He Huffed and He Puffed (28 page)

“Pajamas?”

“Don't wear 'em. Oh yeah—I found a pair of shoes under the bed. Then I closed the suitcase and picked it up, and it slipped and fell on my toe. I was hopping around holding my foot when I smelled smoke.”

Something clicked. “Wait a minute,” Marian said. “That business about dropping your suitcase on your toe—you mentioned that before.”

“Yeah, so?”

“The first time we talked to you. You said you dropped your suitcase and let out a yell …”

“To wake the dead, right. So?”

“Did you really yell, or are you just telling a good story?”

“I yelled, lady. That hurt. Do you want to see the bruise on my toe?”

“No, thank you. But I do want you to yell again. Not now,” she added hastily as Jack took a deep breath, “and not here. Let's go upstairs.”

“You want to cue me in? What's so important about my yelling?”

“Later.” She led the way out of the dining room and told the uniformed officer who was watching jack to find her partner and send him up to Mr. McKinstry's room. Upstairs, one policeman was down at Richard Bruce's end of the hall; Joanna Gillespie was downstairs somewhere with Ivan Malecki. They went into Jack's room. The villainous suitcase was on the floor by the bed.

“Where were you standing when you dropped the suitcase?” Marian asked.

“Uh … about here.” He took a position near the door.

A minute later Ivan knocked at the door. “You got something?” The cop Marian had sent after him peered over his shoulder.

“Maybe. I want you to go across the hall into Joanna Gillespie's room. Close the door and stand as far away from it as you can. Then tell me if you hear anything.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow but did as she asked. At Marian's nod, Jack let out a yell that should indeed have sufficed to raise the dead.

Ivan came back and said, “I could hear him hollering. Is that what you meant?”

“Yep. Now go into her bathroom and close the door. See if you can hear from there.”

Jack repeated his performance, and Ivan said that he could still hear him. “Why, Marian? What's it mean?”

She took a breath. “About the same time A. J. Strode was being stabbed, Jack dropped a suitcase on his foot and made a lot of noise about it. Joanna Gillespie told me she couldn't hear Jack in his room during the time of the murder.”

When he realized what that meant, Jack McKinstry let out a third yell, but this time it was a cry of triumph. “She couldn't hear me because
she
wasn't in
her
room! Ha! Aha! I
told
you she did it! Sergeant Malecki, didn't I just tell you that? Not more than an hour ago, I said she did it! Joanna Gillespie killed A. J. Strode, not me! And now you've got her!”

“Hold it, hold it,” Ivan cautioned. “It's just his word against hers,” he said to his partner.

Marian shook her head. “Jack didn't know she'd told me she didn't hear anything. He'd have had no reason to make up the story.”

Jack was seated on the end of the bed taking off his shoe and sock as fast as he could. He stuck a bare foot up in the air. “Behold—my bruise! My beautiful, colorful, alibi-providing bruise! Could anyone acquire a bruise like that
without
yelling? What a bruise! Did you ever see such a bruise? A wonderful bruise!”

Marian and Ivan were examining Jack's wonderful bruise when Richard Bruce burst into the room.
“What
is going on here? I could hear Jack yelling down at the end of the hall!”

Jack let out a whoop and flopped backward on the bed. He lay there laughing, waving his bruised foot in the air. “Oh Richard, Richard! What perfect timing! Evidence, dear Sergeants Malecki and Larch, that a good healthy yell can be clearly heard on this floor—
by anyone who's around to hear it
. Ask the cops in the hall. I'll bet you thirty pieces of silver they heard it too.”

“Of course they heard it!” Richard snarled. “We all did. I repeat, what is going on here?”

Jack sat up. “What is going on here, Richard my friend, is that your inamorata has tripped herself up. Given herself away. Sunk her own ship. Joanna blew it, Richard. She blew it bad. And not even you can make it right again. Isn't that a sad story?”

Richard turned to Marian. “What is he babbling about?”

Marian almost hated to tell him. “It looks as if Jack's cleared—of Strode's murder, at least. No hard evidence, but enough indication to satisfy me.” She looked at her partner; Ivan nodded
yes
.

“What do you mean, ‘indication'?” Richard asked in his most sarcastic manner. “Since when is an
indication
sufficient to charge someone with murder? What has this accomplished liar been telling you? You should have learned by now you can't believe anything he says!”

“Oh, pardon me all to pieces, O Truthful One,” Jack answered in kind. “And forgive my speaking up in the presence of such personification of moral rectitude as thyself, but I must point out, Your Virtueship, sir, that you ain't gonna pin this one on me. Fuckin' right you're not. It was your fiddling dolly that stuck it to Strode, not me. And they know it.” He jerked his head in the direction of Marian.

Richard raised an eyebrow. “My, my—aren't you the brave one all of a sudden. You think you've found a way to weasel out? That's what you do best, Jack—weaseling. Weaseling and undercutting. Hiding behind lies. Blaming someone else for your own inadequacies.” His voice was cold and unforgiving. “You disgusting little chickenprick—you're just about the most
useless
human being I've ever met. Utterly worthless.”

Jack jumped up off the bed, his face red and angry. “Jesus, you really do think you're God, don't you? Looking down your nose at everybody else, so goddamned pleased with yourself! You've been lording it over me ever since you got Jo in bed, but what did you get? You got a murderer who was quite willing to let
you
be suspected of her crime. Both of us. She doesn't care who gets hurt. You're an ostrich, Richard! You can't see what's right under your nose!”

Richard looked at him wonderingly. “You really are hopeless, aren't you? Jack, if I have to see you, or listen to you, even one minute longer, I am going to commit a criminal act, right here in the presence of the police!”

Jack laughed nastily. “That wouldn't be your first mistake. It could be your last.”

The two of them kept at it. Ivan looked as if he were enjoying the brouhaha, but Marian turned tiredly away from them all and stared down through the window at the street. Why did they do it? It didn't matter whether it was one-on-one-upmanship like now, or ganging up and calling it football, or really ganging up and waging war; it was still all the same game.
I'm bigger and badder than you
. She felt the beginnings of depression.

Eventually Ivan stepped in and stopped them when it looked as if they were ready to start swinging. Marian's depression deepened, and it had nothing to do with the two angry men ready to tear each other's throats out. Every time she and Ivan started getting close to nailing a killer, Marian felt a heaviness come over her that wouldn't go away until several days after the job was finished. All the disillusionment garnered in an adult life of dealing with those who considered themselves above the law seemed to peak at that moment when she had to face another human being and say:
You are a murderer. Your humanity has failed you, and we are less because of you
.

Once Ivan was safely between Richard and Jack, the latter became even more belligerent, throwing threats of physical mayhem at Richard Bruce over Ivan's shoulder. Ivan wasn't having any of that. He spun Jack around and pulled his wrists together to slap the cuffs on him. “You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”

“Aw, hey, man, don't go spoiling it! You got your murderer. What do you care what happened in France four years ago?”

“You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford one—”

“I can afford one, I can afford one! You're not really going to send me back to France, are you? All because of that stupid Billy shooting his mouth off—”

“Everything you say will be taken down and used against you in a court of law. Any questions? You're Mirandized, buddy. Put your shoe on. Let's go.”

“Ah,
Christ!”
Jack wailed. “Sergeant? Sergeant Larch? Can he do this?”

“He certainly can.”

“And you're just going to stand there and let him haul me away?” He pulled on his sock and shoe. “Because of some stupid helicopter that malfunctioned four years ago?”

“It wasn't the helicopter that malfunctioned, Jack,” she said without expression. “Your best chance now is to tell the truth, all of it. If you know how.” In rapid succession his face showed disappointment, self-pity, anger, and then some new cunning—all in the space of half a minute.
A grasshopper mind
, Marian thought.

Ivan waved a hand toward Richard Bruce. “Marian?”

She nodded. “I'll take care of him.”

Jack broke away from Ivan long enough to lurch over to her. “Marian,” he said smugly. “Your name is Marian.” He grinned toothily at her and let Ivan lead him away.

“Childish to the last,” Richard Bruce murmured as the door closed behind them. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “Well …
Marian?
My turn?”

“Your turn.”

He listened to her read him his rights without interrupting. Then he asked, “What's going to happen to Joanna?”

“If we can find enough evidence to convince the DA's office to indict, she'll be charged with A. J. Strode's murder and tried here in New York. If we can't, she'll be extradited to Boston and tried there for murdering her parents.”

“So you've got her either way, is that right? It doesn't really matter whether you can prove she killed Strode or not.”

“Oh, it matters. It matters a lot. You knew all along she killed him, didn't you? You were angry just now, when you found out Jack had been cleared. But you weren't surprised. You knew, didn't you?”

He smiled sadly, didn't answer. “Sergeant—don't look too hard for your evidence. Let her take her chances in Boston.”

That caught her off stride. “Now why should I do that?”

“Because if ever there was a man who deserved killing, it was A. J. Strode. In Boston, she can plead mercy killing and possibly get off with a light sentence.”

“You know she killed Strode …
and you don't care
. It doesn't matter in the least to you! I don't understand you people, I don't understand you at all!”

“No, I don't suppose you do,” he said distantly. “But your career won't suffer if you fail to charge Joanna with Strode's murder. After all, you and your partner will have brought in three big bad criminals that are wanted elsewhere. That'll be quite a feather in your cap. You don't need to name Strode's murderer too.”

“It seems to me you ought to be worrying about yourself instead of Joanna Gillespie. You
are
going to be tried for the murder of thirty-seven men, you know. You can't possibly be taking that as casually as you appear to be.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “There's one vital piece of proof missing from the police's case against me. The rest of it is hearsay and second-hand evidence.”

The letter
, Marian thought;
the first mate's last letter to his wife
. Was this the way it was going to end? One to be arrested for Strode's murder, one for past crimes, and one to get off scot-free?

“Of the three of us,” Richard went on, “I'm the one most likely to walk away. In fact, I intend to do just that. No, it's Joanna I'm concerned about. Sergeant Larch, I'm not so foolish as to try to bribe a police detective. But I will tell you that if you decide you want to improve the quality of your life, I am the means by which you can accomplish that wholly understandable goal. And you can accomplish it both painlessly and permanently. All that's required of you is that you let Joanna go to Boston.”

“And that's not a bribery attempt. Uh-huh.”

He smiled sadly. “All I'm asking is that you think about it. Think of what you want the most, and then think of how little you have to do to get it. Just look the other way, Sergeant Marian. That's all you have to do.”

What a seductive offer
, Marian thought. But then the man himself was seductive. He had the hypnotic appeal of a man used to succeeding, used to getting what he set out to get; she could understand Joanna Gillespie's attraction to him. But fortunately for truth and justice and the American way, Sergeant Marian Larch was not a very seducible woman. “Forget it,” she said. “She'll go to Boston only if the DA here fails to charge her with Strode's murder. And I'll tell you now, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen.”

Richard Bruce's expression didn't change. “Just think about it,” he urged.

She took out her handcuffs. “Hands behind your back.”

Then his expression did change. “Oh, really, Sergeant! That's not necessary. I'm offering no resistance.”

“Hands behind your back,” Marian repeated mechanically. He made a sound of annoyance but clasped his hands behind his back.

She'd just finished cuffing him when Ivan Malecki walked back in. “McKinstry wants his suitcase.” He picked it up.

“Ah yes—I'll want mine too,” Richard Bruce said. “It's still down in the television room. The black one.”

“I'll get it,” Marian said.

“I just called in and left word for the captain,” Ivan told her. “Desk sergeant says this guy's lawyer's there, his and Gillespie's.”

“About time,” Richard muttered.

“Ivan?” Marian stepped out into the hall and motioned to Richard to stay inside.