Эд Макбейн - Jigsaw

“Book him,” Brown said. “First Degree Assault.”

“Just a second,” Petitpas said.

“Book him,” Brown said flatly.

It was time to put on that old thinking cap.

It was time for a little plain and fancy deduction.

Nothing can confuse a person (cops included) more than a lot of names and a lot of pieces and a lot of corpses. Stop any decent law-abiding citizen on the street and ask him which he would prefer, a lot of names and pieces and corpses or a simple hatchet murder, and see what he says. Oh, you can safely bet six-to-five he’ll take that hatchet in the head any day of the week, Thursdays included, and Thursdays are no prizes, except when they fall on Thanksgiving.

Here’s the way they saw it.

Fact: Renninger killed Ehrbach and Ehrbach killed Renninger — a simple uncomplicated mutual elimination, which was only fair.

Fact: Bramley Kahn kayoed Arthur Brown in one point four seconds of the first round, using the .32 Smith & Wesson Brown later found in the bottom drawer of Kahn’s desk, and using as well his own feet — not for nothing was Kahn renowned as one of the fanciest dancers in gay bars all along The Quarter’s glittering Kublenz Square.

Fact: Somebody killed Albert Weinberg.

NOT NECESSARILY SIGNIFICANT.

Fact: Somebody killed Geraldine Ferguson.

NOT NECESSARILY SIGNIFICANT.

(The “somebody,” it was decided after intensive questioning was definitely not Bramley Kahn, who had gone directly home to the arms of a forty-four-year-old closet queen after battering Brown senseless.)

Fact(s): There were seven names on the list in Carmine Bonamico’s handwriting. Carmine had skillfully dissected the list, giving one half of it to his late wife, Alice Bonamico, and the other half to his late mistress, Geraldine Ferguson. Thoughtful fellow he, sharing his bed, his board, and also his contemplated ill-gotten gains with the two fairest flowers in his life. More’s the pity the two broads could not have put their heads and their halves together and thereafter reaped the rewards of Carmine’s professional acumen. Crime does not pay if you’re fooling around with another woman.

Fact(s): There were eight pieces to the picture that revealed the location of the NSLA. loot. Carmine had given two pieces to each of his associates, and had presumably kept two pieces for himself, he being the founder and beloved leader of the doomed band of brigands.

Fact: Petey Ryan, a gun on the ill-fated caper, had given one of his pieces to Dorothea McNally, woman about town, and another to Robert Coombs, restaurateur extraordinaire.

Fact: Lou D’Amore, the second gun, had given one of his pieces to Geraldine Ferguson, art appreciator, and the other to Donald Renninger, ex-cellmate.

Fact: Carmine Bonamico, mastermind, had given one of his pieces to Alice, his aforementioned wife.

Theory: Was it possible that Jerry Stein, Jewish driver of the misbegotten getaway car, had given one of his pieces to Albert Weinberg, and another to Eugene Edward Ehrbach, both of them likewise Jewish, rather than handing them over, say, to some passing Arab?

NOT NECESSARILY SIGNIFICANT.

Question: To whom had Carmine Bonamico given the eighth piece of the picture, the piece for which no name had been listed?

Or (to break things down into list form, which the police were very fond of doing):

But there was more, oh there was yet more, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one. For example, was it not Irving Krutch, the provocateur, who had told the police that Alice Bonamico’s piece, together with a torn list of names, had been willed to her sister, Lucia Feroglio, from whose dainty Sicilian hands Krutch had acquired both items, having faithlessly promised that good lady a thousand dollars in return for them? And had he not also said that Lucia had told him the assembled photograph would reveal the location of “il tesoro,” and had not Lucia delicately denied ever having said this to him? Or, for that matter, ever having given him a list of names? Ah so. And if he had not received his information from Lucia, then from whom exactly had it come? The person in possession of the eighth piece? The person who had gone unlisted by Carmine Bonamico?

On the night of Weinberg’s murder, Brown had talked to three people: his wife Caroline, whom he could safely discount as a suspect; Weinberg, himself, who had been speedily dispatched to that great big photo lab in the sky; and Irving Krutch, to whom he had reported having struck pay dirt with Weinberg.

It seemed about time to talk to Irving Krutch again.

If Krutch was lying about having received the list of names from Lucia Feroglio, he could also be lying about having spent that night of the murder in his apartment with Suzanne Endicott. It was worth a try. When you’re running out of suspects, it’s even worth talking to the local Welsh terrier. Brown put on his sunglasses in preparation for the insurance investigator’s dazzling smile.

Krutch was not smiling.

“The old bag’s lying,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Or maybe you are,” Brown said.

“Why should I be? For Christ’s sake, I’m the one who came to you with all this stuff. I’m as anxious to locate that money as you are. It’s my career here that’s at stake, don’t you realize that?”

“Okay, I’ll ask you again,” Brown said patiently. “Why would a nice old deaf lady who hardly speaks English and who’s incidentally waiting for you to fork over a thousand bucks...”

“I’ll pay her, don’t you worry. Krutch doesn’t welsh.”

“Why would this nice old lady deny having told you anything about a treasure? Or about having given you a list of names?”

“How do I know? Go ask her. I’m telling you she gave me the list, a piece of the picture, and the information that tied them together.”

“She says she only gave you the picture.”

“She’s a liar. Sicilians are liars.”

“Okay, Krutch,” Brown said, and sighed. “One other thing I’d like to know.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to know where you were on Monday night when Geraldine Ferguson got killed.”

“What? Why the hell do you want to know that ?”

“Because we’d already told you we struck out on Gerry’s safe. And maybe you decided to have a look around her apartment, the way you’ve had a look around a few other apartments.”

“No,” Krutch said, and shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong customer.”

“Okay, so tell me where you were.”

“I was in bed with Suzanne Endicott.”

“You’re always in bed with Suzanne Endicott, it seems.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Krutch said, and flashed his brilliant grin.

“And, of course, she’ll corroborate that.”

“Go ask her. I’ve got nothing to hide,” Krutch said.

“Thanks, partner,” Brown said.

When he got back to the squadroom, Carella told him that there had been a call from Bramley Kahn, who had been arraigned, released on bail, and — while awaiting trial — was back selling art at the same old stand. Brown returned his call at once.

“I want to talk a deal,” Kahn said.

“I’ll be right over,” Brown answered.

When he got to the gallery, Kahn was waiting in his office, seated in the old-fashioned swivel chair behind his desk, facing the painting of the nude on the wall opposite. Brown took a seat in one of the leather-and-chrome chairs. Kahn took a long time getting started. Brown waited. At last, Kahn said, “Suppose...” and hesitated.