Cornell Woolrich - Nightwebs (A Collection of Stories)

The Commissioner just sat back and whistled after he’d scanned Arnold’s confession. “I don’t know just how you got this out of him, brother,” he said meaningfully, “but you don’t know how lucky it is for you you did!” He passed an opened telegram across the desk to him. “Cast your eyes on that!”

Mike’s face paled as he read. It was the D. of J. expert’s preliminary report. “Group B, from head of accused, does not check with A, from fingernails victim, neither follicles, texture, nor color. Neither does Group C, from second suspect.”

Mike just stood there swallowing. The chief clues had gone haywire. The specimens of hair had probably been off the dead girl’s own head.

“We’re dismissing the case against young Murray, all right,” said the Commissioner sombrely, “but if it wasn’t for these five scribbled words, ‘I killed Sylvia Reading, J. Arnold,’ you brought me in just now, we’d have had half a case of murder against you yourself for whatever it was you did to him made him jump out the window like he did. In fact, for all I know, we probably still have at that — but I’m not going to do anything about it.” He stared curiously at Mike. “I suppose all that matters is results — but talk about putting the cart before the horse!”

“So you got your job back,” beamed Mike’s sister happily across the kitchen-table. “They must have read all about it in the papers. Special delivery, and signed by the head of the agency himself!”

“Yeah,” scoffed Mike, “took ’em long enough to find out how good I am. Well, I’ll take my time about answering, they can wait till I’m good and ready.” He took the reply he had prepared from his pocket and hurriedly sealed it. “Got an air-mail stamp?” he wanted to know.

“And another thing I’ve got against these non-stop shindigs,” orated the chief to his slightly bored listeners, “is they let minors get in ’em and dance for days until they wind up in a hospital with the D.T.’s, when the whole thing’s been fixed ahead of time and they haven’t got a chance of copping the prize anyway. Here’s a Missus Mollie McGuire been calling up every hour on the half-hour all day long, and bawling the eardrums off me because her daughter Toodles ain’t been home in over a week and she wants this guy Pasternack arrested. So you go over there and tell Joe Pasternack I’ll give him until tomorrow morning to fold up his contest and send his entries home. And tell him for me he can shove all his big and little silver loving-cups—”

For the first time his audience looked interested, even expectant, as they waited to hear what it was Mr. P. could do with his loving-cups, hoping for the best.

“—back in their packing-cases,” concluded the chief chastely, if somewhat disappointingly. “He ain’t going to need ’em any more. He has promoted his last marathon in this neck of the woods.”

There was a pause while nobody stirred. “Well, what are you all standing there looking at me for?” demanded the chief testily. “You, Donnelly, you’re nearest the door. Get going.”

Donnelly gave him an injured look. “Me, Chief? Why, I’ve got a red-hot lead on that payroll thing you were so hipped about. If I don’t keep after it it’ll cool off on me.”

“All right, then you, Stevens!”

“Why, I’m due in Yonkers right now,” protested Stevens virtuously.

“Machine-gun Rosie has been seen around again and I want to have a little talk with her—”

“That leaves you, Doyle,” snapped the merciless chief.

“Gee, Chief,” whined Doyle plaintively, “gimme a break, can’t you? My wife is expecting—” Very much under his breath ho added: “—me home early tonight.”

“Congratulations,” scowled the chief, who had missed hearing the last part of it. He glowered at them. “I get it!” he roared. “It’s below your dignity, ain’t it! It’s too petty-larceny for you! Anything less than the St. Valentine’s Day massacre ain’t worth going out after, is that it? You figure it’s a detail for a bluecoat, don’t you?” His open palm hit the desk-top with a sound like a firecracker going off. Purple became the dominant color of his complexion. “I’ll put you all back where you started, watching pickpockets in the subway! I’ll take some of the high-falutinness out of you! I’ll — I’ll—” The only surprising thing about it was that foam did not appear at his mouth.

It may have been that the chiefs bark was worse than his bite. At any rate no great amount of apprehension was shown by the culprits before him. One of them cleared his throat inoffensively. “By the way, Chief, I understand that rookie, Smith, has been swiping bananas from Tony on the comer again, and getting the squad a bad name after you told him to pay for them.”

The chief took pause and considered this point.

The others seemed to get the idea at once. “They tell me he darned near wrecked a Chinese laundry because the Chinks tried to pass him somebody else’s shirts. You could hear the screeching for miles.” Doyle put the artistic finishing touch. “I overheard him say he wouldn’t be seen dead wearing the kind of socks you do. He was asking me did I think you had lost an election bet or just didn’t know any better.”

The chief had become dangerously quiet all at once. A faint drumming sound from somewhere on the desk told what he was doing with his fingers. “Oh, he did, did he?” he remarked, very slowly and very ominously.

At this most unfortunate of all possible moments the door blew open and in breezed the maligned one in person. He looked very tired and at the same time enthusiastic, if the combination can be imagined. Red rimmed his eyes, blue shadowed his jaws, but he had a triumphant look on his face, the look of a man who has done his job well and expects a kind word. “Well, Chief,” he burst out, “it’s over! I got both of ’em. Just brought ’em in. They’re in the back room right now—”

An oppressive silence greeted him. Frost seemed to be in the air. He blinked and glanced at his three pals for enlightenment.

The silence didn’t last long, however. The chief cleared his throat. “Hrrrmph. Zat so?” he said with deceptive mildness. “Well now, Smitty, as long as your engine’s warm and you’re hitting on all six, just run over to Joe Pasternack’s marathon dance and put the skids under it. It’s been going on in that old armory on the west side—”

Smitty’s face had become a picture of despair. He glanced mutely at the clock on the wall. The clock said four — A.M., not P.M. The chief, not being a naturally hard-hearted man, took time off to glance down at his own socks, as if to steel himself for this bit of cruelty. It seemed to work beautifully. “An election bet!” he muttered cryptically to himself, and came up redder than ever.

“Gee, Chief,” pleaded the rookie, “I haven’t even had time to shave since yesterday morning.” In the background unseen nudgings and silent strangulation were rampant.

“You ain’t taking part in it, you’re putting the lid on it,” the chief reminded him morosely. “First you buy your way in just like anyone else and size it up good and plenty, see if there’s anything against it on moral grounds. Then you dig out one Toodles McGuire from under, and don’t let her stall you she’s of age either. Her old lady says she’s sixteen and she ought to know. Smack her and send her home. You seal everything up tight and tell Pasternack and whoever else is backing this thing with him it’s all off. And don’t go ’way. You stay with him and make sure he refunds any money that’s coming to anybody and shuts up shop good and proper. If he tries to squawk about there ain’t no ordinance against marathons, just lemme know. We can find an ordinance against anything if we go back far enough in the books—”