Authors: Richard Deming
At 427 Clarkson Boulevard, a single uniformed cop was seated in a wooden chair in the hallway outside Apartment 2-A. His face was familiar, though I couldn’t attach a name to it, but he knew who I was.
Coming to his feet, he said, “Afternoon, Sergeant Rudd.”
“Hi,” I said. “The other guard off with Dr. Arden?”
He nodded. “Accompanied him to the hospital this morning.”
“He search him?”
“Uh-huh. His person and his medical bag. Nothing.”
“Heard anything from the girl?”
He nodded again. “She looked out once about noon and asked why I was here. I showed her the material-witness warrant and explained I wouldn’t serve it if she stayed inside. She shut the door, and I haven’t seen her since. She’s quite a babe.”
I held out my hand. “Lieutenant Wynn says you have a search warrant too. I’ll take that.”
“Sure,” he said, producing it.
Sticking it in my inside breast pocket, I rang the doorbell.
After a few moments the door opened. As the cop in the hall had said, she was quite a babe. Slim and dark, with a pale, flawless complexion and big, liquid brown eyes, she wore lounging pajamas with gold bottoms and a long-sleeved black top. The pajama pants prevented me from seeing what kind of legs she had, except that they were long and straight. The upper part of her body was lovely, though. I got the impression that she wore no brassiere, and even though she was rather full-bosomed, she was firm fleshed enough so that her symmetry wasn’t in the least marred by the apparent lack of support.
Taking off my hat and showing my badge, I said, “I’m Sergeant Matt Rudd, police, Miss Arden. May I come in?”
She looked me up and down with unsmiling appraisal before nodding briefly and stepping aside.
Walking into the front room, I glanced around. It was furnished much as the place across the hall, with inexpensive but adequate furniture. The layout wasn’t quite the same, though, for there was an open door off the front room which I could see led into a bedroom. In Benny Polacek’s apartment the only bedroom had been off the center hall. This seemed to be a five-room apartment instead of only a four-room.
Pushing the door closed, Beverly Arden moved past me to the sofa, her round little bottom moving back and forth rhythmically as she walked. Seating herself, she indicated the place next to her and said, “Sit down, Sergeant.”
There were two easy chairs and a rocker in the room, but since she preferred me next to her, I obliged. I didn’t sit close, though, and I discreetly set my hat between us. I leaned against the sofa arm, half facing her, and she positioned herself similarly at the other end.
“What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Matt Rudd.”
“You don’t look like a policeman, Matt. Though I guess you’re big enough. You must go two-twenty or thirty pounds.”
“Only a little over two hundred. I’m hollow.”
She smiled slightly. “You really don’t look like a policeman. I would have taken you for an actor. Not in movies. You’re not that handsome. But perhaps a stage actor.”
“Why?” I inquired with raised brows.
“You have such expressive eyes.”
I winced slightly. My eyes are the cross I have to bear. Sooner or later nearly every new woman I meet makes some crack about my eyes. In the mirror they just look like eyes to me, but women seem to find in them something I can’t see. When the boys in the squadroom want to get under my skin, they call me “Browneyes.” Then they get out of the way fast.
I said, “You have pretty eyes yourself, among other attributes,” and deliberately dropped my gaze to her full bust for a moment before raising it to her face again.
I did it to get even for her crack about my eyes, but it failed to embarrass her. She merely said, “Thank you,” in an amused voice and shifted her position, no doubt deliberately.
I decided it was time to get down to business.
“I guess you know why I’m here,” I said. “Want to tell me about last night?”
The slight smile on her face faded, she drew her feet up under her and hugged herself as though she suddenly felt a cold draft.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “I never saw the man’s face. He was behind me in the kitchen doorway.”
“How do you know it was a man, then?”
She looked at me reproachfully. “You meant that as a trick question. I was just beginning to like you, but if you’re going to be all policeman, we won’t be friends.”
“I want to be friends,” I assured her. “I retract the question. How do you know it wasn’t a woman?”
The faint smile almost, but not quite, touched her face again. “When the shots sounded, I turned in time to catch a glimpse of his back.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me the whole story?” I suggested.
“All right,” she said agreeably. “I had been sitting here alone watching television all evening. Norman was reading in his room with the door closed, because he hates television. It was pretty warm last night, so I had the front door open for cross ventilation. About a quarter of ten Mr. Polacek stuck his head in the door and asked if I’d like a cup of coffee.”
“He do that often?” I asked.
“Not very. Usually only when he’d been out somewhere, got home early, and didn’t feel like going to bed. He’d been out last night, because he didn’t come from his apartment. I heard him come up the stairs.”
“Over the television?”
She looked reproachful again. “You’re still asking policeman questions.”
“That’s what I am,” I said reasonably.
“I thought you wanted to be friends.”
“Let’s be policeman-witness now and friends afterward,” I suggested.
“Umm, that sounds interesting. What did you ask me?”
“How you heard Polacek come up the stairs with the television on.”
“Oh, yes. With the hall door open, I naturally had the sound turned very low. In an eighteen-unit apartment building you learn to consider your neighbors, even though the building’s supposed to be soundproof.”
“It is?” I said. That explained something which had been puzzling me since last night. Even though Apartments 2-A and 2-B were isolated at the far end of the second-floor hall, I wondered why no other tenants had come to investigate the shots. With the door of 2-B open, the sound must have reverberated up and down the hallway.
“Yes,” she said. “But with the night so warm, I thought perhaps other people had their doors open, too, and I didn’t want to disturb them.”
“Before Polacek got home, did you hear anyone else moving about in the hall?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t recall hearing anyone.” Then her eyes widened. “You think perhaps the killer was lurking out there waiting for him?”
“I don’t know. Did Polacek act as though anything were on his mind? Did he seem worried?”
She thought again. “Not that I noticed, but I hardly knew him well enough to judge if there were anything different about him last night. He was merely a neighbor who occasionally dropped in for a few moments, and occasionally asked me or Norman, or sometimes both of us, over for a cup of coffee. Never for a drink—just coffee. He didn’t drink.”
Virtuous Benny, I thought. No bad habits except peddling dope to kids.
I said, “So you accepted his invitation.”
She nodded. “I stuck my head in Norman’s door to tell him I was going across the hall. He said he was going to take a shower and go to bed. When we went across the hall, Mr. Polacek left his door open for the same reason I had. That’s how Norman was able to hear the shots.”
“Did you always call him Mr. Polacek?” I asked.
The question startled her. She flushed slightly, then said with an air of honesty, “Actually, no. I suppose I’m trying to disassociate myself from him by giving the impression he was the barest acquaintance simply because he was murdered and I don’t like to be involved. I had never been out with him socially and he was only a neighbor, but we were on rather friendly terms. I called him Benny, he called me Beverly and called my brother Norman.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Go on.”
The girl shifted position again, with the same interesting result as before. But this time it wasn’t deliberate. She was beginning to relive the tragedy of the night before. Hugging her shoulders, she went on in a suddenly low voice.
“I went into the kitchen and sat at the table with my back to the door. Benny went into the bedroom long enough to hang up his suit coat, then came in and put the coffeepot on the stove, and set out cups and saucers. It took about fifteen minutes for the coffee to perk, so we just sat and talked.”
“About what?”
She shrugged, causing her cute breasts to bounce up and down like twin balloons full of water. “Nothing consequential. My job at Whittiker Aluminum—incidentally, I hope I still have it, after not showing for work today. I didn’t even phone in— We talked about our respective vacation plans, Norman’s work at the hospital. Just idle chatter. Finally the coffee was ready, and he got up to pour. He took my cup first. He was just reaching for the pot when he paused and half-turned. I thought he was looking at me, because I hadn’t heard whatever sound came from the doorway that caused him to look around. Then the shots sounded, right over my head. I was so startled, I just sat there frozen as Benny fell to the floor. I swung around just in time to catch a glimpse of a man’s back. Then I started to scream. I don’t remember much after that, because I went into hysterics. I remember Norman being there, attempting to quiet me down and finally giving me a shot. And I remember him putting me to bed, but that’s all.”
I said, “Can you give any description at all of the man? Height and weight, for instance?”
She shook her head. “I only caught a bare glimpse, and I was too dazed to notice anything but that he was male. He wore a dark blue suit, if that helps.”
“It isn’t much of a description,” I said glumly. “Did you know what Benny Polacek did for a living, Beverly?”
She thought for a moment. “He was some kind of salesman, I think. He never talked about his work.”
“Naturally not,” I said dryly. “He was a salesman, all right. He peddled heroin to kids.”
Her dark eyes widened. “You’re fooling.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I said, raising my right hand. “He was a dope pusher.”
She stared at me with an expression of revulsion on her face. “And I actually liked the man!”
I sat quietly waiting for her to get used to the idea that her nice neighbor hadn’t been quite as nice as she had thought. It had the effect of erasing the horror of the previous evening completely from her mind. Suddenly she grinned.
“All at once I don’t feel nearly so bad about Benny being killed, Matt.”
“He won’t leave a gap in the human race,” I agreed. “Do you remember any visitors he had?”
She thought, then said, “I don’t believe I ever saw a visitor go into his place. He may have had some, but I didn’t happen to see any of them. I seldom keep my door open as I did last night, of course.”
I remembered what Hermie Joyce had said about Benny allowing customers to come to his apartment for pops, once he was satisfied they were safe. It seemed that there should have been a regular stream of visitors to his place. However, they would probably enter and leave surreptitiously, so it was quite possible an across-the-hall neighbor would never see them.
“Did you ever hear him mention a friend named Char-lie?”
After thinking again, she said, “I don’t recall him ever mentioning anyone he knew. He gave the impression of being a rather lonely man.”
“How long have you been neighbors?”
“Benny once mentioned that he’d been here about three years. I’ve been here two. Norman moved in only two months ago, when he finished med school and started interning at City Hospital.”
“I see. Now I have to ask another cop question, Beverly. We’re still playing policeman-witness. Are you going to look reproachful again?”
“Ask it and see.”
“All right. Do you own a gun?”
She stared at me. “You think I killed Benny!” she accused.
“No such thing,” I denied. “I merely have to cover all possibilities. Do you own a gun?”
“No!”
“Does your brother?”
“No!”
“Mind if I look?”
A touch of frost appeared in her eyes. “You mean search the apartment?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I most certainly would!”
“I hoped we could stay friends,” I said with a sigh, producing the search warrant and leaning forward to hold it before her face.
She studied the document carefully, at first with resentment, then gradually a wicked grin formed on her face.
“It says the premises and persons of Norman and Beverly Arden. Are you going to search my person?”
“Women have to be searched by matrons,” I said. “That was put in so your brother could be searched before he left for the hospital this morning. Just in case he tried to carry out a gun. I can see you haven’t any guns concealed on your person.”
“How do you know? I might have a very small one tucked under the belt to my pajama bottoms.”
“I’ll settle for a search of the apartment,” I told her, rising to my feet. “You can come along to make sure I don’t lift any family heirlooms.”
I started with her bedroom, which was about as feminine as a room can be. Pink and white, it was full of lacy frills, and oversized stuffed animals stared at you from every corner.
Beverly stood in the doorway watching as I rapidly went through the dresser and closet without disturbing a thing. Her eyes widened when I stripped the bed and flipped over the mattress to check the springs, and she looked bemused when I quickly and efficiently remade the bed exactly as it had been.
“You’d make some nice lazy girl a fine husband,” she said. “You could do all the housework. Or are you already married?”
“No,” I said shortly.
I took her brother’s room next, and it was equally free of guns. The bathroom took only about three minutes. I went through a linen closet, glanced into the medicine cabinet, and probed through a clothes hamper. She looked bemused again when I lifted the lid of the water tank.
“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Matt? I never would have thought of that.”
“You’re unusual, then,” I said. “That’s one of the common places amateurs think it’s cute to hide things.”
Within twenty minutes I had completed the search of the whole apartment. After years of experience, I don’t miss a possible hiding place. There was no gun there.
“I guess that’s that,” I said finally.
We had ended in the front room. I went over to pick up my hat.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” she asked.
I gave her an inquiring look.
“You still haven’t searched my person.”
“It’s a pleasant thought,” I said dryly. “But they board cops who put their hands on female witnesses.”
“I know my constitutional rights,” she said. “That warrant says the premises and persons of Norman and Beverly Arden. Norman had his person searched. I demand the same right.”
I scowled at her. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
“I’m trying to keep myself out of it. I know how you policemen operate. If you can’t find the real killer, eventually you’ll arrest me just to silence the clamor of the press. At the trial some smart prosecutor will ask if you searched for a gun. ‘Sure,’ you’ll say. ‘The whole apartment.’ Then he’ll ask, ‘Was the person of the accused searched?’ When you say, ‘No,’ the jury will think, ‘Aha! That’s where she hid it.’ I want complete clearance.”
Except for the wicked glint in her eye, she acted so serious that I couldn’t help grinning.
“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll phone for a policewoman.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said crossly. “Your dumb old rule must mean you can’t search a woman forcibly. When they demand it as a constitutional right, it must be permissible.”
I thought this over, and it seemed to make sense. There was nothing to that effect in the rule book, but I don’t suppose it ever occurred to the rule-makers that the matter might come up. What the hell, I thought. If she did report me, it might be interesting to see what a tizzy the board was thrown into when I presented my defense.
Tossing my hat back on the sofa, I walked over to her and said, “Put your arms straight out from your sides.”
Obediently they shot straight out.
Starting at her wrists, I gently patted her arms clear to the shoulders. Then I ran my hands along her sides from beneath her armpits to her waist. I didn’t find any shoulder or belt holsters, but I found some nice soft curves.
She must have stepped out of the shower just before I arrived, because I could smell the clean scent of perfumed soap on her. I had to resist the impulse to gather her into my arms.
Stooping, I put one palm on the inside of one thigh, the other on the outside, and ran my hands clear to her ankle. Then I checked the other leg. They felt firm and shapely under my hands. She wasn’t wearing any leg holsters, either.
I was perspiring slightly when I rose again. She continued to stand with arms outthrust and her back stiff, staring at me without expression.
“I guess you’re clean,” I said huskily.
“You didn’t do nearly as thorough a job as you did on the apartment.”
A man can take only so much urging, and when it comes to a woman as beautiful as Beverly, I have a low boiling point.
“All right,” I said, and reached out and loosened the top button of her black pajama top.
When she remained rigidly unmoving, I loosened the rest of the buttons and the top fell open. Her face assumed a slightly strained expression, but she still kept the same rigid stance, her arms ridiculously outthrust from her sides. It struck me that we were behaving as a pair of very young children experimenting with sex for the first time, the boy tentatively exploring while the girl stood perfectly still, pretending she didn’t know what was going on.
I attempted to remove the jacket, but with her arms held out that way, it was impossible. As she seemed determined to continue playing statue until I was through searching, I gave up.
Loosening the belt of her gold pajama bottoms, I undid a couple of side buttons. The garment slithered down her legs to bunch around her ankles. Kneeling, I lifted one unresisting foot, then the other, and tossed the bottoms aside. When I stood up again, she still held her statue-like pose, gazing at me with the strained expression on her face.
This was getting silly, I thought. I hadn’t as yet even kissed the girl.
I remedied that by pulling her into my arms. Instantly her rigidity collapsed. Her arms went about my neck, and her mouth was wide open when it reached mine.
After a time I came up for air and tried tugging the pajama top down over her shoulders. She violently shook her head.
“It won’t be in the way,” she said in a strangled voice. “Don’t waste time.” So I didn’t waste time.
It must have been twenty minutes later when I picked up my hat for the second time. Following me over to the door, she cupped my face in both hands and reached up on tiptoe to kiss the end of my nose.
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again, will I?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Sure,” I said. “You’re a material witness. I’ll probably have to be seeing you often.”
“Umm,” she said. “I hope it takes years to solve the case.”
The cop outside in the hall gave me an inquiring look.
“You can pull the stakeout,” I said. “Tell the guy out back, too. And phone the hospital to tell the man on Doc Arden he can knock it off.”
“O.K., Sarge,” he said in a grateful voice. “This is about as dull a detail as you can catch.”