Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

Mark Fallon seemed to be suffering from barely controlled rage. “We already know who did this, Sergeant,” he said. “I would like to go along when you make the arrest.”

Gunner eyed the lawyer with distaste. Had anyone else present announced that he knew the name of the killer, he would have asked for details before he did anything else. But Fallon aroused in him a desire to be contrary.

“Hold it until I’m ready for you,” he said. He turned to the patrolman. “Where is it?”

“Second floor, Sarge. My partner’s guarding the door.”

Ordering everyone to wait in the lobby, Gunner climbed stairs to the second floor. Halfway along the hall, another uniformed policeman stood in front of a closed door. Several other doors were open, and tenants stood in them, curiously watching the patrolman.

In the room, Gunner found Nick Spoda sprawled on his back just outside the bathroom door, a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He was dressed, but the collar of his shirt was tucked in all around, and shaving cream had dried on his checks. A safety razor was gripped in his right hand.

It was apparent that someone had entered the room while Spoda was shaving. The gangster had stepped to the bathroom door to see who it was and had been shot.

“The manager says nothing’s been touched,” the patrolman said. “A cleaning maid discovered him about an hour ago, around eight. She didn’t disturb anything, and the manager said he didn’t even enter the room, just looked from the doorway.”

Bending over the body, Gunner lifted the head enough to satisfy himself there was no exit wound. “Still in the head,” he said, ostensibly to the patrolman, but really to himself. “Shouldn’t be too mashed up for comparison purposes.”

Rising, he went over the room quickly but thoroughly, finding nothing of interest. In the bathroom, he found a can of shaving cream on the washbowl counter and a couple of inches of soap-filmed water in the bowl.

Noting the sergeant’s scowl, the patrolman said, “Nothing, huh?”

“The killer didn’t leave any calling cards,” Gunner said.

Instructing the guard to admit the lab man and photographer when they arrived, and release the body to the morgue as soon as they finished their work, he returned to the lobby. He addressed his first question to Mark Fallon.

“What are you doing here, counselor?”

The lawyer said, “I had a golf date with Nick. When I walked in and learned what had happened, I stuck around. That old coot who was in your office yesterday killed him, Sergeant.”

When Gunner gave his eyebrows an inquiring hike, Fallon said, “I phoned Nick at seven-thirty last night to make our golf date. He told me old Hawk had just called and asked to come see him at eight-thirty. That’s when he was shot.”

Tabling him, Gunner turned to the hotel manager. “What’s your name?”

“Thomas Bower.”

“All right, Mr. Bower, tell me what you know.”

He didn’t know very much. Aside from having looked into Spoda’s room long enough to assure himself the man was dead, he knew only what he had gotten from the night desk clerk. When he started to relay that, Gunner cut him off in favor of getting it from the source.

“You tell it,” he said to the clerk.

The night clerk was a thin man in his twenties named Amuel Card. He said he lived at the hotel. He said he had heard a shot about eight-thirty the previous night, sounding as though it came from the second floor.

“What did you do about it?” Gunner asked.

“Went up and looked down the hall. All the doors were closed and I couldn’t see anything, so I figured it must have been a backfire from outdoors, and just sounded like it came from inside.”

“None of the second-floor tenants heard it?”

“I don’t think any were in, except Mr. Spoda. Most tenants are out to dinner about then.”

“You know Gerard Hawk?” Gunner asked.

The clerk shook his head. “Unless he’s the old guy who came by about six, just after I went on duty.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall and kind of bent over. White hair and a droopy white mustache. He asked for Mr. Spoda’s room number, but he never went up. Just thanked me and left.”

“He didn’t come back at eight-thirty?”

Again the clerk shook his head. Then he shrugged. “Maybe by the back stairs, but I didn’t see him.”

Gunner went to examine the back stairs. They could be seen from the desk, he noted, but were invisible from the left side of the lobby.

Returning to the clerk, he asked, “Were you behind the desk when you heard the shot?”

“No, reading a paper over there.” He pointed to a leather easy chair well to the left of the desk. “When things are quiet, I don’t sit at the desk much.”

Mark Fallon said, “It’s obvious that crazy old man killed him, Sergeant. You have any objection to my going along when you make the arrest?”

After examining him moodily, Gunner shrugged. “Leave your pet apes behind and you can come.”

The lawyer told his two henchmen he wouldn’t need them anymore that day.

Mrs. Worth answered the door at the Riverview Senior Citizens Retirement Home. Showing them into an immaculate but old-fashioned parlor, she invited them to sit.

Politely declining for both of them, Gunner said, “We’re here on rather unpleasant business, Mrs. Worth. Nick Spoda was murdered last night.”

The retirement home manager’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“Mr. Hawk had an appointment with him at eight-thirty. That’s when Spoda was shot.”

Mrs. Worth’s eyes widened even more. “You can’t possibly be suggesting that Mr. Hawk killed him.”

“Afraid I am. He was pretty fond of Olivia Pritchard, wasn’t he?”

“We all were.”

“He was pretty sore about Nick being turned loose.”

“We all were that, too, Sergeant. But Mr. Hawk’s a law-abiding man. He used to be a policeman, himself.”

“He mentioned that. Do you know where?”

“All over the country. He was a G-Man under the famous Melvin Purvis. Mr. Hawk helped shoot Dillinger, he was at the shootout with the Ma Barker gang, and he once put a bullet in Pretty Boy Floyd.”

Mark Fallon said, “There you are, Sergeant. Those FBI men in the 1930s were nothing but legal killers. Old J. Edgar Hoover didn’t believe in arresting bank robbers. His order was to shoot hell out of them.”

“That was fifty years ago,” Gunner said.

“Once a killer, always a killer, Sergeant. The old coot was trained to shoot suspects on sight, and obviously that’s still his philosophy.”

Gunner asked Mrs. Worth where Gerard Hawk was.

“In Anna Stenger’s room, I imagine. Usually they play bridge there mornings. Three-handed, now that Olivia’s gone.”

She led them into the hall and across it to the nearest door. When she knocked, Anna Stenger’s voice called an invitation to come in.

Anna, Hester Lloyd, and Gerard Hawk sat at a card table in the center of the room. It was a large room, airy and well-lighted by French doors on two sides which led to the front and side lawns. The lawn was not more than six inches below the doorsills, Gunner noted, making it convenient for the old people to step outdoors without having to bother going through the building to the front door.

The three card players greeted the sergeant without any evidence of surprise, ignoring Mark Fallon.

Gunner got right to the point. “Mr. Hawk, Nick Spoda was shot to death last night.”

Riffling the cards, the old man began to deal. “Young fellow who shot Olivia, you mean?”

Mark Fallon said, “He didn’t shoot anyone.”

Anna Stenger said, “You put down my last score, Hester?”