Masters of Noir: Volume Four Read online

  "You think you were going to squeal and get away with it?” Macalay asked. “You got soft in the head, just because I talked easy to you."

  Hanning's Adam's apple was jerking up and down like there was a fish hook in and somebody was playing it with a reel.

  "Go on and yell,” Macalay said. “These boxes are soundproof."

  "You—you—"

  "Let me do the talking,” Macalay said. “You're trying to say I can't get away with it. You're wrong. Nobody saw us come in here. And in this cold, your body'll stiffen so fast, the docs'll never be able to say what time you got it. And I got alibis for every minute of my time—from when I checked with the steward out there, and him with one eye on the clock that tells him when to serve lunch, till ten minutes ago, when your friend Piney's gonna swear I was in the office with him."

  "Piney ?” Hanning asked. Blood—maybe the blood that had drained out of his cheeks—was flooding the whites of his eyes, tracing red veins across them. “Piney's gonna—"

  "Piney don't love you any more,” Macalay said. “Nobody loves a squealer. Anyway, Piney wants a guy who can look after him. Dead men don't."

  He raised the knife, holding it in front of his chest, fist around the wooden handle, hand turned over. He walked towards Hanning.

  And it was hard for him not to hurry, not to step forward fast and let the knife do the work. The dirty squealer! It wasn't right that a snitch should live in the world of decent cons!

  The knife would do it. It was sharp and thin, worn down to a sliver of the finest steel. It would go in the soft space between the breast bones and slide up, easy as taking a drink, up to the left and into the heart, and there'd be one squealer less to stink up the world.

  Macalay fought it back, made himself go slow, slow for effect, slow for the big one, the play that he'd suffered for; in the fish tank, in cells, in The Hole, in the concrete block plant....

  Slow, he told himself, slow to scare him, not fast to kill him. He's a squealer and a yellow belly and he'll break right down the middle. Take it slow, slow ...

  Then the mutton-fat face split, and Hanning was screaming: “Don't kill me! Lemme go, I can give you some dope you can use. You were a cop.” He was playing his hole ace; every con had one, fondled and held onto, for just such a time. “It could do you good. Yeah—yeah, it could."

  Macalay hesitated. This had to be right, this had to be acting like no guy on the screen had ever done. His voice had to be hard and contemptuous. “What you got? You got something on the P.K.? You going to tell me he's a swish?"

  "It could maybe spring you,” Hanning screeched again. “I know the guys who—” he stopped.

  Macalay's heart began to pound, hard. But he had to keep that sneer on his face, in his voice. “Still squealing, huh?"

  "Russ knew the ones pulled that loft job,” Hanning said. “His brother got it on that job. Ya—ya, just like that buddy-cop of yours. I'm levelling with ya. Russ told me when we first saw ya. Told me who—” He broke off.

  "What good'll that do me?" Macalay asked. He moved the knife forward; it touched Hanning's shirt, just below and to the right of the number sewed on the pocket. “What good, squealer?"

  "I can give you names and dates and where to pick ‘em up,” Hanning said. “I got it all. You wanta get them, don't you? They killed that cop pal of yours. You wanta get ‘em don't yuh ?"

  "Yeah,” Macalay said. “Yeah, I want to get them. Start talking. An’ it better be right, because if it ain't, I'll still be in here, and so will you."

  He shifted the knife to his left hand, under the clipboard, and started writing as Hanning babbled.

  He could sneak a letter out with the noon mail that went from the office. Inspector Strane would get it tomorrow, and come get him.

  He'd be out soon—a free man, a rich man ... But, hell, it would be a pleasure to kill Hanning when the squealer got through squealing. It sure would. And maybe necessary now, to keep Hanning from squealing on him. In any case, he'd have to travel fast and far to get beyond the clutch of the grapevine.

  Suddenly, Macalay threw the knife away, hard, into the far black depths of the icebox. It landed in the sawdust, barely made a noise. Looking at Hanning, crouched, panting, the refrigerator light glinting off his cold sweat, Macalay wondered if it was going to be as hard living what the hundred grand as it had been getting it.

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  THE FLOATER by JONATHAN CRAIG

  1.

  She was a small girl, and she looked even smaller, lying there at the river end of the vast, empty pier. A tugboat captain had sighted her body off Pier 90, radioed the Harbor Precinct, and a police launch had taken her from the water and brought her ashore. There was a chill wind blowing in from the Hudson and the pale October sun glinted dully on the girl's face and arms and bare shoulders. The skirt of her topless dress was imprinted with miniature four-leaf clovers and horseshoes and number 7's, and on her right wrist there was a charm bracelet with more four-leaf clovers and horseshoes.

  A sergeant and three patrolmen from the Uniform Force had arrived in an RMP car a few minutes before my partner, Paul Brader, and I. They had just finished their preliminary examination of the body.

  The sergeant glanced at me and then back down at the girl. “They'd didn't do her a hell of a lot of good, did they? The lucky symbols, I mean."

  "Not much,” I said.

  "How old do you figure her for, Jim?” Paul Brader asked.

  "Eighteen, maybe,” I said. “No more than that."

  "Well, we've got a homicide all right,” Paul said. “She sure wasn't alive when she hit the water. You notice the skin?"

  I'd noticed. It wasn't pale, the way it would have been had she drowned. The river water was cold, and cold water contracts the blood vessels and forces the blood to the inner part of the body.

  "And there's no postmortem lividity in the head and neck,” Paul went on. “Floaters always hang the same way in the water, with the head down. If she had been alive when she went in, she'd be a damned sight less pretty than she is now.” He stepped close and knelt beside the girl. “How long would you say she was in the water, Jim?"

  "That's always tough to figure,” I said. “Taking the weather into consideration, and the fact that she's a little thin, I'd say anywhere from three to five days.” I looked at the sergeant. “Any label in that dress, Ted?"

  "No, sir."

  "How about the underclothes?"

  "Just brand names. No shop names at all."

  Paul gently rolled the girl over on her left side. “Take a look at these lacerations on the back of her head,” he said.

  I knelt down beside him. There were two lacerations, apparently quite deep, and about three inches long. But lacerations and other mutilations of bodies found in the water are often misleading. Marine life takes its toll, and bodies frequently bob for hours against pilings and wharves and the sides of boats before they are discovered.

  "We'll have to wait and see what the M.E.'s shop says about those,” I said. I looked at both the girl's palms. There were no fingernail marks, such as are usually found in drownings. It's true that drowning people clutch at anything; and when there's nothing to grasp, they clench their hands anyhow, driving the nails into the flesh.

  The girl had pierced ears, and the small gold rings in them appeared expensive. So did the charm bracelet, and the dress was obviously no bargain-counter item. There were four dollar bills tucked into the top of one of her stockings.

  The uniformed sergeant removed the jewelry and the bills and listed them on his report sheet. “Four bucks,” he murmured. “Mad money, probably."

  Paul and I straightened up. “You want to wait for the doc?” he asked.

  "Not much point,” I said. “He won't be able to tell us anything until after he autopsies her. We don't need him to tell us we got a homicide."

  "No I guess not,” Paul said. He stared down at the girl a moment. “Tough, Jim. There's something about pulling a pr
etty girl out of cold water that gets me. Every time."

  I nodded, and we turned back toward our prowl car. I knew what he meant. We handle about four hundred floaters a year in New York, most of them in the spring and summer. The majority of them are accidental drownings. A number are suicides, though there are fewer than is generally supposed. An even smaller number are homicides. And of the homicides, only about one in ten are women.

  I got behind the wheel and we drove along the pier and turned downtown toward Centre Street, where the Missing Persons Bureau is located.

  "You going to hit the station house first?” Paul asked.

  "No. We can call in from the Bureau. I've got a hunch we'll save time if we go through the MP reports ourselves.” The first thing a detective does when he has an unidentified body—provided it's a homicide and the body has been dead more than a day or so—is check the reports of missing persons. In the event of a routine drowning, the investigating officer's report is sent to the Bureau and the description matched against MP reports by MP personnel.

  2.

  We found the matching MP report almost at once.

  POLICE DEPARTMENT

  City of New York

  REPORT OF MISSING PERSON

  Surname: TAYLOR, First Name: LUCILLE, Initials: M, Sex: F, Age: 19

  Address; Date and Time Seen:

  751 W. 72nd, 10/11/54, 8 P.M.

  Last seen at:

  LEAVING HOME ADDRESS

  Probable Destination: UNKNOWN, Cause of Absence: UNKNOWN

  I scanned the rest of the MP form. It was all there—a close physical description of the girl, the skirt with the lucky symbols, the pierced ears and gold earrings, the charm bracelet. There, was, however, one item of jewelry listed on the report which had not been on the girl when she'd been taken from the river. A diamond engagement ring, assumed to be about half a carat.

  "You were off a year on the age, Jim,” Paul said, grinning.

  "All right, so fire me,” I said.

  "I'll take it up with the commissioner,” he said. “You want me to handle the ID confirmation?"

  "Might as well,” I said. “No use both of us killing time with it.” I glanced down at the bottom of the form. The report had been phoned in by a Mrs. Edward Carpenter, with the same address as the girl's. Mrs. Carpenter, it seemed, was the girl's aunt. I wrote down the name and address on a piece of scratch paper and handed it to Paul. “I'll make a deal with you,” I said. “You get Mrs. Carpenter and take her over to Bellevue for the ID, and I'll handle the paper work on this."

  "All the way through?"

  "Sure. What'd you think?"

  "You've got yourself a deal. You want me to take her home, after the ID?"

  "Nope. Take her to the precinct ... That's if she isn't too upset. If she takes it too hard, drive her home and call me from there."

  "Anything else?"

  "Well, you might get her to fill you in on the girl, if you can. Don't push too hard, unless you think she can take it."

  He nodded. “You going back to the station house now?"

  "Uh-huh. I'll ride that far with you, and then you can go on up to Seventy-second Street and get Mrs. Carpenter."

  3.

  Back in the squad room, I finished typing up some 61's in connection with other cases Paul and I were working on, completed several Wanted cards on a gang of Philadelphia hoods a stool had told me were now in New York, and then rolled a fresh 61 form into the Underwood and began the suspected homicide report on Lucille M. Taylor. I kept remembering how small she had looked there on the end of the big pier, and how angry the river had sounded as Paul and I stood there in the chill wind.

  Paul came in an hour later. There were two people with him, a tall heavy-set blonde woman of about fifty and a small, wispy little guy with an almost completely bald head and eyes the color of faded blue denim. It took me a few moments to realize he was probably not much older than the woman. Of the two, the man seemed much the more upset.

  "This is Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, Jim,” Paul said. “Folks, this is Detective Coren."

  We all nodded to one another and I pushed two chairs close to my desk and asked them to sit down. Mrs. Carpenter frowned at the chair, took a large, flowered handkerchief from her purse and dusted it thoroughly, and finally sat down. Mr. Carpenter watched her closely, biting his lip. He didn't sit down until she had settled herself. Paul Brader leaned a hip against my desk and lit a cigarette. He extended the package to the Carpenters, but both shook their heads.

  I could sense that there was no point in condolences, and I was relieved. I knew Paul hadn't got anything on the trip to Bellevue or he would have taken me aside and briefed me. Mrs. Carpenter was obviously the dominant member of the family, and I addressed my remarks to her.

  "We'll make this just as short as we can,” I said. “The first question, of course, is whether you know anyone who might have killed your niece."

  She sat very straight, almost rigid, staring at me unblinkingly. “I'm sure I couldn't say."

  "You reported her missing as of eight P.M. last Monday, and the time of your report was ten A.M. Tuesday. Was it unusual for Lucille to stay out all night?"

  "It was the first time she'd ever done that. She would never have had the opportunity for a second time, I assure you."

  "We'll want to notify her parents.” I picked up a pencil. “What's their address?"

  "They're dead. Lucille has been living with Mr. Carpenter and me ever since then. Almost a year now."

  "Did she go on a date Monday night, Mrs. Carpenter?"

  "I'm sure I don't know. We'd had very little to say to one another the last few weeks."

  "You have no idea at all where she was going? No idea whom she might have planned to meet?"

  "None at all."

  "Was she wearing a coat or jacket when she left?"

  "I told them what she was wearing when I called to report her missing. If she'd been wearing a coat, I would have said so."

  "It's been very chilly the last week or so. I thought you might have forgotten—"

  "I forgot nothing."

  I looked at Mr. Carpenter. “How about you, sir? Do you have any idea of whom Lucille planned to see that night?"

  "He knows nothing about it,” Mrs. Carpenter said crisply.

  Mr. Carpenter glanced furtively at her, then dropped his eyes and shook his head. “She didn't mention,” he said.

  I turned back to Mrs. Carpenter. “You said she was wearing a diamond engagement ring when she left. There was no such ring on her hand when we found her."

  "She was wearing it when she left the house. I'm quite certain of it."

  "Whose was it?"

  "Why, her own, of course."

  "I mean, who gave it to her? Who was the man?"

  Mrs. Carpenter had very thin lips, and when she pursed them, as she did now, she gave the impression of having no lips at all. “I'm afraid I don't know,” she said finally.

  Paul Brader leaned forward. “Mrs. Carpenter, do you mean to tell us that your niece was engaged to a guy, wearing his ring, and you don't know who he was?"

  Mrs. Carpenter took a deep breath, staring at Paul fixedly. “I don't like your tone, young man,” she said. “I—"

  "I'm sorry,” Paul said. “It's just a little hard to understand, that's all."

  "She began wearing the ring about a month ago. It was shortly after the time Lucille and I—well, you might say we stopped confiding in one another."

  "And why was that?” Paul asked.

  "Because I discovered certain things about her. At first I was of a mind to ask her to leave my house.” She turned her head slightly to glare at her husband.

  "You mind telling us a bit more about it?” I asked.

  "Not at all. Why should I pretend to protect the reputation of a girl like Lucille? She was an extremely pretty girl ... she liked to flaunt herself. Especially around Mr. Carpenter."

  "Now, Cora ... “ Mr. Carpenter began.

  "Ple
ase be still, Mr. Carpenter,” she said coldly. “You've defended that disgraceful person often enough already."

  "It just don't seem right somehow,” he said. “Her being dead and all, and—"

  "That'll do,” Mrs. Carpenter said. She looked at me. “As I said, she flaunted herself. She thought nothing of going through the house in her slip, or parading from the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around her. Why, once she even—"

  "We're interested only in finding the one who killed her, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said. “Now, can you tell us anything else that might help? For instance, do you know whether she was in fear of anyone? Had she ever said anything at all that might give us a lead?"

  "No, she never did. It seems quite plain to me that she was robbed."

  "Why so?"

  "Because she wore the ring when she left the house, and yet it was not on her finger when her body was found."

  "A lot of things could have happened,” I said. “Robbery's a possibility, of course."

  A knowing look came into her eyes, and when she spoke there was a subtle suggestiveness to her voice. “Unless something else happened, that is. Unless, let us say, one of the people who found her took a fancy to the ring. It would be quite simple for him to appropriate it.” She smiled faintly. “Such things have been known to happen, have they not?"

  "Just a minute,” Paul said sharply. “If you're trying to say that we—"

  "Hold it, Paul,” I said. “Mrs. Carpenter is just upset, that's all."

  "I'm not in the least upset. I never permit myself to become upset."

  "About this man she was engaged to,” I said. “We'll want to talk to him. Can you tell us anyone who might know who he is? Any girl friends Lucille had who might know?"

  "She had few friends. Naturally, the way she twisted herself around, showing off all the time, she'd be lucky if decent girls even spoke to her."

  "Did she have a job?"

  "Yes. She worked for a photographer."

  I lifted the pencil again. “Where?"

  "His name is Schuyler. The studio is somewhere on Fifty-seventh Street."