Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“That lousy snot nose,” Andy said. “That little son of a...”

“Come on,” I said.

We started down, and I looked at the empty lots on the other corners. Then I turned back to take a last look at the house. “There’s nothing more here,” I said. “We better get back.”

There were thirty-nine cars stolen in New York City that day. Of the bigger cars, two were Buicks, four Chryslers, and one Cadillac. One of the Chryslers was stolen from a neighborhood about two miles from the scene of the accident.

“How about that?” Andy asked.

“How about it?”

“The guy stole the buggy and when Benson hailed him he knew he was in hot water. He cut him down.”

“ If Benson hailed him.”

“Maybe Benson only stuck up his hand to stop traffic. The guy misunderstood, and crashed through.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

We checked with the owner of the Chrysler. She was a fluttery woman who was obviously impressed with the fact that two policemen were calling on her personally about her missing car.

“Well, I never expected such quick action,” she said. “I mean, really.”

“The car was a Chrysler, ma’am?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, nodding her head emphatically. “We’ve never owned anything but a Chrysler.”

“What was the year, ma’am?”

“I gave all this information on the phone,” she said.

“I know, ma’am. We’re just checking it again.”

“A new car. 1953.”

“The color?”

“Blue. A sort of robin’s egg blue, do you know? I told that to the man who answered the phone.”

“License number?”

“Oh, again? Well, just a moment.” She stood up and walked to the kitchen, returning with her purse. She fished into the purse, came up with a wallet, and then rummaged through that for her registration. “Here it is,” she said.

“What, ma’am?”

“7T8458.”

Andy looked up. “That’s a Nassau County plate, ma’am.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“In the Bronx? How come?”

“Well... oh, you’ll think this is silly.”

“Let’s hear it, ma’am.”

“Well, a Long Island plate is so much more impressive. I mean, well, we plan on moving there soon anyway.”

“And you went all the way to Nassau to get a plate?”

“Yes.”

Andy coughed politely. “Well, maybe that’ll make it easier.”

“Do you think you’ll find the car?”

“We certainly hope so, ma’am.”

We found the car that afternoon. It was parked on a side street in Brooklyn. It was in perfect condition, no damage to the front end, no blood anywhere on the grille or bumper. The lab checked the tires against the skid marks. Negative. This, coupled with the fact that the murder car would undoubtedly have sustained injuries after such a violent smash, told us we’d drawn a blank. We returned the car to the owner.

She was very happy.

By the end of the week, we’d recovered all but one of the stolen cars. None of them checked with what we had. The only missing car was the Cadillac. It had been swiped from a parking lot in Queens, with the thief presenting the attendant with a claim ticket for the car. The m.o. sounded professional, whereas the kill looked like a fool stunt. When another Caddy was stolen from a lot in Jamaica, with the thief using the same modus operandi, we figured it for a ring, and left it to the Automobile Squad.

In the meantime, we’d begun checking all auto body and fender repair shops in the city. We had just about ruled out a stolen car by this time, and if the car was privately owned, the person who’d run down Benson would undoubtedly try to have the damage to his car repaired.

The lab had reported finding glass slivers from a sealbeam imbedded in Benson’s shirt, together with chips of black paint. From the position of the skid marks, they estimated that he’d been hit by the right side of the car, and they figured the broken light would be on that side, together with the heaviest damage to the grille.

Because Andy still clung to the theory that the driver had been involved in something fishy just before he hit Benson, we checked with the local precinct squads for any possibly related robberies or burglaries, and we also checked with the Safe, Loft, and Truck Squad. There’d been a grocery store holdup in the neighboring vicinity on the day of the hit and run but the thief had already been apprehended, and he was driving a ’37 Ford. Both headlights were intact, and any damage to the grille had been sustained years ago.

We continued to check on repair shops.

When the Complaint Report came in, we leaped on it at once. We glossed over the usual garbage in the heading and skipped down to the DETAILS:

Telephone message from one Mrs. James Dalley, owner and resident of private dwelling at 2389 Barnes Avenue. Dispatched Radio Motor Patrol #761. Mrs. Dalley returned from two-week vacation to find picket fence around house smashed in on northwest corner. Tire marks in bed of irises in front yard indicate heavy automobile or light truck responsible for damage. Black paint discovered on damaged pickets. Good tire marks in wet mud of iris bed, casts made. Tire size 7.60–15, 4-ply. Estimated weight 28 pounds. Further investigation of tread marks disclosed tire to be Sears, Roebuck and Company, registered trademark Allstate Tires. Catalog number 95K 01227K. Case still active pending receipt of reports and further investigation.

“You can damn well bet it’s still active,” Andy said. “This may be it, Mike.”

“Maybe,” I said.

It wasn’t.

The tire was a very popular seller, and the mail order house sold thousands of them every year, both through the mails and over the counter. It was impossible to check over-the-counter sales, and a check of mail order receipts revealed that no purchases had been made within a two-mile radius of the hit and run. We extended the radius, checked on all the purchasers, and found no suspicious-looking automobiles, although all of the cars were big ones. There was one black car in the batch — and there wasn’t a scratch on it.

But Mrs. Dalley’s house was about ten blocks from the scene of the killing, and that was too close for coincidence. We checked out a car and drove over.

She was a woman in her late thirties, and she greeted us at the door in a loose housecoat, her hair up in curlers.

“Police officers,” I said.

Her hand went to her hair, and she said, “Oh, my goodness.” She fretted a little more about her appearance, belted the housecoat tighter around her waist, and then said, “Come in, come in.”

We questioned her a little about the fence and the iris bed, got substantially what was in the Complaint Report, and then went out to look at the damage. She stayed in the house, and when she joined us later, she was wearing tight black slacks and a chartreuse sweater. She’d also tied a scarf around her hair, hiding the curlers.

The house was situated on a corner with a side street intersecting Barnes Avenue, and then a gravel road cutting into another intersection. The tire marks seemed to indicate the car had come down the gravel road, and then backed up the side street, knocking over the picket fence when it did. It all pointed to a drunken driver.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“We’re working on it,” Andy said. “Any of your neighbors witness this?”

“No. I asked around. No one saw the car. They heard the crash, came out and saw the damaged fence, but the car had gone already.”

“Was anything missing from your house or yard?”

“No. It was locked up tight. We were on vacation, you know.”

“What kind of a car does your husband drive, ma’am?”

“A ’48 Olds. Why?”

“Just wondering.”