Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

“He wouldn’t,” Gil Vine said. “Government men get that way.”

They went in.

He asked for Captain Dougherty, introduced the girl, turned her over to the station matron.

“Cheer up!” He patted her shoulder. “You’re doing the thing that’ll help most. Don’t forget that, if the going gets rough. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

Then he got Dougherty to one side.

“She didn’t know what to do, Cap, when she read about it, so she came to me. You can ask her all the questions you want. She’ll tell you everything she knows, which is next to nothing.”

“Thanks, Gil,” said Dougherty. “I’ll see she gets a break with the press boys. We haven’t anything on her. It just seemed peculiar she ran away.”

“She didn’t,” objected Vine. “She was practically the last customer out of the restaurant. Corinth had left her, saying he’d be right back. So she waited until they closed the place up. She didn’t know anything had happened to him, so she went on home.”

“Okay,” answered Dougherty. “I’m just trying to crack this thing because the Federal boys are boiling over. Where do you stand on it, Gil?”

“Bill and I both wore the same badge for a long time,” said Vine simply.

“Sure.” Dougherty nodded. “Well, I won’t be able to turn over anything my plainclothes boys pick up, but right now you start even. We haven’t got a thing to work on.”

“How about a permit to view the body?” Vine asked.

“Go right ahead. I’ll phone the morgue, now.”

Vine picked up a cab, went downtown, and east. In the chill, damp, receiving vault of the city morgue, he stood stone-faced, while an assistant medical examiner described the injuries.

“No blunt instrument this time, Mister Vine. This was sharp, pointed. But about a quarter of an inch thick. He was hit three times. Only blow that counted was this one — right on top of his head. Penetrated the skull, clear to the brain pan. This one nearly tore off the top of his left ear, and that one ripped the fleshy part of his neck — that’s where the blood came from. But those others wouldn’t have been fatal.”

“What would you say the wound was made with?” asked Vine thoughtfully.

“Now you’ve got me.” The doctor pulled at the tip of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Looks something like injuries I’ve seen made with the sharp corner of a spade, but it’s too thick for a spade. Anyway, that’s not my job.”

After the rubber sheet had been replaced, Gil Vine got out to the street and rode uptown to where the towering buttes of Radio City threw shadows across the great sunken plaza. Vine spent the time wondering about those wounds, particularly the one on the head. What kind of a murder weapon could it be?

The rink of artificial ice wasn’t open to the public at that hour, but the restaurant was open for business. Vine slid into a chair at one of the round tables, ordered a sandwich and coffee.

The waiter was eager to discuss the crime of the previous evening.

“I, myself, never see this gentleman until he is dead. I notice the lady, sure. She is sitting by herself for so long. She was at one of Morris’ tables. Morris is not here now. The police took him to Headquarters.”

“That so?” Vine was only mildly interested. “Do they think Morris killed the man?”

The waiter snorted. “Not Morris. He will not even kill a fly on the tables here, in the summertime. But Morris saw this dead man talking to someone.”

“Man or woman?” Vine asked the question disinterestedly.

“Oh, a man. But such an investigation will be no use. Morris does not even remember what the other man was like. You see so many people every day, on a job like this.”

“I can imagine.”

Vine pointed to a colored placard of an entrancingly slim girl in a Hussar’s costume, pirouetting on skates. In flaming red type was inscribed:

“When do they go on next?”

The waiter cocked his head on one side, sadly.

“It is a pity. No more. Last night was the last. Do you know what I think about this murder?”

“No. What?”

The waiter leaned over confidentially.

“A crime of passion. No less. A beautiful and mysterious woman, a jealous lover.” He snapped his fingers.

“I never thought of it like that.” Vine showed his astonishment. “You ought to be a detective.” He sat motionless and silent for half an hour, his sandwich untouched. Then, he left a tip, went to a phone booth. He talked with the sporting editor of a metropolitan daily and was finally given a name and a number. He hung up, dialed again.

“Want to talk to Mike Prouty,” he said into the mouthpiece. “This Mister Prouty? This is Gil Vine, private investigator... Yeah... You’re handling the publicity for this St. Moritz skating troupe? Like to see you about it... Right away? Fine.”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in a hotel bedroom, accepting a light from a breezy, well-tanned young man who wore a light gray suit, a black shirt and a cherry-colored necktie.

“You realize, Mister Vine, I got to be careful what kind of stories get printed about my clients. Just what makes you think they might know something about this here Bill Corinth?”

Gil Vine held up a finger. “Corinth was killed at the Radio City Rink. The St. Moritz troupe were at that rink when he was killed.”

He raised a second finger. “Corinth was a customs man. His job was to see travelers from abroad don’t put anything over on Uncle Samuel. This skating troupe just checked in from Le Havre four days ago.”

“For God’s sake,” muttered Mike Prouty, “that’s jumping a hell of a long way to conclusions.”

Vine held up a third finger. “The wound in Corinth’s skull was made by something sharp and pointed — probably of steel and about a quarter of an inch thick.” He saw the apprehensive glint in Prouty’s eyes. “That’s right. You guessed it. A skate.”

Prouty squirmed in his chair and laughed a little uncomfortably.

“Sounds pretty thin, fella. You don’t even know that this dead man ever saw any of my troupe, to say nothing of having had a fight with any of them.”

Vine stared at him coldly.

“This wasn’t a fight. If there’d been a fight, someone else would have been smashed up, too. Corinth was that kind of a guy. This was murder.”

“What the hell do you want me to do about it?”

“Tell me where your troupe is,” Vine said. “Fix it so I can see them, talk to them, without their suspecting anything.”

The publicity man seemed very unhappy.

“Look, Mister Vine. I have a call from Dick Wilson over at the paper about you, and if he says you’re a leveler, it goes with me. But suppose you’re wrong about this? I think you are wrong. If you make any accusations or stuff like that, it’s gonna wreck all the bookings I’ve made for these people. I just closed a week in Chicago for them, this morning.”

Vine swore heavily. “I’m not going to make any accusations. There won’t be a peep out of me unless I put my hands on proof. Don’t try to stall me or I’ll sic some of the Washingtons on you.”

Prouty held up two fat palms.

“Pull over to the curb, brother. I’m not trying to stall you. I’ve got an income to protect, but gee whiz, I don’t want to make my dough off a killer.”

“That’s better. I’ll go up as a reporter. Get an interview.”

Prouty turned his head from left to right slowly, then back again.

“Wouldn’t look right. All the interviews were here in town, three weeks ago. If you went clear up there for one, they’d be sure it was phony. But maybe I could” — he opened a closet door — “here. Tell you what...”