hell of a lot. A passbook they'd found in the apartment showed a bank balance of $,.. The old man had also owned a collection of rpm's dating back to the thirties and forties, none of them rare, all of them swing hits of the day— Benny Goodman, Harry James, Glenn Miller—played and replayed over and over again until the shellac was scratched and the grooves worn. There were a few books in the apartment as well, most of them dog-eared paperbacks. There was an eight-piece setting of inexpensive silver plate.
True enough, in a city where a five-dollar bill in a
tattered billfold was often cause enough for murder, these
belongings alone might have provided motive. But not for
two people as well off as the Keatings. Besides, this had
not been a case of someone choosing a random victim on
the street and then popping him, something that happened
all the time. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble
here, first drugging the old man and next hanging him.
The prize had to be worth the trouble.
Carella pulled the car into a No Parking zone in front
of the bank. He flipped down his visor to show the pink
police paper that normally warned off any cop on the beat,
and then stepped out of the car and dashed through the
rain toward the front of the bank, Meyer pounding along
behind him.
Their court order opened the dead man's safe deposit
box, and sure enough, they found an insurance policy for
$,, with Andrew Male's daughter and son-in-law
listed as sole beneficiaries. The policy did, in fact, contain
a suicide exclusion clause:
Section . SUICIDE
If the insured dies by suicide within one
year from the Date of Issue, the amount
payable by the Company will be limited to
the premiums paid.
But the policy had been issued almost ten years ago.
Thursday night was the night in question.
According to what Cynthia Keating had told them,
she'd spoken to her father at nine that night, and had found
him hanging dead at nine-thirty or so the next morning.
A check with the telephone company confirmed that she
had indeed called his number at : the night before, and
had spent two minutes on the phone with him. This did
not preclude her later taking the subway across the river and into the trees, going up to his apartment, dropping a few pills in his wine or his beer or his bottled water, and
then hanging him over a hook.
But—
Cynthia maintained that after having telephoned her
father, she had gone to meet her girlfriend Josie at the
movie theater a block from her apartment and together
they had seen a movie that started around : and ended around :, after which she and her friend Josie had gone for tea and scones at a little snack bar called Westmore's. She had returned home at around twelve-thirty, and had not left the apartment again until the next morning at around twenty to nine, at which time she had taken the subway across the river, and walked to her father's apartment, only to find Dad, poor Dad, hanging in the closet, and I'm feeling so bad. The movie she'd seen was part of a Kurosawa retrospective. It was titled High and Low, and it was based on a novel by an American who wrote cheap mysteries. A call to the theater confirmed the title of the film and the start and finish times. A call to her girlfriend Josie Gallitano confirmed that she had accompanied Cynthia to the movie and had later enjoyed a cup of tea and a chocolate-covered scone with her. Cynthia's husband, as was to be expected, confirmed that he had found her asleep in bed when he got home from a poker game at around one o'clock. She had not left the apartment again that night.
There had been six other men in that poker game.
Keating claimed that the game had started at eight o'clock
and ended at around a quarter past midnight. The six other
men confirmed that he had been there during the times he'd stated. His wife, as was to be expected, confirmed
that he'd come home at around one a.m., and had not left
the apartment again that night.
It appeared to the detectives that their two prime suspects had airtight alibis and that whoever had dropped Rohypnol into Andrew Male's drink and draped him over a closet hook was still out there boogying someplace.
At Hale's funeral on Sunday morning, they listened to a minister who had never met the man telling his sole remaining relatives what a fine and upstanding
human being he'd been. Cynthia Keating and her husband
Robert listened dry-eyed. It was still raining when the first shovelful of earth was dumped onto Male's simple wooden casket.
It was as if he had never existed.
From home that Sunday night, Carella called Danny Gimp.
'Danny?' he said. 'It's Steve.'
'Hey, Steve,' Danny said. 'Whatta ya hear?'
This was a joke. Danny Gimp was an informer. He—
and not Carella—was the one who heard things and passed them on. For money. The men didn't exchange any niceties. Carella got right down to business.
'Old guy named Andrew Hale . . .'
'How
old?' Danny asked.
'Sixty-eight.'
'Ancient,' Danny said.
'Got himself aced Thursday night.'
'Where?'
'Apartment off Currey Yard.'
'What time?'
'ME puts it around midnight. But you know how accurate PMFs are.'
'How'd he catch it?'
'Hanged. But first he was doped with a drug called
Rohypnol. Ever hear of it?'
'Sure.'
'You have?'
'Sure,' Danny said.
