A Handy Death (12 page)

“If the game had started on time,” Dupaul said disgustedly, “there'd have been all the time in the world to rumble about anything.”

Ross became alert. “The game didn't start on time?”

“Hell, no. We were set to begin at one o'clock, right after noon chow. We actually didn't get started until damn near one-thirty. The key to the equipment room was missing.”

Ross leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest.

“Whose responsibility is the equipment room?”

“Father Swiaki,” Dupaul said. “But you can't think he was in on any deal like that? That's crazy!”

“I told you before, I'm just getting facts,” Ross said. He moved on. “Let's drop the riot for the time being. I think I've got enough to work on there so we shouldn't have too much to worry about. Let's go back eight years to the Neeley case. All set?”

“All set.”

“All right. I'd like to talk about that twenty-two-caliber pistol that was used in shooting Neeley. I know what the transcript says; what I want is your opinion. How do you think this woman, Grace, got hold of it to give to you?”

There were several moments of silence. When Dupaul answered at last he sounded more curious than anything else; even more curious than relieved.

“You sound like you believe my testimony at the trial.”

“I have to believe it,” Ross said. “If I didn't I wouldn't be here, because there wouldn't be a chance in a million of getting you off. Now, how do you think she got hold of the gun?”

Dupaul shook his head slowly, staring down at his hands.

“Mr. Ross,” he said at last, looking up, “I spent the first two years at Attica trying to figure that one out.”

“Only the first two years?”

“That's all,” Dupaul said quietly, “because after that a guy can go crazy. I almost did, anyway. There just wasn't any way at all she could have gotten hold of the gun. Or rather, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that there were about a million ways.”

“How's that?”

“Well,” Dupaul said, “I guess at one time or another most of the team were in my room. And the mob up there at the time of the signing …”

Ross frowned. “The contract signing was in your hotel room?”

“Yes, sir. It was supposed to be out at the stadium, but the afternoon papers wanted to make the late edition, and my hotel room was in town, and so—” He shrugged. “That's where it was.”

A sudden thought came to Ross, unrelated to anything.

“Was the
Daily Mirror
represented?”

“The
Daily Mirror?
” Dupaul looked at him. “What's that?”

Ross smiled at his own ignorance.

“Nothing. That's a paper that didn't even exist then. I'm sorry. Who else could have had access to the gun while it was in your room?”

“Just about anyone who worked at the hotel, I guess,” Dupaul said. “The maids, the bellhops—hell, most of the staff either have master keys or can get hold of them easy enough. After the signing party, for example, there must have been half a dozen partially empty bottles of booze on a shelf in the closet. Until that night—” His voice trailed off, then returned, strong again. “Until that night I got so pie-eyed, we never touched a drop, but those bottles went down just the same.” He smiled his brief, unhumorous smile. “I doubt the mice were heavy drinkers.”

“We?”

“Me and Jim Marshall. He was my roommate. Then.”

There was something in Dupaul's tone of voice that brought Ross's attention to a head. He leaned forward, keeping his voice conversational.

“Marshall left a bit before you went out on your drunk, didn't he?”

“That's right.”

“Why did he leave?”

“Because I kicked him out, that's why. And I'd just as soon not talk about it, if you don't mind.”

“It could be important,” Ross said. “What was the fight about?” Dupaul set his jaw tightly and stared down at his hands, keeping his silence. Ross sighed. “All right,” he said, “at least tell me this—was your fight with him the reason you went out and got drunk?”

Dupaul's head came up, his eyes angry.

“I'd never get drunk because of a bastard like Jim Marshall! I got drunk because I was burned up over what he said. And I was too young to use my head!”

“What did he say?”

The silence returned. The correction officer glanced over, wondering at the quiet, and then looked away. When Dupaul spoke at last his voice was tight.

“What he said is none of your business. I don't want to talk about it. That miserable bastard! I thought he was my best friend, and he pulls something like that!”

“Like what?” Ross asked softly.

“Stop asking.” Dupaul seemed to change the subject. “I admit I was always lucky. Always lucky—that's a damn laugh, now—but until I got into that jam, I always figured myself as lucky. I never knew my folks, so I can't honestly say I missed them, but Old John, my grandfather, took good care of me. At least I never wanted for anything since I can remember. Old John, after Grandma died, didn't seem to have any income other than his social security, and I know for a fact he lost money when he sold the apple farm, but whatever I wanted, Old John would see that I got it.”

Dupaul's voice was soft, back in the past, almost unaware of his surroundings.

“I never figured Jim Marshall was jealous, but I guess he must have really secretly envied me and hated me all the time. Since we were kids, I guess. I never would have believed it. After all I did for him, too. Hell, I bought him his lunch at school half the time. I even bought him his first baseball mitt. And then he starts telling lies about me. Well, I tossed him out on his ear and told him to stay out, and then I sat down in my room and remembered those bottles and—well, I guess that's what started it.”

“What was the fight about? A girl?”

“A girl? Hell, we never had to fight about girls; it was the one thing we both had plenty of. Only I always had to bank-roll any heavy date he had, because Jim was always broke. But even after all I did for him, the lying son of a bitch talks to me like that!”

The blue eyes, angry with the memory, came to rest on Ross's face.

“I told you before,” he said, “how I stopped wondering about how that woman got hold of my gun, after two years at Attica. Well, after eight years I'm still mad every time I think of Jim Marshall. I used to lie in my bunk night after night up in Attica thinking about that time in the hotel. Jim Marshall? I should have kicked his brains out!”

“Did it ever occur to you that Jim Marshall had access to that gun? He also probably had access to the mate to it, up in Queensbury. If he hated you as much as you claim, couldn't he have given the gun to that woman?”

“Who, Jim? No, he was scared of guns. It's the truth. Up home I'd ask him to go target shooting with me, or go duck hunting with one of Old John's shotguns, but Jim was scared of guns. Funny, a big guy like him, but he was.”

“He still had access to them.”

“Not to the one in Queensbury. That one is locked up with the shotguns and all my stuff up there in a bonded warehouse. And the one down here—hell, that was gone even before we started to argue—”

He stopped abruptly, looking at Ross with startled eyes.

“I just remembered. After all these years I just remembered!”

Ross felt excitement stirring in him. “What did you just remember?”

“When we were arguing, even before Jim started to pack, I was so damn mad I went over to the drawer where I kept the pistol. I didn't have any idea of using it—hell, I don't know what I had in mind, to be honest. But it wasn't there. And I watched Jim pack his bag and get out. And he didn't take it then. So he couldn't have taken it.”

The excitement drained away. Ross sighed.

“He could have taken it earlier,” he said. “Why won't you tell me what he said that set you off like that?”

“Because it was a damn lie! Because it wouldn't help you, anyway. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

“Look,” Ross said, “any communication you have with me is confidential. You know that.”

“I know
this
,” Dupaul said flatly. “It's sure as hell confidential
now
. And nobody will ever get it out of me. And, anyway, it's still a damned lie!”

He came to his feet, prepared to leave. Ross stood up and put his hand on Dupaul's shoulder.

“All right,” Ross said. “We'll do what we can, Billy. The preliminary proceedings are scheduled for tomorrow. I doubt the riot will come into the discussion; the official investigation results haven't been made public yet. We'll do our best.”

Billy Dupaul studied Ross's face a moment and thrust out his huge hand.

“I'm sure you will, Mr. Ross,” he said, and turned to the waiting correction officer. Ross watched the door close behind the large young man. He opened his attaché case, switched off the recorder, closed the case and turned toward the exit.

There was a lot of work to do.

CHAPTER

8

Mike gunnerson was seated behind Hank's desk when Ross returned from his visit to the Tombs. The big man was tilted back in the swivel chair, carefully tossing paper clips across the room into the wastebasket beside Sharon's desk. The girl was out of the office. Mike took considered aim with his final clip, flipped it in a long arc, and nodded in satisfaction as the ring of metal on metal confirmed the accuracy of the shot. Ross grinned at him, put his attaché case down on the desk, hung up his topcoat behind the door, pulled up a chair and sat down.

“I see,” he said. “That's the reason my office expenses are so high. Interlopers making free with the supplies.”

“I'll send you a box of paper clips, free,” Mike said magnanimously. “For Christmas.” He swung around in the swivel chair, facing Ross. “What's new at the Tombs?”

“Enough to keep you and your boys busy for quite a while,” Ross said. “You won't have time for target practice with my office supplies, I'm afraid. But first of all, what's new with you?”

“Well,” Gunnerson said lightly, “I don't know where our missing lady named Grace is at the moment, but I'm pretty sure I know where she went when she ducked out of Neeley's apartment eight years ago.”

Ross stared at him.

“Well! You mean, you actually believe the lady exists?”

“I believe she existed. I don't know if she still exists. You made it a precondition, practically, of my employment that I believe that, remember? You not only insisted that I believe in her existence, but that I prove that existence.” His voice became serious. “Well, oddly enough, I now honestly believe she existed.”

“And can prove it?”

“To
my
satisfaction, although I'm not sure anyone else would take my word for it. We're far from through, though. I'm just getting started. I've got a little to work on, now.”

“Such as?”

“Such as where she went when she walked out of Neeley's place eight years ago.”

“You said that,” Ross said impatiently. “So where did she go?”

“Next door,” Gunnerson said, and grinned at the expression on Ross's face.

“
Next door?
”

“That's right.” Gunnerson's grin disappeared. “Let's take it step by step. The transcript is clear that the taxi companies were checked out thoroughly for the night of July 25, 1964, and none of them made a call at that apartment house. Now, Neeley walks in with a suitcase. He was supposed to have been traveling. Either he was or he wasn't, right? Let's assume first that he was. Then he came in at either one of the railroad stations, the bus depot, or one of the airports. He couldn't have caught a gypsy cab at any of those places, because they don't allow gypsies there; he certainly wouldn't have walked that far with a suitcase, and no regular cab brought him. Okay so far?”

“More than okay,” Ross said.

“Good. Then the chances are he hadn't been traveling, which seems to bear out your swindle theory—that the suitcase was purely a stage prop. Still, he had to come from somewhere with that suitcase, even as the woman had to go somewhere with it. And remember, the woman left about the time the police were coming, which would make her an obvious sight, a woman running down the street dragging a suitcase—”

Ross help up his hand, interrupting.

“Did they ever find out who called the police?”

“An unidentified woman's voice, according to the precinct.”

“She might have called them herself, if she wanted the boy caught.”

“Exactly,” Gunnerson said. “But she'd have to call from pretty close by, if she didn't want him to have time to get away. So I had two things: she hadn't been seen, and if she made the call, it had to be from close by. That pointed to another apartment in the same building.”

“Very good, Sherlock,” Ross said with a grin.

“I'm just starting,” Mike said modestly. “Save the applause for the big finish. I figured that while she was in another apartment in that building, she certainly wouldn't be hanging around very long after the shooting, and definitely not after she found out that Neeley not only was alive, but promised to stay that way. So I had my men go down to the renting office for the building and check the records. And lo and behold, there was a Grace Melisi who rented an apartment across the hall from Neeley's pad. She left without notice sometime after the shooting—”

Ross frowned. “Sometime?”

“They don't check on tenants unless they fail to pay their rent on time, and that's when they checked on her. And the apartment was empty. This was three weeks after the shooting, but she may have been gone the next day. Her things were out. They are furnished apartments, so all she needed was a couple of suitcases and a pocketbook and she was set to travel.”