Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

He found two, but they floated into his mind so unobtrusively, it was some moments before he realized their significance. But when he finally did, he leaped from bed in excitement.

The first detail was small, and by itself probably would have escaped his attention.

It consisted merely of his recollection that Mrs. Johansen, the new landlady at the rooming house where Helen had stayed, had addressed the detective as “Sergeant,” although he had offered no introduction other than his badge. How had she known his rank, when she gave no indication that she had ever seen him before?

It was the second detail which filled him with overwhelming excitement. From Mrs. Johansen’s Sergeant Joe Murphree had driven straight to Mrs. Weston’s.

But he had not asked the address, and at no point during the supposed investigation had Harry given it to him .

Sergeant Don Murphy was not pleased to see Harry.

“I start work at four p.m.,” he said inhospitably. “You’ll find cops on duty at Headquarters.”

“Just any cop won’t do,” Harry told him. “I thought maybe you’d be interested in knowing your police department is crooked.”

The thin detective’s expression did not change and his body continued to bar the door of his small frame cottage. But his voice lost its inhospitable edge.

Without inflection he asked, “You just find that out? How long you been in Wright City?”

Harry ran his eyes over the front of the cheap but tidy cottage, glanced at the neatly trimmed lawn, which was just large enough to accommodate a single tree, and finally settled on a ten-year-old sedan at the curb. “Your car..?” he asked.

Sergeant Murphy stared at him a moment. “Yeah.”

“Sergeant Joe Murphree drives a Mercury convertible. Brand new.”

“Yeah,” Murphy repeated.

“I’ll bet he lives in a bigger home than this, too.”

The thin man regarded him expressionlessly. Then he silently pushed the screen door wide.

Though inexpensively furnished, the living room was as neat and attractive as the outside of the house. Just as Harry seated himself in a worn but comfortable armchair, a boy of about two streaked into the room at a tottering run, a sugar cookie firmly grasped in one pudgy hand.

Behind him rushed a plump, attractive woman clad in a house dress. Before she could reach the youngster, Murphy scooped him up and said, “Here! Who told you you could have cookies before breakfast?” The simple act of picking up the child instantly transformed the thin detective from an emotionless cop to an average husband and father. The habitual chilliness of his expression was replaced by a mock sternness recognizable even to the child as a cover for extreme gentleness. With a happy giggle the youngster allowed his father to salvage the cookie and hand it to his mother.”

“Donnie always grabs a cookie before meals,” Murphy explained to Harry. “It’s a game. Never eats it, but likes the sport of being chased.”

With unconcealed pride he introduced his wife as Anne.

“How do you do?” Mrs. Murphy said. “You’ll have to excuse me while I get some breakfast into this young man.”

Preoccupied with his own problem, it had not occurred to Harry until then that eight o’clock on Saturday morning was rather an early hour for a visit. Confused, he began to apologize for interrupting breakfast.

“We’re finished,” Anne Murphy said. “We let Donnie sleep till eight because we’ve never been able to get him to take an afternoon nap. You aren’t disturbing us at all.”

As soon as she disappeared with the boy, the thin detective became all policeman again. In a cold voice he asked, “Now what’s all this about crooked cops?”

Harry said, “You know about my wife disappearing. Last night, Sergeant Murphree took me on what was supposed to be an investigation, but which I think actually was a deliberate demonstration to me that my case was hopeless. I believe the design was either to convince me I was mad, or frighten me into the realization that if I continued to insist I had a wife and lived at Carlton Avenue, I would end up in an observation ward, and possibly be committed as insane.”

“You mean you think Murphree had something to do with your wife’s disappearance?”

“I’m sure he was a definite part of the cover-up.” He told of Mrs. Johansen’s inadvertent reference to Murphree as “Sergeant,” and of the bull-necked detective driving straight to Harry’s old rooming house without asking the address.

“He’s not only a crook, but a cheap chiseler,” Harry concluded. “Even while he was deliberately making a sucker out of me, he took time out to work me for a two-and-a-half-dollar meal in an expensive restaurant.”

With no expression on his face to indicate his thoughts, Sergeant Murphy turned Harry’s story over in his mind. At last he said, “All right, Joe Murphree is a crooked cop. But why come to me instead of taking your complaint to Headquarters?”

“Maybe at Headquarters I’d run into more crooked cops. I been thinking it over, and it seems funny the desk sergeant referred me to Murphree by name instead of just sending me to the detective bureau. Maybe they expected my visit and were all primed.”

“Maybe I’m crooked too,” the detective said dryly.

Harry shook his head. “Last evening I could tell you hated Joe Murphree’s guts. When I became convinced Murphree was a crooked cop, it occurred to me maybe you hated him because you’re an honest one.”

The thin detective emitted a non-committal grunt. “And what do you think I can do?”

“Maybe nothing,” Harry said. “But you’re a trained investigator and I imagine you know Wright City pretty well. I’m not even an amateur investigator and I’m practically a stranger in the city. Alone, I wouldn’t even know where to start, but with your help I might at least have a chance.”

“Look, Nolan,” Murphy said bluntly. “This isn’t even a Homicide case. At least not yet. I put in more time than I get paid for now. Why should I stick my neck out off-duty for a guy I only met yesterday?”

Harry said slowly, “No reason—except I think you’re an honest cop.”

The detective glanced at him sharply. “What’s that got to do with it? I can name you as many honest cops on the force as crooked ones.”

Harry said evenly, “Doesn’t an honest cop have certain responsibilities that aren’t listed in regulations? Sort of moral responsibilities? Me, I was raised to obey the law and respect the law, but never to be afraid of it. Probably most American kids grow up with that attitude. But when you find yourself in a jam and go to the police for help, only to discover the police are working with the criminals who caused your jam, it shakes your faith in the whole law-enforcement system. I’m not speaking as an irate taxpayer, but merely as a citizen who has always believed in the American system of government. What would happen to our society if all our law-abiding citizens lost faith in our system of law enforcement?”

“Anarchy, probably,” Murphy said laconically. “But even honest detective sergeants can’t buck City Hall. And Joe Murphree has the backing of City Hall.”

Harry was silent for a moment. “I see,” he said finally. “I suppose it is asking a lot, since I imagine an honest cop in this town has to move pretty carefully if he wants to hold his job. Naturally you have to consider your wife and kid’s security.” Rising from his chair and walking to the door, Harry turned and said without any particular emphasis, “I suppose Helen isn’t the first woman in Wright City who ever vanished. Or the last. It could happen in any family.”

Involuntarily, the detective glanced toward the door through which his wife had disappeared with his son. Then his chill face relaxed in a wry smile.