Inspector Queen’s Own Case (18 page)

“Let's go, Jessie.” He was back by her side.

“No,” Jessie said.

“What?” He sounded surprised, grabbed her arm.

“Just one more minute.” She began to pull away.

He held on, pulling gently the other way. “You can't do anything for her, Jessie. Don't you understand that we've got to get out of here? Come on, now.”

“I won't leave her exposed like that,” Jessie said stubbornly. “It isn't fair. All I want to do is close her robe, Richard. Let me go.”

But he did not. “We mustn't touch anything.”

“All those men looking at her! A woman's nakedness is her own. It isn't fair.”

“She's dead, Jessie.”

The street was just the same. No, not quite. Kripps's car was gone. Where Richard Queen had paused to light a cigaret and talk to the retired policemen in the car there was space, signifying flight or chase.

Jessie walked stiff-legged, letting him lead her.

They walked over to Broadway, waited for the light, crossed to the east side, headed downtown.

Jessie kept moving one stiff leg after the other. Once in a while it would come to her that she was somebody named Jessie Sherwood, a registered nurse, and that behind her a blonde girl with her robe open to the navel lay under a grand piano and that none of it should be that way.

The old man did not speak to her. He was busy strolling along, her right arm tucked beneath his left, stopping for signals at corners, nudging her ahead, glancing into shop windows, pausing to light a cigaret, wipe his face, let the cigaret go out, pause to light it again. He lit a great many cigarets.

At 72nd Street he suddenly stepped up their tempo. He hurried her across the intersection, steered her briskly into a cafeteria. The cafeteria was crowded. He picked up a tray, two spoons, two paper napkins. He made her stand on line with him behind the railing. He put two cups of coffee on the tray. He had their tickets punched, paused to look around as if for a table. Then he took her over to where a pair of elderly men were sitting over cups of coffee, too. One had a scar on his face, the other wore heavy glasses. The other two chairs at the table were unoccupied; they were tilted against the third and fourth sides as if they were reserved.

Richard Queen set the tray down, pulled out one of the tilted chairs for her, seated himself in the other.

Only then did he say, “Giffin. Kripps. What happened?”

“We lost him, Inspector.”

“You first, Giffin.”

The elderly man with the scar stirred some sugar into his coffee, talking to the coffee as if it had ears. “I ducked out onto the roof and shot a flash across the court to the other side. Nobody. I beat it down the stairs into the basement and got over to the other street through the back court. Lots of people walking, kids horsing, plenty of traffic moving in both directions. Nobody running, nobody pulling away from the curb, nobody acting like anything had happened. And as far as I could see, not an empty parking space. I talked to the kids, but they hadn't noticed anybody come out of the house. I knew it was a waste of time, but I checked the stairs, elevators, basement, and roof over there. The roof is absolutely clean. The way I figure it, he cut across the roofs of several buildings and came out near the corner of West End—maybe had a getaway parked there. Anyway, it was a bust.”

“You, Johnny?” Inspector Queen said.

The other elderly man looked like a teacher or a librarian, Jessie thought, with his black-rimmed glasses and distinguished white hair. “I drove around to 89th when you ran outside with the news, Inspector. By the time I got there it was either too early or too late, I didn't know which. I hung around for a few minutes with nothing to latch onto. Then a car pulled away from the curb fast, and I tailed it. It turned out to be some college kid late for a date.”

“It's the legs,” Giffin said gloomily to his coffee. “Let's face it, we're not as spry as we used to be.”

“We needed more men is all.” Johnny Kripps breathed on his glasses. “Hell, I'm not even packing a gun.”

“Who was it?” Jessie thought. To her surprise, the thought was audible.

The men glanced at her curiously.

“Take it easy, Jessie,” the old man said. “As a matter of fact, boys, I'm not getting you in any deeper.” He sipped some coffee and looked at them. “I want you to go home and forget it.”

They laughed. Giffin said, “We haven't met the lady, Inspector.”

“I beg your pardon. Miss Sherwood, John Kripps, Hugh Giffin.”

“How do you do,” Jessie said. “He shot her between the eyes as if she were something in a shooting gallery. Then he fired two more shots. It couldn't have been at her, she was flat on the floor. He shot at us, Richard.”

“I know, Jessie,” he said gently. His hand came to her under the table. “I want you boys to go home, and one of you phone Pete Angelo and Al Murphy and tell them to forget it, too.”

“How about a little something to go with that coffee, Miss Sherwood?” Hugh Giffin asked.

“Maybe a nice cheese Danish?” Johnny Kripps said. “They're tops in here.”

“About this deal,” the Inspector said insistently. “I appreciate your attitude, boys. But this is murder. I can't let you endanger your pensions, maybe wind up in jail. Jessie and I,” his hand tightened, “we're in so far now we couldn't get out if we wanted to. But you——”

“You're wasting your breath,” Kripps said. “I'm talking for Pete and Murph, too. Who takes care of the call-in?”

“I will!” the old man said.

“The hell you will,” Giffin said hotly. “Your voice is too well known, Inspector. Johnny or I'll do it.”

“Call-in?” Jessie said.

“Notifying the police, Miss Sherwood,” the ex-homicide man explained. He
did
, look like a scholar. “We can't let her lie on that floor till the super's nose brings him up there.”

“An anonymous call?” Jessie said.

The three men flushed and picked up their cups.

Jessie picked up her cup, too. She remembered now that she hadn't touched it.

He took the key from her cold fingers. He unlocked the apartment door and shoved it open and reached for the switch and ducked all in one movement. Then he stood there looking. After a moment he went into Jessie's bedroom.

He came back.

“All right.”

He shut the apartment door and latched it.

“Why am I so cold?” Jessie shivered. “Did the temperature drop?”

He felt her forehead, her hand.

“It's the nervous reaction,” Richard Queen said. “I used to break out in a sweat afterward, even in the dead of winter. You're going to bed, young woman.”

“I'm not a young woman,” Jessie said, standing there trying to keep her teeth from clacking. “I'm an old woman and I'm scared.”

“I could kick myself for letting you in for this.” He took her purse and gloves, clumsily removed her hat. “I'd send you back to Connecticut tomorrow—”

“I won't go.”

“—only I want you where I can keep an eye on you. For all he knows, she told us his name.”

“He shot at us,” Jessie said. “A bullet hit something behind me and broke it. He doesn't take chances, does he?”

“He's taking all kinds of chances,” the old man said gently. “But we'll talk about it tomorrow. You go in there and get undressed. Do you have any phenobarb?”

“What are you going to do, Richard?” Now her teeth
were
clacking.

“Stay over.”

She knew she should protest, send him home, or at least make up the daybed for him in the living room. But the connection between her larynx and her will seemed broken. On the edge of things lay the body of Connie Coy with the spattery hole in her forehead and the greenish roots of her gold hair slowly dyeing red. But the core of herself felt a great warmth. As long as he was here nothing like that hole and that bloody dye could happen to
her
. All she had to do was drift … let go … Goodness, Jessie thought dreamily, I'm getting to be a female woman.

“Can you make it by yourself all right?” he asked anxiously.

“Why do you ask?” Jessie giggled at the consternation that flooded his face. He was so easy to tease …

Later, when she was in bed, he knocked and she said, “Come in,” and he came in with a cup of warm milk and a sleeping tablet.

“Take this.”

“Yes, sir,” Jessie said obediently.

It was hard lifting her head from the pillow. He hesitated, then slipped his arm around her shoulders and sat her up. The coverlet dropped away and Jessie thought, Now, Jessie! But she really didn't have the strength to pull it back up … And me in my most décolleté nightgown. How shameless can you get? He'll think I purposely …

Jessie drank the milk very slowly.

“It's hot.”

“I'm sorry. Take your time.” His voice sounded funny.

When she sank back he removed his arm as if it hurt.

“Thank you, Richard.” Is this really
me?
Jessie thought.

“Feeling better?” He was addressing the badly reproduced Van Gogh still-life over Gloria Sardella's bed.

“Worlds.”

But it's so nice … Jessie slipped under the covers, giggling again.

He went over to the window and looked out. The fire escape seemed to disturb him. He pulled the window down and locked it, lowered the Venetian blind, closed the vanes. Then he went into the bathroom.

One second, her forehead was smooth and white, the next it had a hole in it, a real hole, black and then red
…

“I've opened the bathroom window, Jessie. I'll leave the door to the living room open for circulation. Unless light bothers you?”

“Just don't go away.” She began to shiver again.

“I won't. Remember, I'll be in the next room. At anything—for any reason—sing out.”

“Yes … The linen's in that closet next to the kitchenette. Richard, she's dead.”

“Go to sleep now, Jessie.”

“I don't know what's the matter with me. I don't seem to have any strength at all.”

“It's been a rough night. If you're not better in the morning I'll call a doctor.”

“Oh, no …”

“Oh, yes.”

The light snapped off, but she could not hear him move.

“Good night,” Jessie said drowsily.

“Sleep well, Jessie.”

He went out then, in a sort of stumble.

He
didn't
look at me as if I were just any woman. He looked at me as if …

The last thing Jessie heard as she fell asleep was the scream of police sirens heading uptown.

The voice of Abe Pearl at the other end of the wire was so loud the old man glanced over at the bedroom doorway.

“Stop bellowing, Abe,” he grumbled. “I'm not deaf yet.”

“Where in the name of God have you been?” Chief Pearl demanded angrily. “I've been trying to reach you all night. Where you calling from?”

“Jessie Sherwood's place in New York.”

“Look, Dick, if you want to shack up, shack up, but the least you can do is leave me her phone number so I can contact you. I didn't start this, you did!”

“You cut that out, Abe,” Richard Queen growled. “I'm not shacked up with anybody——”

“Okay, so she's playing hard to get—Becky, will you shut up! … Can you give me five minutes?”

“Go ahead,” he said shortly.

“I got a call tonight from New Haven, from this Dr. Duane. He's been phoning all over creation trying to reach Humffrey again. He finally contacted me out of desperation, wanted me to run over to Nair Island and see if maybe Humffrey hadn't gone back there—he'd tried to reach Stallings, but there was no answer. I've found out that Stallings had gone to a movie; anyway, he hadn't seen or heard from Humffrey. The point is, Mrs. Humffrey is bad again, and it sounded to me like Duane's got hold of a hot knish and would like to let go. You don't know where Humffrey is, Dick, do you? I thought I'd check with you before calling Duane back.”

“I haven't seen Humffrey, no,” Richard Queen said slowly. “Abe.”

“Yes?”

“What time did Humffrey leave his Park Avenue apartment today? Did Duane talk to Mrs. Lenihan?”

“She told him he'd left early this morning and didn't say where he was going. At the time Duane called me, which was about nine tonight, Humffrey still hadn't got back.”

“Did Cullum chauffeur him? Or did Humffrey leave alone?”

“I don't know.” Abe Pearl paused. “Dick, what's happened? Something happened tonight.”

“Connie Coy's been knocked off.”

“The
mother?”

When Abe Pearl heard the story, he said, “One minute, Dick. Just hang on.” The silence was prolonged. “I'm trying to piece this together——”

“It's complicated,” Richard Queen said dryly.

“Dick. Why did you ask me what time Humffrey left his New York apartment today?” He said, “Dick? You there?”

“I'm here.” The old man said rapidly, “Abe, doesn't it strike you as queer that the day Finner is murdered Humffrey's movements can't be accounted for, and the night Connie Coy gets it—ditto?”

Abe Pearl said, “
What?”

“You heard me.”

His friend was silent.

Then he said, “You're crazy! There might be a dozen explanations——”

“Sure.”

“It's just a coincidence——”

“I can't prove it isn't.”

“The whole idea is ridiculous. Why …” Abe Pearl paused. “You're not serious.”

The old man said, “Oh, yes, I am.”

Silence again.

“How long has this bee been buzzing around in your bonnet?” the Taugus chief finally demanded.

Inspector Queen did not answer.

“Don't you see you've got nothing to back it up? So Humffrey couldn't be located around the time of either murder. So what? Maybe now that his wife is tucked away in New Haven, he's picked himself up some tasty blonde——”