McBain, Ed - Killer's Wedge

"Ever been up in that den of his?"

"Yes."

"Were you up there yesterday afternoon?"

"Not at all?"

"No. Not until we discovered the door was locked," "Who discovered that?"

"Alan. He went up to get the old man, and the old man didn't answer. He tried the door, and it was locked. Then he called the rest of us."

"How did he know it was locked?"

"It wouldn't budge. Not an inch. How else would we know it was locked? We all tried to open it, and it wouldn't move. Then we all tried together, and it still wouldn't move. Obviously, it was locked from the inside. And obviously, if you're hinting-with about the subtlety of a steam locomotive-at foul play, I should think you'd; take that locked door into consideration. It would have been impossible for anyone to have killed Father, got out of the room, and then locked the door from the outside. Absolutely impossible."

"How do you know that?"

"The door fits snugly into the Iamb. There is hardly any tolerance between door and jamb, Mr. Carella."

"You seem to have made a study of the problem."

"Only after it was discovered that Father was dead. I'll admit it crossed my mind that someone might have killed him. Not anyone in the family, you understand, but perhaps someone. And then I realized no one could have. Because the door could not have been locked from outside that room. It had to be locked from within, and there was no one in the room but Father. So that lets out murder."

"Mr. Scott," Carella said, "would the tolerance between door and door jamb permit the pass~ige of a piece of strong cotton thread?"

"Why do you ask?"

"A piece of thread looped over the handle of the slip bolt and then pulled into the crack where door met jamb could be maneuvered from the outside so that the bolt could be pulled shut and then the thread removed. All from the outside."

"That would have been impossible with this door and this jamb. Surely an observant detective such as you must have noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"There is a strong draft rushing through that upstairs corridor, coming from the window at the end of the hail. The den was rather uncomfortable when Father first had it finished. And so he storm proofed the door to the den in much the same way one would storm proof an exterior door."

"And what way is that?"

"A metal runner on the door and a metal lip on the door jamn. Runner fits into lip to seal the door snugly."

"Not so snugly, I'll bet, that a piece of cotton thread couldn't pass through it."

"Possibly not, Mr. Carella. But that's not my point."

"What is your point?"

"The weatherproofing made the door difficult to close. It was put on later, you see, after Father discovered ~how chilly the room was. The lock was put on first."

"So?"

"So, in order to bolt that door, you had to pull on it with all your weight-and Father was a heavy man-and then shove the bolt across, practically force it into the bracket set in the jamb. I know. I've been in the den many times when Father locked the door.

Do you see what I'm driving at?"

"Yes. If the bolt needed so much force, it would have been impossible to simply slide it closed from the outside using a piece of thread. I see what you mean."

"So let's assume I hated my father, if you will-which I didn't. Let's assume I was hungry for my share of the estate-which I wasn't. Let's assumed we all wanted him dead-which we didn't The locked door still remains. The locked door with a slip bolt that needed all of a man's strength to close. No outside thread locked that door, Mr. Carella. It was locked from the inside.

And knowing this to be the case, even you must admit that the only possible conclusion to be drawn is that my father committed suicide."

Carella sighed heavily.

The stores had closed at six, and Teddy Carella walked the streets now, debating whether or not she should stop for a cup of coffee. If she did, she might ruin her appetite. Steve had conjured visions of a sumptuous feast, and she was supposed to meet him at the squad at seven, and she certainly didn't want to spoil his plans simply be-cause she desired a cup of coffee.

Besides, it was such a beautifully mild day, so marvelous for October.

October, she supposed, was her favorite month, even when the weather was behaving as seasonally as it should. It was the one month which really proviclen a feast for the eye, there I'm being prejudiced, I'm eliminating my worthless ears-that sounds Oriental-in favor of my devouring eyes, well, I'm prejudiced, sue me.

I wonder how I'll look in maternity clothes.

Horrible.

Fat.

Will Steve love me?

Of course he'll love me, what a silly thing to wonder. Just because a woman swells up like a balloon and loses her waistline and develops sagging breasts and a big wide bottom and Oh my God, he'll hate me!

No. No, he'll love me. Love is enduring and love is good and love is would I love him if he suddenly weighed eight thousand pounds?

Yes, I would love him if he suddenly weighed ten thousand pounds. But he likes my figure and maybe.

I won't take any chances. I'll stick to the diet, and I'll watch my weight, and I'll call on Lieutenant Byrnes and ask him to assign all the pretty-widow cases to the bachelors on the squad.

No cup of coffee, that settles that. The coffee in itself probably doesn't have too many calories, but the sugar certainly does.

No coffee. I'll walk around and window shop that's excellent for the figure.

Or maybe I should go up to the squad now?

Maybe Steve'll be back earlier than he thought. I could surprise him. Yes, maybe I'll do that. Go up to the squad now and wait for him. I'll think about it.

He might like a surprise waiting when he walks into the squad room

The man walked with his head bent.

There was no breeze blowing, not a strong breeze in any case, only a mild caressing murmur of air, but he walked with his head bent because he never really felt quite like himself in this city, never really felt quite like a person. And so he ducked his head, pulling it into his shoulders as far as he could, almost like a turtle defending himself against any blow which might come.

The man was nicely dressed. He wore a tweed suit and a neat blue tie fastened to his white shirt with a tiny gold pin. He wore dark blue socks, and black loafers, and he knew he looked like any other man walking the streets, and yet he did not feel as if he were a real person here, an individual, a person who could walk with his head up and his shoulders back-the city had done that to him, the city had given him this feeling of not belonging, not being. And so he walked with his hands in his pockets and his head bent.

And because his head was bent, he happened to notice the blue sheet of paper lying on the sidewalk. And because he was in no particular hurry to get anywhere in this city of hostility which made him feel unimportant, he picked up the paper and studied it with curious brown eyes.

The blue sheet of paper was the original Detective Division Report which Meyer Meyer had typed and floated down from the second-story window of the precinct house.

The two carbon copies of the D.D. form were nowhere in sight on the sidewalk.

There was only the one blue sheet, and the man picked it up and studied it, and then walked to one of the big trash baskets sitting under the lamppost on the corner of the block. The trash basket read KEEP

OUR CITY CLEAN.

The man crumpled Meyer Meyer's message and hurled it into the trash basket.

Then he put his hands into his pockets, ducked his head, and walked on his way in this hostile city.

The man's name was Juan Alverra, and he had arrived from Puerto Rico three months ago. No one in the city had attempted to teach Juan the English language which Meyer had used to compose his note.