Richard Deming - Gallows in My Garden

“Shut up and get out of the way!” Day snarled at him.

The next half hour was a madhouse of popping flash bulbs, fingerprint dust, and barked orders from the inspector. A medical examiner fixed the time of death as somewhere between twelve and twenty-four hours earlier, and the hotel manager identified the body as that of Vance Logan. Vance departed in a wicker basket just as the first reporters arrived.

The inspector gathered the reporters around him in the hall and said, “The victim is Vance Logan and this is his apartment. He was found by Manville Moon, who was visiting him on business. He had a German automatic in his hand and a bullet in his head. Been dead several hours when discovered. On the surface it looks like suicide, but we think it’s murder and have already dug up several important clues. We have a lead on the suspected killer — or killers — and expect to make an arrest within twenty-four hours. No stone will be left unturned to—”

“Who’s the suspected killer?” a reporter from the Post asked. “Off the record, of course.”

The inspector glared at him. “No stone will be left unturned to bring the murderer to justice speedily. You may quote me as saying outrages such as this will not be tolerated as long as I remain chief of Homicide, and my department will not rest until the culprit is safely behind bars.” He paused, peered around the circle of bored faces, and snapped, “No further statement.”

“Who was this guy, Inspector?” asked the reporter from the Post. “Give with a little background.”

“Get it from the hotel manager, here,” Day said, jerking his thumb at the fat man.

Then he took my arm and led me back into the apartment. Before he closed the door, we could hear the manager saying appealingly, “Couldn’t you fellows say ‘a downtown hotel’ instead of ‘Grand Towers’? Mr. Logan wasn’t one of the regular residents, you see. Only been here a few months and—”

The inspector shut the door and cut off the rest of it.

Lieutenant Hannegan idly rested on the front-room sofa, but the rest of the police horde had departed.

“All right, Moon,” Day said wearily. “Now give with the dope.”

Briefly I explained how and why I happened to find the body.

“On the surface it looks like this ties Donald Senior’s death in with Don Junior’s and the attempts on young Grace,” the inspector said, scratching his bald head. “If you hadn’t already connected this Logan with the Lawson case, it might have passed as a suicide. But why you suppose those two mugs were stupid enough to use a gun that could be traced?”

I shrugged. “It’s a war souvenir. Must be thousands of unregistered German P-38s floating around. Maybe they thought my mind worked like theirs and I wouldn’t have registered it.”

“Is it registered?”

I looked at him coldly. “If you think back, Inspector, you’ve had me in jail three times on charges you dreamed up but couldn’t make stick. Every time you took my gun away and checked the registration.”

The three occasions were sore spots for both of us. Day shifted the conversation to a new channel.

He fished in his pocket, produced half a chewed-up cigar, and clamped it in his teeth. “If we could nail those two mugs, we’d be a long way toward clearing this whole thing up. I can’t understand where they’ve holed up, because every man on the force has their photographs and has memorized their descriptions.” He peered at me over his glasses. “You got any more bright ideas?”

“One,” I said, “but it may make you mad.”

He spat out a shred of tobacco. “Spill it anyway. This thing has got me so confused I’m even willing to listen to you.”

“How about giving me authority to retrace everything you did in such a hurry Saturday night and Sunday morning? Talk to whoever performed the autopsy on Don, for example, and to the handwriting expert who examined the so-called suicide note.”

“Don’t you think we know how to compile evidence?” Day growled. “Think we need an ex-stevedore to check on us?”

I shrugged. “Told you it would make you mad.”

Glumly he examined my face. “Tell you what,” he said finally. “I been thinking of assigning someone to go back over that ground, anyway. It will save a man if you do it instead. But I want your guarantee you’ll report everything you find out.”

“Why should I hold out on you?” I asked irritably. “I’m as eager to catch this killer as you are.”

“You’ve held out before. Just try it this time and I’ll get your license lifted so fast you’ll be selling pencils before your head stops spinning.”

“All right. All right. I won’t hold out.”

“Don’t,” he warned. He studied my face for a moment. “Be at headquarters at nine in the morning. After we get your statement about tonight on paper, I’ll give you a note to Doc Halleran and Professor Quisby, so you can check back on the autopsy and suicide note.”

“Fine. Need me for anything else now?”

“Not till nine in the morning. Be there on time.”

My taxi was still waiting and the bill had mounted accordingly.

“If you do this often, you could afford to buy a car,” the driver told me.

“I have one,” I said. “It’s in the garage having a fireplug pried loose from its radiator.”

He shook his head sympathetically. “These new cars can’t take the same knocking around they did ten years ago. Every little thing you bump puts them in the garage.”

I told him to take me home.

At eight the next morning I found Mouldy sitting on his cot in his undershirt and trousers, in which apparently he had slept. He told me someone was up in the apartment because he had heard movements, but neither Grace nor Fausta had yet appeared.

Leaning across the cot, I knocked on the door and almost immediately it was opened by Fausta. She wore a dirndl and a white silk peasant blouse which exposed shoulders the color of coffee with cream and just as appetizing to a man who had not yet had breakfast. Her tangy perfume mixed with the aroma of frying eggs in the background.

“Gee, that smells good!” I remarked, climbing over Mouldy’s bed.

“It is called Nocturnal Menace,” Fausta said, tipping an ear for me to sniff.

“I meant the eggs,” I said absently, walking on by her toward the kitchen.

I had taken two steps when her spike heel caught me in the seat of the pants. I spun around to find her standing with hands balled against her hips and a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“The perfume is nice, too,” I said, backing into the kitchen.

Grace Lawson, minus her Mickey Finn hang-over and looking like a twelve-year-old kid in a blue playsuit that exhibited six inches of tanned stomach and all of her slim legs, was setting the table.

“We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Moon,” she said. “Is Mr. Greene up yet?”

“Just barely,” I said, staring at the brief shorts and briefer jacket. “Look, I’m not letting you out of my sight today, but I’ve got a lot of running around to do and I’ll have to take you along. You’re not planning to wear that outfit on the street, are you?”

“Certainly,” she said in an offended tone. “All the girls dress like this in this weather.”

“Not when they’re with me,” I said definitely, “unless I’m going to the beach. You get on a dress.”

“Hah!” Fausta put in. “If her stepmother dressed like that, you would goggle with the eyes and say nothing. Let the child alone.”

Mouldy came in to join us for breakfast, having donned a shirt and his shoes. He had not yet shaved, but with his face it made little difference.

I decided to let Grace’s costume ride until after breakfast, which was a mistake, for when I brought it up again, Fausta turned obstinate and declared she was going along with us in a like costume. Flouncing into the bedroom, she returned wearing a yellow bandana in place of the peasant blouse and yellow silk shorts in place of the dirndl. “Ye Gods!” I said. “You look like you’re in your underwear!”