Donald Hamilton: Murderers Row

He sighed. "I guess that's true, Mr. Peters. But it's kind of a specialized weapon. Do you mind telling me why you have it?"

"I'm interested in specialized weapons; it's a hobby of mine." I got to my feet, which gave me a sudden height advantage of several inches. He was heavier, though. But he wouldn't be hard to take. Nobody is who kids himself that one deadly weapon is morally better, or worse, than another. I said, "Did you have the state boys flag me down and bring me here just because you heard I was packing a shiv in my suitcase? What's the matter, did some local taxpayer get cut? Send it to your lab, if you've got one. They won't find any blood on it."

He looked at me sharply. We both knew that knife was irrelevant-that it had nothing whatever to do with the case-but I wasn't supposed to know it, yet. He tried to decide whether or not my attitude indicated guilty information. Then he shook his head, dismissing the subject.

"Would you mind telling me where you've spent the day, Mr. Peters?"

I said, "I was a day early for an appointment in Washington, so I took a drive over your big bridge and down the peninsula a ways, just sight-seeing. I was coming back to Washington to spend the night when I was stopped." Saying it, I wondered if there were some way he could check if I'd crossed the toll bridge twice. Usually there isn't; but I took a step forward and said harshly, to get us off the subject, "What the hell is this all about, anyway? Who do you think you're pushing around? You hick cops are all alike when you get hold of somebody with an out-of-state license-"

I could have saved my indignation. He had stopped listening. Another policeman had stuck his head in the door. When Crowell looked in his direction, the newcomer nodded briefly and withdrew as silently as he had appeared. Crowell tossed the knife into my open suitcase and turned t~ me.

"Let's go in the other office, Mr. Peters."

"I'm not going anywhere until somebody tells me what-"

He took my arm. "If you please. This way."

I jerked free and started to speak. Then the door opened and stayed that way, held by the young policeman who had looked in a moment ago. Two people came in. The woman stopped abruptly, staring at me.

"That's him!" she said. "That's the murderer!"

IT WASN'T EXACTLY a shattering surprise. The police had been too sure of themselves not to have what they considered positive identification.

The surprise was that it wasn't the diminutive Bikini blonde whose cigarette I'd lit. This was the taller female member of the Polar Bear Club; the one who'd seemed to pay me no attention at the pool. She'd exchanged her bathing suit for a casually expensive-looking sweater-and-skirt outfit, and she looked older and more dignified with clothes on, but she still looked quite tall: a brown, handsome woman with dark hair brought back smoothly to a big knot at the nape of her neck.

I already had reason not to be fond of the lady-even with justification, nobody likes to be called a murderer- but seeing her at close range for the first time, I couldn't help that special feeling of respect and admiration reserved for something unique. I mean, one gets tired of the sexy young carbon copies of Marilyn Monroe and Brigitte Bardot; one even gets bored with all the nice girls who used to be more or less Grace Kelly and are now more or less Jacqueline Kennedy, attractive though the prototypes may be.

This woman wasn't outstandingly beautiful or strikingly seductive, but there was only one of her. She'd never look like anybody else. She had a real nose in her face, instead of something cute and indeterminate. She had a real mouth with real teeth-strong, white ones-and real eyes with real eyebrows. She was herself. It takes a certain amount of guts, these days. But it was no time to stand gawking at handsome ladies.

"Murderer?" I said sharply. "Who's a murderer? You can't pin anything like that on me!" I whirled on Crowell. "Listen, what kind of an identification do you call this? I've got a right to a proper line-up-"

"I'm trying very hard to protect your rights, Mr. Peters," the white-haired man told me. "I asked you to go into the other office, remember? You refused." He turned to the newcomers. "You're sure, Mrs. Rosten?"

"Quite sure."

"And you, Mr. Rosten?"

The man hesitated. He'd been at the pool, too; a dark, well-built chap with gray at the temples, very distinguished in appearance. Like the woman, he had the smooth rich tan you get by working at that and not much else. He also had the air of a man who'd achieved nothing in life except marrying money.

"I-I don't really know," he said.

"Of course you do, Louis," he was told by his wife. "Why, there's no possible doubt. That's the man!"

"I was looking the other way," he said uncertainly. "Also, I was freezing. I was just vaguely aware that Teddy had gone over to get a light from somebody walking by-"

"Vaguely!" she snapped. "Well, that's typical!"

He flushed, drew himself up, and turned stiffly to Crowell. "I'm afraid I can't help you, officer. As I told you before, I never got a good look at him. I don't think Billy did, either. He was still in the pool, showing off the stroke that brought victory to dear old Whatsis only a few years back."

"Billy?" Crowell consulted a notebook. "That would be Mr. William Orcutt, the other lady's escort?"

"Yes, I told you. He's a local boy-the Annapolis Orcutts, you know. As a matter of fact, he's my wife's nephew. We drafted him to entertain our little visitor for the evening. We had dinner at home, and then some vigorous person suggested a swim-"

"You did, Louis," Mrs. Rosten said.

"I did not, my dear. I thought it was a ridiculous idea, considering the weather, but I was out-voted- Anyway, Sergeant, our pool has been drained, so we came to the motel, changed in Teddy's room, and exposed ourselves to the elements briefly. Then the kids jumped into their clothes and went on to some fascinating place Billy knew about-unfortunately, I've forgotten the name. We dressed more slowly and called home for a car, but if it ever arrived, it got lost in the confusion. Maybe you know something about it?"

"I'll check. Don't worry about it, sir. We'll see that you get home all right."

Mrs. Rosten said, "I suppose you'll want a statement or something. I'll be glad to sign it; but would you mind terribly if we got started on it?"

"Right away, ma'am. I-" He stopped, as the young policeman who'd brought in the Rostens came back into the office. "What is it, Egan?"

Egan stepped up and whispered something in Crowell's ear. Crowell nodded.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Rosten, and he turned to me. "This way-"

I trotted out my Petroni act. He paid no attention to it, but marched me back down a hail to a smaller room that looked like a waiting room with wooden chairs set along the walls. The room was empty, which surprised me. I'd expected another confrontation. Crowell gestured towards a chair and we sat down facing a door that had opaque glass in the upper half. At least it was opaque from our side. This made more sense.

I said, "Who the hell do you think you're fooling, Crowell? One-way glass, yet? Wait till my lawyer gets up in court and tells how you cops tried to railroad me!"

"Policemen," he said.

"What?"

"We don't like that other word," he said. "We prefer to be called policemen, particularly by goons like you, Petroni."

I'd been Mr. Peters up to now. I said sullenly, "So you've got word from Chi. So what?"

"You're Jimmy Petroni, known as Jimmy the Lash. You're pretty small time, but you sometimes run errands for the big boys"

"Who's small time?" I asked angrily. "Let me tell you-"

"Later," he said. "Later, you're going to tell me lots of things, Petroni. Right now you're going to shut up. When I tell you, you're going to get up and walk around. AU right. Up. Walk."