Lawrence Block - Masters of Noir - Volume 1

I told him about it on the way out to the factory. I’d been thinking about the dead girl’s expensive shoes off and on ever since we’d come on the case, and talking with Ted Wimmer had triggered something in my mind.

“It was those shoes that threw us,” I told Walt. “They were stamped with the name of a store in Atlanta, Georgia, and so we naturally assumed they’d been bought there. That’s where we were wrong.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Because those shoes could have been bought right at the factory. It should have hit us before, damn it.”

“Give.”

“All right. When a shoe company with a reputation like Jules Courtney’s makes up an order for a retailer, they stamp his name and address on their product, but before those shoes are shipped, they’re checked and double-checked for the tiniest flaw. If a knife slipped a fraction of an inch somewhere, or there’s a stitch out of place, they put those shoes aside.”

“So?”

“They won’t ship shoes with flaws, but they’re still perfectly good shoes, so they mark the price down to the actual cost of manufacturer and put them up for sale to their employees.”

Walt grinned and pressed down on the gas pedal a little harder.

We got to the Jules Courtney factory about ten minutes before closing time. We talked to the office manager, and then to a records clerk. The clerk was very efficient. Five minutes after we’d given her the size, style and other data in connection with the dead girl’s shoes, she was back with a signed receipt. They had been sold to one Ernest Coleman, an employee on the fourth floor.

It was past closing time when we got to the right floor and the right department. Everyone had left except one of the floor foremen.

“It wouldn’t have done you any good if you had come earlier,” he told us. “Ernie Coleman didn’t come to work today.”

We went back to the office, got Coleman’s home address from the office manager, and left the building.

Coleman lived in a railroad apartment just off Third Avenue. He was about twenty-five, about average height, and very muscular. He was wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of overall pants. When he stood back to let us in, I caught the smell of whiskey. But he didn’t look drunk; he just looked sick. He didn’t seem surprised to see us. I got the impression he was even relieved.

He told us his mother and father were out for a while, and then he sat down on the old-fashioned davenport and stared at us. Walt and I sat down in chairs facing him. For a long time none of us said anything.

Then I said, “There’ll be finger prints, Walt.”

“Yes,” Walt said. “There’ll be finger prints. And of course Ernie here wasn’t home last night, Dave.”

“That’s right,” I said. “And then there’s the blue fibers under her nails, Walt.”

Walt got up and moved through the apartment, trying all the closet doors. Ernest Coleman and I sat there and stared at each other. After a while Walt came back with a blue sleeveless sweater. He sat down again and ran his finger tips across the material. “Yes,” he said. “There were blue fibers under her nails. The boys in the lab can put them under the comparison microscope with some of these fibers, and know right away, eh, Dave?”

A full minute went by, and then another.

Finally Ernest Coleman took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and gently rubbed the knuckles of his right fist with the palm of his left hand.

“She fell for me,” he said softly. “She was as dumb as they come. I–I thought she’d get round heels for me... but she didn’t.” He was silent a moment. “I got her to rent that room for us, and when she did I thought I had a good setup. But she... she was crazy...”

Walt started to say something, but I caught his eye and shook my head. He frowned and compressed his lips.

“She — she just wasn’t right somehow,” Ernest Coleman said. “She’d let me kiss her, and that’s all. I know she was burning up half the time, but she’d never... she’d never...”

I nodded. “Exactly what happened, Ernie?”

The sound of my voice seemed to startle him. He moistened his lips. “Last night it got so bad I couldn’t stand it any more. I tried to, but she wouldn’t — and all at once I just saw red and I hit her. She started to scream, and all I could think of was that she was going to get me in trouble. I don’t know — I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted to stop her from screaming. I just meant to knock her out.”

I glanced at Walt. He shrugged and shook his head.

“And then, Ernie...?” I asked. “When I found out she was dead, I lost my head. I thought I’d have to get away. I took all the stuff that might identify her and beat it. I thought the longer it took the cops to find out who she was, the more time I’d have to get away. But after a while I knew I’d have a better chance if I didn’t run away. I–I didn’t think you could tie me to her.”

I got up and walked to the telephone to call the precinct and tell them to let the other boy go.

When I’d finished my call, Ernie Coleman said, “Can we wait just a few minutes, till my folks get here? I–I want to tell them what happened.” He looked down at his right hand, with the faintly bruised knuckles. “It’ll be easier for them, if they hear it from me.”

I nodded. “All right, Ernie.” I went back to my chair and sat down to wait.

The stocky man handed his coat and hat to the attendant and went through the foyer to the main lounge of the club. He stood in the doorway for a scant second, but in that time his eyes had seen all that was to be seen; the chess game beside the windows, the foursome at cards and the lone man at the rear of the room sipping a drink.

He crossed between the tables, nodding briefly to the card players, and went directly to the back of the room. The other man looked up from his drink with a smile. “Afternoon, Inspector. Sit down. Drink?”

“Hello, Dunc. Same as you’re drinking.”

Almost languidly, the fellow made a motion with his hand. The waiter nodded and left. The inspector settled himself in his chair with a sigh. He was a big man, heavy without being given to fat. Only his high shoes proclaimed him for what he was. When he looked at Chester Duncan he grimaced inwardly, envying him his poise and manner, yet not willing to trade him for anything.

Here , he thought smugly, is a man who should have everything yet has nothing. True, he has money and position, but the finest of all things, a family life, was denied him . And with a brood of five in all stages of growth at home, the inspector felt that he had achieved his purpose in life.

The drink came and the inspector took his, sipping it gratefully. When he put it down he said, “I came to thank you for that, er... tip. You know, that was the first time I’ve ever played the market.”

“Glad to do it,” Duncan said. His hands played with the glass, rolling it around in his palms. He eyebrows shot up suddenly, as though he was amused at something. “I suppose you heard all the ugly rumors.”

A flush reddened the inspector’s face. “In an offhand way, yes. Some of them were downright ugly.” He sipped his drink again and tapped a cigarette on the side table. “You know,” he said. “If Walter Harrison’s death hadn’t been so definitely a suicide, you might be standing an investigation right now.”

Duncan smiled slowly. “Come now, Inspector. The market didn’t budge until after his death, you know.”

“True enough. But rumor has it that you engineered it in some manner.” He paused long enough to study Duncan’s face. “Tell me, did you?”