Wall of Eyes

Chapter 12

Stevie stared down at the broken glass, poking a splinter with the toe of his shoe.

“Cheap glass,” he said in a flat voice.

“A dime,” Sands said.

“All right, I owe you a dime. Anything else?”

“Some thanks. I could have taken you down to headquarters.”

“But you brought me here instead, to soften me up with shock, you think.”

“You’re not tough,” Sands said, “and I’m not tough. I thought we’d get along. Come on in and sit down.”

“What if I don’t want to sit down.”

“Stand up then, if you want to be childish.”

“What’s to prevent me from walking out of here?” Stevie said.

Sands smiled briefly. “Not a thing, except your head.”

“You haven’t got a gun?”

“No gun,” Sands said, “and I can’t fight worth a damn.”

Stevie took a step toward him. Sands looked at him steadily.

“On the other hand, I have my weapons. I created this situation. In a very small way I played the disillusioning role of God. I put you on the stage, arranged the properties, and waited for you to do exactly what you did.”

“For Christ’s...”

“I wasn’t sure, that time. This time I am. If you watch enough grasshoppers you know which way they’ll jump. You’re sober enough to know what you’re doing, and you’ve had enough experience tonight of being a fugitive. So you won’t walk out. You’ll come in and sit down. Think it over.”

Sands turned his back and walked without haste into the next room. He looked tired and there was a thin line of white above his mouth. Suppose you hadn’t watched enough grasshoppers...

For five minutes Stevie was alone in the kitchen. He didn’t even have to face Sands again if he wanted to walk out: there was a back door right off the kitchen. All he had to do was go through it and down some steps and he’d be free.

Free. For all of ten minutes he’d be free. Then the patrol cars would start prowling, slick bored voices would reel off his description by radio. They’d get his picture, put it on handbills, even, if he lasted that long, if he didn’t talk to strangers, if his money held out, if he could get out of town and find another job or a friend.

So he didn’t jump.

He found Sands sitting in an easy chair rubbing his eyes.

“All right,” Stevie said. “So here I am, you bastard.”

“Calm down,” Sands said wearily. “Nothing to lose your shirt about.”

“Except assaulting a policeman.”

“You hit Higgins?”

“I hit him.”

“Higgins can be persuaded to forget it — if you can be persuaded to tell me why in hell you were sitting outside the Heath house in your car at approximately three-thirty this morning, while a murder was being committed.”

There was a long silence.

“Well?” Sands said.

“You wouldn’t believe me. I hardly believe myself, that’s how crazy it is.”

“Try me.”

“I wanted to see the house, Johnny Heath’s house.”

“Why?”

“For Christ’s sake, I told you wouldn’t believe me.”

“There’s a reason for everything.”

“All right,” Stevie said. “The reason is, I hate his guts.”

“That makes sense,” Sands said gravely. “People go past houses for love, why not hate? You missed one of your cues, Jordan. You forgot to say, ‘A murder! What murder?’ You knew about it?”

“Marcie told me.”

“Marcie?”

“Heath told her, she told me. Her name’s Marcella Moore.”

“So you knew there was a murder. That’s why you hit Higgins?”

Another silence.

“No,” Stevie said finally.

“You weren’t afraid you’d be arrested for the murder?”

“No.”

“But you hit him and tried to get away. Why?”

Stevie leaned forward in his chair. “Because I don’t want to be murdered, you bastard!”

“Neither do I,” Sands said dryly. “But my methods of avoiding it are less complex than yours. Who wants to murder you?”

“Nobody. Yet.”

“Yet?”

“Yet,” Stevie repeated grimly.

“But somebody will?”

“Yeah, after you get through with me. All this soft-lights-and-sweet-music atmosphere isn’t fooling me a bit. This is just the test bout. The real bout will come later at the station and it’ll be me against half a dozen ham-handed cops with rubber hoses...”

“It has happened,” Sands said. “But not in my cases.”

“... and lights and no water and no sleep until I talk. You wouldn’t do it to the Heaths but you’d do it to me. Well, I’ll save you the trouble. I’ll take a chance on being murdered. I’ve got a use for my face and I don’t want it banged up, see?”

“So?”

“So I know who killed the girl.”

He took out a handkerchief and rubbed it over the palms of his hands. His movements were careful, his voice careful.

“Sure. I’m a remarkable guy. I know two murderers now. And I don’t think you’ll get either of them. Especially the first guy you won’t get. He’s very smooth. What’s in that bottle?”

“Scotch. Have some?”

“Yeah.”

He drank it straight.

“We won’t even talk about the first guy,” he said. “He’s so good he deserves to get away with it. The second guy is no good at all. You should have seen him running down the street, right out of the driveway, right past my car. I never saw anybody run so fast!”

He let out a hoarse laugh. “Jesus! His face was green. He’s got the guts of a worm, same like me. I haven’t any guts. I want to rent a furnished cell in the Dom jail until you catch up with him. Then I’ll begin life all over again with a new rule: never make friends with murderers. Don’t even speak to them. Shun ’em like rattlesnakes.”

“Let’s have it,” Sands said quietly.

“Murillo. Tony Murillo, a gentleman handy with a knife, a wop with the sex life of a fruit fly. And don’t ask me if I’m sure. Sure I’m sure. Sure enough to sock a cop and try and get out of town. Because there’s a chance he saw me too. Maybe he’s just as sure as I am. But I didn’t begin to get scared until I found out it was murder. The second murder comes easy.”

He paused to draw in his breath. “You’re supposed to be looking surprised, Mr. Sands.”

“I am surprised,” Sands said. “But not very much.”

“All right,” Stevie said bleakly. “It’s your spotlight. Take it away.”

“By tonight I was pretty sure that the murder was an outside job with inside help. All the evidence pointed to the combination. The front door was left open. The lock on Miss Heath’s jewel box had been picked, though nothing was missing. We found the marks of a pigskin glove on the box. On the rug, hidden by the nap, were some shreds of tobacco. But it wasn’t tobacco exactly. It was marihuana.”

“Murillo’s brand.”

“Yes. The stuff was stale as if it had been loose in a pocket and had come out accidentally when something like a handkerchief was pulled out of the pocket. I wouldn’t have thought of Murillo if I hadn’t had him in mind about another case. But the two cases are strangely similar: they are both unsuccessful robberies.”

“What was the other one?”

“More about that later. Murillo couldn’t have done the Heath job himself. He had to have someone leave that door open for him, he had to know the girl was blind, that it was safe for him to turn on the light. He had to have someone guide him to her room and tell him where her jewel box was.”

“So why didn’t he pick up the jewel box and get out of the house again? He wouldn’t have had the guts to stand there and pick the lock on it even if the girl was deaf and dumb as well as blind. He’s yellow and he’s a nervous wreck.”

“He might have had the nerve,” Sands said, “if he was hopped up. Or he might have lost his judgment to such an extent that he didn’t even think of picking up the jewel box and escaping. It was probably while he was standing at the bureau picking the lock that Kelsey Heath woke up. If she screamed no one heard her. He couldn’t have done any thinking at all at that point. The girl was awake, there was the knife beside her bed, so he killed her. He didn’t stop to figure that she was blind and couldn’t identify him or that he could keep her quiet by hitting her. From start to finish he was consistently illogical.”

“That part’s all right,” Stevie said. “It’s the robbery itself that’s a phony. He would never have attempted a house robbery except one of these soft jobs in a house vacant for the night with windows and doors unlocked. Not even if he was hopped up. Marihuana’s not like cocaine.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Me? Not well at all by your standards, maybe. I’ve only seen him a few times. I had to kick him out of the club once, and he drew a knife on me. I’ve seen him a couple of times skulling around the alley waiting for Mamie. Those are the only times I’ve seen him, but I know him as well as I know the back of my hand.”

“Intuition?” Sands said dryly.

“Mamie,” Stevie said, smiling. “Murillo is Mamie’s sole topic of conversation. I know what Murillo eats, what he wears, what he says, what he thinks. I know how many bowel movements he has in a week and what tie he was wearing on June the tenth two years ago. I’ve listened to the saga of Tony and Mamie for years, and Mamie has a very loose tongue. Mamie’s loose tongue occasionally gets her a black eye. Oh, yes, Murillo has guts — with women and men under four feet and blind girls.”

Sands took out a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Stevie. It was a police picture of a man, front and side views.

The picture was that of a young man, handsome, insolent, thin almost to emaciation.

“So that’s our boy,” Stevie said, “as a boy. He’s not so pretty now.”

“The picture’s ten years old. He’d have changed in ten years. How much?”

Stevie peered at the picture again. “Christ, you’re sure it is Murillo? I’d never recognize him.”

“That’s too bad,” Sands said, “because it’s the only one we have and I doubt if Mamie Rosen will give us another. So we’ll try something else. Excuse me while I phone.”

He looked for a number in the phone book and dialed a number. The number rang fifteen times before it was answered by a sleepy male voice.

“Klausen?” Sands said.

“Yes.”

“Are you still running the art college? Sands speaking.”

“I’m not running it at one o’clock in the morning,” Klausen said bitterly.

“This can’t wait. Have you still got that little man Smithson around?”

“Yes. Now what?”

“I want him to do a job on a picture. Same thing he did to Galvison’s picture last year: add thirty or forty pounds, ten years, draw in some disguises, you know the kind of thing.”

“That’s a good week’s work and Smithson is busy.”

“This man’s a murderer. I want to get Smithson started right away if it’s going to take that long. What’s his number?”

“I thought after that Galvison mess that the police would go to a little trouble and renew their photo files, keep them up to date. Why haven’t you hauled in this man and taken his picture again?”

“Can’t be done without charging him,” Sands said dryly. “He may have reformed and we’d hate like hell to persecute a reformed man since it’s against the law. What’s Smithson’s number?”

Klausen told him, added a few remarks about the law and hung up.

It required thirteen rings to rouse Smithson, but there was no difficulty persuading him. He announced in a high tenor that he would be simply thrilled to help the police again, that he just adored reconstructing pictures, it was the most divine fun.

“I’ll have them sent over immediately,” Sands said. “What’s the address?”

Sands rang off and wrote the address on the cover of the phone book.

Stevie said, grimacing, “I bet he lives in a frightfully ducky apartment in the Village.”

“Right. Gerrard Street.”

“What can he do?”

“Miracles,” Sands said. “He used to travel around from city to city doing chalk portraits in poolrooms and restaurants and the like, until Klausen saw some of his work.” He called headquarters and asked for a patrol car. Then he wrote his instructions on a piece of paper, aided by Stevie’s description of Murillo as he looked now.

“Add about forty pounds,” Stevie said.

“Forty pounds,” Sands wrote. “Height?”

“He’s about as tall as I am, five eleven.”

“Hair?”

“I never saw it,” Stevie said. “He always kept his hat on. But I like to think he’s getting bald.”

“Tell me everything you know about his personal habits.”

“I thought I had. What’s that got to do with it?”

“In Galvison’s case it was one of the determining factors that he had a habit of picking up gonorrhea. So when Smithson did his picture he treated Galvison to g.c. eyes, the sort of thing you can’t easily get rid of or disguise. As a matter of fact Galvison turned up at the venereal clinic at the Royal Vic in Montreal and was picked up at the door.”

In half an hour the instructions were ready. A patrolman took the paper and pictures, stiffly refused a drink, turned smartly on his heel, tripped over the rug and vanished.

“I hope,” Stevie said dryly, “that Mr. Smithson does his job very, very well.”

“Still scared?”

“I don’t like knives.”

“Another drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Help yourself.”

Over the rim of the glass Stevie looked thoughtful. “So why didn’t Murillo take the jewel box?”

“Funk. It’s pretty likely that he heard Mr. Heath come in and all Murillo wanted to do was get out. He must have been pretty nervy by that time because he’d already bungled once. He tried to hold up a beer dive.”

“My God,” Stevie said.

“He sat around the place first, drinking and leaving his fingerprints all over the table, glasses and bottles. Not our brightest light of crime, Murillo.”

“Did he get away?”

“Of course he got away,” Sands said, smiling. “Empty-handed, as later.”

“This is beginning to smell.” Stevie put the glass back on the table. He made his voice casual. “Know anyone who’d pay Murillo to do just what he did? It has been done, hasn’t it? You pay a man to murder. Maybe you even pay him to make a murder look like an outside job and not to do the murdering.”

“Maybe you do,” Sands said.

“But I don’t think he would.”

“Who would?”

“He. My first murderer, the smooth one. He wouldn’t pay anyone to do it, he’d do it himself. He’d make it look like an accident. He’s good at that. You didn’t catch on to him the first time.”

“So I missed a murder?” Sands said quietly.

“Sure. You must miss lots of them.”

“Probably.”

“When you’re not on the lookout for them.”

“I’m still agreeing. I’d like to hear about it.”

Stevie glanced at him sharply. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No. At least, no more than the rest of us.”

“Thanks,” Stevie said with a dry laugh. “Well, I’ve talked to a couple of people about this and they gave me the razzberry, so I didn’t go to the police. The police now come to me and I’m going to go on record as saying that two years ago Johnny Heath murdered a girl called Geraldine Smith...”

Sands said nothing.

“A perfect murder,” Stevie added softly, “and it was perfect because it was perfectly timed and the stage was all set.

“You are sitting in a rumbleseat with a girl. It’s a fine night and you have the girl’s head on your shoulder. Her hair is blowing in your face. If it was some other girl’s hair you’d think it was fine. But you’ve tired of this girl. She’s not in your class and she’s lived with another guy, at least one other, and she wants to marry you. So the hair makes you sick.

“ ‘My arm is tired,’ you say, and you push her away, maybe.

“ ‘Johnny, what’s the matter?’ she says.

“Then later on you hit something and the girl with the hair goes flying out of the rumbleseat. The two people in the front are hurt. The man is bleeding, the girl, your sister is unconscious. You’re shaken up a little but you’re big, you’re tough, you feel well enough to go over and cut Geraldine’s throat. This is the only chance you’ll ever get. Take it. You cut her throat with a piece of glass, you mess her up. Geraldine Smith has now been killed in an automobile accident. But you forgot something. Six months later another guy is going to remember, but you don’t know that.

“You stagger around and get a cop. The cop doesn’t ask many questions. Just another accident. There’s an inquest but nobody does anything to you, they’ve got nothing on you, you weren’t even driving the car. Perfect set-up, perfect timing, perfect murder.

“That’s what you think. Six months later the other guy remembers something...

“So I went down to a pawnshop,” Stevie said, “and bought a magnifying glass. Tie that for a laugh, me with a magnifying glass playing Sherlock Holmes. I got out a copy of the Globe and Mail I’d saved, and I looked at pictures with my magnifying glass. The pictures weren’t very clearly printed in the newspaper.”

“We keep a file of accident pictures,” Sands said, “if you want to look at them any time.”

“Any time such as now?”

“That’s right.”

Stevie laughed. “Sorry, I haven’t my magnifying glass with me. And maybe I dreamed up the whole thing, eh?”

“I don’t think so. I think I know what you were looking for, and didn’t see. You want to come now?”

“No, thanks,” Stevie said. “Maybe after you’ve squared Higgins and Murillo is caught...”

“... and Jordan quits shaking in his shoes. You’re straddling a fence, Jordan. Jump on our side, or jump on theirs. You may think you’re playing safe but where you’re sitting you’re a good target.” He got up and picked up his hat from the table. “Can I drop you anywhere?”

“Don’t bother,” Stevie said. “I’ll just flush myself down the toilet.”

“I’m sorry you’re acting childish,” Sands said, walking to the door. “You’re not cute enough to get away with it.”

“Maybe not.” Stevie followed him to the door, yawning. “I used to be cute as hell, though. In my prime I recited Kipling at Sunday School and rumor has it that I laid them in the pews.”

Sands locked the door and led the way down the steps.

His car was parked in front of the apartment house, and he held the door open and motioned Stevie to get in.

“You want to hear about the rest of my life? After all, Kipling was only a phase, a mere facet of my many facets.”

Sands let in the clutch and the car shot ahead in swift jerks.

“After Kipling and the Sunday School I was ready, come what may. And here’s what came. My old man, having become justifiably sick of my old lady, jumped out of an airplane — without benefit of parachute. I personally think he showed good common sense.”

“Must you talk?” Sands said dryly.

“That’s my business. Or it used to be my business. I have an idea that Joey no longer loves me.”

“You phoned him from the hotel?”

“That’s right. He told me to go to hell.”

“We’ll go back now and square it,” Sands said.

“No, thank you,” Stevie said. “You think I want any of my friends to see me pally with a policeman? I’ll square it myself, if you’ll drop me there.”

“Still don’t want to look at pictures?”

“No.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Go ahead. Won’t do you any good. There’s no chance of proving anything against Johnny Heath.”

They drove in silence until Sands pulled the car up to the curb in front of Joey’s. The doorman stifled a yawn and came over. When he saw who was in the car he said, “For Christ’s sake. Where have you been?”

“Riding,” Stevie said. “With my great and good friend Mr. Sands. Good night, Mr. Sands. See you at the morgue.”

Sands sat and watched the two of them walk under the marquee up to the door of the club, Stevie slight and elegant in evening clothes, the doorman broad and tall in a green and gold coat to match the marquee. Their voices floated back to him, but the words were indistinguishable.

The car jerked ahead as it always did when Sands was tired and irritable. The dashboard clock said two. Joey’s would be closed in fifteen minutes or so. Time to detail a man to follow Jordan if he hurried and Jordan didn’t.

He stepped on the gas and was at headquarters in ten minutes.

There were three police men lolling at the main desk. When they saw Sands they tried to look busy by changing their expressions and hiding the deck of cards.

“Don’t bother, boys,” Sands said grimly. “Crime does not pay.”

“There is no crime,” Sergeant Havergal announced. “Tonight nobody is even beating his wife. There are no dogs howling and no suspicious characters loitering and not one spinster has heard strange noises downstairs.”

“In that case,” Sands said, “you can look up the photo file on an accident two years ago. Involved two Heaths, Geraldine Smith and Philip James. Smith was killed. Make it snappy.”

Havergal sped out of the room.

To the men in plain clothes Sands said, “You know the Club Joey, Stern?”

“Officially, no,” Stern replied, grinning. “But in my off hours I have been forced to attend.”

“You know Jordan, the master of ceremonies so-called?”

“I’ve seen him.”

“Okay. Take a car. He’s at the Club now. Keep him in sight. I want to know where he spends the night.”

“When do I report?”

“Phone me at home as soon as he goes to roost.”

“Yes, sir.”

When he had gone out, Sands said to the remaining policeman, “Any report from Higgins for me?”

“Yes, sir. Inspector Higgins telephoned in two hours ago and detailed a man to watch one hundred and ten Charles Street. The man is there now. Inspector Higgins is at home and wants you to phone him.”

“All right. Get him for me.”

Sands listened to Higgins talk for five minutes, said, “Good work,” and hung up.

Havergal came back carrying some pictures, clipped together.

Sands passed up the first two, showing the wrecked car from two angles. The third was the body of a girl lying on its back. The girl’s clothes were torn and the blood on her face and neck showed clearly on the print. She had been badly cut by glass. But there was no glass.

Sands looked at it again, swearing softly to himself.

“Who took these pictures, Havergal?”

“Sergeant Breton. Bill Haines was on his holiday at the time.”

“In the morning tell Bill to make two more prints of this one and enlarge them.”

“Anything the matter?” Havergal asked curiously. “Look at it.”

Havergal looked for some time. “I can’t see anything.”

“No. Neither did anyone else. I’m going home.”