William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

“Is that what is troubling you?” Koznicki was sensitive to his friend’s moods and to him it was evident that something was bothering Koesler.

“Partly. It’s been too long since I’ve heard from Ramon. I just feel that even if he’d been occupied with something that came up suddenly, he would have phoned. After all, he was supposed to be at that service this evening.”

Koznicki turned up his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “All I can say to reassure you is what I said before: Your friend can take care of himself.” After a pause, he asked, “Is there something else?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, yes . . . but I find it difficult to express. It’s as if something else is missing, but I can’t quite get a handle on it or identify it.” He looked from Koznicki to the two officers as if hopeful they might identify his problem.

“Well, sir,” Beauchamp fielded the lead, “I think your trouble might just be that you think everything is too simple to be true.”

“Yes, that’s it all right,” said Somerset with even more assurance than Beauchamp. “’ere we know ’oo we’re lookin’ for, so to speak. And we even know where the bally blighters are gonna be standin’ so we can ’ave a go at ’em. It’s just too cut and dried to be real. Isn’t that it, sir?” He didn’t pause for a reply. “You assume, from all your readin’ and the films and the telly, that police procedure, even a murder case, God save us all, is a complex puzzle requirin’ the fine detective work of a Mr. ’olmes! Well, in all truth, many of ’em are. But every once in a while, you come across a case that is, as the crime writers would ’ave it, open and shut. Such a case, I do believe, we ’ave on our ’ands this very minute.”

“Yes,” Beauchamp continued, “as the Superintendent has very rightly put it, some cases are simpler than others. It is all up to the perpetrator. Some criminals are deucedly clever, while others are incredibly stupid: Reminds me of one we had not long ago. Remember, Charlie,” he directed at Somerset, “remember Alfred Kirkus?”

“Dummy Alfie? ’oo could forget ’im?”

“Was a clot,” Beauchamp continued, “who was a contract killer. What is it you call such a fellow in the States?”

“A hit man,” Koznicki supplied.

“The very thing,” Beauchamp confirmed. “Now, Alfie was given a contract to kill one Arthur F. Knoff, an industrialist makes one of his homes in London.

“Well, the first time ol’ Dummy Alfie tried was in Mr. Knoff’s parking garage.”

“Right,” said Somerset, eager to get in on the storytelling, “’e ’id in the garage, and when Mr. Knoff arrived at ’is Bentley, the car ’e was goin’ to use that particular day, they start to scuffle. Alfie’s gun falls to the floor and Mr. Knoff kicks it under a vehicle several cars removed. So Alfie beats an ’asty retreat.”

“The second time he had a go,” Beauchamp resumed possession of the verbal ball, “Alfie very carefully reconnoitered Mr. Knoff’s private club, learned the whole layout, where the gentleman took his lunch, the usual time—a very thorough job, if I may say—”

“And then,” Somerset interrupted, “Alfie goes and shows up to shoot Mr. Knoff on the very day ’is backgammon group meets.”

“The third time he tried to fulfill his contract was in Harrods— crowded Harrods, God save us all. Well, this time, Alfìe does get off a shot and wings Mr. Knoff pretty good.”

“But then,” said Somerset, continuing the antiphony, “Alfie tries to make ’is escape in the tube!”

Koesler looked puzzled.

“The subway,” Koznicki translated.

“Not only did ’e try to get away in the tube,” Somerset continued, “but Dummy Alfie tells everyone on board ’oo’ll listen what ’e just did. One of the passengers gets off, tells a constable, ’oo gets back on board and takes Dummy Alfie into custody.”

Everyone laughed. As the laughter subsided, the phone rang. Koznicki answered it. “Yes, he is here.” He beckoned Koesler to the phone.

“This a Mr. Robert Koesler?”

“Yes.” He decided to overlook the absence of title.

“Would you know a Mr. Ramon Toussaint?”

“Yes, why do you ask?” Koesler felt a foreboding.

“We found your name and your hotel on a piece of paper in his pocket. And since we did not know who to notify, we thought we should tell you—”

“Tell me what?” Koesler’s knees were turning to jelly.

“Mr. Toussaint is dead.”

9.

“If you would prefer, Father,” Koznicki said, “you can remain here in the car. I can go in and make the identification and the arrangements. I knew Ramon Toussaint well enough to do that and I am used to the procedure. It is really not very pleasant—and he was your good friend.”

“No, thank you very much. Inspector. I think I can do it. But,” he added, looking in turn at each of his companions, “I would be grateful for your presence.”

None of the four had said much since the phone call. The others had expressed their sympathy briefly to Koesler. Then Somerset had driven them to the hospital.

Now, all four exited the car and entered the hospital. Locating a nurse in the casualty department, Koznicki explained why they were there. She asked them to wait, then went for the doctor. When he entered the waiting area, the doctor seemed a bit surprised. Apparently, he had not expected four people.

“Which of you is Koesler?”

“I am.”

Again the doctor exhibited mild surprise. “You’re a priest?”

Koesler nodded, as the others identified themselves.

“Sorry, Father. I wasn’t expecting a member of the clergy. The attendant failed to mention that.”

“The attendant?”

“Yes. The one who phoned you. He was only doing his job, of course, but . . .” He shook his head, then looked at Koesler with an odd expression. “You see, Mr. Toussaint is not dead.”

“Not dead!” Koesler felt a sudden exuberance, then a weakness brought on by relief.

“No. Though I must say that for all intents and purposes, he might as well have been. He certainly appeared so when he was brought in. If our attendant hadn’t rung you so soon . . .”

The other three offered congratulations to Koesler. Beauchamp and Somerset each took out a notepad. Obviously, they felt this could become a matter for police investigation.

“What happened?” Koesler asked.

“Well, Mr. Toussaint’s body was discovered in Regent’s Park. It was most fortunate he was found so soon, really. A romantic young couple strolling by the lake almost literally stumbled upon him. Otherwise, I fear he wouldn’t have been found till daylight . . . and I very much doubt he would have been alive at that point.

“In any case, he was brought in here at,” the doctor consulted his chart, “2230 . . . no, 2235, to be precise. At first blush he was thought to be dead.” He looked up. “That’s when our attendant called you. But then, one of our people thought she heard a sigh escape from Mr. Toussaint. She checked and got a pupil reaction and then we all began to work very quickly indeed.”

“Is he conscious?” Beauchamp inquired.

The doctor shook his head. “He was comatose when we first examined him and that condition has remained unchanged.”

“Then what exactly is ’is condition?” Somerset asked.

“Critical. Extremely critical.”

“And you can’t tell yet what happened to him?” Koznicki asked.

“A beating, I should think. A beating the likes of which, I’m glad to say, we don’t see often.” Again, the doctor referred to his chart. “So far, we’ve found the following fractures: frontal,” he looked up from the chart, “that’s his forehead.” Then, “right and left zygomatic.” Again he looked up. “That’s both cheekbones. Right mandible . . . that’s the lower jaw; nose; clavicle . . . that’s the collarbone; right and left humerus, radius, and ulna . . . that’s both upper and lower arms; all ten fingers; ribs—seven fractures to the ribs . . .”