True Crime

“She’s in jail?”

“No,” Cowley said. “We’re just looking out for her.”

“What about Polly?”

“Her too,” Purvis said, nodding.

“I notice you’ve kept their names out of the papers. You think that’s going to last?”

Purvis smirked. “Not since you gave the women’s names to Stege. Once the Chicago cops have it, the papers soon will, too. Those louts would sell their grandmother for a cup of java.”

I couldn’t help smiling; when Purvis tried to talk tough, it was kind of pitiful. I said, “You shouldn’t worry. You boys are getting good press on this.”

Cowley was impassive, but Purvis had a smug, tight little smile.

I decided to wipe it off his face by saying, “You are aware by now that you killed the wrong man, aren’t you?”

Purvis threw his hands in the air and said, “Jesus! Not that again!” Cowley just sat shaking his head, like I was a promising student who continually disappointed him.

“I don’t plan to go to the papers with it,” I said. “I plan to stick to the version I gave Davis. I was just curious if you guys finally copped to what you’ve done—which is do Dillinger and Nitti a favor and kill some ringer for ’em, and get the heat off.”

Cowley brushed a comma of brown hair off his forehead, but it only fell back again. He said, “If you believe this to be true, why keep it to yourself? Why not go to the papers? You might make some tidy pocket change off it.”

Purvis glared at Cowley for having suggested that.

I said, “I’m keeping it to myself because Frank Nitti might not like it if I didn’t. And because whoever that poor shmuck in front of the Biograph is—or was—doesn’t much matter, at this point. He’s dead. I saw it coming, and would’ve liked to stop it from happening. But I wasn’t up to the job. So be it. Best of luck to all concerned.”

Purvis got up, paced for a moment, then went over to the open window and looked out at the Rookery, hands in pockets. “I don’t get you, Heller. You’re not a stupid man. Yet you seriously entertain such a stupid goddamn fantasy. We killed a ‘ringer’! Utter rubbish.” He turned and looked at me with a painfully earnest expression. “How in God’s name could that have been anyone else but John Dillinger last night?”

Without malice, I said, “You were so eager for it to be him, it didn’t have to be.”

He strode over to me, hands still in pockets; he seemed a little boy playing man. “What the hell’s your meaning?”

With malice, I said, “Listen to me the first time I say something, Little Mel—then you won’t have to ask me to repeat it four times.”

His marionette features took on a hurt, angry cast and he told me to go hell and walked briskly toward the door.

“I have a train to catch,” he said. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

He was opening the door when I said, “I can prove it wasn’t Dillinger, Melvin.”

That caught his attention.

“I really can, Mel,” I said. “But if you have a train to catch…”

He shut the door and walked back. Sat down next to Cowley. Both men looked at me with doubting, but troubled, expressions.

“I was just at the morgue,” I said. “I got a good look at the body, and a good look at the autopsy report.”

That angered Purvis. “How did you manage…”

I rubbed my thumb and fingers together, in the money gesture. Purvis fell silent and Cowley winced and nodded and I went on.

“The man Zarkovich and O’Neill shot was approximately Dillinger’s height and weight. He was a little shorter and a little heavier than the real McCoy, but within an inch and ten pounds, so what the hell. Facially he doesn’t resemble Dillinger much, but certain scars indicate a face-lift, so plastic surgery might explain that. But how do you explain the eyes?”

“The eyes?” Purvis said.

“Yeah—the eyes have it, you know. And the corpse has brown eyes. I saw it for myself, last night; and that’s what the autopsy report says, too. Brown eyes.”

“So?” Cowley said.

“Dillinger has gray eyes.”

Purvis said, “If the corpse has brown eyes, Dillinger has brown eyes, because that corpse is Dillinger. This is ridiculous. I really do have a train to catch.” He stood again. “You fill Cowley in on your fantasy, if you like, Heller—I have neither the stomach nor time for it.”

“Sit down, Melvin,” I said. “You’re going to hear this, or I’ll find somebody else to tell it to.”

He sat.

“There was also a birthmark, a mole, missing on the body—right between the eyes—and several scars from bullet wounds and a scar on the lip were also not there.”

“Plastic surgery,” Cowley offered.