Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

“Indeed,” said Mr. Fitch. “As much as five thousand dollars, if I’m not mistaken. He didn’t have the money. He was trying to raise it, but evidently the sum increased day by day. Interest, so to speak.”

“So to speak,” echoed Finney.

“He felt the situation was hopeless, which was inaccurate, but understandable in one so young, so he took his own life.” Mr. Fitch paused significantly. “The man to whom he owed the money,” he said, “and who was charging him appalling interest, and who had won the money in an unfair gambling match, was Thomas M. Carroll.”

Finney’s jaw dropped. Mattera said, “You mean Lucky Tom—”

“Yes,” said Mr. Fitch. For a moment he did not say anything more. Then, sheepishly, he raised his head and managed a tiny smile. “The more I learned about the man, the more I saw there were no legal means of bringing him to justice, and it became quite clear to me that I had to kill him. So I—”

“You killed Lucky Tom Carroll.”

“Yes, I—”

“Six times. In the back of the head.”

“I wanted to make it look like a professional killing,” Mr. Fitch said. “I felt it wouldn’t do to get caught.”

“And then Beyer hit back the next night,” Finney said, “and from there on it was war.”

“Well, not exactly. There are some things a man must do,” Mr. Fitch said. “They don’t seem to fit into the law, I know. But — but they do seem right, you see. After I’d killed Mr. Carroll I realized everyone would assume it had been a revenge killing. A gangland slaying, the papers called it. I thought how very nice it would be if the two gangs really grew mad at one another. I couldn’t kill them all myself, of course, but once things were set properly in motion—”

“You just went on killing,” Mattera said.

“Like a one-man army,” Finney said.

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Fitch. “Of course I killed those three men on Cameron Street, and bombed that Mr. Spune’s car, but then I just permitted nature to take its course. Now and then things would quiet down and I had to take an active hand, yet I didn’t really do all that much of the killing.”

“How much?”

Mr. Fitch sighed.

“How many did you kill, Mr. Fitch?”

“Fifteen. I don’t really like killing, you know.”

“If you liked it, you’d be pretty dangerous, Mr. Fitch. Fifteen?”

“Tonight would have been the sixteenth,” Mr. Fitch said.

For a while no one said anything. Finney lit a cigarette, gave one to Mattera, and offered one to Mr. Fitch. Mr. Fitch explained that he didn’t smoke. Finney started to say something and changed his mind.

Mattera said, “Not to be nasty, Mr. Fitch, but just what were you looking to accomplish?”

“I should think that’s patently obvious,” Mr. Fitch said gently. “I wanted to wipe out these criminal gangs, these mobs.”

“Wipe them out,” Finney said.

“You know, let them kill each other off.”

“Kill each other off.” He nodded.

“That’s correct.”

“And you thought that would work, Mr. Fitch?”

Mr. Fitch looked surprised. “But it is working, isn’t it?”

“Uh—”

“I’m reminded of the anarchists around the turn of the century,” said Mr. Fitch. “Of course, they were an unpleasant sort of men, but they had an interesting theory. They felt that if enough kings were assassinated, sooner or later no one would care to be king.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Finney said.

“So they went about killing kings. There aren’t many kings these days,” Mr. Fitch said quietly. “When you think about it, there are rather few of them about. Oh, I’m certain there are other explanations, but still—”

“I guess it’s something to think about,” Mattera said.

“It is,” said Finney. “Mr. Fitch, what happens when you run through all the gangsters in town?”

“I suppose I would go on to another town.”

“Another town?”

“I seem to have a calling for this sort of work,” Mr. Fitch said. “But that’s all over now, isn’t it? You’ve arrested me, and there will have to be a trial, of course. What do you suppose they’ll do to me?”

“They ought to give you a medal,” said Mattera.

“Or put up a statue of you in front of City Hall,” said Finney.

“I’m serious—”

“So are we, Mr. Fitch.”

They fell silent again. Mattera thought about all the criminals who had been immune three months ago and who were now dead, and how much nicer a place it was without them. Finney tried to figure out how many kings there were. Not many, he decided, and the ones that were left didn’t really do anything.

“I suppose you’ll want to take me to jail now,” said Mr. Fitch.

Mattera cleared his throat. “I’d better explain something to you, Mr. Fitch,” he said. “A police officer is a very busy man. He can’t waste his time with a lot of kooky stories that he might hear. Finney and I, uh, have crooks to catch. Things like that.”

“What Mattera means, Mr. Fitch, is a nice old guy like you ought to run home to bed. We enjoy talking to you, and I really admire the way you speak, but Mattera and I, we’re busy, see. We’ve got an inordinate lot of crooks to catch...” There! “... and you ought to go on home, so to speak.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Fitch. “Oh. Oh, bless you!”

They watched him scurry away, and they smoked more cigarettes, and remained silent for a very long time. After a while Mattera said, “A job like this, you got to do something crazy once in a while.”

“Sure.”

“I never did anything this crazy before. You?”

“No.”

“That nutty little guy. How long do you figure he’ll get away with it?”

“Who knows?”

“Fifteen so far. Fifteen—”

“Uh-huh. And close to seventy others that they did themselves.”

A light went on across the street. A door opened, and a man walked toward his car. The man had ears like an elephant. “Ears Carradine,” Mattera said. “Better get him before he gets into the car.”

“You tell him.”

“Hell, you’re closer.”

Carradine stopped to light a cigarette. He shook out the match and flung it aside.

“I had him nailed to the wall on an aggravated-assault thing a few years back,” Finney said. “I had three witnesses that pinned him good — and not a breath of doubt.”

“Witnesses.”

“Two of them changed their minds and one disappeared. Never turned up.”

“You better tell him,” Mattera said.

“Funny the way that little guy had that car gimmicked. Read about it in the paper, you know, but I never saw anything like it before. Cute, though.”

“He’s getting in the car,” Mattera said.

“You would wonder if a thing like that would work, wouldn’t you?”

“You would at that. You should have told him, but it’s that kind of a crazy night, isn’t it?”

“He might see it himself.”

“He might.”

He didn’t. They heard the ignition, and then the single shot, and Ears Carradine slumped over the wheel.

Mattera started up the squad car and pulled away from the curb. “How about that,” he said. “It worked like a charm.”

“Sixteen,” said Finney.

Mowbray had beenfishing the lake for better than two hours before he encountered the heavy-set man. The lake was supposed to be full of largemouth bass and that was what he was after. He was using spinning gear, working a variety of plugs and spoons and jigs and plastic worms in all of the spots where a lunker largemouth was likely to be biding his time. He was a good fisherman, adept at dropping his lure right where he wanted it, just alongside a weedbed or at the edge of subsurface structure. And the lures he was using were ideal for late fall bass. He had everything going for him, he thought, but a fish on the end of his line.