Ed McBain - Killer's Choice

One of the shards of glass had pierced his jugular vein and another had pierced his windpipe, and that was the end of Roger Havilland.

Around the corner, the young man got into a 1947 Dodge and drove away. An old lady saw him screech away from the kerb. She did not notice the licence-plate number of the car. When the car had left, she bent down to examine the sidewalk and blinked when her hands came away wet with blood.

There were a lot of old ladies around the grocery store when Detective Cotton Hawes arrived. He had left Carella back at the squad and hopped into a patrol car the moment the squeal came in. He stepped out of the car now, and the crowd parted respectfully because this was the Law, and Cotton Hawes indeed looked like the Law. His red head towered above the crowd, the white streak looking like the lightning crease on the head of Captain Ahab. Or at least on the head of Gregory Peck.

The patrolman standing in the grocery-store doorway walked to him as he approached. He did not recognize Hawes. He blinked at him.

'I'm Detective Hawes,' Hawes said. 'Steve Carella's catching. He sent me out.'

'This ain't so good,' the patrolman said.

'What isn't?'

'Proprietor of the store's been beat up bad. Cash register's been cleaned out. You know Havilland?'

'Havilland who?'

'Rog Havilland. He's on the squad.'

'I was introduced to him,' Hawes said, nodding. 'What about him?'

'He's sitting in the window.'

'What?'

'He's dead.' The patrolman grinned slightly. 'Funny, huh? Who'd have ever thought anything could kill Rog Havilland?'

'I don't see anything funny about it,' Hawes said. 'Get this crowd back. Is the proprietor inside?'

'Yes, sir,' the patrolman said.

'I'm going in. Get into the crowd and get the names and addresses of any eyewitnesses. Do you know how to write?'

'Huh? Of course I know how to write.'

'Then start writing,' Hawes said, and he went into the shop.

Tony Rigatoni was sitting in a chair, a second patrolman standing alongside him. Hawes spoke to the patrolman first.

'Call Carella,' he said. 'Tell him we've got a homicide. This was reported as a stickup. Tell him the corpse is Roger Havilland. Do it quick.'

'Yes, sir,' the patrolman said, and he left the shop.

'I'm Detective Hawes,' Hawes said to Rigatoni. 'I don't think I know your name, sir.'

'Rigatoni.'

'What happened, Mr Rigatoni?'

He looked at Rigatoni's face. Whoever had beaten him had done a merciless job.

'This man come in the shop,' Rigatoni said. 'He tell me empty the cash register. I tell him go to hell. He hit me.'

'What'd he use?'

'His hands. He wear gloves. In June. He hit me hard. He keep hitting me. The shade on my door, he pulled down when he come in, you know?'

'Go ahead.'

'He come around behind the counter and empty the register. I got the whole day receipts in there.'

'How much?'

'Two hundred, three hundred, something like. Son of a bitch takes it.'

'Where were you?'

'On the floor. He beat me bad. I could hardly stand. He starts running out the shop. I get up. I keep a gun in the drawer under the register. A .22. I got a licence, don't worry. I shoot him.'

'Did you hit him?'

'I think so. I think I see him fall. Then I get dizzy, and I collapse.'

'How'd Havilland crash that window?'

'Who the hell is Havilland?'

'The detective who smashed through your window.'

'I didn't know he was a bull. I don't know how that happened. I was out.'

'When'd you come to?'

'Five minutes ago. Just before I called the cops.'

'How old was this man? The one who held you up?'

'Twenty-three, twenty-four. No older.'

'White or coloured?'

'White.'

'What colour hair?'

'Blond.'

'Eyes?'

'I don't know.'

'Didn't you notice?'

'No.'

'How was he dressed?'

'A sports jacket. A sports shirt, no tie. Gloves. Black gloves.'

'Did he have a gun?'

'If he had one, he didn't use it.'

'Moustache?'

'No. He was a kid.'

'Notice any scars, birthmarks, anything like that?'

'No.'

'Was he alone?'

'All alone.'

'Did he walk away or drive away?'

'I don't know. I told you. I was out. Like a light. Son of a bitch almost broke my jaw. I ever see him again…'

'Excuse me, sir,' one of the patrolmen said from the door.

Hawes turned. 'What is it?'

'We got an old lady out here.'

'Yeah?'

'Says she saw the guy get into a car and drive away.'

'I'll talk to her,' Hawes said, and he walked out of the shop.

'This is her,' the patrolman said.

Hawes looked at the woman. It would have been easy to believe, at first glance, that the woman was a crackpot. She had straggly grey hair which she had not bothered to comb since she had grown it. In all likelihood, she had not washed since the city had had its last water-scarcity scare. She wore a tattered green shawl and shoes which looked as if they belonged to her grandson who was stationed with the Air Force in Alaska. A faded red rose was pinned to the green shawl. And to substantiate the early impression of a crackpot, one of the other women in the crowd whispered, 'That's Crazy Connie.'

It would have been easy to believe she was a crackpot.

But even in a precinct like the 30th, Hawes had learned that the ones who look like crackpots are very often sane and reliable witnesses. In fact, the sober-looking citizens very often turned out to be the nuts. So he gently led the old woman away from the crowd and into the grocery store, holding her elbow, the way he would have held the elbow of his own grandmother. Crazy Connie seemed to enjoy the notoriety. She looked up at Hawes as if she had won him on a blind date and was terribly pleased with her good fortune. Hawes, grinning like a courtier, led her to a chair.

'Won't you sit down, madam?' he said.

' Miss ,' Crazy Connie corrected.

'Ah yes, of course. What is your name, Miss?'

'Connie,' she answered. 'Connie Fitzhenry.' Her voice was clear and bold. It did not at all sound like the voice of a crackpot.

'Miss Fitzhenry,' Hawes said pleasantly, 'one of the patrolmen tells me you saw a man get into a car and drive away. Is that right?'

'What's your name?' Connie asked.

'Detective Hawes,' he said.

'How do you do?'

'How do you do? Is that right?'

'Is what right, sir?' Connie asked.

'That you saw a man get into a car and drive away?'

'I did indeed,' Connie said. 'Do you know how old I am?'

'How old, Miss Fitzhenry?'

'Seventy-four. Do I look seventy-four?'

'I would say you weren't a day over sixty.'

'Would you really?'

'I would really.'

'Thank you.'

'About this man…'

'He came running around the corner,' Connie said, 'and he got into a car and drove away. I saw him.'

'Was he carrying a gun?'

'No, sir.'

'Any other weapon?'

'No, sir.'

'What makes you think he was the man who held up Mr Rigatoni?'

'I didn't say I thought he was the man who held up anyone. I'm only saying he came around the corner and got into a car and drove away.'

'I see,' Hawes said, and he began to think he'd judged wrongly this time. Connie Fitzhenry was showing all the signs of a first-grade crackpot. 'What I'm driving at, Miss Fitzhenry,' he said, 'is why you felt the man was in any way suspicious.'

'I got my reasons,' Connie said.

'What are they?'

'My reasons.'

'Yes, but…'

'You think this young man held up Mr Rigatoni?' Connie asked.

'Well, we're trying to…'

'What did he look like?' Connie asked.

'Well…'

'What colour hair did he have?'

'Blond,' Hawes said.

'Mmm-huh. Eyes?'

'We don't know.'