Richard Deming - Gallows in My Garden

“What?”

“It’s too wild to repeat. Let me use your phone some more.”

After using the phone book again, I dialed another number.

“City Hospital,” a male voice answered.

I told the man who I was and that I wanted to get in touch with Dr. Thomas Halleran.

“He’s off duty till seven a.m.,” the voice said.

I got the phone number of intern quarters from him and eventually got Halleran to the phone.

“Manny Moon,” I told him. “I sent you two shot-up hoodlums a little while ago. Seen them yet?”

“I heard about them. I’ll see them in the morning.” He laughed in a deliberately ghoulish manner. “Thanks for the business.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but I think he meant it. I said, “Do me a favor and phone your report to my flat as soon as you get it, will you?”

“Sure, Manny. Looking for anything in particular?”

“Yes. The short one has a previous wound and is still bandaged up. I’d like to know if it was made by one bullet or two.”

His voice sounded puzzled. “All right. Can do.” Then he brightened. “I’ll start about seven-thirty. Why don’t you come down and watch?”

I told him I hated to miss the chance, but I always had breakfast at seven-thirty. Then I hung up before he could make any joking remarks about the lovely fare he could provide for breakfast at the morgue.

“What was that double talk about two bullets?” Day wanted to know.

I grinned at him. “That was for your benefit, Inspector. It isn’t actually what I wanted to know at all.”

“Are you holding out again?” he demanded.

“Sure,” I admitted brazenly, then as his nose began to whiten, I added, “But only overnight. I’ll let you in on my wild idea after I hear from Halleran in the morning. Let’s go home and go to bed.”

I keep my phone in my bedroom because most of the people I know stay up all night and think nothing of making phone calls at four in the morning. A scientific study of the matter led me to the conclusion that although I get more phone calls during the day than at night, it requires much less energy to rise from an easy chair three or four times and walk into the bedroom than it does to climb out of bed even once, strap on my leg, and stagger, half-asleep, into the front room.

When the phone rang at eight a.m., I simply reached over and grabbed it without even bothering to wake up.

“Fumph,” I said intelligently.

“Tom Halleran,” a cheery voice said. “You awake yet?”

“No,” I said. I sat up, shook my head, then replaced the receiver to my ear. “Partially now. Go ahead.”

“Both customers were D.O.A.,” he told me. “The short one caught a bullet at the juncture of the frontal bones, it penetrated downward clear through the medulla oblongata and exited—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “I don’t know a frontal bone from an elbow, but I know what killed the guy. All I’m interested in is his previous wound. Had his arm in a sling, didn’t he?”

“That’s right. Apparently a day-or-two-old gunshot wound. Shattered the right humerus. Seemed to be only one wound though.”

“That’s all I expected,” I told him. “That question about two bullets was just to confuse Warren Day. Would you say it was a serious wound?”

“He’d have gotten over it, if that’s what you mean. Might have developed a stiff arm. A shattered bone is never exactly a minor injury.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“The big guy’s previous wound was a little more complicated,” he said.

“What?”

“I said the big guy’s previous wound was more complicated.”

I thought this over awhile and finally asked, “What previous wound?”

“He had a stomach wound about two weeks old. He still had a compress on it, and I’d say he hadn’t been out of bed more than a week.”

“Thanks again,” I said. “Call me any time you need a fresh corpse.”

As soon as I hung up, I lifted the receiver again and phoned Homicide.

“Inspector Warren Day, please,” I said.

After a moment Day came to the phone. “Yes?”

“Manny Moon,” I said.

“You’re phoning from bed,” he accused. “You couldn’t possibly be up this early.”

“I’ve already done the laundry and got the kids off to school,” I told him. “How’s the chief this morning?”

“All right. I just phoned the hospital. He checks out in an hour. The doc wants him to rest at home today, but he’ll be in tomorrow.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “What you got that’s recent on Dude Garrity and Harry Sommerfield?”

“About ten pages of teletype. One or the other was wanted everywhere but Greenland and British Somali-land. Get specific.”

“Where would Garrity have picked up a stomach wound about two weeks ago?”

“Nowhere,” he said promptly. “I got the record memorized.”

“Then recheck your memory,” I told him. “Doctor Tom Halleran just phoned me, and Garrity’s got one.”

Day was silent for a minute. “So what difference does it make now?” he asked finally.

“Maybe none. But do me a favor and recheck, eh?”

“All right,” he said grumpily. “Drop down later on and maybe I’ll have something. You hear from Quisby yet?”

“No. I’m going to phone him now.”

“Ring me back if he has anything,” Day said, and hung up in my ear.

The next call I made was to Fausta’s apartment. Grace Lawson answered.

“Good morning,” I said. “You people had breakfast yet?”

“Just getting ready to fix it.”

“Hold off a half hour and I’ll join you,” I said.

“All right. I’ll tell Fausta, but you better hurry. And listen, Mr. Moon. Is it all right if Arnold comes up to see me here?”

“Not unless I’m there, too. Has he tried to?”

“He’s downstairs now, but Mr. Greene won’t let him up.”

“Good for Mr. Greene,” I said. “See you in a half hour.”

I made another call, to Professor Laurence Quisby’s house. His sister answered the phone.

“Laurence tried to phone you three times,” she said. “But your line has been busy for fifteen minutes. He had to leave because he had an eight-thirty class, but he wants you to stop by the school.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you happen to know if he deciphered the message?”

“Laurence never discusses his police business with me,” she said in a cool voice.

My last phone call before getting out of bed was for a taxi. In the fifteen minutes it took for it to arrive, I managed to shave, shower, and dress.

I got to El Patio about a quarter of nine.

At the bottom of the stairs to Fausta’s apartment I found two people. Mouldy Greene sat on the third step with his arms folded. Glowering at him with his hands on his hips and his face red from anger was Arnold Tate.

I said, “Good morning, gentlemen,” to which Mouldy waved languidly and said, “Hi, Sarge.”

Arnold swung around. “Mr. Moon, will you tell this — this gentleman it’s all right for me to see my wife?”

“Had breakfast?” I asked.

“Yes. I mean no. I had a cup of coffee. How can I eat when I don’t know how Grace is? And why aren’t you with her?”

“Mr. Greene and I are working shifts,” I told him. To Mouldy I said, “Let him go up. Breakfast ought to be ready by now, so he can’t poison it.”

Grace greeted her husband as though they had been separated two years instead of two nights. They sat holding hands through the whole meal, hardly touching the pancakes and sausages Fausta went to the trouble of preparing. To make Fausta feel better, Mouldy and I ate their shares.

“Why aren’t you in school?” I asked Arnold, when the immediate business of breakfast was disposed of.