Fredric Brown - Homicide Sanitarium

"It was from a fan, Perley told us. Wanted him to listen to something he thought was a pink-crested tootwhistle, or some-thing."

"A what?"

"I dunno what, but it doesn't matter. Perley says the guy said he was a fan of his and a member of some Audubon society, and he'd heard a night-singing bird in Winslow Park he thought was something or other that's rare. He wanted Perley to meet him there and help identify it."

"So that's why he went to the park instead of home? And the guy didn't show up?"

"Not unless it was that nightingale that called Perley up . . . Here's where the doorman lives."

Zehnder swung the car into the curb and climbed out. McCracken followed him into a rooming house where a brief conversation with a half-awake old man in a nightshirt brought out nothing of interest. As far as the doorman knew, Perley Essington might have got a call just after the show, or might not have. Lots of the performers got calls. He didn't remember.

Zehnder drove on to the Vermont Street address. It was a brownstone front just like its neighbors, except that there was a cop in front. Jerold Bell parked just behind Zehnder's car and joined them.

"I'm going back," the captain told them, "but I'll get you past Regan here. Are the Homicide boys still here, Regan?"

"Just left, fifteen minutes ago, Captain," answered Regan. "Don't think they got anything new. I heard one of them say some-thing about grilling Essington again."

"Okay, Regan. Let these fellows mosey around inside. You know Mack. This other guy's from the insurance company."

Zehnder got back into his car. McCracken, following Bell, turned back a moment.

"Who all's here, Regan?" he asked.

"This LaVarre dame, for one. She's asleep. Want me to go wake her up for you?" There was a faint note of hopefulness in the voice of the policeman.

McCracken shook his head. "Who else?"

"The landlady. And this Carson guy, the comic. He's one of the two that heard Essington in his room. He's in Number Two. Essington's is Number Six, right across the hall from the parlor where they found the stiff. It's unlocked."

"How's the LaVarre woman fixed for alibis?" McCracken asked.

Regan grinned. "Triple-barreled. She was out with three guys all at once. I heard the Homicide gang questioning her. Sure you don't want me to wake her up for you?"

"Keep your mind on your work, Regan. I suppose somebody's in back, on guard there?"

"Sure. Kaplan. You know him, don't you?"

McCracken went down along the dark hallway to the parlor. Bell was looking around painstakingly. McCracken's gaze went about the room quickly, noted the position of the body that had been marked in chalk on the floor before the sofa that stood diagonally across one corner of the room. There were half a dozen flash bulbs in the wastepaper basket in the corner.

"He must have been sitting there," said Bell, pointing to the sofa. "If he was stabbed and fell off, that'd put him in about the position those chalk marks show.

The killer could have been hid-den right behind that sofa when he came in and sat down. Then he stood up, reached over his shoulder and stabbed him."

McCracken nodded. "That's about it. And if it is, that means he was killed early, almost as soon as he got here. Say, a crocheting needle isn't so long, is it?

Must have been fitted into some sort of a handle, like an ice pick. Well, we can find about that later. You don't think you'll find the ring in here, do you?"

Bell shrugged. "Probably not. Probably never find it, but I've got to turn in a report to the company. I want to be able to tell 'em I went over things with a fine-tooth comb."

McCracken crossed over and looked out the window.

"Whoever hid behind that sofa could have come and gone this way," he mused. "And come and gone by the alley. There's a cellar door right outside. You can come in this way easy."

Bell nodded. "There's fingerprint powder on the sill there. The Homicide boys thought of that, too. But what about Perley? He's too screwy on his story to figure out of it. Why'd he lie about not having been here until two o'clock?"

McCracken grunted. "That's the only thing against him, really. I want to talk to one of the persons who heard him, or say they did."

He walked out into the hall, down two doors, and knocked. After a minute, a tall man in a worn bathrobe came to the door and said, "Yeah?" He had the sad, bored air most comedians have when they aren't working at the trade.

"Carson?" McCracken asked.

"That's me, yeah."

"You like this Perley Essington? Was he a friend of yours?"

"Huh? Sure, he's a swell little guy. A bit nuts, maybe. But he's good on the boards."

"As good as he thinks he is?"

"Well, maybe not that good," Carson said. "Maybe none of us are. It's an occupational disease. What do you want?"

"I want to hear your side of what happened last night." The tall man put a hand to his head. "Oh, Lord! Again?" He started to close the door. "Four cops, and three reporters, and --"

McCracken caught the door and held it. "Then once more won't hurt you," he said. "Besides, I'm on Perley's side. I'm working for him, trying to punch some holes in the case against him."

"Why didn't you say so? Come on in." He walked back to the dresser to get the bottle standing on it. "Have a drink?"

"Two fingers. The main thing is are you sure it was Perley you heard?"

"Yes and no. I wouldn't swear it was him, but if it wasn't, it was somebody pretty good. There aren't many that can come close to him on that warble stuff. I've heard lots of imitators. Straight whistling, yes, but not on the imitations."

"What time did you hear it first, and what time last?"

Carson lifted a glass and clinked it against the one he'd handed McCracken.

When he'd downed the glass' contents, he said:

"I got home about ten-thirty, maybe eleven. I had a good mys-tery story I wanted to finish, and I was reading." He rubbed his chin. "It was sometime between then and midnight that it started. And kept up maybe half an hour, off and on. And it was in Perley's room. I went past the door when I went to the bathroom once about twelve, so I'm sure of that."

"Did you look in the parlor then?" McCracken asked.

"No. I think the door was closed. But I didn't have any reason to look in, so I didn't."

"You're not sure about the time. Couldn't it have been two o'clock, maybe, if you'd lost track of time while you were reading?"

"No. I went to bed at twelve-thirty, see? I did look at my clock then, and my watch too, to set it. I could be wrong by it being earlier, but not later."

"And the other fellow who heard it?"

"Name's Bill Johnson. Yes, he's sure, too, that it was somewhere around midnight."

McCracken sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. He tried another tack.

"Birds outside, maybe?" he asked.

"No, too loud," Carson said. "And I never heard birds sing that much or that loud around here before. Anyway, it'd have to be a flock of different kinds of them.

And--let's see--robins don't sing at night, do they? Robin's about the only bird call I'm sure of, and I heard that."

"How good was Slimjim Lee? Perley was teaching him, he says."

Carson shook his head firmly. "No, but definitely. I've heard him, and he could carry a tune, but that's about all. And he wasn't sure where he'd carry it. No, pal, this stuff was good. If it wasn't Perley, then he's got a rival."

"How about the radio?"

"I thought of that, afterwards," Carson said. "But it couldn't have been. The place was as quiet as a morgue, around then, and I'd have heard the announcer shooting his mouth off between imitations. Anyway, no bird imitator could stay on the air that long. It was at least half an hour, off and on, like I said."