Cliff Parker, but I was convinced he and Louise were in the clear. That was sloppy—my being convinced didn't mean a thing. The Andersun family—all blanks. Betsy—? I didn't think she did it, but I couldn't rule her out. A man or woman feeling she was unsatisfactory in bed could snap her cap enough to murder. And hiring me could be a corny cover-up. Should check what the police had on her.
The police—I was playing the game wrong with them, holding out about Cliff. All told I was doing a good job of snafuing the works. It would be more honest to take Betsy's money by snatching her pocketbook.
I kept going over the possible angles, wishing I could come up with a motive—any motive. All I came up with was a headache. By four I'd finished and rechecked the car, drove it around the garage, and picked up twenty-five dollars. Joe tried it himself, and he was almost as big as I was and laughed as he squeezed into the small front seat. As I was washing up, I noticed him making out the bill. All told I'd put in nine hours and he wrote down, “Labor—two days.” I didn't ask what he was charging the car owner.
He gave me the usual, “Barney, any time you want a steady job...”
“Yeah and thanks. Call me again, Joe, whenever you have something special.”
I stood outside the garage for a moment, still restless, and finally I drove down to the police station, asked for Lieutenant Franzino, almost hoping he'd be out. I had to wait a few minutes, then I went into his office, which was as dingy as Al's.
Franzino was a surprise... a small man, shabbily dressed, with his suit wrinkled and a button missing. He had a thin face with a banana nose that had been busted a long time ago. An old hat was pushed back on his head, covering most of the iron-gray hair, and he looked serious, humorless, and very capable.
His voice was low and polite as he lit a fancy-looking pipe, sent out a cloud of aromatic smoke, asked, “What's on your mind, Mr. Harris?”
“Any news?”
“Not a thing. Put a dozen men on the Brown angle—no dice, so far. Running down one or two other things, but to date not a sniff of anything promising.”
We were silent for a moment, and of course he didn't bother to ask if I'd found anything. “About Turner's wife, what's her alibi?”
“Says she was home alone. The super of the house was installing a lobby light between ten and midnight—he didn't see her leave. Got anything on her?”
“No.”
There was another dull silence, then he asked in a mild voice, “What made you think your client might have done it?”
“Told you, nothing. Merely checking on all alibis.”
He smiled and his teeth were a tobacco yellow. “You can be sure we've worked over every alibi. How's it feel to be in on a murder case? Swan told me this is your first criminal case.”
His voice reminded me of the patronizing housewives at the washing machine. I lit a cigarette, let him have it gently. “By the bye, I found out what Turner was doing on the block, the night he was killed.”
Franzino straightened up, like I'd stuck a pin in him.
“He was playing around with a woman named Louise who lives in the basement of 515. She's selling it and seems Turner was competing with her pimp, guy named Cliff Parker, a waiter. Ed Turner was a little sex-screwy and was waiting in his car, playing the jealous lover—or jealous pimp. Parker has a good alibi that checks, working a wedding at the Pigalle that night. Louise says she had a girl friend with her at the time of the bang-bang stuff.”
“When did you find this out?” The voice was like a whip now.”
“Yesterday. I was checking on Franklin Andersun—he was one of her customers—and she had Turner's picture in her room. Talked freely about...”
“Andersun too! Damn!” Franzino got to his feet and it was like pulling him out of a hole—he was over six feet tall, but all legs. “Why the hell didn't you tell me this yesterday?” he shouted as he strode to the door, yelled at the desk sergeant to bring in Louise and Cliff.
I reached over and grabbed his arm. “Now wait up....”
“Get your goddamn hands off me!” he actually growled, his eyes narrowing.
I let go of him and he went back to his desk, sat down and somehow got his long legs under the desk. He said calmly, “One thing I can't stand, anybody holding me. What's the idea keeping important info to yourself?”
“Maybe because I knew you'd act just as you did. Sure, they're a whore and a pimp, but they're still people, and you can't ride roughshod over...”
“Harris, this is a hell of a case. Everything ends up against a blank wall. Two people have been murdered, one of them a cop. In these tough cases, these impossible deals, one small break usually knocks everything wide open. We have the first and only link between Andersun and Detective Turner, and you sit there like a goddamn stuffed dressmaker's dummy, handing me some crap about a whore and a pimp! What's with you, sentimental over mudkickers? And what the hell do you think I'm going to do to 'em... cook 'em and serve 'em with apples in their mouths?”
“I think you'll beat the slop out of Cliff, make life miserable for the girl. I don't make any pretense of being a good detective, but I know this—if either of them had been guilty, or implicated in any way, they wouldn't have talked, or had Turner's photo around. I don't want you to push them about—I sort of promised her they wouldn't be in a jam for talking, and that Cliff wouldn't be made the fall guy for...”
“You made them a promise!” Franzino cut in, and for a thin guy he sure got a lot of power into his voice. “Who the hell are you to make promises? What makes you think we'd frame this pimp? Harris, what the hell do you know about the Police Department?”
“Not much, but everybody knows...”
“Everybody—everybody isn't a cop! Harris, that badge you carry is one degree above the kind they give out with box tops to kids.” He yanked open his drawer, came out with a blue cardboard box which held a gold medal about the size of a half dollar. “I've been a cop all my life, even before I came to New York City. It's my profession and I'm pretty good at it, and proud of it. This medal was given to me by the Lieutenants Association for my general skill as a policeman. No matter what the hell you think or read, I don't go about beating people with rubber hoses, or busting their heads with a blackjack. We'll bring in this Louise and Cliff, question them. Maybe they won't like it, but I don't care about that. If they give me straight answers, and we don't have to hold them as witnesses, they can go. As for her hustling, that has to stop—in my precinct. Let her set up shop someplace else.”
I shrugged. “That's a fair shake. I'll hold you to it.”
He gave me an evil grin. “That's swell of you, Harris. And what else can you do about it?”
“Not much I can do,” I said carefully. “Except this case has been good headline bait. When it breaks, everybody concerned will be interviewed. If Louise and the pimp are innocent, as I believe, and you give them a hard time... well, papers are always interested in police brutality—when they can tie in a sex angle.”
“Son of a bitch—and you call yourself a detective!”
“Mainly I call myself a human being. I didn't have to tell you about Louise nor did she have to spill to me. Well, she did, and co-operation is a two-way affair.”
He studied me for a moment and I could almost feel his eyes on my face. “Won't be any trouble for me to revoke your license.”
“Don't threaten me. If you're so good at your job, then you don't have to resort to threats. Just be a cop—don't be a judge and jury too.”
“That's all I ever try to be—a cop. An underpaid and overworked cop.” He did that jack-in-the-box stunt again as he stood up. Walking to the door he said, “Wait here, I'm going to take a leak.”
I picked up the medal—it was real gold. I was thoroughly steamed—but mostly at myself. I was doing things cockeyed and here I was sore at Franzino for playing it right. Only I wished he hadn't sent out the order to pick up Louise and Cliff. All they had to do was try to take a powder now and they'd be practically convicted.
Franzino returned and lit his pipe again as he sat down. “Sorry I blew up,” he said quietly. “You're right. Under the law everybody is equal, even a pimp who operates on the wrong side of the law. Look, Harris, only a fool tries to give people a hard time. Sure, I'll admit I'm rushed and under pressure and there's a million laws we can't enforce and these petty lawbreakers in time make for the big crimes. Guy gets away with spitting on the sidewalk, he begins to feel a little above the law. We're living in a goddamn jungle and as long as it stays a jungle...”
“You have to use a whip?” I asked.
“I don't know. Mr. Harris, this morning a wino and his girl were in the grass on the Drive, juiced up. For no reason he suddenly stabbed her. She's in the hospital now. Two people saw him do it. Seems simple—a man has done an act of violence, he'll be punished, and the law is being upheld. But when they brought this drunken bastard in here, he suddenly says he didn't do it, starts screaming for a lawyer. Should I have argued with him politely for hours that I can't spare? Or do you blame me for belting him in the guts and telling him to shut up?”
“Lieutenant Franzino, you just said little crimes are the start of bigger ones. Same goes for a 'little' violence—like being a 'little' pregnant—ain't no such thing.”
“Guess there's a lot to be said on both sides. If we had more men and the jungle didn't make winos, well... hell with all this. Swan tells me you're a crackerjack mechanic. Interested in motors and cars myself. Got a shack out on Long Island and an old Bugatti racer I picked up for a few hundred.”
“Does she run?”
“You bet. Sometimes I take her out late at night—so not to attract attention. Clip off sixty or seventy miles an hour. You been out to the auto museum near Southampton?”
We sat around and bulled about cars for a while and it got to be five o'clock and we were arguing about the advantages of front-wheel drive when his phone
