Leopold's Way (7 page)

“The killer may be after just one of the victims. It's the old A, B, C theory, in which only A or B or C is the real victim, the others serving merely to confuse the issue. Bearing this out is the fact that we've found nothing linking the three victims together. A second possibility is that he hates people with boats. Any people, any boats.”

“That
would
make him a nut,” Fletcher agreed.

“But not too much of a nut,” Leopold said dryly. “If this Martin Irving is telling the truth, the skindiver paused over his third victim long enough to fire a second bullet into her, though it must have been obvious to him she was dead. Why risk capture or identification in order to fire an apparently unnecessary bullet?
Because the first bullet had passed clean through her and was lost.
Looks to me as if the skindiver took the time and risk to fire that second shot just so we'd have a bullet to compare with the ones from the other two victims' bodies. This man may be mad, but he's intent on making us believe the killings are connected.

“That would also explain the use of a pistol rather than a knife. It's next to impossible to prove three people were stabbed with the same knife, but with the same gun there's proof positive. It's important enough for our killer to bother with a waterproof holster, which must certainly slow down his movements.”

“You're sure it's a skindiver?” Browning asked.

“The evidence all points to it, and this fellow Irving claims he actually saw him. I think we can reasonably assume it's someone on this master list. We've got to redouble our efforts to check out every name. I want some action by tomorrow!”

And he got it, surprisingly enough. At ten the next morning, which was Thursday, Fletcher caught him returning from the usual pep talk in the Commissioner's office. “I got someone for you, Captain.”

“Who?”

“Appelbaum, one of the skindivers. He's been talking up a skindivers' club in the harbor. Sort of a nut on the subject—wanted all boating banned on week-ends. I've got him outside.”

“Get him in here!”

Appelbaum was a youngish, intense man with an athlete's body and a fanatical look in his eyes.

“Am I to be charged?” he asked in a rasping voice. “If so, I demand a lawyer.”

“Calm down,” Leopold told him. “Tell me about your scheme for the harbor, Mr. Appelbaum.”

“Is this about those three murders?”

“Yes.”

“I just wanted to clear out the boats on Saturdays and Sundays, so our skindivers' club could explore the harbor area.”

“Did you ever go diving out there? At night?”

“It would be damned dangerous. Nobody but a nut would dive around those power boats.”

“Some nut did. Where were you Tuesday night?”

“Out with my girl.”

“And last Saturday?”

“At a movie—alone.”

“A week ago Saturday?”

“At a poker game.”

“You have a fast memory.” Then, to Fletcher, “Check him out and let me know what you find.”

Leopold went back to his office to brood over the piles of reports. Then he got out a Department of Commerce chart of the harbor and studied it for a long time. It told him nothing.

Toward evening Fletcher came back, looking discouraged.

“I checked Appelbaum out. The poker game alibi is cast-iron, although the other two have holes in them. If the same guy did all three jobs, he's in the clear.”

Leopold stared out the window at the lowering sun. “Could it be that's why the same gun was used?—to make it look like one killer when it was actually several? Three men, passing the gun on from one to another, enabling one of them to always have an unbreakable alibi?”

“Three
nuts?” Fletcher asked. “Three nuts who are expert skindivers—and killers, too?”

“You're right,” Leopold sighed. “Mass murder like this is a one-man crime.”

Fletcher nodded and went out, closing the office door behind him. For some time Leopold stared out the window again, watching the lights of the city as they turned on for still another night. He felt sick.

Finally he pulled out the long list and went over it once more, from Adams to Zwigg. But it always came out the same…

Browning came in with a harbor map. “Can I bother you a second, Captain? I think I've got an idea on the phantom.”

Leopold's eyes lit up. “Let's hear it.”

Browning spread the chart out on Leopold's desk. “The killer had to come from somewhere—right? I don't think he came off another boat; that would be too risky. We might search them and find his gun and suit, or someone might see him climbing on board, or notice the same boat in the area on all three occasions. No, I think he swam from land.”

“I'll buy that,” Leopold agreed. “Keep talking.”

“Well, the harbor is open to the Sound on the southeast, which leaves land on the other three sides. Did he come from the southwest? I don't think so—it's true a finger of marshland stretches out into the water there, but it disappears at high tide, and the last two murders were committed around high tide.”

“Get to the point.”

“The diver must be operating from one hidden spot where he can get into his gear unnoticed. Look at this chart again: the entire northwest quadrant is taken up with bathing beaches and the casino grounds. He certainly wouldn't take a chance on entering or leaving the water there, with midnight lovers and beach parties in full swing. Due north of the harbor are the docks, another busy area night and day. It narrows down to the northeast quadrant—where there are a number of cottages, but also one or two fairly deserted stretches. He wouldn't be a cottage owner—crazy killers don't strike that close to home. So that leaves one of these stretches of bluff right along
here.”
His finger jabbed at the map. “I know this area, Captain—it's quite rocky, with not enough land below the bluff for a beach. It would be perfect for our man. It's my hunch he has his gear and the gun hidden there.”

Leopold felt a rising excitement. “It's worth a try. Good work.”

“Want me to run you out there tonight, Captain?”

“Get your car—I'll be down in five minutes!”

The bluffs overlooking the harbor were pale in the moonlight, a little sinister. Below, in the silvery waters, Leopold could see that the killings had taken their toll of the pleasure craft. The usually crowded area now held only three boats, and one of these was the police launch, on patrol duty.

Leopold followed the younger man down over the slippery rocks. Browning was right—this would be the perfect base for the killer's operations. Lonely, remote, yet only a five-minute swim to the harbor anchorage area.

“Down this way, Captain,” Browning whispered, hopping noiselessly to the next half-buried rock. “Keep it quiet, Captain. This might be another of his nights.”

“I don't think he'd try anything with that police boat out there,” Leopold whispered back.

“You never know with a nut.”

They crept along the rocks, watching for evidence of recent human presence. Around them now was only the sound of the water, ever in motion, ever changing.

“What's that?” Browning gripped Leopold's arm. “There!”

It was a bundle wrapped in rubber sheeting, hidden in a crevice between two boulders. Browning went in for it, lifting it carefully out for Leopold's examination. Leopold removed the sheeting. A black-painted air tank…a black rubber suit…flippers…a mask…Leopold had a fleeting sense of exhilaration.

“All here. You were right, Browning.” He unzipped the waterproof pouch, not surprised to find it empty. “At least, it's all here but the gun.

“The gun's here, Captain.”

Leopold looked up. Browning was raising the glistening .38, slowly, as if he had all eternity to train it on the captain's middle.

“The gun's here, Leopold. And this time it's for you.”

Leopold stood very still on the rock, his death a mere tightened finger away. He stood very still and he said distinctly, “You killed those three people, Browning?”

Browning's eyes were as wild as they had been in Leopold's office a few days before. “Damned right I killed them. You had that A, B, C business all figured out, Leopold—all but the payoff. I killed Doc Flown and Proctor and that girl just to cover up my real pigeon—
you.
In a minute you'll be dead and I'll have a perfect story. We surprised the phantom and he shot you. The bullet will match and no one's going to doubt it. You'll just be D after A, B, C. And they'll probably give you a medal with your funeral, Leopold, which is more than you gave me!”

“You deserved what you got, Browning.” I must keep him talking, Leopold thought.

“I've spent two years of my life planning how I'd get even with you for busting me back to a beat. That's why the first three killings had to be on boats. I knew when you tumbled to the skindiving, you'd request an officer with skindiving experience to work with you on the case. And I was the only man in the department who could qualify. It takes a good detective to think up a perfect crime, Captain!”

“What if I hadn't thought of the skindiving right away?”

“Then I'd have gone on killing till you did. I'm hiding you in a forest of bodies, Leopold, and I'm even going to cover you up with one or two more. What's one or two more murders to a nut?” Browning laughed. “Of course, I've got to leave this diving gear for the boys, to back up my story. But it's not traceable, and I've another outfit stashed away. The gun stays on me. Who'll think of searching
me?”

“Browning…wait…”

“I've waited too long already.” The .38 in Browning's big hand steadied.

“Put down the gun.” Leopold flipped open his jacket. A box was strapped to his chest.

“What's that?” Browning asked, childishly.

“A short-range radio transmitter. Fletcher and the others heard every word you said.”

A blinding spotlight shot down from above; another cut in from the harbor patrol boat offshore. The lights pinned Browning to the rocks.

“You knew! Damn you, you knew
…”

As Leopold flung himself aside the gun roared once and he felt the slug tearing through the flesh of his shoulder and then a dozen other weapons answered and Browning toppled, clawing at the air, into the shallow water.

Someone was bandaging Leopold's shoulder. Someone else was taking a picture. Fletcher stood watchfully by, his right fist still holding his revolver.

“How did you know, Captain? How did you know in time to call us?”

“I didn't. I didn't know half of it, Fletcher, or at least I wouldn't admit to myself that I knew. There was just one little slip—the fact that he
didn't include his own name
in the list of skindivers he made up for me. I noticed that after a while—no Browning on what was supposed to be a
complete
list of names. I kept asking myself
why
—why he'd left it out. I didn't like the answer, but I couldn't afford to take chances. That's why I wore the radio and had you follow me tonight.”

“Have a cigarette?”

“Thanks.”

Offshore, the police boat coughed and started back across the harbor.

“Don't blame yourself for anything, Captain. Like you said, he was nuts.”

Leopold stared out over the black water at his harbor. “I hope so, Fletcher. I hope so.”

(1962)

T
HE HOUSE SAT HIGH
on Glory Hill, overlooking all of the city and the river and the lush farmlands beyond. By rights it should have been in the wealthy suburbs that stretched to the south, but by a casual fluke of mapmaking in the distant past it was within the city limits, and thus the body in the garage was very much the business of Captain Leopold.

His first sight of it, when he slid out of the patrol car and walked up the dark driveway with his shadow outlined in red from the car's flasher, was of a crumpled heap of manhood, seeming almost to swim in the blood that now covered nearly the entire garage floor. At this hour of the morning there were only police in view, though he could hear the quiet sobbing of a woman somewhere inside.

“What is it, Fletcher?” he asked the man on his knees at the very edge of the bloody pool.

“Looks like murder and kidnapping. A messy one, Captain.”

“Kidnapping? Was there a note?”

Fletcher nodded. “In the mailbox.”

“Call the F.B.I.?”

“Already did,” Fletcher said, straightening up. “Dain's on his way out.”

“Who's this guy?” The flash of the police photographer's bulb lit the garage in a sudden white glow. It was a big place, large enough for two Cadillacs or three Volkswagens, take your choice. Just then, in addition to the body, it was occupied by one Cadillac, a power lawn mower, an assortment of garden tools, and two hundred feet of snakey green hose.

“He was the chauffeur,” Fletcher answered.

Leopold grunted. “Didn't know people still had chauffeurs.”

“On Glory Hill they do. Name's Thomas Sane.”

“Sane like in crazy?”

“Sane like in crazy. He's—was—thirty-four years old, divorced, worked for the Clements about three years.”

Leopold watched closely while the medical examiner turned him over. Thomas Sane had been a handsome man of a type, with greying hair worn in a short brush-cut which gave him a boyish but balding look. He might have been hell on the ladies. He looked the type to Leopold. “What killed him?”

“This,” Fletcher said, holding up a three-pronged garden implement of some sort. “He got all three, right, Doc?”

The doctor looked up distastefully. “It would appear that one prong hit the main artery of the heart. There's a great deal of blood.”

“I can see it,” Leopold said. “What about this kidnapping?”