Clandestine

'How did you get it back?' Dudley interjected.

'I . . . I . . .'

'Did you ever fuck her at her apartment, lover-boy?' Dudley bellowed.

'No!'

'That's funny, we got your fingerprints from her bedroom.'

'That's a lie! I never been fingerprinted!'

'You're the liar, lover-boy. You were fingerprinted when the Ventura cops raided a homo hangout you were drinking at.'

'That's a lie!'

Dudley went into a laughing attack. Perfectly modulated, his musical laughter rose and fell, diminuendoed and crescendoed like a Stradivarius in the hands of a master. 'Ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha!' Tears were streaming down his red face. It went on and on while Engels, Breuning, and I stared at him, dumbstruck. Finally, Dudley's laughter metamorphosed into a huge, expansive yawn. He looked at Breuning. 'Mike, lad, I think it's time to set lover-boy straight, don't you?'

'Yes, I do, Lieutenant.'

With all eyes on him, Dudley Smith dug into his coat pocket and pulled out Maggie Cadwallader's diamond brooch. There was absolute stillness in the sordid little room. Dudley smiled demonically and Eddie Engels's face broke out into a network of throbbing blue veins. He placed his head in his hands and sat very still.

'Do you know where we got that, Eddie?' I asked.

'Yes,' he said, his voice gone high.

'Did you get it from Margaret Cadwallader?'

'Yes.'

'Did you pay for it?'

Engels started to laugh—high, feminine laughter. 'Baby, did I pay for it! Oh, baby! Pay and pay and pay!' he shrieked.

Dudley butted in: 'I'd say Margaret paid for it, lover-boy—with her life. You beat 'em, you kill 'em—and now you steal from 'em. Do you desecrate their corpses, lover-boy?'

'No!'

'You just kill them?'

'Ye— No!'

'What were you going to do with that brooch, you filth? Give it to your lezbo sister?'

'Aaarrugh!' Engels screeched.

'Did your unholy sister teach you to eat cunt, lover-boy? Did you hate her for it? Is that why you hate women? Did she piss on you? Did she make you lap her on your knees? Is that why you kill women?'

'Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,' Engels screamed, his voice a shrieking, cacophonous soprano. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!'

Dudley threw himself on Engels, lifted him from the bed and slammed his back repeatedly into the wall. 'Tell me how you did it, killer! Tell me how you croaked lovely Margaret and we won't tell your mommy and daddy about the others. Tell me!'

Engels went limp as a rag doll in Dudley's hands. When Dudley finally released him he crumpled to the bed and moaned hideously.

Dudley pointed to the bathroom. I followed him in. There was a giant cockroach crawling out of the filthy bathtub. 'Cock-sucking cockroaches,' he said. 'They sneak into your bed at night and suck your blood. Dirty cocksuckers.' He bent down and let the bug crawl onto his hand, then he closed his fist around it and squashed it into a greenish-yellow pulp. He rubbed the oozy remains on his trouser leg and said to me: 'He's about to crack, lad.'

'I know that,' I said.

'You'll be the one to give him the final push.'

'How?'

'He likes you. He's queer for you. His voice goes queer whenever you're close to him. You're his savior, but you're about to become his Judas. When I loosen my tie, I want you to hit him.' I looked into Dudley's mad brown eyes and hesitated. 'It's the only way, lad.'

'I . . . I can't.'

'You can and you will, Officer,' Dudley hissed in my face. 'I've had enough pretty-boy prima donnaism from you! You want a piece of this collar and you'll crack that fucking pervert in the face, hard! Do you understand, Underhill?'

I went cold all over. 'Yes,' I said.

We reassembled in the little room that now looked as battered as Eddie Engels himself. Dudley gestured to Mike Breuning's steno pad: 'Every word, Mike.'

'Right, skipper.'

I brought Engels a glass of water. Knowing what I had to do, I didn't compound it by being nice to him. I just handed him the water, and when he gave me a smile, I gave him a deadpan in return.

'All right, Engels,' Dudley said. 'You admit to knowing Margaret Cadwallader?'

'Yes.'

'And being intimate with her?'

'Yes.'

'And hitting her?'

'No, I couldn't. She . . . look, I could turn snitch for you.' Eddie tried desperately. 'I know lots of people I could turn over. Dope addicts, pushers. I know some stuff from my navy time.'

Dudley slapped him. 'Hush, handsome Eddie. It's almost over now. We're going to fly your lovely sister, Lillian, down here. She wants to talk to you about lonely Margaret. She wants you to confess and spare your family the anguish of an indictment on five counts of murder.'

'No, please,' Engels whimpered.

'Lieutenant, I won't have it,' I said angrily. 'We've got no evidence. All we've got is the Cadwallader croaking. We can indict on that.'

'Oh shit, Inspector. We can get indictments on at least five counts. We can go the whole hog! Let's get Lillian Engels down here, she'll drum some sense into little Eddie's head, like she's always done!'

'Please, no,' Engels whimpered.

'Eddie,' I said, 'do your parents know you're homosexual?'

'No.'

'Do they know that Lillian is a lesbian?'

'No. Please!'

'You don't want them to find out, do you?'

'No!' He screeched the word, his voice breaking. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth.

'We can spare them, Eddie,' I said. 'You can confess to Margaret, and we won't file with the grand jury on the others. Listen to me, I'm your friend.'

'No . . . I don't know!'

'Sssshhh. Listen to me. I think there were mitigating circumstances. Did Margaret taunt you?'

'No . . . yes!'

'Did she remind you of Lillian? Of all the bad things in the past?'

'Yes!'

'Evil things? Dreadful, awful things that you hate to think about?'

'Yes!'

'Do you want it to be over?'

'Oh, God, yes,' he blubbered.

'Do you trust me?'

'Yes. You're nice. You're a sweet person.'