Уильям Макгиверн: The Big Heat

“Please come in,” she said. “You mustn’t apologize. I know this is necessary.”

“Thank you,” Bannion said. He sat down in an armless chair that made him uncomfortably aware of his size, and faced her across the low, mirrored coffee table. “I won’t stay more than a few minutes, I promise you. My name is Bannion, Dave Bannion, and I knew your husband downtown.”

Mrs. Deery listened attentively, her small head tilted to one side. She gave the impression of not wanting to miss one word he said. “I know Tom had many friends,” she said quietly.

“Would you mind telling me what happened tonight, please?”

“No, of course not. I’m a policeman’s wife, Mr. Bannion. I know this is necessary. Well, Tom came home at a quarter of six as usual. If you knew him you’ll remember how punctual he always was. We had dinner, just the two of us, and then he went into his study. That’s our extra bedroom. I did the dishes, and then came in here to sew and listen to the radio.”

While her voice, low and pleasing, fell into the silent, softly lighted room, Bannion tried to sort out his impressions of her, and of this clean, orderly little world in which Thomas Francis Deery had lived and died. He would like her as a witness on his side, Bannion thought. She was intelligent and controlled — if those words didn’t mean about the same thing. Anyway she was clever enough to control herself, strong enough, too, and cleverness and strength are a reasonable facsimile of intelligence. Physically, she was small, slim, and well-cared for, with ash-blonde hair, streaked with silver at the temples, and clear, fresh skin and eyes. She wore a black suit with a rhinestone clip on the right lapel, and a thin diamond wedding ring.

Everything about her was meticulously arranged and ordered; her small black patent leather pumps shone glossily, her sheer nylons lacked even the suggestion of a wrinkle, and her nail polish and makeup looked as if it had been applied, and with great care, within the last fifteen or twenty minutes. And possibly it had, Bannion thought, with an odd quirk of annoyance.

“I heard the shot, of course, and for a moment, really only a few seconds, I suppose, I sat here, too surprised to move.” Mrs. Deery moistened her lips and looked down at the backs of her slim white hands. “I called to Tom then but got no answer. When I went into the study I found him on the floor. He was dead. I called the police right away,” Mrs. Deery said, looking up into Bannion’s eyes.

“It must have been a terrible shock. Had your husband seemed worried or upset lately?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. I explained to the other detective about his health,” she said. “That’s the only thing I can think of. We have no other problems. There was enough money and we got along very well. Tom didn’t make a great deal but his income was steady, even during the depression when we were just getting started, and we were able to save a little money. It must have been his health that worried him, Mr. Bannion. Three or four times in the last few months he complained of pains along his left side. He said it was probably indigestion when I suggested he see the police surgeon.”

“Then he didn’t go to a doctor?”

“Not that I know of, Mr. Bannion.”

“Did he usually read every night?”

“Not every night, but he did enjoy reading a great deal.”

“He was interested in travel books, I noticed.”

Mrs. Deery smiled, a little girl’s smile. “I really don’t know, Mr. Bannion. I was never much for reading myself. You see, Tom was the brains of the family.”

Bannion took out his cigarettes, but seeing no ashtrays about put them back in his pocket. Mrs. Deery noticed the gesture but said nothing. There was an ashtray in the study, and Tom Deery had apparently done his smoking there, Bannion decided. “Thanks for being so helpful,” he said, standing. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, please get in touch with us, Mrs. Deery.”

“Thank you Mr. Bannion. I appreciate your offer. It... it makes me feel less alone.”

Bannion said goodbye to her and left her behind in the clean, graciously furnished room, still sitting on the brocaded sofa, hands folded quietly in her lap. He closed the door of the room and caught Carmody’s eye. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. They said goodbye to Karret, and went down the stairs and out to Bannion’s car.

The rain was still falling. Bannion lit a cigarette and then stepped on the starter.

“Well, it’s nothing for us,” Carmody said, settling down comfortably.

“Yes, he shot himself, all right,” Bannion said...

Downtown he typed out a detailed but informal report on Deery’s death, and put it in an envelope for the Superintendent. The official report would come from Karret, since it was a district job with no homicide angle. A reporter from the Express, Jerry Furnham, came in and sat on the corner of his desk. Furnham was a veteran of the Hall, a bulky man in his early forties, with thinning black hair and a tough but amiable face. In his work he played ball most of the time, but no one pushed him around. “What’s the story on Deery, Dave?” he said, taking out his cigarettes. “All Kosher?”

Bannion nodded, and took one of Furnham’s cigarettes. “He’s been worried about his health, his wife said.”

“Too bad. What was it? Heart? Cancer?”

“Heart, probably.” Bannion tapped the envelope marked for the Superintendent. “There’s my report on it, if you want to look it over.”

Furnham shook his head. “Our district man in West got the details from Karret. It’s not my story, of course. But the office wanted me to check it. Our man there is a live one from an Alabama school of journalism. The desk just wanted to be sure he hadn’t missed anything — such as Deery’s name and address.”

Bannion smiled, wondering slightly at Furnham’s interest. “Tell them not to worry,” he said.

“Sure. Was there a note, by the way?”

“No, not a thing ”

Furnham borrowed Bannion’s phone to call his desk. After that he sauntered out. Bannion got through some paper work that had accumulated, and then went along to the cell block to talk to Burke’s Negro. The man was frightened, but his story sounded reasonable to Bannion. Burke’s case was a long way from airtight. He told Burke they needed more on it and went back to the office.

Neely and Katz were arguing about the coming elections. Carmody was asleep with his hands folded over his small paunch.

It was almost twelve; time to quit.

When his relief, Sergeant Heineman, lumbered in, Bannion told him everything was quiet, and got into his coat and went out to his car.

It had been a run-of-the-mill night, like a thousand he had known in the past. He felt comfortably tired as he followed the curving, shining Schuylkill out to Germantown, listening with only mild interest to a news program on the radio. It was good to be on his way home, he thought. Home to dinner, to Katie.

Bannion sat in the kitchen with a scotch and soda before him and watched his wife, Kate, as she made dinner. He smiled as she put a steak into a very hot, lightly greased frying pan.

“How you squeeze steaks out of my salary is a source of wonder to me,” he said. “At work they don’t believe it. They insist you’ve got a private income, or something.”

She sat down opposite him and took a small sip from his drink. “Well, enjoy this one then because it’s the last of the month. And next year, when Brigid starts to school, you can kiss them goodbye until she gets out of college. Unless you become Superintendent in the meantime.”

“Oh, that’s inevitable. How was bedtime by the way?”