A Dog's Ransom (24 page)

The insults plainly rolled off Morrissey. “Why a creep? Rowajinski was a human being.”

“Ho-hum,” said Marylyn.

Morrissey smiled. “Aren’t you saying that because you—”

“I have no further comment on that
creep
. He was no better and no worse than the wop cop, for instance.”

There was a knock on the door, an arm in a uniform sleeve came into Clarence’s view, and then Ed Reynolds entered. He nodded to Morrissey, and said “Hello” to Clarence and to Marylyn. Morrissey, who was half sitting most of the time now on the edge of the desk, pulled another straight chair from the wall for Ed.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Reynolds,” Morrissey said.

“We’ve been going over the circumstances of the night of November third-fourth last. And we are going to get to the bottom of it. And we already have, I think. Miss Coomes here—” Morrissey stopped, because the door was opening again.

Fenucci came in, and after a glance went out and returned at once with another chair for himself. He signaled for Morrissey to continue.

“I was saying,” Morrissey resumed, “Miss Coomes here continues to say that Dummell spent the entire night with her.” He was mainly addressing Ed Reynolds. “But that’s understandable since Dummell is a friend of hers. Mr. Reynolds, we don’t believe this story and that’s why we’re here—to get the truth out, now or later.”

Ed glanced at Clarence, an assessing glance, Clarence felt, as if to try to estimate how much questioning he had been through already. Clarence felt perfectly fit, and reminded himself again to keep calm and to save his energy. Morrissey wasn’t going to keep Marylyn or Ed all night, but he himself might be for it.

“I wonder, Mr. Reynolds, if you share Miss Coomes’s dislike of the police force?” Morrissey asked pleasantly.

Ed smiled slightly, and hesitated. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“I imagine you disliked Rowajinski even more,” said Morrissey.

A nasty slant, Ed thought. He kept the blank, agreeable expression on his face. He also kept silent, even though Morrissey was awaiting a reply. So was Fenucci waiting.

“Dummell has said,” Morrissey went on, “that he spent the entire night of November third-fourth at the apartment of Miss Coomes from ten p.m. to around eight the next morning—or ten, there’re two different stories there from each of these people, because neither is true. Dummell says he didn’t go out even for half an hour. Says he didn’t have his gun with him, and Miss Coomes doesn’t remember seeing it, although his gun was later found at his apartment because he’d taken it from his precinct house. We think the gun was the murder weapon and that Dummell washed it well, which was why no blood was found on it. We also know Dummell took a pair of pants and a topcoat to his local cleaners the morning after Rowajinski’s death. Strange, no?” Morrissey glanced at Clarence.

Clarence kept his cool. He had supposed that Homicide would check at his local cleaners.

“And so the evidence mounts up,” Morrissey said with satisfaction. “Now—”

Ed slowly got his cigarettes out, and in his effort to appear relaxed was so relaxed that his lighter slipped from his fingers. Morrissey retrieved it for him, because it was closer to his feet than Ed’s. “Thanks,” Ed said.

“You say, Mr. Reynolds, that Dummell said nothing to you at any time about wanting to hit back at Rowajinski?”

“That is correct,” Ed said.

“Even after Bellevue wasn’t doing anything, wasn’t doing enough, in Dummell’s opinion? Didn’t he say to you something like—’Somebody ought to do something’?”

Ed inhaled smoke. “He thought Bellevue ought to do something.”

“And when they didn’t?”

“That’s all he said—to me.”

“Don’t you really know, Mr. Reynolds, that Patrolman Dummell is responsible for Rowajinski’s death?” (Marylyn gave a bored moan.) “And that it’s something so plain it doesn’t need to be put into words maybe?”

“No,” said Ed, hating it. He hated Morrissey’s manner. He hated his own lying. He realized he couldn’t look at either Marylyn or Clarence, couldn’t even glance at them. Ed looked at the floor, or at the cuffs of Morrissey’s trousers. Morrissey was leaning against the desk.

“Don’t you suspect, Mr. Reynolds, that Clarence Duhamell killed that man? You’re an intelligent man. How could you not suspect it?”

Ed didn’t want to reply anything, yet realized that he ought to reply something. “I have no real reason,” he said finally, “to suspect it. That’s why I don’t.”

“Your goodwill—naïveté—I’m afraid they don’t much apply here, Mr. Reynolds. We’re going to get the truth out of Clarence Duhamell.” He added more heatedly, “No reason to suspect, even, when he’s the only person in the whole picture who had motive—who had the means at hand, a gun with which—”

“So did I have motive,” Ed interrupted, smiling.

“Mr. Reynolds, you’re a different temperament from this man . . .” Morrissey went on for a few minutes. It was boring.

“Don’t leave me out. I had motive,” Marylyn said.

Morrissey waved a hand at her. He looked vague for an instant, then said, “Excuse me for a minute,” and went out.

Fenucci, who had been listening attentively, got up also, and paying no mind to the others in the room, went out and closed the door.

Ed gave a sigh, and glanced at Marylyn and Clarence, knowing without even thinking about it that the office must be bugged, and that he had best not say a word.

Clarence stretched his legs out in front of him and reached for a cigarette. He smiled at Marylyn, but didn’t catch her eye. Ed evidently suspected also that a recording was being made, Clarence thought, and that was why Ed was silent.

Then Marylyn said, “This is so we can all yak and spill the beans,” and Clarence and Ed laughed. Marylyn almost laughed, and pursed her lips to control her smile. “Why don’t we sing a hymn? I—” Then she stopped.

How long do you think they’ll keep you
? Ed wanted to ask Clarence, but even this question, or Clarence’s answer, might for some reason be inadvisable. Held against Clarence.

Morrissey came back. How Morrissey had changed since that first affable evening interview, Ed thought. Now he looked weary, mechanical, no longer human. He was doing a job. Ed felt that he was on no side at all. He was neutral. Or a blank. Except that he wanted to nail
somebody
.

Morrissey was leaning against the desk again, drumming with his finger-tips as he composed his next words. “Mr. Reynolds, we’re going to get the truth from this man,” he said, indicating Clarence. “It’s only a question of time. You can help us, if you will. Just tell us what you know. Tell us the truth—please.” The tone was politely pleading.

It irritated Ed more than anything else. It implied that he hadn’t been telling the truth, and that he was protecting Clarence because Clarence was a friend. “I have nothing more to say. And if you haven’t any other question, I wouldn’t mind taking off.”

Morrissey nodded. He looked disappointed. “Very well, sir. I thank you for coming.” He pushed himself off the desk.

Ed had stood up. “Bye-bye, Marylyn. Bye-bye, Clarence.”

“Good-bye, sir,” Clarence said. The “sir” was a slip. “Thanks for troubling to come.”

Morrissey gave Clarence a smirk as he opened the door for Ed.

Ed went out of the building and took a deep breath of cold air. The dismalness! Suddenly even the ugly buildings on the street, a row of four ashcans, looked better, nicer than what he had just left. He wanted to telephone Greta at once, just to hear her voice. Instead he got the first taxi he saw and headed for 9th Street.

By 5:30 p.m. Clarence was feeling sleepy and also a little angry, but he was still repressing his anger. Marylyn had been told that she could go some ten minutes after Ed had left. Morrissey’s dismissal of her had been rather off-hand, and Marylyn had said, “This is my last visit here, by the way, because I have better ways of spending my time. I intend to report the wop pig whether he visits me again or not, and if he’s dumb enough to visit me again, I’ll resort to that famous weapon—screaming. The whole neighborhood’s going to know about his next visit.”

Morrissey, rude as stone, had nodded absently, not looking at her, not replying anything.

Morrissey had heard worse, Clarence supposed. The following hour, Morrissey went over the same things—the gun in Clarence’s apartment, the fact that Rowajinski had accused him of taking five hundred dollars, his friendship with the Reynoldses. He was sucking up to the Reynoldses, wasn’t he? He thought they were upper class, didn’t he? Swank? Clarence made no reply. It was more like a lecture than a questioning, anyway.

“Am I the only person who ever wanted to take a swat at Rowajinski?” Clarence said to Morrissey.

“No. No,” Morrissey said, happy at some response. “No, we had a guy a few days ago—Andrew something. A janitor in one of the buildings where Rowajinski used to live. He hated Rowajinski. Rowajinski’s landlady told us about him. Okay, they had some kind of feud, because he once bumped Rowajinski when he was rolling out ashcans or something. They once had a fistfight on the street. All right. But Andrew didn’t come down to Barrow that night. He didn’t know where Rowajinski was living.”

Clarence twice got up and walked around the room. The straight chair had become painful, a chore to go back to, but Clarence was afraid they might keep him standing all night. Surely the rough stuff would take place in the basement, or somewhere else. And they would try to make him angry, because now he had the reputation of a bad temper.

“Getting tired of the subject, eh?” Morrissey said, sitting on the edge of the desk, munching a sandwich.

Clarence had not been listening.

“You’ll get plenty tired of it. Look what you’re putting your friends through, Clarence. They’re not going to be your friends any longer. You know that.”

Clarence calmly sipped the bad coffee. There was a ham and cheese sandwich on a paper plate on the desk, but he wasn’t hungry. He imagined Ed Reynolds and Marylyn trying to telephone him this evening, getting no answer at his apartment, and immediately realized that neither would telephone, probably. For different reasons, neither would telephone. Ed had looked fed up, depressed by it all. Were they going to speak with Ed again? But Morrissey, at some point, had already said they would. Was that true? Perhaps they were going to grill Ed, in a way, as they were grilling him. Bore him into admitting what he knew. As Morrissey said, Clarence hated that, would do anything to save Ed from it. But no, he hadn’t said that, Morrissey had said it. Clarence was becoming weary. He wanted to take a walk. Or a nap. The room was stuffy again.

“You want to make a telephone call, go ahead,” said Morrissey, indicating the telephone on the desk. “Just press the green button before you dial.” Morrissey went to the door. “Somebody else’ll be here in just a minute.”

Alone, Clarence went to the window and opened it ten inches from the bottom. Then he slumped in a different chair, a swivel chair behind the desk, and put his feet up on the radiator under the window. He tried to sleep, his head back on the wood of the chair.

Fenucci came in. Clarence looked at his watch and saw that it was 7:44 p.m.

B
Y A QUARTER TO 10 P.M
., Fenucci was droning on in a soporific way: “. . . just the facts. That’s all I’m telling you, Clarence. No rough stuff. Not my style.” Fenucci strolled about, hands in his pockets. “Feeling sleepy? Stand up.”

Clarence stood up. “I want to open the window a little.”

Fenucci had closed it.

“Don’t jump out,” Fenucci said, smiling.

Clarence was too tired to react. For some reason, perhaps tension, his injured collarbone had begun hurting, hours ago, and it hurt worse as he lifted the window.

“No rough stuff except this,” said Fenucci, slapping or jabbing Clarence’s face suddenly as Clarence turned from the window. “That’s an insult. You deserve it. Or this.” Fenucci jabbed at the pit of Clarence’s stomach.

It did not hurt much, but it was a shock. Clarence felt a cool film of perspiration break out over his face. His eyes widened. The atmosphere changed suddenly. This was what Clarence had expected.

Fenucci now stamped on his toe.

That didn’t hurt much either, and Clarence almost smiled. Stamping on toes was silly. One had to see things in perspective. Clarence walked around, feeling awake now.

“. . . a matter of time, Clarence. There’re several of us and only one of you . . . if not tonight then another night, eh? Tomorrow night or the next night. Or the third morning, who knows? There won’t be any let-up, Clarence, until you spill the beans.”

Clarence remained calm. He felt it might be an advantage to feel tired, therefore relaxed. Mustn’t let his nerves “wear thin” however. Fenucci seemed to be talking just to be saying something, and Clarence also let his thoughts ramble where they would. Marylyn, maybe at a pleasure dinner party tonight, regaling her friends about police methods. Ed, reading, or maybe at a film with Greta, Ed no doubt trying to forget the minutes with Morrissey.

“Call up Mr. Reynolds. I insist.”

Fenucci’s words caught Clarence’s attention. “I don’t care to call him up. For what?”

“I insist. You’re taking
my
orders. Call him up, Clarence.” He nodded at the telephone.

“But I have no reason to call him up.”

“Afraid you’ll annoy him? Fine. The reason is, I order you to call him up!” Fenucci lit a cigarette viciously, as if he were very angry. “So go ahead.”

“I don’t know his number.” It was true, Clarence at that moment wasn’t sure of Ed’s new number.

Fenucci pressed a button on the desk, scowled absently at the scattered papers before him, then a cop in uniform appeared at the door. Fenucci asked him to bring a Manhattan telephone directory. Clarence had to look up the old number, dial it, and get the new number. This he dialed.

Greta answered.

“Hello. It’s Clarence. I’m sorry to bother you. I—”

“Are you—Do you want to speak with Ed?”

“It’s not that I want to, they’re—”

Fenucci swatted Clarence on the back of the head. Clarence gripped the telephone and wanted to slam it down, but Fenucci would only make him ring again, Clarence realized.