Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

His arrogant tone constituted a brazen admission that he had committed the crime, and an equally brazen challenge for Sergeant Gunner to prove it. Gerard Hawk studied the swarthy man, his expression curious.

He said, “You don’t seem very scared, young follow.”

Nick Spoda laughed.

The squad room door opened and three men walked in. In the vanguard was a well-dressed man of about forty, sleek and genial and assured. He made an impressive entrance, pausing just inside the door and smiling around generally before coming the rest of the way into the room. Behind him came two men with beefy physiques and sullen faces.

“Morning, Sergeant,” the lead man said to Gunner. “Got a little piece of paper for you.”

Gunner took the proffered paper and studied it. When he looked up, he said, “You didn’t need a writ, Fallon. We had every intention of sticking your boy in front of a judge this morning.”

Mark Fallon cocked an eyebrow. “On what charge, Sergeant?”

“Suspicion of homicide. I think we have enough to get him remanded.”

“What homicide is he suspected of?”

Sergeant Gunner looked irritated. “Don’t cat-and-mouse me, Fallon. What’s on your mind?”

Fallon smiled a genial smile. “As Nick’s attorney, I’m entitled to know the charge. What homicide?”

When Gunner failed to answer, Nick said, “Some old dame named Pritchard, Mark. They claim I gunned her down on the street from a blue sedan at three o’clock yesterday afternoon. Down on South Broadway somewhere, a couple of blocks from the Riverview Old Folks Home.”

“The Riverview Senior Citizens Retirement Home,” Mrs. Worth corrected.

The lawyer’s expression became one of mock surprise. “Three PM.? It’s lucky I happened to bring these two gentlemen along.” He indicated his two silent companions. “They were with Nick across the river at the dog races from eleven a.m. until five-thirty p.m. Right, gentlemen?”

Both nodded without changing expression.

“There are other witnesses, too,” Fallon said. “The boy Nick bought his admission ticket from, a fellow who sold him a hotdog, and a cashier at one of the betting windows. Can’t see how you could establish Nick as anywhere but at the dog track at three yesterday.”

Sergeant Gunner gazed at Fallon for a long time before saying, “You own stock in that track, don’t you, Fallon?”

“Totally irrelevant, Sergeant. Shall we go see this judge you mentioned?”

Gunner said, “Murder isn’t the only change your boy faces. There’s the little matter of flinging a grenade through a plate glass window.”

“The Sloan Company bombing, you mean? You have a witness tying Nick to that?”

Sergeant Gunner continued to gaze at Fallon. Then suddenly his expression wearied. He said, “I guess we better go see the captain.”

Fifteen minutes later, Nick Spoda walked out of Police Headquarters a free man.

Sergeant Gunner didn’t have much success explaining to Mrs. Worth and her three elderly tenants why the gunman was released, partly because he wasn’t very happy about his own explanation.

“A writ of habeas corpus requires you either to release a suspect from custody or take him before a judge who has authority to set bond,” he said. “In this case we knew there was no point in taking him before a judge because the judge would have to dismiss the charge.”

“Even with our testimony?” plump little Mrs. Hester Lloyd asked.

“He has better testimony on his side,” Gunner said. “All we could prove was that Spoda called on Mrs. Pritchard two days ago. His witnesses prove he was miles away when she was gunned. Even though we know they’re lying, there’s nothing we can do without counter witnesses placing him at the scene of the crime.”

“But isn’t Spoda the man Olivia identified as throwing that bomb?” Mrs. Lloyd persisted.

“She only gave us a description that fits Spoda. She never actually identified him, because she was dead when Spoda turned himself in.”

“It’s still obvious he’s the killer. I mean, people like Olivia don’t go around getting shot by just anyone. It seems to me that, like Mr. Hawk said, any jury would understand when a gangster has a motive to kill someone, he threatens her, and then she gets killed in a gangster way, he must be the killer.”

“It has to be more than obvious,” Gunner said. “You have to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

The straight-backed Anna Stenger said, “Aren’t you going to do anything at all, young man? Just let him run loose to kill again?”

Sergeant Gunner said, “There isn’t anything we can do.”

The old ex-schoolteacher sniffed. “We didn’t have that lack of justice when I was young, Sergeant. Criminals were punished.”

Gerard Hawk said, “I guess it makes a difference who you are, Anna. I imagine that when ordinary people who haven’t got gangs behind them commit murder, Sergeant Gunner takes them to court.”

Gunner’s face reddened. “What would you do if you were a cop, Mr. Hawk?”

The old man looked at him without any particular expression. “I was a cop once, Sergeant. But I guess things have changed since my day.”

The sergeant became a little angry. “Maybe you didn’t have the problems we have. You’re right when you say I run ordinary people who commit murder into court. But you think I like watching a cheap hood like Nick Spoda walk out of here clean? You think he’s the only killer who has? What’s a cop supposed to do when an organized mob like the Fallon gang is willing to perjure itself down to the last man? I know Spoda killed your friend, but I couldn’t prove it in court in a million years, so why waste my time trying?”

The old man said to Mrs. Worth, “I guess we’ve done all we can here.”

Gunner glared at him. “You think I wanted to let that hood go?”

Hawk looked at him curiously. “Course not, Sergeant. I understand your technical reasons for turning him loose.”

Courteously, he bent over the aged Anna Stenger and helped her to her feet. Then, as though in idle afterthought, he said, “Doesn’t seem quite right there should be separate rules for gangsters and ordinary people, though. Wasn’t when I wore a badge.”

“How long ago was that?” Gunner asked.

The old man smiled. “Before you were born, Sergeant. Been retired over forty years.”

Sergeant Gunner’s primary reaction to the whole incident was frustration. He felt it unfair to be blamed for a situation beyond his control, yet at the same time he had to admit there was justification for old Gerard Hawk’s unconcealed contempt for the modern law enforcement system. Because the sergeant represented that system, the old man’s attitude continued to rankle long after he and his companions had gone.

He was still feeling frustration when he logged in the following morning and received word that Nick Spoda had been shot dead the previous night. As a homicide cop, Gunner had a natural aversion to murder, but this killing actually gave him a lift.

“The call just came in,” the captain said. “But the guy who called figures it must have happened last night. Manager of the hotel where Nick lived. Want to take it?”

“Naturally,” Gunner said. “I want to pin a medal on the killer.”

Nick Spoda’s home had been the Midland Hotel, a respectable but inexpensive place on upper Grand Avenue. Gunner found a number of people awaiting him in the lobby.

There was the hotel manager, a nervous man who seemed more concerned about possible bad publicity for the hotel than he was disturbed by the death of a tenant. With him was a sleepy-eyed night clerk whom the manager had dragged from bed on the assumption that the police would want to talk to the man who had been on duty when the crime occurred. There was also a uniformed policeman, Mark Fallon, and the same two men who had accompanied him to headquarters the day before.