Shield for Murder

16

Nolan was riding a high wave of contentment. He sat in Linda’s apartment with his legs stretched out before him, holding a beaded glass of whisky and ice in his hand.

“Kid, this is the life,” he said, grinning at her, and debating how much he could safely tell her of tonight’s activities. He knew that he was smart and strong; and it was important that she know it, too.

Linda smiled back at him and glanced casually at her watch. Eight-forty. She was wearing slippers and a robe. She had decided not to do her show tonight because her throat had got worse after Mark had left. Jim Evans had wanted to send a doctor over right away, but she knew it wasn’t that serious. Shortly after that Barny had arrived; and now she was wishing she’d made the effort to get to work.

“Aren’t you on duty tonight?” she asked.

“Sure, I’m working,” Nolan said, and sipped his drink. “But things are quiet. Don’t worry about me. You want to know a little secret, Linda?”

“What is it?”

“I may quit the department. Yeah, that’s right.” He laughed and rubbed the cold glass between his palms. “It’s a lousy racket you know. Lousy hours. Lousy pay. But it’s got its compensations.” He laughed again, new-found confidence coursing through his body. “I’ll say that again. It’s got its compensations. You know, kid, a cop can do lots of things an ordinary citizen can’t. That ever occur to you?”

The bottle was at his side on a table. Clean, bonded Bourbon. He poured another generous shot over his ice and glanced at Linda. “You know, kid, we never talked like this before. We just never sat down and talked. That’s been the trouble.”

Linda was smiling. “We’ve talked quite a bit, Barny.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But not like this. Not in a quiet room with a couple of drinks. With the world going by outside the windows and not giving a damn about us. That’s what I mean.”

He was silent a moment, pondering the truth of this, and then he glanced at his watch. The habits of seventeen years were too strong to shake off in one drunken, exultant moment. “I’d better give Odell a call,” he said. “I’ll tell him I’m tied up and won’t be along for a while. Hell, they can get along without me for a few hours.”

“Barny, aren’t you liable to get in trouble?”

“You want me to go?” He smiled at her, confident and amused. “You want me to go, Linda?”

“Well, no.”

“Then let me worry about the trouble. Listen to how I handle this.”

He walked to the phone, swaying slightly, and called the Division. When Odell answered he said, “Sarge, this is Nolan. Look, I’m going to be a little longer than I thought on this job.” He winked broadly at Linda. “I’m at Empiro’s Place. But I should be along in an hour or so.”

“Okay,” Odell said.

“Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Okay.”

Nolan put the phone down and returned to his chair. “Now there’s a real Grade A slob for you,” he said. “Sergeant Odell.” He sat down and replenished his drink. Stretching out comfortably, he smiled at Linda.

“Most cops are rock-headed characters, you know,” he said. “You didn’t know that I’ll bet. But it’s a fact. They’re stupes. The only thing they know about is murder. They’re pros at that, it’s their racket. They could give any amateur a head start in that department and win hands down. They work with it all the time, they see it, they know what it is, and they’re not scared of it.” He sipped his drink, enjoying the thrill of skirting the subject of murder. “Let’s suppose a cop commits a murder,” he said. “Supposing he shoots a guy, just like that!” Nolan pointed his forefinger at Linda and depressed his thumb sharply. “He knows what’s going to happen, he knows the call that goes out for the wagon, he knows what Homicide will do, what they’ll look for, and he knows what the fingerprint men and the ballistics boys will do. You see? There’s no mystery about it, so there’s nothing to be scared of. The amateur doesn’t know anything about murder until he becomes a murderer. Then he’s scared and behaves like a nitwit. That’s a fact; nine out of ten times, the murderer catches himself, while the cops just stand by and make the pinch. It’s so damn simple.”

He finished his drink and then walked across the room and sat down beside Linda.

“I could commit a murder like that,” he said, grinning at her. “Got anybody you want out of the way? Glad to oblige. Hell, any cop could. That’s what they should be having us do instead of chasing down two-bit complaints.” The idea was new to him but he found it appealing. “Yeah, how about that?” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Ever think of all the crumbs that need to be swept up in this world? Just think of it for a minute. Look at the politicians. That’d keep cops busy for weeks just killing off all the politicians.” He stared straight ahead, looking through the windows into the darkness, and suddenly a slow strong anger ran through his body. “There’s guys like Petey Felickson, who you don’t know, and teachers, chemistry teachers, who make kids feel they’re something rotten, and bootleggers, and moochers and tramps and bums, none of them worth a damn, and guys like Dave Fiest, always trying to outsmart somebody, and creeps like Sternmueller with their noses in everybody else’s business.” He was breathing harder, and his big hands clenched and unclenched slowly. “That’s how I should spend my time. Getting rid of people like that.”

“Dave Fiest,” Linda said. The name came to her lips involuntarily. Nolan turned and stared at her, and she felt her hands tremble.

“Yeah, Dave Fiest,” he said. “That’s what I said. Dave Fiest. The guy I shot the other night.”

“He — tried to get away, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Nolan said slowly. “He tried to escape, tried to be a smart guy.” He was silent a moment, frowning; and then he laughed shortly and nodded at his empty glass. “Mind if I make myself another, kid?”

“No, help yourself, Barny.”

At the Thirteenth Division, Ramussen sat with his back to the desk, staring out over the dark street. Mark leaned against a filing cabinet, a cigarette in his mouth.

“We should hear from the police surgeon pretty soon.”

“That’s right.” Ramussen lit a cigarette, and in its flaring fight his face was lined and pale.

“Will you arrest him, then?”

“Yes,” Ramussen said. “We don’t know that he killed Sternmueller, although I’m sure he did. Your guesses are probably all correct. Sternmueller came in to report something about Dave Fiest’s shooting, and had the bad luck to run into Nolan. Nolan lied to Lindfors about what the man really wanted, and then, when Odell gave him that job on Crab Street, he ducked into Sternmueller’s.”

They were silent for a few moments. Then the phone buzzed. The Lieutenant picked it up, and said, “Ramussen, Thirteenth Detectives.” He waited a moment, then said: “Go ahead.”

Mark moved closer to the desk and lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of his old one. Ramussen listened in silence for a few seconds. “That’s definite, then?” He paused again, then said: “Thanks, Doctor.”

He put the phone down and glanced up at Mark. “Sternmueller had no gas in his lungs. He died of a heart attack apparently induced by a blow that struck his jaw just below the right ear. It’s murder, all right.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk.

Sergeant Odell stuck his head in the door. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Where’s Nolan?”

“He’s not back yet. I sent him over to a taproom at Eleventh and Maple. He called just a while ago and said he’d be back in an hour or so.”

Odell glanced from Ramussen to Mark, and back to the Lieutenant. “Want me to call him and have him come in?”

“No, never mind. That’s all, Sergeant.”

Odell hesitated momentarily, obviously consumed with curiosity; but finally he turned and lumbered from the room.

“Well, what now?” Mark said.

Ramussen put his finger tips together. “I’m not sure, Mark. Frankly, I’m worried. He’s been gone two hours now. I don’t believe in sixth-sense or intuition, of course, but Nolan is a cop, and he might just smell trouble. He may know his luck is running out. I don’t want to send out an alarm for him, because that might make him bolt. And catching him would be dangerous.” He stood up, frowning. “What’s the number of that singer?”

“Why do you want her?”

“She’s got Nolan’s money, or Espizito’s, depending on how you look at things. Anyway, if Nolan starts on the run, that will be the first thing he’ll head for. I don’t want her to be in his way.”

“She’s at the Simba now, of course.”

“And where’s the money? At her apartment?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s different. But supposing you give her a ring anyway and tell her not to see him tonight.”

Mark called the Simba and, after a considerable delay, got Jim Evans on the phone. He learned then that Linda wasn’t feeling well, that she’d called earlier to say she wouldn’t be in that night.

“Call her apartment, then,” Ramussen said, his voice worried. “Let me talk to her. We’ll send a police car for her if necessary or an ambulance. Damn it, Mark, I’ve got the feeling that all hell is about to break loose.”

Mark realized as he lifted the phone that Nolan was caught now in the steadily intensifying pressure of the situation he had created. He couldn’t deviate from the course he had taken by killing Dave Fiest. It was too late for that. Nolan would know that, of course, if only subconsciously. His time had run out, and there was nothing left for him but to get his money and make his final break. He had to go to Linda’s, and Mark was suddenly certain that he was with her now or on his way to her apartment. He dialed her number quickly, desperately.

Nolan realized that he was getting drunk. He was swaying slightly as he poured the last of Linda’s bottle into his glass.

“Kid, this is living,” he said.

“Barny, you shouldn’t be drinking so much.”

“Why?” Her concern pleased him.

“Well, you’ve got to get back to work, don’t you?”

“Work?” He laughed and put the bottle down on the table. “I may never go back. Work is for slobs.”

His face was uncomfortably warm and his fingers felt thick and clumsy. He decided that some cold water might make him feel better.

“Excuse me a second, will you?” he said, and went into the bathroom. He filled the basin with cold water and unloosed his tie and collar. Bending over he splashed the water onto his face and the back of his neck, and then he ran his damp hands through his hair.

That made him feel better. He dried himself with a woolly blue towel and looked around with a grin on his face.

There were bottles of colognes and perfumes and jars of cold cream and bath salts on a shelf beneath the medicine cabinet. Nolan studied them with interest. The bottles were pretty, and their contents looked gay and colorful. Everything about the immaculate bathroom was like her, he thought; clean, dainty, gracious.

There was a pair of nylons on a hanger behind the door, and he touched them gently with his fingers, excited and pleased by their fineness and quality. It gave him an oddly intimate pleasure to touch her stockings like that, and to look around at her bottles of colognes and perfumes. He turned back to the medicine cabinet and studied his face closely in the mirror. His face was flushed with liquor, but he liked the sight of his big square features and damp healthy-looking hair. He squared his shoulders and sucked in his sagging stomach. Still a first-class man, he thought. A little extra weight around the middle, but the muscles of his shoulders and arms were thick and powerful, and he knew damn well he could handle most punks half his age.

Nolan put up his hands slowly in a fighting stance, and snapped a left hook at his reflection. He followed it with a hard straight right, perfectly thrown. His right shoulder dropped, his right foot twisted sharply inward, snapping his hip and his torso behind the punch. He stopped his fist half an inch from the mirror and then dropped his hands to his side, smiling self-consciously.

The phone was ringing as he walked out of the bathroom. Some instinct made him pause. He heard Linda’s light footsteps, and then her voice, high and rather nervous.

“Oh, hello Mark.”

Nolan stepped quickly into the archway of the living room. Linda stood with her back to him, holding the receiver to her ear with both hands. She listened for a moment, and then she said, in low voice: “Yes, Lieutenant. I’ll do what you say.”

Nolan closed the distance between them with one long stride. He caught her throat in one hand, and ripped the phone away with his other. He put the receiver against his ear and heard Ramussen’s hard precise voice.

“We’re going to pick up Nolan tonight, Miss Wade. Mark has told me you have Nolan’s money, so I want you to leave your apartment immediately. He’s a dangerous man and I don’t intend to give him the opportunity to kill anyone else. Is that clear? Hello! Hello! Can you hear—”

Nolan put the phone slowly down in its cradle, cutting off Ramussen’s sharply pitched voice. He swung Linda about and stared into her face with murderous eyes.

“Double crossing bitch,” he shouted at her, his breath coming in uneven heaving gasps. He could feel the rage in his body, as if it were some tangible, physical thing that might blow him apart with its intensity. “Bitch, bitch,” he yelled, and struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

“No, Barny, no,” she cried, clinging to his arm.

He threw her to the floor and stared about wildly. A lamp caught his eye and he knocked it halfway across the room with a blow of his fist. Then he dropped to one knee beside Linda and caught her shoulders in his big hands.

“Where’s my money?” he said, his voice hoarse and wild. “Where’s my money?” He shook her until her hair loosened and fell in disorder about her face and shoulders.

“In the closet, in the closet,” she cried, and the words sounded as if they were torn and shaken from her body. “On the shelf, behind the shoes.”

Nolan shoved her away from him and she rolled on her side sobbing uncontrollably. He ran into the bedroom and jerked open the closet doors.

Shoes were arranged in neat rows along the top shelf. Ankle-strap sandals, spectators, blue-suede pumps, moccasins, evening slippers.

Nolan pushed them aside and saw the paper-wrapped package of money at the rear of the shelf against the wall. He grabbed it in both hands and walked to the middle of the bedroom, holding it tightly against his body. This was his, all his, and it was the only thing that meant a damn. Tearing off an end of the wrapping, he saw the green bills, and nodded with satisfaction. Then he shoved the package into the pocket of his suit and strode into the living room.

Linda was sitting up, supporting her weight on one arm. She raised her head and he saw the tears in her eyes, and the angry red imprint of his hand on her cheek. “Barny, you can’t keep on like this,” she said, and the words were indistinct and blurred.

He stared at her in silence, watching the rise and fall of her bosom. There was no sound in the room but her ragged breathing.

“You told them, didn’t you?” he said.

“No, no, Barny.”

“You sold me out. I trusted you and you sold me out.”

“No, no! Barny, everyone knew about it. You... you never had a chance. But stop now, Barny, for God’s sake.”

Nolan laughed and drew his gun from its holster. He saw her now as part of the dirt and deceit that had always filled his life. She was in the same class with Petey Felickson and his wife and Dave Fiest and that chemistry teacher. They’d never believed in him, trusted him, given him a break. They were all pieces of filth waiting to lie to him, to cheat him, to betray him; as everybody he’d known had always done.

“Please, Barny, for my sake, sit down and put your gun away,” she said. “Don’t go on this way.”

He saw her clearly, pleading with him, crawling toward him, seeking to get his defenses down.

He laughed suddenly but the sound broke in his throat and he felt stinging tears in his eyes. She had been what he’d always wanted, the cleanness and brightness that would make everything else all right. And she was the worst of all.

Linda screamed as he raised his gun. He fired one shot at her and saw her spin as if struck by a giant fist, and then he waited, staring down at her, his breath coming slowly, until he saw the blood spreading through her robe.

When he saw that, he put his gun away, and walked out of the apartment. He went down the steps to the sidewalk and turned right, not knowing where he was going, but reasoning calmly to himself that he’d better be somewhere else when the police arrived. Ramussen would be coming, of course, and neighbors would be phoning the police board to tell them they’d heard a gunshot. The area would be crawling with red police cars within three minutes.

Nolan walked to the first intersection and glanced back toward Linda’s apartment. A man was standing in the street staring at him, but when Nolan looked back, the man ran up the steps of a building and out of sight.

Nolan hesitated for a few seconds at the intersection, unable to decide what to do, or even to marshal enough energy to keep moving. His inclination was to stand still until the police cars arrived and then draw his gun and shoot anyone who got in his way; but he had been a cop for seventeen years, and his instincts prodded him into defensive action almost automatically. He walked quickly down the block that intersected Linda’s street, and at the next corner turned left and broke into a run. When he reached the next block, a well-traveled street, he stepped off the curb and waited for a cab.

Within a minute or so he stopped an empty one. The driver, a small young man with a blond mustache, glanced at him as he climbed into the rear seat. “Where to, sir?” he said.

“Just drive for a while,” Nolan said. “I got a little time to kill before an appointment.” The phrase, time to kill, brought a faint grin to his face. He suddenly felt unbearably hot, and he knew he needed a drink. “Stop at a State store,” he told the driver.

“Okay.”

The driver swung into the traffic on Chestnut Street and followed it for several blocks before turning off and coming back up Walnut Street to a State liquor store.

“I can’t park here long,” he told Nolan. “The cop at the next corner is murder. If he spots me here he’ll make me move.”

“Well, circle around and pick me up if you have to,” Nolan said. “Cops. They’re all rock-heads, you know.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” the driver said.

Nolan walked into the liquor store and joined the slowly moving line of customers. He felt quite calm and relaxed. Nothing seemed important but getting something to drink and finding a place where he could He down and rest.

Finally it was his turn. He ordered two fifths of blended whisky and watched with mild interest as the clerk rang up the sale, slipped the bottles in a brown paper bag, and made change from his ten-dollar bill. He counted the change carefully, nodded to the clerk, and walked outside to find his cab driver still waiting.

“Well, I guess he didn’t see me,” the driver said.

“They’re all rock-heads,” Nolan said.

He opened one of the bottles and took a long drink of the burning liquor. Somewhere off to his left he heard the whine of a police siren. Or an ambulance maybe. Then he heard another.

“Hey, something’s up!” the driver said.

“You should have been a cop,” Nolan said. “You’re bright. You hear a half dozen sirens so right away you know something’s up.”

The driver said nothing.

Nolan had another drink before thinking about his own problem. He didn’t know what to do, or where to go; but he couldn’t stay in Philly. The cab was safe for a while, but he couldn’t ride around indefinitely.

“Drive me over to Camden,” he told the driver.

Camden, N.J. That was it. The cops over there wouldn’t get the alarm from Philadelphia until a three-state flyer went out. Camden was only ten minutes away, just over the Delaware River Bridge.

They crossed the beautiful span of the bridge and stopped at the toll gate on the Jersey side. The driver paid twenty cents to a Bridge Authority patrolman, and they rolled on into Camden’s Main Street.

“Where to now, sir?” the driver said.

“Can you take me to Atlantic City?”

“No, we’re not allowed to go that far.”

Nolan realized that this cabby would put the finger on him when he returned to Philadelphia. The police would check all the cabs that had been in Linda’s neighborhood when the shot was fired, and they’d find this driver, of course.

“Well, can I get a cab to Atlantic City here in Camden?”

“Sure, they make all the shore points.”

“Well, Atlantic City is good enough for me.”

Nolan wanted the driver to report that his fare had gone on to Atlantic City. That might give him an extra few hours. An extra few hours for drinking, he thought.

The driver stopped at the County Building and pointed to a row of cabs. “Any of those fellows will be glad to take you,” he said.

Nolan paid him and got out. “Thanks, pal,” he said, and watched the cab until it disappeared on the route back to the bridge.

Nolan walked along Main Street for two blocks and then turned down a block that led to a quiet residential area. Couples strolled along hand-in-hand, glancing idly at Nolan, but he passed them without a thought. His mind was calm, undisturbed. The only reality was the money in his pocket and the liquor under his arm.

When he came to a frame house that had a ‘Rooms’ sign in the front window he went up the rickety stairs and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door was a friendly, garrulous person, who showed him a small hot bedroom on the third floor, and collected nine dollars in advance for a week’s rent.

“That’s customary for folks without luggage,” she said. “Just like hotels, you know.”

“Sure. I’m meeting my brother here tomorrow, and he’s got the suitcases in his car. We had some engine trouble so he stopped at Harrisburg, and I came on to do what work I can until he arrives.”

“Oh? What line are you in?”

“Lighting fixtures,” Nolan said, for no reason at all.

“Well, Camden’s a nice lively town.”

She left him alone finally, and Nolan went down a hall to the bath and brought a glass of cold water back to his room. Opening a bottle of whisky, he stretched out on the bed without bothering to remove his coat. The whisky tasted fine with the New Jersey water, he thought.