Homicide at Yuletide (11 page)

“Yes, Louis.”

“Sonny, I think the liquor’s getting to you, I really do. You’ve finally gone all the way overboard. If you think you’re going to get away with this, you’re cockeyed sonny, completely cockeyed.”

“Cockeyed,” I said morosely. “Yeah, cockeyed.
Cockeyed?”
I slapped my hands together. I had it. All of it. It fell on me like a tunnel caving in. I kept slapping my hands together. “Louis, boy,” I said. “Don’t go way.”

“Don’t worry about my going away.”

I started with the bedroom. I turned it inside out.

Parker smoked his cigar, leaning against the wall. “What’s the matter with you?” he said.

“Nothing.”

Next was the kitchen. I administered the same treatment, all the closets, the cockroach paste, the utensils, the gas range, even the ice cubes in the refrigerator.

He stopped me as I was coming out. “Now, look—”

“Louis, I’m going to clear a killing in Chicago, and I’m going to give you the murderer of Sheldon Talbot, and I’m going to give you the murderer of Grace White. I’m going to tell you about one Perry Agufen—”

“That I heard about.”

“And I’m also going to put the boots to Barney Bernandino.”

“Boots to Barney Bernandino, that’s fine by me. But when does all this start?”

“Now, Louis. It’s started.”

“How? By house-cleaning?”

“That’s part of it.”

He stood there in the doorway, keeping me in the kitchen. I sat down on an inverted pot and I gave him the story. I told him exactly what had happened to me from the time he had called me at the office, right up to now.

“That gun still up there?”

“Where, Louis?”

“By Stella Talbot?”

“I think so.”

“You think so, huh?” He swelled his cheeks and blew breath through pursed lips. “Boy, if I ever heard of obstructing justice— Here’s a case that’s cold now for twenty-four hours—with this crazy bastard sitting on it all that time—”

“Which crazy bastard?”

“You.”

Aggrieved, I said, “I have not been sitting. I think I’ve got the solution, if you will only let me—”

“Let you what? Turn your house upside down?”

“Yes, Louis.”

He wrung his hands once, then he slapped them hard against his thighs. “Why do I take this crap from you? Why—”

I smiled at him. Sweetly.

“You like me, Louis. Down deep in your heart, you love me.

“You want to continue breaking up home?”

“Yes.”

“Like that, you’re going to come up with an answer?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to spring it on me, surprise-like?”

“Yes.”

“Without an audience? Without a speech? Not you.”

“I’m going to have an audience. And I am going to make a speech.”

He relit the cigar, clamped it between his teeth, and worked up smoke diligently. “Look, private richard, or whatever the hell you call yourself lately, I’m going to make a speech first. You’re the kind of a guy that’s so crazy, it spreads—other people act like they’re crazy. But we haven’t come up a cropper yet. Cropper. I don’t know what it means, sounds like a barber, or something. All right. We haven’t come up a cropper yet, and by dint of a long and spectacular acquaintance—well, we’ve been a good team. I’m the only cop in New York that takes a shamus seriously, and you educated me for that, Okay. Bust the house. Strew the furniture. Bake a cake, if you want to. Spring it on me in your own subtle way, but spring it, if you’ve got something to spring. Because I’m telling you right now, you’re not going out of here tonight—without me—unless. And if we go, we’re going downtown, and for once in your life, you’re going to sweat. Understood?”

“Yes. May I come out of my kitchen now?”

He laid the cigar away. He raised his hands to his face, only his nose peeking. He slid his fingers down his cheeks, a pinky getting caught in a corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he said. “You may come out of your kitchen now.”

I moved him gently, and went by him. I left him staring at the denuded version of my scrambled kitchen. “I ought to have my head examined,” I heard him say, “too.”

I attacked the living-room. I turned the furniture bas ackwards, labels protruding. Labels always protrude from furniture turned bas ackwards. Something about Do
not remove,
something about it’s brand new and healthful. I went back to the kitchen, rousing the mulling detective from his reverie, and got a knife. I started cutting up the bottom of the furniture. The mulling detective came and watched me, in absolute silence. I ripped up the carpet. I cut open hassocks. I opened the pillows on the couch. I turned the couch over. I opened the bottom of the couch. I took out all of the desk drawers. I pulled books out of the bookcases. I swung pictures off the walls. I dismantled the fireplace. I stood up and looked at the mulling detective and sighed. The mulling detective sighed right back at me. I was getting worried.

The bell rang and Parker opened the door.

They came in a bunch, Stella, Terry, Gay, Evelyn, the redhead, the lollipop, the Greek, the diplomat, the beetle-brow. They were rollicking and talkative. They’d been drinking together, they weren’t lit yet, but it was beginning. They were flickering, like gaslight. Glumly, Parker took their things.

“What is this? A new idea?”

“What is it? An upside-down party?”

“Upside-down, you think that’s bad?”

“Do we stand on our heads, that the motif?”

“Where are the drinks?”

“Where the hell’s the cocktail shaker? In the toilet?”

“Quiet. Qui—et.”

“Let’s all sit on the floor, what the hell?”

“You’re nuts. Let’s sit on the ceiling.”

“Quiet.”

“What goes?”

“I’ve got a needle. Who’s got a haystack?”

“Here’s glasses.”

“This looks like Scotch.”

“What are we waiting for?”

“Let’s sit on the floor.”

“The ceiling, you dope.”

“Quiet.”

There was nothing left but the television—my deluxe, enormous-screen, locked-picture, no-dial, true-sound, no-click, all-wave, non-shimmy, prismatic-color, live-picture, no-glare, no-stare, no-smell, no-jump, no-ghost, no-snow, no-flicker, custom-built, hand-rubbed television. (Or don’t you read the advertisements?) I tipped it, bracing like a virgin against a high wind, but it was too heavy and it toppled, crashing the tube. I cursed and the bell rang. It was Noah. I paid no attention to his doleful additions to the running comment. I used the knife for a screw driver and took off the back panel, and there it was, wrapped in brown paper and adhesive tape, cozy as a cached herring in an igloo. I took it out and bounced it once in my hand.

“What—?” Parker said.

“Jools,” I said.

Nobody else said anything.

Now Gene Tiny came. Parker opened the door for her. She looked once, and smiled. “All topsy-turvy again,” she said. “Isn’t this where I came in?”

“And go out,” I said, “in the loving arms of the law, known also as Louis Parker, detective-lieutenant, Homicide.”

“I beg your pardon.”

I got up off the floor. “Thief and murderer. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.”

She pulled up tall and I saw she was going to fight.

“Or is it murderess?” I said.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Evelyn Dru said, “I really think he’s crazy, that’s what I think. And I mean it.”

“Lieutenant,” I said. “If you’ll look in the lady’s bag, you’ll find a set of keys, which are mine, and a pair of glasses, which are hers. You won’t find a gun.”

“No gun?” somebody said, sniffing.

“No gun. The lady is sufficiently well-versed in screwed-up details to have gotten rid of the gun. After she shot Grace White.”

The sharp cackle was a hysterical giggle out of the lollipop. “Hey, we’re having fun,” he said.

Parker moved now, all cop. “I beg your pardon,” he said. He took her bag and opened it. He brought out the glasses and the keys. No gun.

“These his keys?” he said.

“Yes. They’re his keys. I must have picked them up by mistake the other evening. I was returning them—”

The bell rang again and I opened the door. Potsy broke ground for Barney Bernandino.

“Punk,” Barney said, grabbing me. “You’re a phony, miserable, dirty little punk, putting me in the middle. I’m gonna—” He saw Parker. He let go of me, and smiled. “Why, good evening, Lieutenant.”

“You’re going to love this,” I said.

“Love what?”

“Shut up and listen.”

“Audience,” Parker said. “And speech.” He didn’t move from Gene Tiny’s side.

“She didn’t,” I said, “take those keys by mistake. Not at all. You’ll find a duplicate set in her apartment, positively. She rooted one of those key-makers out and had him do a duplicate job and paid him extra because it’s Christmas. Like that she brings my keys back here tonight, and she’s got a spare set at home. That was before she knew that she’d have to have me knocked off too, that it was getting out of hand….”

“Wait a minute,” Parker said. “Let’s get organized here.”

Potsy helped straighten the furniture. Everybody sat down, right side up. Parker sat on the couch next to Gene Tiny. I cut open the brown-paper package and put the stuff on the desk. The bill of sale was there too. An itemized bill of sale from Prince Krapoutsky to Sheldon Talbot.

Barney said, “Nice work, peeper.”

“Quiet,” Parker said.

“Jewels, bejesus,” Potsy said. “I hate them.”

“What’s that?” Gay said.

“Jewels, bejesus.”

“Why?” Gay said.

“Because if one is bejeweled, bejesus, bejewel them all. Bejeweled, bejesus, for everyone, or bejeweled, bejesus, for none.”

“Hear!” Gay said.

“Like that I am what is known as a socialist.”

“That’s outworn,” said the diplomat.

“Outworn, hell. The wheel turns, mister. Used to be I was a real red, being a socialist. Then the Commies moved up. Communists, I hate them, always did. So now I’m a real old-fashioned conservative. I’m a socialist. Anybody want to argue politics? Brother, I’m itching to get on my soapbox.”

“Shut up,” Barney said.

“Leave him alone,” Gay said. “He’s cute.”

“You ought to get to know me, lady. There are many faucets to my personality.”

“This faucet,” Parker said, “is leaking. Turn it off. Come on, Pete. Leave us stay on the story line. It’s your party. Fanfare, and speech.”

I bowed. In the direction of Gene Tiny. “You want me to tell it, or will you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Advice first, Miss Tiny. When I’m finished, go with Parker. Because if you have a mind to duck that, Barney here will be waiting for you—somewhere. Between the devil and the deep blue uniforms, take the uniforms. Most of it is circumstantial. Maybe they’ll let you cop a plea. If not, with your legs—”

“Stay on the story line,” Parker said.

“You did it, Lieutenant. With one simple word. Cockeyed.”

“End of prologue,” the Lieutenant said.

“She got me on to Lorimer Boulevard, because that’s where she wanted me. That’s a quiet little road where the guy was supposed to let me have it, first taking a poke out of her to make it look good. She got me onto that road by saying to me, ‘Look, it says it there. Can’t you read?’ I couldn’t read. It was too far away. And my eyes are perfect.
But she certainly couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s nearsighted.”

“How would you know?”

“You reminded me, Lieutenant, with your one little word. I suddenly recollected my opening talk with her. She had offered me a cigarette and I had shaken it off, pointing to the wall-sign, big red letters, a Fire Department sign. She couldn’t see it. Are you with me, Lieutenant? She had to use her specs to see a No Smoking sign on the far wall of the conversation-room in the pokey. Get it, professor?”

“It’s beginning to creep up on me.”

“The pretty ones are all alike.”

“Philosophy, now.”

“The pretty ones won’t set those glasses on the bridge of their noses, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Well, Lorimer Boulevard would have been absolutely necessary.”

“Summing it up,” Parker said. “A plant.”

“Exactly. She didn’t have to read. She
knew
that road, and she wanted me on it. If she’d have been driving, she’d have sort of stumbled on it herself. But I was driving. So she had to direct me. It was a deal, all the way around, and I was to catch the dirty end of it. And you cleared it, Lieutenant, with one word.”

Gene Tiny slumped deeper in the couch. Parker took a look at her and got much more interested in my story. Barney stood up and began to walk.

Parker said, “Do it from the beginning.”

“Sure. The conservatives, the good-old-times guys, the Baker Street Regulars, and Irregulars, they have it that the modern private richard is something like palsy on a pogo-stick. He jumps around a lot, he drinks like mad, he gets his brains knocked out, and sometimes he comes up with an answer and sometimes he doesn’t. Well, this one was done strictly with the head. Strictly out of Baker Street.”

Wearily Parker said, “Audience and speech. But let’s get going.”

“Okay, she’s a private detective. It’s a funny business. Either you’re one of the few on top, or you’re sniveling around on two-bit deals. There’s no in-between. She found that out. Once the glamour got wiped off, she found out she’d have done better being a model. She was getting desperate, when this deal popped.”

“That’s a guess,” Parker said.

“Sure it’s a guess, but it dovetails, if you’ll let me.”

“I’m letting you.”

“She gets hired by Barney Bernandino to trace down Sheldon Talbot, who’s supposed to be dead in Chicago, but ain’t. Sheldon is supposed to have put one over on Barney on a deal involving jewelry worth about a half million bucks.”

“Supposed to,” Barney said. “Why, the—”

“Barney, it seems, lent him money.”

“Lent him,” Barney said, “hell. I—”

“I’ll give you all of those details, Louis, when I talk to your stenographer downtown. Sheldon made a purchase from Prince Krapoutsky. Sheldon then blows for Chicago, because he’s in trouble with Barney. Sheldon’s scared stiff. He’s loaded down with this jewelry that he bought from Prince Krappie, and he can’t get rid of it because he’s afraid of tipping Barney. He kills a man, Fred Thompson, and takes over his identity. Those details, too, will be furnished downtown. She rounds up Sheldon and arranges for him to come into town and do a transaction with Barney.”