“Broadman had a story ready, of course. He bought the ormolu clock from a little old lady in reduced circumstances that he’d never seen before. How did he know it was stolen? He had our pawn-shop list, sure, but his eyes were bad. If he spent all his time reading police lists, what would happen to business?”
Wills leaned on the desk and looked out thoughtfully through the wire netting. The jumbled contents of the store were evidence piled on evidence that you couldn’t take it with you.
“Broadman would have been better off in jail,” he said, “but the clock wasn’t enough to arrest him for. We couldn’t prove he had guilty knowledge. He knew we were on to him, though. And he wanted out. When Ella Barker sold him that hot diamond yesterday, he was on the phone practically before she was out of the store.”
“You think he knew that diamond ring was stolen?”
“I’m sure of it. He also knew who she was.”
“Can you prove that, Lieutenant?”
“I can. I’m telling you this to give you a chance to climb in off that limb. Broadman was a patient in the hospital five-six months ago. Ella was one of his nurses. They got to be quite good friends. Ask her, when you ask her about the watch. And make sure you get an answer, you’ll be doing her a favor. Honest to God, I’d hate to see that little client of yours get herself run over by a steam roller.”
“You think of yourself as a steam roller, do you?”
“The law,” Wills said.
More law arrived, with cameras and fingerprint kits. I went out into the street. The sunlight hurt my eyes. It was reflected like glancing knives from the chrome of the two police cars at the curb.
They drew attention on the poor street, a kind of reverse attention. Passers-by averted their heads from the cars, as if they hoped to escape their black influence. I guessed that the rumor of Broadman’s death had spread across town like a prophecy of disaster to Pelly Street.
Jerry Winkler leaned on his cane in front of the hotel, an unstable tripod supporting a heavy gray head. Carefully redistributing his weight, he raised his cane and flourished it. I went over to him.
“I heard that Broadman died, son.”
“Yes, he died.”
He clucked, red tongue vibrating between his bearded lips. “That makes it murder, don’t it?”
“It would seem to.”
“And you’re a lawyer, ain’t you?” He touched my arm with a veined, knobbed hand. “I’m Jerry Winkler, everybody knows me. I never been a witness in a trial. Friend of mine was once. He told me they pay the witnesses.”
“It doesn’t amount to more than a few dollars. The court simply pays you for lost time.”
“I got lots of time to lose.” He rubbed his furred chin and peered up at my face like a hungry old dog hoping for a bone. “And mighty few dollars.”
“Do you have information about Broadman’s death?”
“Maybe I do, if it’s worth my while. You want to come up to my room and chin a little?”
“I have a little time to lose, Mr. Winkler. My name is Gunnarson.”
He led me through the musty lobby, up narrow, foot-worn steps, along a narrow hallway to his cubbyhole at the rear. It contained an iron bed, a washstand, a bureau with a clouded mirror, an old-fashioned rocking chair, and the atmosphere of lonely waiting time.
He made me sit in the rocker beside the single window, which looked out on an alley. Slowly and painfully, he lowered himself onto the bed and sat hunched forward, still leaning on his cane.
“I want to do what’s right. On the other hand, I don’t want to end up worse than I was before.”
“How would you do that?”
“Ramifications. Everything has its ramifications. Try living on a sixty-dollar pension if you think it’s so easy. I get my clothes at the Starvation Army, but I still run out before the end of the month. Sometimes Manuel give me free dinners along at the end of the month.”
“Did Manuel kill Broadman?”
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say nothing yet. I want to do my duty, sure, but there’s no harm trying to get a little money out of it, is there?”
“You’re obliged to give information to the authorities, Mr. Winkler. You’re in hot water now for holding out on them.”
“I didn’t hold out. I just remembered, is all. My memory ain’t so good.”
“What did you remember?”
“What I seen.” He hesitated. “I thought it would be worth something.”
The little room and the sly, sad old man cramped me and oppressed me. I made a gesture I couldn’t afford, took a five-dollar bill out of my rather flat wallet, and held it out to him. “This will buy a few dinners, anyway.”
He took it with a beaming smile. “Sure will. You’re a good boy, and Jerry Winkler will remember you in his prayers.” Without any change in tone, he said: “It was Gus Donato that smashed up Broadman. Manuel’s young brother Gus.”
“Did you see it happen, Mr. Winkler?”
“No, but I seen him go in, and I seen him come out. I was sitting here at the window, thinking about the old days, when Gus drives this pickup into the alley. He gets this tire iron out of the back of the pickup and shoves it down his pant leg and sneaks in the back entrance of Broadman’s store. A few minutes later he comes out carrying a burlap bag on his back. He chucks it into the pickup and goes back for more.”
“Could you tell what was in the bag?”
“No. It was all chunky with stuff, though. So were the others. He made four or five trips, bringing out those bags, put them all in the pickup and drove away.”
I gazed into his washed-out eyes. “Are you certain of your identification?”
“Dead certain.” He thumped the bare board floor with his cane. “I see Gus Donato all the time. And this time I paid him special mind because he ain’t allowed to drive a car.”
“Is he too young?”
“Naw, he’s plenty old enough. But they don’t let them drive when they’re on parole. He had a lot of trouble with cars, that’s how he got arrested in the first place.”
“Is Gus a friend of yours?”
“I wouldn’t say that. His brother Manuel is a good friend.”
“You mentioned that you see Gus all the time.”
“Sure, in Manuel’s place. He’s been washing dishes for Manuel since Broadman fired him last week.”
“Why did Broadman fire him?”
“I never did get it straight. It was something about a clock, a little gold clock. Gus shipped it off someplace that he wasn’t supposed to. I heard Manuel and Broadman arguing about it in the alley.”
I opened the window. Two men in plain clothes were confering at the back door of Broadman’s establishment. They looked up at me suspiciously. I pulled my head in and closed the window.
“You don’t miss much, Mr. Winkler.”
“Try not to.”
chapter 3
I LEFT HIM TALKING to Wills in Broadman’s office cage, and took a cab back to the courthouse. I was eager to question Ella Barker again. But she wasn’t so eager to be questioned.
The girl didn’t raise her head when the matron let me into the visitors’ room. She sat with her thin arms resting on the edge of the table-a hunched and drooping figure like a bird which despaired of liberation. The afternoon sun fell through the bars behind her and striped her back with shadows.
“Snap out of it, Barker, the first day is always the hardest.” The matron touched the girl’s shoulder. Perhaps she meant to be kind, but she sounded patronizing, almost threatening. “Here’s your Mr. Gunnarson again. You don’t want him to see you moping.”
Ella pulled her shoulder away from the matron’s hand. “If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have to come here, now
