Corpses in the Cellar (13 page)

“Why do you want to know?”

“As I say, it’s important.”

“He was in the Navy for a while.”

“Yes. I saw that in his records down at the precinct house. I was wondering, though, while he was in the service, did he travel
much?”

“Some.”

“Out of this country?”

“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly, “some of the time.” It seemed as if her son’s death had turned her against the world; she
appeared to want to give nothing to it.

“All right,” he said, leaning forward. “Asia. Did he ever travel to Asia?”

An eyebrow lifted. “Yes. But I don’t see—”

“Perhaps even to Japan?”

“No, no, I don’t think—”

That was all right. It didn’t necessarily have to be Japan.

“When he came home, did he ever bring back any—souvenirs?”

She looked at him impassively, while he waited. He knew she’d break before he would. Finally, her lips moved, once, twice,
and then her voice came at him again. “A few.”

“You have to understand, ma’am,” he told her, “this is important. Human lives—”

“Human lives. You talk to me about human lives? My boy not two days in the earth—” Her voice trailed off and she began to
sob.

He offered her his handkerchief, and a few moments later, a drink from the bottle of Irish whiskey that was standing on the
sideboard. She nodded, took two small sips, then put the glass down. “All right,” she asked, “what do you want to know?”

“I’m trying to find a pistol. It’s a small one, an automatic. Did Eddie—your son—ever bring one back home with him?”

She looked at Lockwood, then nodded. “Yes,” she said, “he did. Small, an automatic. A Baby Nambu.”

Bill Lockwood, drink in hand, looked out the window of his hotel room. Eddie Black. He
had
been involved, almost certainly. A search of his mother’s apartment didn’t turn up the small black weapon. And Black had
told her of his plan to leave the police force in “a few weeks.” Something about going to California “to try his luck.” The
question was, why had Black been involved? Was this something he’d done, all on his own? If so, for what possible reason?
Or had he been hired, or perhaps hoped to share the proceeds of the $100,000 insurance policy? And if such were the case,
who was his accomplice? Or accomplices?

Lockwood cursed under his breath. He was at the point in the case where things should be coming together, and still he felt
himself at sea, hardly any closer to finding a solution than he’d been when he began. The phone rang, and he breathed a sigh
of relief. Any distraction to take his mind off the case for a moment.

“Bill Lockwood here.”

“Mr. Lockwood—”

“Yes,” he said, when the pause had gone on too long.

“Mr. Lockwood, I hope I’m not disturbing you. This is Debbie Grand.”

“Hello, Debbie.” Her voice sounded staccato, uncertain.

“I have to see you.”

“All right. I’ll be right over.”

“No. Not at the apartment. I don’t want to be seen with you. I’m terribly, terribly afraid.”

This could be it, Lockwood thought, grimly. The break-through. But would she be alive when he met her? “How about here? At
my hotel?”

“No. No. I’m afraid someone may be shadowing you. They might see me arrive.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then where?”

“There’s a seafood restaurant way over on First Avenue, down near Twelfth Street. Zucchetti’s. It’s a very quiet neighborhood.”

“All right, I’ll find it. What time?”

“Tonight. Nine o’clock. I’d feel safest then.”

The Hook grimaced. Too long a wait. “Debbie, if you’re afraid, if you’ve something to tell me—why not right now?”

“No. Not on the phone. I never know when—” she stopped, and seemed to be trying to catch her breath—“I’ll be all right till
we meet.”

“Okay. Nine o’clock then.” He was about to hang up.

“Please!” she shot out the word.
“Please
, make sure no one’s following you. It could mean my life.”

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “No one will.”

He assured that fact by leaving the hotel and driving around for hours, into New Jersey, then back to New York, then upstate,
then returning by way of Queens, until it was time to head through the Midtown Tunnel and seek out their meeting place. He
continued to check his rearview mirror even at this point, but as had been the case from the moment he’d begun, and all through
the rest of the day, no one seemed to be following him.

The block
was
quiet when he arrived, no one on the streets, little traffic, and he had no trouble finding Zucchetti’s. It was an unpretentious
place, a small neon sign hanging out front over the unadorned plate glass windows, the lower third of the glass screened by
red and white checked curtains. Inside, the restaurant was almost empty, a couple seated near the door, a lone, elderly man
at a booth in the back. The owner walked up to him, a hopeful expression on his face.

“I’m meeting a woman here—” The Hook began.

“Ah! Yes!”

“She hasn’t arrived yet?”

The owner’s brow furrowed. “No. Not yet. But,” he brightened, “she will be here soon, no? Would you like to wait for her at
the bar?” He pointed to the small mahogany enclosure, deserted by all but the bored-looking man behind it.

“Thanks, no,” Lockwood told him, and indicated a booth halfway down the room. “If it’s all right with you—”

The owner seated him and brought him a whiskey, which he sipped at while he waited. It didn’t appear to be a set-up. The couple
looked harmless, the old man too old to worry about, and the owner and bartender seemed to be nothing more than that. He wondered
if something had happened to Debbie, if she were lying somewhere in a pool of blood, an eight-millimeter slug lodged in her
brain.

And then he saw the woman enter. She was dressed all in black and heavily veiled. It took him a moment before he recognized
her, and by then she was already seated opposite him.

“Debbie.”

“Gee, I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. Lockwood,” she said, in that breathless, cheerleader voice. As far as her tones went, their
undercurrent of worry seemed to suggest it could only be because she was afraid she was going to miss the pep rally.

“You had me a little concerned.” He smiled. “Would you like a drink, something to eat?”

“Oh gosh, gee, well—maybe a daiquiri—something to sip.”

He ordered the drink, and then turned to her. “You said you had something to tell me.”

“Uh-huh.” She reached her hand into her purse and when she drew it out, he saw it was shaking, as it clutched a folded piece
of paper.

“Read this, please,” she urged. He could barely see her face through the veils.

He unfolded the sheet of notepaper. It was white, unlined, and, except for the signature at the bottom, typed. It read:

To Eddie Black:

This is to confirm that you will be paid $25,000 if you burn down The Palms night club. In addition, you will be paid $20,000
for the death by any means of my wife, Debbie Grand.

(signed)
Mack Grand

The Hook read it over a second time in disbelief.

“Is this your husband’s signature?” he asked the woman across from him.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“It came in the mail today. In an unmarked envelope.”

“Do you have the envelope?”

“Gee, I don’t know—” she rummaged through her handbag. “Yes. Here it is.”

He looked at the envelope. Standard white, business length. It could have been bought in any stationery store from here to
California, he mused. The postmark read “New York, N.Y. 1938 June 28 11
A.M.
” The day before. He compared the type on the address with that of the letter. It seemed different, as it should have been.
Still…

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said.

She seemed to stiffen. “What do you mean?”

“No one commits himself this way. Your husband, assuming it really was your husband, would have been signing his own death
warrant, so to speak. If this note got into the wrong hands—or if Eddie Black decided to blackmail him for the whole amount—”

She seemed to relax. “I know. I thought of that. And then I decided that Mack had to be desperate. I decided that there must
be”—a small sob seemed to escape her—“must be another w–woman. That would make a man desperate enough to do anything—I know—I’ve
read of cases like that,” she whispered, her voice still young and girlish, still belying the nature of what she was talking
about. “M–Maybe this man Eddie Black, whoever he was, m–maybe he said he’d only do it with a guarantee like this, and finally
Mack gave in to him. And besides, when he did”—her voice caught—”when he did kill me, maybe he’d have to give Mack back the
letter before he got the money.”

“Possible,” Lockwood admitted. “Unlikely, but possible. Do you have any idea of who the woman, if there is a woman, might
be?”

“No! Oh, no!” Debbie cried, her voice small and wounded. “It’s just that—that I can’t think of any other reason why Mack would
want me dead.”

Lockwood shrugged. “You don’t know who sent this?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea of who it could possibly have been?”

“Uh–uh. None at all.”

“Eddie Black lived with his mother—”

“His mother! Maybe she found it! Maybe she sent it!”

“Not likely. This is a Manhattan postmark. She doesn’t seem the kind of woman who’d venture out of her neighborhood. Besides,
why send it to you? She doesn’t know you. She wouldn’t have any idea of your address.” He paused. “Or,” he looked at her intently,
wishing she’d remove the damned veil, so he could read her expression. He’d always been a little distrustful of all-American
girls. “Is it possible you knew Eddie Black?”

“Eddie Black? No. Gee, no, I have no idea of who he is. I’ve never even heard of him.”

“You never saw him outside your husband’s club?”

“Should I have?”

“That was his beat.”

“I don’t think so. What did he look like?”

“Black Irish. Tall, good-looking. Kind of a better-looking Tyrone Power.”

“Oh.” Her hand touched her veil briefly, pressing it against her lips. “I knew
him.”

“Well?”

“No. Oh, no. We—we’d just say hello to each other sometimes, if I was coming in or going out of the club while he was around.
I’m not even sure if he knew who I was. So
that’s
who burned down the club!”

“It’s beginning to appear so.”

“Then—then, it’ll be easy to find him and arrest him! I won’t have to worry now, will I?”

“Eddie Black is dead. Shot with that gun I was asking you about.”

“The Baby—what was it again? Baby Nambu?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“That’s what I’d like you to tell me.”

“Me?” She went very still. “But how could I—?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping that was why you’d had me meet you here.”

“But,” she said, pointing to the note,
“this
is why I had you come.”

He looked at it again, and then stared at her. “But I don’t believe any of this.”

“Not believe—are you telling me you think
I
wrote this letter?” A sob of disbelief choked her voice.

“I’m telling you I’m not satisfied with it.”

“But it
is
Mack’s handwriting. I know my own husband’s handwriting!”

“Maybe. Good forgeries aren’t that easy to spot. And even if it is authentic, it could have been got by a ruse. An autograph,
a sheaf of papers that required his signature, whatever.”

She slumped in her chair. “I don’t understand. Who would do a thing like that?”

“Simple,” he said. “Someone who was trying to pin what they did on your husband.”

“But who?”

He shrugged. “Any number of people. At the moment,” he said, “I’d say you’re at the top of the list.”

“Me?”
He could see her mouth dropping open behind the veil. “Why?”

“The $100,000 insurance. You and Mack were the only two who could directly benefit from the insurance on the club. That’s
why, if someone’s trying to pin this on your husband, you’d seem the most likely suspect.”

She flung back the veil, and for the first time he could see her clearly. Her eyes were intent, almost burning, as fervent
as those of a patriotic college girl reciting the “Pledge of Allegiance.” The flawless skin of her cheeks was burning.
“Most
likely, but not the
only
likely one.”

“True,” he agreed, taking a final pull at the whiskey.

“Well?” she asked. “What should I do now?
I
believe in this letter, even if you don’t. Even if Eddie Black is dead, that doesn’t mean my life is safe. Mack could have
hired someone else by now.” A thought struck her. “Or maybe it
isn’t
Mack. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he
does
love me, doesn’t have another woman.”

He looked at her carefully. Her eyes were aglow with hope. If only he didn’t know she’d been a would-be actress, didn’t wonder
if all that sparkle were simulated. “Okay,” he said, trying to conceal his frustration, trying to mask his distrust. “I’ll
tell you what
we
should do now. We should go to your home and show your husband this letter. Confront him with it. And see where it takes
us.”

She seemed to consider this, her eyes fixed on him all the while, the blue of them shining as they reflected the wall lamp
beside their table. She struck her small fist on the table, rising as she did so. “All right!” she said. “Let’s go!”

By the time he’d paid the bill, she was already out on the sidewalk, waiting for him. He had just come out of the door when
he heard her scream. “No! No! Help!”

Simultaneously, he heard the bullet whine by, and his hand went to his hip, whipping the .38 out of its holster, and firing
in the direction of two more quick flashes of flame. Twice more he heard the whine of bullets as they whizzed past, and then
he heard steel hitting the ground. An instant later the crunch of a body was heard dropping to the pavement.

He waited a moment, the city unnaturally hushed, and then slowly advanced, in a half-crouch, pistol ready, but there was no
need for caution. In the light of the street-lamp he could see the gush of blood spreading out on the pavement, three separate
pools, all coming from vital areas of the body. The gunman was probably already dead, The Hook mused, as he crouched down
beside the body. Although it was lying face down, he thought he recognized it.