Стюарт Стерлинг - Down Among the Dead Men

There were other bits of unfinished business that rankled in the Lieutenant’s mind. At the Bar-Nothing Ranch, for instance. How had the man with the bandaged face known his victim and the Purdo girl would be there? What knowledge was Big Dommy holding out? What had Claire Purdo known that made it necessary for her to be rubbed out?

There weren’t so many doubtful angles to the Whitehall Street phase of the case, but they might be the most important of all. The son who rebelled at his father’s pattern of life, his shipping out under an assumed name, the high number of sinkings of Ovett vessels, the short-wave apparatus—

He got to his feet, wandered down between the tables. Uniformed men nodded to — him, plainclothesmen swung genial punches as he passed so he had to curve his body out of range in order to protect his ribs. A couple of cameramen inquired if he had any more meat in the refrigerator.

A graying inspector with a napkin tucked up under his chin called out: “I’ve had a councilman Cahill on my neck all morning. Says he’s going to go all the way up to the top if you don’t lay off Dominick.”

“Some day that Greek’ll short-circuit himself good.”

“I told Cahill we had no control over you; you were unpredictable, erratic and we’d be glad when you put in for a pension. But we had to stand for your vagaries because you knew the secret vice of one of the mayor’s cousins.” He gnawed on a lamb-bone. “Cahill will probably start sucking around you, now; get you to use your inside to boost him into a soft spot at City Hall. These two-bit wirepullers!” He mopped his mouth, grinning. “Was Dominick in that thing?”

“All the returns aren’t in yet, Eddie. I’d say Dommy wouldn’t be elected. Thanks.”

He stopped at the cigar counter long enough to read the list of Departmental Transfers pasted on a cardboard; edged into one of the phone booths. It took five cents and five minutes to learn that the Sixth Detective Division was blank on the subject of visitors to Ellen Wyatt’s sail-loft and that the SINBAD message had been telephoned in to the Fulton Street Western Union from a coin-phone.

He got back to the table as Mulcahey came in, shaking himself. “A wild guess chase, entirely, skipper. Joslin was in the midst of admiring friends all day the Sabbath. Unless half the waterfront is committing mass perjury. Still, I will feel better when we have him in tow, again. What are you munching on?”

“Pot roast. Stop spraying the tablecloth. You’re worse than a Saint Bernard after a bath.”

The Sergeant examined the list of dishes. “Eels today. Juicy fried eels, praise be. And a beaker of bock, garsong.” He felt of his lip, wincing. “Say, coach...”

“Say away...”

“Did you happen to gander at the Joslin scar? Would it be farfetched to figure a guy who wanted to commit a felony would wish to hide a marker like that? With a bandage, mayhap?”

“Some such idea did occur to me.”

“It would carry weight with a jury, in my opinion.”

“Why for? You could cover up a hell of a lot of things with a bandage like that. A mustache, for instance. A beard. Or the shape of a face.”

The waiter brought a tray. “Phone for you, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks, Mac.” He laid down his fork, went into the booth. “Koski, here.”

“Nixon. Hate to spoil your repast, but I knew you’d want to know.”

“Bomb away.”

“Eustape Mirando, junkie, license 2714, recovered a portion of a human body from the east bank of the Gowanus Canal about three-quarters of an hour ago.”

“Every little bit, added to what we’ve got.”

“What we’ve got is an arm.”

“Which arm?”

“Left.”

“Just the very thing I wanted, Inspector. How did you know! Tattoo mark on the bicep?”

“Not even a vaccination mark. The upper part of the member was what the Medexam office calls severely lacerated. In other words, all chewed up to hell and gone. Done with a knife, I’d say.”

“Runs to form.” Koski considered. “How about the hand. Any prints?”

“We can get prints from a billiard ball. The skin’s shriveled, of course. But we’ll pump a little embalming fluid in the arteries and bring the lines out a little. If there’s enough left of the arteries.”

“Um! About the prints. When you get them, check around with the others, hah?”

Nixon made a derisive noise. “We’ve got a checking job that would panic a blonde at a night-club cloakroom. I’ve got three of my best boys glued to the eyepieces, classifying Agaroppoulous, Purdo, Johnson,—”

“Who’s he?”

“She. Dora Johnson. Colored maid at Agarappoulous’ den of iniquity, — Johnson, Hurlihan, the shots from Room Five at the Bar-Nothing, from the Purdo place, the Wyatt studio, Merrill Ovett’s apartment and God knows what.”

“Add one minor item. A Filipino by the name of Frankie Salderon. Frankie’s in a pew at the Tombs. Much oblige.”

He went back to the table. “How’re the eels, Sarge?”

“A dish for the duke, no less.” He lifted his glass.

“Attaboy.” Koski drained his coffee, standing. “They found an arm. In the Gowanus. Seems to go with the rest of the jig-saw. Whoever tossed it into the canal made sure we wouldn’t see any tattooing on it, though. It was a busy day with the knife.”

“What did the dirty ripper do? Row around the harbor to scatter the pieces far and wide?”

“Tide might carry a leg out of the Gowanus to Governors, caught it just right. Arm was probably dumped in with it. One drifted; the other stuck in the mud. We might have to dredge a bit. For the rest of him.”

The Sergeant wiped foam off his lips. “I knew I should not of put them grappling irons away in mothballs. Shall we be up and doing?”

“Another little errand for you, first.”

“Would it be a trip to the yacht to see Lady Itchy-britches, perchance?” The Sergeant tapped the rim of his glass. “A couple of these under my belt and I feel like a new woman.”

“Doesn’t concern the female of the species. Hop over to Pier Nine. Ask that super, Hurlihan, if he’s seen or heard from Merrill Ovett. What he was doing Sunday morning, around noon. Bigwig Berger, at the Line offices, claims Joslin was with Hurlihan at the Sulgrave Hotel. But Joslin says he was with Merrill Ovett. Maybe all three of them got together. Like to know about that.”

A City News legman strolled past, chewing on a toothpick. “They’ll be fitting you birds out with depth charges, now, won’t they, Lieutenant?”

“Yair? Why?”

“Didn’t you hear? Flash just came through. One of those new super-subs was sighted only a few miles off Fire Island Light, just after dark last night. By those survivors the Algonquin brought in.”

“Ah! Somebody probably saw some wreckage moving in a tide-rip, — thought they’d spotted the grampa of all periscopes. Don’t get the public gidgety over a report like that.” He dismissed it with an offhand gesture and the newshawk moved on.

But there was nothing offhand about the urgency with which Koski put his call through to Coast Guard Intelligence...

Henry Sutlee Fross marched briskly down the marbled corridor of the thirty-eighth floor, past an arched door with the unobtrusive inscription:

He used a pass-key, opened a door bearing no lettering nor any number. The furnishings of the room were somewhat unusual for an office building. In a blue-tiled fireplace embers glowed cheerfully; the pungent tang of hickory was evident. A chaise longue was arranged at one side of the tile hearth, a chair in cinnamon-colored chintz on the other. Carafes and bottles on a midget bar glistened under the soft light of a lime-shaded table lamp. The paintings on the walls were cubist still lifes; the frames wide and unpainted.