The Gutter and the Grave (13 page)

We were eating breakfast the next morning when Detective Miskler arrived. Laraine had thrown a robe over her naked body. When the knock sounded on the door, she said, “Who is it?”

“Police,” the voice answered, and Laraine whispered, “Oh, my God, I’m not even dressed.”

“Go put something on,” I said. “I’ll let them in.”

She went into the bedroom, and I went to open the front door. Detective Miskler looked bright and fresh, wearing a blue tropical suit and a snapbrim straw.

“Morning, Cordell,” he said. “Sleep well?”

“Very.”

“Little lady at home?”

“Getting dressed.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind a few questions,” Miskler said. He pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket and chewed off the end. “Okay to smoke?”

“I don’t care if you burn,” I said, and I grinned but Miskler did not grin back.

“Eight o’clock humor doesn’t convulse me,” he said, and he lit the cigar. “I’ve been up all night. Guess what the lab discovered?”

“What did the lab discover?” I said, playing the perfect straight man.

“That the gun which was used to kill Christine Archese is the same gun used on her husband. How about it, Cordell?”

“Interesting.”

“Yes,” Miskler said drily. “It is also interesting to note that the gun was a .38. From what the lab tells me, it was a Smith and Wesson.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” Miskler blew smoke from his mouth. “Johnny Bridges told us he had a permit for a Smith and Wesson .38. We checked with Pistol Permits, and he wasn’t lying. It seems, however, that the gun has vanished from where he kept it in a drawer at the tailor shop.”

“I know.” I paused. “You mentioned the gun the first time we met.”

“I know you know,” Miskler said.

“Well, Johnny sure as hell couldn’t have killed Christine. He’d need more than a telescopic sight to hit her from The Tombs.”

“I know.”

“I know you know,” I said. “Why tell me about the gun now?”

“Johnny’s in jail,” Miskler said. “You ain’t.”

“I gave you my timetable for yesterday, didn’t I?”

“Only one thing wrong with it,” Miskler said. “It doesn’t check out.”

“Which part of it?”

“The time you said you were with Fran West. I paid a call on the lady. She doesn’t know you from a hole in the wall. Didn’t see you yesterday, and never saw you in her life.”

“She’s lying,” I said flatly.

“Maybe. Or maybe you are.”

“You going to pull me in again?”

“I don’t want to clutter up my precinct,” Miskler said. “I’ll let the Bowery cops get you on vagrancy.”

“Thanks. All of which means you don’t believe I have a damn thing to do with Christine’s death.”

Miskler shrugged, and then looked toward the closed bedroom door. “What’s keeping her?” he wanted to know.

“She’s taking her morning fix,” I said. “You know how it is.”

“Ha-ha,” Miskler said mirthlessly. “Cordell, you are a very funny fellow. Is the Palace still booking comedy acts?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Good. I can whistle pretty good. Think we can work up a double?”

Before I could think of a devastating rejoinder, Laraine came out of the bedroom. She was fully dressed, wearing a blue blouse and skirt, and blue flats. She had also found time to comb her hair and apply a coat of lipstick to her mouth. Miskler took off his hat and smiled. I half-expected him to bow.

“Good morning, Miss Marsh,” he said, “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m Detective Miskler, and my squad is in charge of the investigation into your sister’s and your brother-in-law’s deaths.”

“How do you do?” Laraine said. She extended her hand, and Miskler took it. “Won’t you sit down? We were just having breakfast. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you,” Miskler said. “I would.”

Everybody was being so very tip-toey polite that I began to wish I wasn’t in my undershirt. We sat down like a husband and wife about to discuss an insurance policy with a dear old friend of the family. Laraine poured a cup of coffee for Miskler.

“Sugar?” she asked.

“Thank you, one spoon.”

“Cream?”

“No, thank you.”

Miskler smiled. Laraine smiled back. I kept waiting for the Dorothy and Dick of the East Side to start their early morning breakfast show. In the meantime, I drank my orange juice and started on my coffee.

“Did you and your sister get along, Miss Marsh?” Miskler asked with the subtlety of Neanderthal clubbing a sabre-tooth tiger.

“Yes,” Laraine answered flatly.

“Where were you between twelve noon and three o’clock yesterday, Miss Marsh?”

“Is that set for the time of death?” I asked.

“It’s difficult to pinpoint it more accurately,” Miskler said. “Yesterday was a very hot day. Heat and
rigor mortis aren’t compatible. How about it, Miss Marsh?”

“From twelve noon to one o’clock, I was here having lunch. From one until three, I was working.”

“Where?”

“The five and ten on Third Avenue.”

“What time did you quit work?”

“At five.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I came here.”

“And then what?”

“A little while later, David Ryan came to tell me we had a band audition. I went with him to the basement where we rehearse. Mr. Cordell can vouch for that.”

“So can De Ponce,” I said. “He was with me.”

“Who can vouch for the fact that you were here between twelve and one, Miss Marsh?” Miskler asked.

“No one,” she answered honestly.

“Then you could just as well have been at your sister’s apartment putting a few bullets in her chest.”

“I suppose I could have. But I wasn’t.”

“We have only your word for that.”

“That’s true. My sister and I were fairly close, Detective Miskler. The last time we argued was when we were both children. I thought motive was an important part of any murder investigation. Believe me, I had no possible reason for wanting my sister dead. I rather resent your implications.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a shame, Miss Marsh,” Miskler
said, and it seemed as if he were going to say more, but instead he picked up his coffee cup and sipped at it. He was quiet for a few minutes. Then he said, “How well did you know Dom Archese?”

“As well as anyone knows her own brother-in-law.”

“Better maybe?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Mr. Cordell spend the night here with you?” Miskler asked, cocking his head in my direction.

“Yes, he did,” Laraine answered.

“Then don’t play this so damn naive. How well did you know Dom Archese.”

“Not that well.”

“Was there anything between you?”

“Nothing.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“Not even a kiss on the sly? A little holding hands? Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you own a gun, Miss Marsh?”

“No.”

“Did you know Johnny Bridges owned a gun?”

“How would I know that?”

“You were dating him, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but he never mentioned whether or not he owned a gun. Why should I be interested in something like that?”

“What
were
you interested in? What did you and Johnny talk about on your dates?”

“Everything and anything. I’m sure I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Everything,” Laraine said, slightly annoyed. “How do you expect me to remember what we…”

“You’re being unfair, Miskler,” I said.

“Shut up, Cordell,” he said. He sipped more coffee and turned to Laraine again. “What time did you leave the five and ten yesterday?”

“For lunch, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“At twelve sharp.”

“And you came directly here?”

“Yes.”

“What were you wearing?”

“What difference does it make what I was…?”

“Please try to remember.”

“A suit and blouse,” Laraine said. “Cotton. And tan pumps.”

Miskler jotted it down. If his interest puzzled Laraine, it hadn’t puzzled me. He was going to shop Christine’s apartment building for a possible witness who’d seen a girl in a cotton suit yesterday afternoon.

“What color was the suit?” he asked.

“A sort of beige.”

“What time did you arrive here on your lunch hour?”

“About five after twelve, I suppose.”

“And what time did you leave?”

“About ten to one.”

“Still wearing the beige cotton suit?”

“Of course.”

“May I see that suit, please?” Miskler asked.

“I’ve seen it,” I told him. “Not a drop of blood on it. Miskler, you’re barking up the wrong…”

“May I please see that suit?” Miskler said to Laraine. She went into the other room and came back with the suit. “I’ll have to take this with me,” Miskler said.

“What for?”

“The lab would like to run some tests on it.”

“Miskler, you’re away out in left field,” I said. “If you expect to find any traces of gunpowder on…”

“Oh, Cordell, do me a goddamn favor and shut up,” Miskler said. He made out a receipt for the suit, gave it to Laraine, closed his pad, and then rose. “I’m going now, Miss Marsh, please don’t try to leave the city, huh?”

“Why would I?” she asked.

“That’s your business. I’m just telling you not to. Goodbye, Cordell.” He went to the door, opened it, and then closed it behind him.

“What happens now?” Laraine asked.

“They’ll go over your suit with a vacuum cleaner,” I said. “If you fired a gun while you were wearing it, there may or may not be some traces of powder on the cloth.”

“A vacuum cleaner?” she said.

“Yes. With a Söderman-Heuberger filter. You didn’t fire a gun, did you?”

“No.”

“Then relax. Even if you did, they don’t always get powder. Cops like to make a big thing of lab tests. Sometimes they work fine, sometimes they don’t.”

“When do they work?”

“When there’s something there to find. For example, if there’s powder on your suit, the vacuum’ll pick it up and when they place the filter under the microscope, they’ll find it. As simple as that.
If
there are powder grains. Since there aren’t, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“He was a snotty bastard, wasn’t he?” Laraine said.

“You handled yourself beautifully.”

“Thanks.” She looked at her watch, “I’ve got to get to work. Will I see you tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going now?” she asked me.

“As soon as I shave,” I said, and I smiled, “there’s someone I’ve got to see.”

“Who?”

“Someone.”

“Okay, keep secrets,” Laraine said. She kissed me briefly and went to the door. “Tonight, lover.”

* * *

The someone I had to see was Fran West.

I had not minded the young lady lying to me about her erstwhile profession, but I did mind her telling the cops I hadn’t been to see her yesterday. I’m a firm believer in the theory that no one lies unless he or she is protecting some truth. Fran West had lied to the police, and I damn well wanted to know why.

Mr. Hitler was not sweeping his sidewalk this morning. Perhaps the pavements, as early as it was, were already too hot for him. I buzzed, was answered, opened the inner door, and trudged up to the third floor and apartment 3C. I pushed the ivory stud.

“Who’s there?” Fran called.

“Cordell.”

“Just a second.” She came to the door and opened it. She was wearing Bermuda shorts and a white blouse. She’d apparently been awake for some time. She looked freshly combed and curried. “Come in,” she said, “I was just having my second cup of coffee.”

I stepped into the apartment. The air conditioner was still going on all six. It was like stepping into the freezing compartment of a Norge.

“Up early this morning, huh?” I said.

“A new leaf. Got up at eight and went down for the morning newspaper. I was just wondering how I could get in touch with you.”

“Why?”

“You first,” she said. “What brings you here?”

“I couldn’t keep away from your hot little body,” I told her.

“It’s not so little,” she said, the black eyebrows raising archly over the brown eyes. “Want some coffee?”

“Love some.”

We went into the breakfast nook. This was turning out to be a ginger-peachy day with friendly breakfasts all over the sweltering city.

“Have you really got a lech, Cordell?” she asked.

“Oh, indeed, I have,” I said as she poured the coffee into a giant mug.

“You came to the right place,” she answered, smiling. “Honestly.”

“Sure,” I said. “Honestly.”

Her eyes grew puzzled. “What’s the matter, Cordell?”

“Several things,” I said.

“I’m listening.”

“One: you never did cheesecake. You posed in bed for Knowles.”

“Okay,” she said, shrugging.

“No argument, Fran?”

“Why bother? Is that why you’re miffed?”

“Nope.”

“Then spit it out.”

“You lied to the cops yesterday. I told them I’d been here from eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty. You told them I wasn’t. You could have got me in a lot of trouble, lousing up a legitimate alibi. Why?”

“Drink your coffee,” she said, “and stop being so damn foolish.”

“I want to know why you lied.”

“I didn’t,” she said simply. “You’re in swimming without your trunks, Cordell.”

“You told Miskler I
was
here?”

“Of course I did. I backed you to the hilt.”

“Why would Miskler lie?”

Fran shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t believe either of us. Maybe he thinks
you
knocked off Dom and
Christine. Maybe he thinks I’m mad about you and providing an alibi. How about it?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “Did he spend a lot of time with you?”

“About a half-hour, trying to punch holes in the alibi every minute.”

“I’m still not convinced.”

“Why would I lie?” Fran said.

“Why would anybody lie?” I said. “But everybody is.”

“You can say that again. Here. I want to show you something.” She spread the morning tabloid on the table and then opened it to page three. “Look.”

“What is it?”

“This,” she said.

I looked. Christine Archese’s death was headlined at the top of the page. Her picture was beneath the story, and the caption was “New Victim.” Beside that was a picture of Dom Archese captioned “Old Victim.” And alongside that was a picture of Johnny Bridges, and it was captioned “Suspect?” They made a nice trio.