Эд Макбейн - Jigsaw

“What does it look like to you?” he asked.

“A dancing girl in a leotard,” Brown answered.

“Looks more like a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch to me,” Carella said. “What do you suppose this furry stuff is?”

“What furry stuff?”

“This textured stuff, whatever-the-hell-it-is.”

“Mud, I would guess.”

“Or part of a wall. A stucco wall.” Carella shrugged, and dropped the scrap onto the desktop. “You really think this is why... what’s his name?”

“According to the identification in his wallet, his name was Eugene Edward Ehrbach.”

“Ehrbach. Anything on him?”

“I’m running a check with the IB right now. On both of them.”

“You think Ehrbach really broke into the apartment to get this ?” Carella asked, and tapped the photograph segment with a pencil.

“Well, why else would it be in his hand, Steve? I can’t see him going up there with a piece of a snapshot in his hand, can you?”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t see as it makes a hell of a lot of difference. The ME said it’s open and shut, and I’m inclined to agree with him. Ehrbach broke into the apartment, Renninger suddenly came home and surprised him, and we get a neat double homicide.”

“And the photograph?”

“Well, let’s say Ehrbach was after it. So what? He could just as easily have been after Renninger’s wristwatch. Either way, they’re both dead. The snapshot doesn’t change the disposition of the case either way.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Soon as we get those autopsy reports, I’m going to type this up as closed. You see any other way?”

“No, it looks pretty clear.”

“ME promised them for this morning.” Brown looked at his watch. “Well, it’s still a little early.”

“I wonder what kind of customers we’re dealing with here,” Carella said.

“How do you mean?”

“Two nice ordinary citizens, one of them carrying a Luger, and the other one carrying a switch knife with an eight-inch blade.”

“Whatever Ehrbach was, he wasn’t a nice ordinary citizen. He opened that window like a pro.”

“And Renninger?”

“Landlady says he worked at a filling station.”

“I wish the IB would get off its dead ass,” Carella said.

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“Let’s say they have got records,” Brown said. “It still wouldn’t change anything, would it?”

“You sound anxious to close this out,” Carella said.

“I got a caseload up to my eyeballs, but that’s not why I want to close it. There’s just no reason to keep it open,” Brown said.

“Unless there was a third party in that apartment,” Carella said.

“There’s no indication of that, Steve.”

“Or unless...”

“Unless what?”

“I don’t know. But why would anyone risk a burglary rap just to get a piece of a snapshot?”

“Excuse me,” a voice called from across the squadroom. Both detectives turned simultaneously toward the slatted wooden railing at the far end of the office. A tall hatless man in a gray nailhead suit stood just outside the gate. He was perhaps thirtyfive years old, with a thatch of black hair and a thick black handlebar mustache that would have caused serious pangs of envy in someone like Monroe. His eyebrows were thick and black as well, raised now in polite inquiry over startlingly blue eyes that glinted in the squadroom sunshine. His speech stamped him immediately as a native of the city, with not a little trace of Calm’s Pointese in it. “The desk sergeant said I should come right up,” he said. “I’m looking for Detective Brown.”

“That’s me,” Brown said.

“Okay to come in?”

“Come ahead.”

The man searched briefly for the latch on the inside of the gate, found it, and strode into the office. He was a big man with big hands, the left one clutched around the handle of a dispatch case. He held the case very tightly. Brown had the feeling it should have been chained to his wrist. Smiling pleasantly, he extended his right hand and said, “Irving Krutch. Nice to meet you.” His teeth were dazzling, the smile framed by a pair of dimples, one on either side of his mouth. He had high cheekbones, and a straight unbroken nose, and he looked like the lead in an Italian Western. The only thing he needed to attain instant stardom on the silver screen, Brown thought, was a change of name. Irving Krutch did nothing for his image. Steve Stunning, Hal Handsome, Geoff Gorgeous, any of those might have suited him better.

“How do you do?” Brown said, and took his hand briefly. He did not bother introducing Carella; cops rarely observed such formalities during business hours.

“Okay to sit down?” Krutch said.

“Please,” Brown said, and indicated a chair to the right of his desk. Krutch sat. Carefully preserving the knife-crease in his trousers, he crossed his legs, and unleashed the dazzling smile again.

“So,” he said, “looks like you’ve got yourselves a little murder, huh?”

Neither of the cops answered him. They always had themselves a little murder, and they weren’t in the habit of discussing homicides, little or otherwise, with strange, handsome, mustached, well-dressed smiling civilians who barged into the squadroom.

“The two guys over on Culver Avenue,” Krutch said. “I read about them in the paper this morning.”

“What about them?” Brown asked.

“I guess I should tell you I’m an insurance investigator,” Krutch said. “Trans-American Insurance.”

“Mm-huh,” Brown said.

“Do you know the company?”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“I’ve been with them for twelve years now, started there when I got out of college.” He paused, then added, “Princeton.” He waited for some response, saw that mention of his illustrious alma mater was not generating too much excitement, and then said, “I’ve worked with this squad before. Detective named Meyer Meyer. He still with you?”

“He’s still with us,” Brown said.

Carella, who had been silent until now, said, “What were you working on?”

“The National Savings and Loan Association holdup,” Krutch said. “Six years ago.”

“In what capacity?”

“I told you. I’m an insurance investigator. They’re one of our clients.” He smiled again. “Took us for a bundle on that one.”

The men were silent again.

“So?” Brown said at last.

“So,” Krutch said, “I read about your two corpses in the paper this morning, and I thought I’d better get up here right away.”

“Why?”

“Lend you a hand,” Krutch said, smiling. “Or maybe vice versa.”

“You know something about those killings?” Brown asked.

“Yep.”

“What do you know?”

“The newspaper said you found a piece of a photograph in Ehrbach’s hand,” Krutch said. His blue eyes shifted dramatically toward the photo scrap lying on Brown’s desk. “Is that it?”

“What about it?” Brown said.

“I’ve got another piece. And if you shake down Ehrbach’s pad, I’m pretty sure you’ll find a third piece.”

“Do you want to tell it, or do we have to pull teeth?”

“I’m ready to tell it.”

“Then tell it.”

“Sure. Will you help me?”

“To do what?”

“First, to get the piece in Ehrbach’s place.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Three pieces are better than one, no?”

“Look, Mr. Krutch,” Brown said, “if you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise, it’s been nice meeting you, and I hope you sell a lot of insurance policies.”

“I don’t sell insurance, I investigate claims.”