McBain, Ed - Killer's Wedge

"Tell you what you do," Atchison said.

"Yeah."

"Ask Cohen," and he hung up.

Kung replaced the receiver on the cradle, Virgini2 Dodge put down her phone.

"Is there any way of reaching Carella?"

she asked.

"No. I don't know where he is," Byrnes lied, "Shouldn't he have all this informatioa that's pourin~ in?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you call to give it to him?"

"Because I don't know where he is."

"Wouldn't he be at this Scott house?

That's where the murder was committed, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right. But if he's interrogating suspects, he could be anywhere."

"Why don't we try the Scot house?"

"What for?"

"Because if he's there, I want you to tell him to come back to the station house immediately. It's hot as hell in here, and I'm getting tired of waiting."

"I don't think he's there," Byrnes said quickly, "Besides, if I pull him back to the squad, he'll think something's fishy."

"Why should he think that?"

"Even you should realize that homicide gets priority Over anything else."

Virginia Dodge thought this over for a moment.

"I wish I knew whether or not you're lying," she said. But she did not ask Byrnes to make the call.

Sitting behind the high desk downstairs in the muster room, the desk which looked almost like a judge's altar of justice, the desk which had a sign requesting all visitors to stop there and state their business, Dave Murchison looked through the open doors of the station house to the street outside.

It was a beautiful night, and he wondered what ordinary citizens were doing on a night like this. Walking through the park with their lovers? Screwing with the windows open? Playng bingo or mahjongg or footsie?

They certainly weren't sitting behind a desk answering telephones.

Now what the hell had the lieutenant meant?

Murchison tried to reconstruct the dialogue in his own mind. He had gone upstairs to see what the hell the noise had been about, and the loot had said it was just an accident, and he had said something about well, so long as everything's okay, and the loot had said yes, everything's fine or something like that and then ... now here was the important part, so let's get it straight.

He had said to the loot, "Well, long as everything's okay. I'll be seeing you, Pete."

And Byrnes had answered, "Forthwith."

Now that was a very strange answer for the loot to give him because in police jargon "Forthwith" meant "Report immediately."

Now flow could tie report immediately it He was ai read standing there in front of the lieutenant?

So, naturally, he had said, "Huh?"

And the loot hadn't said anything in answer, he ha just stood there with a kind of sick smile on his face.

Forthwith.

Report immediately.

Had the loot meant something? Or was he just clowning around?

And if he meant something, what did he mean? Report immediately. Report to whom immediately? Or mayb report something ini mediately Report what?

The gun going off?

But the loot said that was an accident, and everythin sure as hell looked copacetic upstairs. Did he want his to report the accident? Was that it?

No, that didn't make sense. A gun going off by accidei, wouldn't make the loot look too good, and he certa ini wouldn't want that reported.

Argh, I'm making too much of this, Murchison thoughi The loot was having his little joke, and here I'm tryin~ to figure out what he meant by a gag. I should be upstairs working with the bulls, that's what. I should have been detective, trying to figure out the meaning of a stupid littli thing the loot tells me. It must be this Indian summer. should be back in Ireland kissing Irish lasses.

Forthwith.

Report immediately.

A light on Murchison's switchboard exploded mU green. One of the patrolmen was calling in. He plugged in his socket and said, "Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeaii Murchison. Oh, hello, Baldy. Yep. Okay, glad to hear it Keep on your toes."

All quiet on the Western front, Murchison thought. He pulled the wire from the board.

Forthwith, he thought.

Virginia Dodge rose suddenly.

"Everybody over there," she said.

"That side of the room. Hurry up. Lieutenant, get away from that coatrack."

Angelica rose, smoothed her skirt over her hips, and walked toward the grilled windows. Hawes left his post by the thermostat to join the other men who began drifting toward the windows. Byrnes moved away from the coat rack.

"This gun stays trained on the nitro," Virginia said, "so no funny stuff."

Good! Hawes thought. She's not only thinking of the heat, she's also worried about the nitro. It's going to work. Jesus, the first part of it is going to work.

I hope.

Virginia backed toward the coat rack.

Quickly, she slipped the coat off her left shoulder, the gun in her right hand aimed at the nitro on the desk. Then she shifted the gun to her left hand, slipped the coat off her right shoulder and, without turning, hung it on one of the pegs on the rack.

"It's hot as hell in here," she said.

"Can't someone lower the heat?"

"I will," Hawes said, and he went immediately to the thermostat.

There was a grin on his face. He looked across the room to where Virginia Dodge's shapeless black coat hung alongside Willis' hat and coat on the rack.

In the left hand pocket of Virginia's black garment was the pistol she had taken from Lieutenant Byrnes' office.

CHAPTER 11

It was remarkable, Hawes thought, how simply it had worked. If everything in life worked as easily as the first part of his plan had, everyone in the world would have his own private pink cloud upon which to float around. But the very ease with which Virginia had taken off her coat and parted with the pistol gave him his first twinge of doubt. He was not a superstitious man, but he regarded simplicity of action with some skepticism. Wa~ the success of the first part an ill omen for the second part. Anxiously he began to review the plan in his mind.

The gun was now where he wanted it, in the pocket of a coat hanging on the rack near the bulletin board. Between the coat rack and the bulletin board, on the short stretch of wall inside the slatted railing, was the ugh switch which controlled the overhead globes. It was Hawe~ idea to amble over to the bulletin board, busy himself wiV taking down some notes from the Wanted circulars an~ then-when and if the opportunity presented itself-sna out the lights and reach for Byrnes' pistol in the coat. He would not use the pistol immediately because he did not want a long-distance shooting duel, not with that bottle a nitro on the desk in front of Virginia. He would hold the pistol until it was safe to fire it without the attend an possibility of a greater explosion.

He did not see how the plan could fail.

The switc controlled every light in the room. One flick, and the light would go out.

It would take him no more than three seconds to snatch the gun, hide it, and flick on the light again.

Would Virginia Dodge fire at the nitro in those three seconds?

He did not believe so.

In the first place, even if she did fire, the room would be in total darkness and she probably wouldn't be able to hit the bottle.

Well, that's a hell of a gamble to be taking, he told himself. She doesn't even have to fire at it, you know. All she has to do is sweep it off the desk with her arm, and there goes eternity.

But he was banking on something else, a person's normal reaction to a suddenly darkened room. Wouldn't Virginia, in the confusion of the moment, assume there'd been a power failure or something? Wouldn't she hold her fire, hold the sweeping motion of her arm at least long enough to be certain one way or the other? And by that time, the lights would be on again and Hawes could invent some excuse about having turned them off by accident.