The Fugitive Pigeon

Chapter 26

There was quite a group waiting for us when we got to Mr. Gross’s house. Aside from Mr. Gross himself, there was my Uncle Al, there was Farmer Agricola’s bodyguard Clarence, there was Inspector Mahoney, and there were two tough-looking types I’d never seen before. Uncle Al and Clarence and Inspector Mahoney all looked worried, and the two tough-looking types looked like all other tough-looking types: tough-looking, uninterested, and not very bright.

We came in, Trask and Slade and me, and Mr. Gross said, “Ah. Here you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”

This was the room where three bridge games had been in progress the last time I’d been in this house. The card tables were gone now and rather frail-looking chairs and end tables were spotted here and there around the room. On the floor was a very clean oriental rug.

Mr. Gross had gotten to his feet as we came in, and now he motioned me to a chair where I’d be the inevitable center of attention. “Sit down, Mr. Poole. Make yourself comfortable.”

I sat down, but I wasn’t very comfortable. Would I be able to convince them?

I felt all the eyes on me and I was feeling a fright that was only partially stage fright.

Mr. Gross said, “I called these people here to listen to your ideas. I want you to tell it all again, just like you told it to me over the phone. They can tell us if the story holds together right.”

Mahoney said, “This is dangerous, Gross. I shouldn’t be here, this is endangering my usefulness to you and myself and the whole organization.”

Gross waved a sausagy hand at him. “Relax, Mahoney. Just sit and listen.”

Uncle Al said to me, “Charlie, what are you up to now? How much trouble you want to get yourself in?”

“That’s enough,” Gross said. He sat down, like a white toad settling himself under a mushroom, and crossed pudgy hands over his white-shirted black-suited torso. “Begin,” he said.

I said, “Two things happened, and you thought I did both of them. Somebody gave away secrets to Tough Tony Touhy, and somebody killed Farmer Agricola. You were wrong about me doing them, but you were right it was the same person did both. The reason you thought it was me was because you had Inspector Mahoney find out where the leak was coming from, and he asked Touhy, and Touhy said it was from me.” I turned to Mahoney. “But at first,” I said, “he didn’t say precisely that I was the one talking to him. You said to him something like, ‘Where’s this information coming from?’ And he said something like, ‘It’s coming from the bartender at the Rockaway Grill.’ Isn’t that right?”

Mahoney shrugged and spread his hands and looked at Gross. “How do I know?” he said, talking directly to Gross. “How do I know what exact words was used? What difference does it make?”

“The difference,” I told him, “is you asked one question and Touhy answered a different one. Most policemen keep the identities of their regular informants secret as much as they can, at least that’s what I’ve always read, so I guess Touhy didn’t ever think you wanted to know the name of the informant. You asked him where the information was coming from, and he thought you meant what was the ultimate source in the organization, and that was me. But he didn’t mean I was telling him anything directly. What he meant was, the guy who passed the information on to him first got it from me.”

Mahoney said, “So you worked through an intermediary. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not an intermediary,” I said. “There was only one person I ever talked to about organization business, and I only talked to him because it was supposed to be safe to talk to him, he was a member of the—”

Uncle Al jumped to his feet and shouted, “Wait a goddam minute!”

Mr. Gross pointed a sausage at him. “Sit down, Gatling.”

But Uncle Al stayed on his feet. “What is this, a goddam railroad? You think you can pull—”

Mr. Gross made a small gesture with the sausage. The two tough-looking types had already moved over close behind Uncle Al’s chair. Now they reached out and put their hands on his shoulders and pushed him very slowly and quietly back down into his chair. He went down, mouth open, and just sat there. He watched me, and his mouth was open, but he didn’t interrupt any more. And the two tough-looking types left their hands on his shoulders.

I said, “Touhy got something on Uncle Al, I don’t know what. But instead of pulling him in, he used Uncle Al to give him information about syndicate business. Including dope about shipments of things going through my bar. Every time I was with my Uncle Al we’d talk about how I was doing at the bar, how much work there was, what the story was with shipments and packages and all that. He knew as much about what was going on there as me, and he was the only one I ever talked to.”

Mahoney was watching me at last, instead of Mr. Gross. He said, “That’s just your word against his. He’s been a trusted member of the organization for years, so why should we believe you?”

“Because he killed Mr. Agricola,” I said.

Clarence spoke up, saying, “Not so’s you’d notice it. You’re the one killed Mr. Agricola, and nobody else.”

“No, I didn’t. When I got away from Trask and Slade the second time, at Artie Dexter’s place in Greenwich Village, they had Uncle Al with them. They phoned Mr. Agricola, and he said Trask should keep watch some place or other, and Slade should come out for further instructions, and bring my Uncle Al along to fill him in on his nephew Charlie Poole.” I turned to Slade. “Isn’t that right?”

Slade nodded. “Right.”

“I should have figured that out long ago,” I told them, “but I kept thinking of Trask and Slade always together, like Siamese twins. Anyway, while they were there Uncle Al let something slip, something that Slade wouldn’t know about but that Agricola would, something that Agricola didn’t catch right away. I don’t know what it was, but Uncle Al realized he’d made the mistake and knew Agricola would catch on sooner or later, so after he and Slade went out to the car he made some excuse to go back inside—”

Slade said, “He forgot his cigarettes.”

Uncle Al shook his head, abruptly, once, but he didn’t say anything.

I said, “He went upstairs and killed Mr. Agricola with that knife. I don’t know where he got it.”

“It was in the room,” Clarence said. “A letter opener is what it was. But I still say you were the one used it.”

I asked him, “Did you know Al Gatling had come back into the house?”

He frowned a little and shook his head. “No. So what?”

“Wouldn’t you have heard him if he’d made a normal amount of noise? I mean, after all, you were supposed to be guarding the place.”

“I’ll hear anybody that comes in the front door,” he said, getting truculent now. He didn’t like being reminded he’d failed in his duty. He was like a watchdog after a successful burglary; so irritated and embarrassed he’s liable to bite any leg that comes close.

I told him, “You didn’t hear Albert Gatling come in, though.”

He shrugged, sullen. “So what?”

“That means he must have been moving extra special quiet, doesn’t it?”

“If he came back in.”

Slade said, “He went back in, I saw him go. I waited for him.”

Mahoney said, “But why kill Agricola? What’s the point?”

“Maybe Uncle Al will tell us,” I said, and looked at him, but he just glared and wouldn’t say a word.

Slade said, “Listen, there’s a name you said before.”

I turned to him. “Me?”

“Yeah. A cop or something.”

“Touhy?”

Slade nodded. “Right. Gatling mentioned that name.”

“To Agricola?”

“Yeah. I remember. Something about he had no idea why his nephew would pass news like that on to this guy Touhy.”

I turned back to Gross. “Would that do it? Should there have been any way for my Uncle Al to know which policeman was getting the information?”

Mr. Gross shook his head. “Not unless Mahoney told him.”

Mahoney said, “Why should I tell him? No point in it. I never dealt with him at all.”

“So that’s why,” I said. “Uncle Al realized he’d made the mistake, and he was afraid Agricola would catch on a little later, and he panicked. He’s been running scared the last few days, terrified out of his head. Trask and Slade can tell you. From the time he found out the organization was after me for the squealing he’d been doing he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t take the rap for me, and he was even too scared and panicky to try to help me. He made a mistake with Agricola, and killed him because he was so panicky. And since then he’s just been sitting around waiting for the whole thing to be over.”

Mahoney said, “From the look on Gatling’s face, and from everything everybody’s said, it looks like you’re telling the truth, kid. Except for one thing.”

“What thing?”

“Tough Tony.” Mahoney pointed a finger at me. “He identified you in my office this afternoon. Not your Uncle Al, you.”

“The only thing I can figure,” I told him, “is that he suspects you. He’s on to you now.”

“That’s right,” said a voice from the doorway. We all turned our heads, and there was Tough Tony Touhy smiling in the doorway, a revolver in each hand and a hall full of cops behind him.

“Stick ’em up, gents,” said Tough Tony. “It’s the end of the road.”