone over to get a light from somebody walking by-”

“Vaguely!” she snapped. “Well, that’s typical!”

He flushed, drew himself up, and turned stiffly to Crowell. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, officer. As I told you before, I never got a good look at him. I don’t think Billy did, either. He was still in the pool, showing off the stroke that brought victory to dear old Whatsis only a few years back.”

“Billy?” Crowell consulted a notebook. “That would be Mr. William Orcutt, the other lady’s escort?”

“Yes, I told you. He’s a local boy-the Annapolis Orcutts, you know. As a matter of fact, he’s my wife’s nephew. We drafted him to entertain our little visitor for the evening. We had dinner at home, and then some vigorous person suggested a swim-”

“You did, Louis,” Mrs. Rosten said.

“I did not, my dear. I thought it was a ridiculous idea, considering the weather, but I was out-voted- Anyway, Sergeant, our pool has been drained, so we came to the motel, changed in Teddy’s room, and exposed ourselves to the elements briefly. Then the kids jumped into their clothes and went on to some fascinating place Billy knew about-unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the name. We dressed more slowly and called home for a car, but if it ever arrived, it got lost in the confusion. Maybe you know something about it?”

“I’ll check. Don’t worry about it, sir. We’ll see that you get home all right.”

Mrs. Rosten said, “I suppose you’ll want a statement or something. I’ll be glad to sign it; but would you mind terribly if we got started on it?”

“Right away, ma’am. I-” He stopped, as the young policeman who’d brought in the Rostens came back into the office. “What is it, Egan?”

Egan stepped up and whispered something in Crowell’s ear. Crowell nodded.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Rosten, and he turned to me. “This way-”

I trotted out my Petroni act. He paid no attention to it, but marched me back down a hail to a smaller room that looked like a waiting room with wooden chairs set along the walls. The room was empty, which surprised me. I’d expected another confrontation. Crowell gestured towards a chair and we sat down facing a door that had opaque glass in the upper half. At least it was opaque from our side. This made more sense.

I said, “Who the hell do you think you’re fooling, Crowell? One-way glass, yet? Wait till my lawyer gets up in court and tells how you cops tried to railroad me!”

“Policemen,” he said.

“What?”

“We don’t like that other word,” he said. “We prefer to be called policemen, particularly by goons like you, Petroni.”

I’d been Mr. Peters up to now. I said sullenly, “So you’ve got word from Chi. So what?”

“You’re Jimmy Petroni, known as Jimmy the Lash. You’re pretty small time, but you sometimes run errands for the big boys”

“Who’s small time?” I asked angrily. “Let me tell you-”

“Later,” he said. “Later, you’re going to tell me lots of things, Petroni. Right now you’re going to shut up. When I tell you, you’re going to get up and walk around. AU right. Up. Walk.”

I rose sullenly. There was a sound in the hall outside, the rapping sound of high heels. A man’s voice spoke out there.

“Don’t be afraid, miss. He can’t see you.”

“Who’s afraid?” It was the voice of the girl who’d asked me for a match; it seemed like a long time ago. I drew a long breath. It had been too much to hope that they’d get drunk and hit a culvert at ninety miles an hour before the police could find them and bring them here. Anyway, one dead woman was enough for one night. The clear, high voice spoke again. “Well, he does look sort of familiar, but I can’t really see-”

The doorknob rattled. The man’s voice said quickly, “No, miss, you’re not supposed to go in!”

Then she was in. She looked just as small as I remembered her, in a light, summery, full-skirted dress, predominantly blue, and tiny, white, high-heeled shoes. Her short, blonde hair, dry now, was a silvery cap on her small head. She looked child-sized in front of the big policeman who followed her in-without looking the least bit like a child, if you know what I mean.

She came forward. The policeman reached for her clumsily, but Crowell waved him back. The little girl looked up at me. Her eyes were as blue as Jean’s had been, I noticed. It didn’t seem like a happy omen. She stared at me for quite a long time. I didn’t know why she bothered to go through the motions. There was no doubt in my mind that she’d recognized me as easily as I’d recognized her.

Crowell spoke. “Well, Miss Michaelis? Is this the man who lit your cigarette at the swimming pool?”

She gave me a final look and turned away. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

That was far from being the end of it, of course. They had Mrs. Rosten in and she said yes. The little girl said no. Mr. Rosten said maybe, maybe not. A plump collegiate type with a crew cut was dragged in and addressed variously as Billy and Mr. Orcutt, depending upon who was speaking. He was no help. He hadn’t seen anything but water, he said-damn cold, green, chlorinated water.

I didn’t get to listen to all of this at close range. They moved me into another room so they could discuss me more freely, but I guess the forces of law and order were shaken by the unexpected turn of events. A door got left open, and I heard most of it, and filed it for reference. It was too early to try to figure out why a perfectly strange young lady-with a very interesting last name-should get up and lie for me, plausibly and stubbornly. At the moment, I was more interested in learning whether or not her efforts in my behalf would be successful. They were.

When I came outside at last, having been told that I could leave but that I’d better keep myself available, there was a cold wind blowing from the direction of the Bay. At least it seemed cold to me, after the time I’d spent in Cuba. My car was parked in front of the building, along with an empty police car and a white Thunderbird convertible with the top up. There were people in the Thunderbird. The engine was turning over quietly.

Under other circumstances, seeing a car waiting like that, ready to go, I might have looked for a murderous blast from an automatic weapon and a tire-ripping getaway, but this seemed hardly the time and place for such goings-on. Anyway, the only man with a current reason to wish me dead, as far as I was aware, was waiting in Washington to cut me into small, squirming strips with his tongue. Mac doesn’t like having his operations fouled up and his people killed.

I got the keys out of the Falcon’s ignition and opened the trunk and threw my suitcase in. Coming back around the car, I almost stepped on the little blonde, who’d come over from the Thunderbird.

“So your name is Petroni,” she said, looking up at me. “Jim Petroni.”

“There’s no law against it,” I said.

She laughed softly. “Those policemen certainly wished there was, didn’t they?” She continued to speak in the same light tone of voice. “Teddy Michaelis,” she said. “The Tidewater Motel. Room seventeen. You know where it is.”

“I know the motel,” I said. “I can find the room.”

“Don’t be long.’ she said.

The college type behind the wheel tapped the horn impatiently. She stared at me for a moment longer, as if fixing my face in her memory to brighten the long, dark, lonely winter nights to come. At least that was the most flattering explanation of her scrutiny; I don’t claim it was the right one. Then she ran lightly to the convertible and slid across the seat, reaching back to slam the big door shut. The window was down. 1 heard her voice clearly.

”Sorry to keep you all waiting; I wanted to be absolutely sure. But you’re wrong, Mrs. Rosten; he isn’t the one, I’d swear it. And I saw him lots closer than you did.“

I heard Mrs. Rosten say from the rear seat, ”I still think-“

That was no surprise. She’d keep right on thinking it, too. But her word didn’t carry the weight of that of the girl who’d actually spoken to the murderer, which was just as well for me.

I watched them drive away. Then I got into the Falcon and drove in the other direction. It would have been poor technique to appear to be following; and I needed some information and advice before I accepted the little lady’s invitation, anyway. Things were looking up. At least I had something with which to draw Mac’s attention from my many and serious shortcomings.

It took me a while to get my bearings on the country roads on which I found myself, and a little longer to decide I was being followed. I didn’t think it was the police. They’d have managed it less obviously. This was a one-man tailing job, and the guy was damn well not going to lose me whether I spotted him or not.

I sighed, and led him out on a sandy back road, and stopped to see if he wanted to talk. He didn’t want to talk. He drove past without slacking speed, as if I was nothing to him but an obstruction by the roadside. I got out and opened up the hood of the Ford. The compact six-cylinder engine looked as if it would have been easy to fix, had there been anything wrong with it. I went back to the trunk and opened that, and fussed around in there for a while. I might have been looking for tools. The guy out in the dark could make up his own story.

He was out there, all right. He wasn’t just interested in learning where I was going. He’d parked up ahead and circled back on foot, stalking me. I took a chance on a gun and let him come in. He made the last ten yards in a rush. I pressed the button of the instrument with which I had provided myself, ducked as I turned, and put out my arm.

It worked very nicely. He ran right onto the long, thin blade of the switch-blade knife, held low. The club he was swinging passed over my head. I pulled out the knife and stepped back and clear of the car, ready to thrust again. A blade hasn’t got the shocking power of a bullet. I might still have a fight on my hands.

I needn’t have worried. He was through for the night. He dropped the club and put both hands to his stomach and looked down fearfully, as if expecting a horrible display of gushing blood and torn entrails. There was, of course, nothing of the sort. I’d done a clean, tidy job. After making sure of this, he looked up reproachfully. The light from the sky caught his face. I’d never met him before, although we’d come close earlier in the evening; but I’d seen his picture and read his official description in Washington. It just wasn’t my night for being right. On top of my other goofs, I’d miscalculated badly when I figured there was only one man around who’d like me to drop dead because of the way I’d loused up the night’s work. I’d forgotten Alan, our tender-hearted, lovesick young man in Maryland.