The Body Looks Familiar (9 page)

It got a laugh, it got a couple of minutes before the Fourth Estate pulled the jail down. He kept a grin on his face; but when he got inside, he was going to skin Peter Poldear and throw the hide out to the reporters. It would make a story—that idiot Poldear had acted stupider than Dave Corday.

He said, “I’m going in and get some order. As soon as I get inside, I’ll see Sheriff Poldear and arrange to have the big visitors’ room set open for you.” He raised a hand and pointing at the bigger of the motor cops, yelled, “Come here, break center for me.” He smiled back at the reporters. “Let me in, and you’ll have your story in five minutes. We’ll bring Guild up there, and you can talk to him.”

The big officer—Sid Harrison, his name was, six years on the force, two and a half on a motorcycle—started over.

Carl Glidden of the
Trib
said, “Is it true Guild confessed?”

Jim Latson raised his voice so he wouldn’t be giving Glidden an exclusive. “All I know is that I got a phone call to that effect. More to come, as it says on the teletype.”

Patrolman Harrison came through the crowd, Jim got out his wallet, thumbed some bills out. “Sid, get coffee and a load of sandwiches for the press, and have them set up in the visitors’ room upstairs.”

Not a reporter there—all men at this hour—really wanted coffee and sandwiches. Not a man there but could afford to buy his own easily. But Latson knew his working press—suckers for a free load, any time, any hour. They let him go into the jail, and waited, quietly for newspapermen.

Peter Poldear took one look at Jim Latson’s face, and said, “I only—”

“You only raised hell,” Jim Latson said. “Is there an assistant dog catcher in this city? If there is, I’ll see you’re it, come next election. Now, here’s what you’re to do: Get your screws back in here, have them make a cordon, so the newsmen can get to the visitors’ room and no place else. A motor cop named Harrison’s bringing free grub for them; be a gracious host. Set up an interview room for me, and get some hot coffee. I’m drunk.”

Pete Poldear grinned.

“Get Guild up there,” Jim Latson concluded. “And fast.”

Poldear said, “My prisoners—”

“Your prisoners aren’t going to escape with cops all over the sidewalk… An idea; as each newsman comes in, check his card, make him put it in his hatband. It’s an excuse to stall awhile.”

Poldear nodded. His jowls wobbled when he did. He said, “Interview Room Three.”

Jim Latson went toward the stairs.

Pete Poldear’s blatting voice followed him: “Guild’s already there.” Then, as Latson paused, the sheriff cried, “Dave Corday’s with him.”

Jim Latson turned; he was up a couple of stairs, and he let all the fury he felt shoot down at Poldear. “What!”

But Poldear had turned away.

A turnkey stood in the square hall, guarding Interview Three. Jim Latson started around him and the guard put out a hand, saying, “The sheriff—”

Jim Latson struck the hand down. “You know who I am,” he said. “And your name is Larner, and you’ve been taking a cut from the restaurant across the street to bring in special meals for the prisoners.”

Larner got out of the way. The interview rooms locked from the outside; the key was in its hole. Jim Latson twisted it and went in.

Behind him he could hear Larner locking them in.

Dave Corday, rumpled and tired looking, was sitting at the interviewer’s desk. Little Guild, across from him, had been crying.

Jim Latson said, “Let’s see that confession,” and reached for it. When he picked it up, he uncovered a picture of himself lying on the table. Ralph Guild groaned and Dave Corday moved away a little, but Jim Latson just grunted.

He read the confession through once, and then again. Then he said, “Your handwriting, Dave?”

Corday nodded. His eyes were very wide.

Jim Latson grinned. “I’m not going to hit you.” He took his pen and blacked out a few lines. “Better copy that over,” he said. “Without all that crap about witnesses.”

Corday said, “There are two copies.”

Jim Latson said, “Then copy ’em both. And hurry, man! You got the press outside, howling like cats with their tails stepped on! Poldear can’t stall ’em much longer.”

He reached out casually and picked up his photograph, tore it in two. “Write, you son-of-a-bitch,” he said to Corday. “And you, Guild. Sign it!”

Dave Corday shook his head.

Jim Latson said, “At a party tonight, given for the governor by Deputy Police Chief James Latson, David Corday, Assistant Trial Deputy in the D.A.’s office, was to be informed of his party’s nomination of him for district attorney. However, Corday became so drunk before the announcement was made that the governor decided he was unsafe to hold public office.

“Chagrined and disappointed, Corday then went to the County Jail where, together with a known illegal entrant and accused murderer, he conspired—”

Corday said, “God!”

Jim Latson said, “Pete Poldear was never without a bottle in his desk. Not since I’ve known him, maybe not since that desk was in the third-grade room at a fourth-rate public school. Sid Harrison, one of the biggest patrolmen on the motor squad, is on his way here with coffee for me. If you think he won’t hold you while I pour Pete’s bottle of whisky into and on you, you don’t know what I’ve got on Sid Harrison.”

And what have I? he thought. Nothing that I can remember, and my memory is pretty good.

“You’d look hot, Corday, holding a press conference reeking drunk. I don’t know if there is a job in this town called assistant pet shop inspector, but if there is, you wouldn’t be able to get it when the newspapermen got through with you.”

It was nice timing. Somebody knocked on the door, Lamer twisted the key, and big Sid Harrison came in with the chief’s coffee.

Jim Latson took it from him, and said, “Wait a minute, Sid.”

Dave Corday let his breath out in a long, almost moaning sigh, and began to write. “That’s all, Sid,” Jim Latson said, and the motor cop went away.

Jim Latson looked down at Ralph Guild, and his voice got soft. “When caterpillar-guts here gets through writing,” he said, “you’d better sign it. Maybe you can see why: we are now in no position to convict you, because a man going to the chair would spill all he’d heard tonight. No, Guild, you’re sitting better. We’ll postpone and postpone, and you’ll be out on bail.”

He walked to the door, rapped for Lamer to let him out. “Won’t we, pal Dave?”

Corday, writing fast, had nearly replaced the mutilated page. “Yes,” he said, without looking up. “Yes. We’ll postpone. And you can’t be deported till the case is over.”

Guild said, suddenly, “I will sign.” He pointed at Latson. “I believe him. I will sign.”

Lamer had the door open now. Jim Latson let out a guffaw, said, “Have a good press conference, Dave,” and went out.

Poldear had cleared the stairs and corridors of newsmen. Jim Latson went out into the damp, foggy night. He was thinking: If Cap Martin ever hears of that one, we’re sunk. I’d better pull him off the case tomorrow.

But the thought came bouncing back like a cheap ball on an elastic. Marty doesn’t pull easy.

CAP MARTIN liked a neat desk. He sat down in front of an absolutely bare slab of wood the next morning, took a pad from the center drawer, and laid it in front of him. He stared at it awhile, and then pressed the buzzer for Jake.

His secretary came in promptly, his badge shiny on his alpaca coat, his face closely shaven, his shoes polished; all correct. He had a stenographer’s notebook and a handful of pencils all ready.

“No letters,” Cap Martin said.

Jake said, “Page is outside. Rein’s on his way here. I haven’t been able to get you in to Chief Latson yet.”

“I’ll see Page right away. And bring me a copy of the
News-Journal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Door open, door shut; door open again, and Jake very properly ushering Ray Page in. As soon as Page was seated, Jake came across the office and put a folded copy of the paper on the desk. Then he went out again.

From Jake’s competent back, Cap Martin’s gaze went to Ray Page’s inadequate face. Cap kept his own face smooth; there was no use telling the patrolman—now a hack inspector—that he was unlikable. But it did seem that a man of thirty could have pulled his features together, just a little bit.

“Routine, Page,” Cap said. He unfolded the paper. The four center columns of the front page had been run together into one bank; the confession of Ralph Guild, reported by Harry Weber. Just glancing down, Cap Martin could see the words: “skirt,” “negligee,” “bed,” “nightgown,” and that was enough for the moment. He sighed, and turned to Page, who was looking as intelligent as possible. Possible wasn’t enough.

“The night the DeLisle girl was killed,” Cap Martin said, “you and Jim Rein were on patrol, not too far away. Anything happen out of the ordinary?”

“Aw, we woulda reported, Cap,” Page said.

Cap Martin said, “Captain.”

“Yes, sir, Captain. Like I say, we kept a good log, kept our noses clean.”

Cap Martin opened a side drawer, took out the typed log sheet. “Here, study this, Page. Refresh your memory.”

He found he was physically reluctant to read the confession. It was such obvious junk. “Protect my wife and unborn child…” Bunk. No self-defense there. “I was driven frantic by her obvious and naked appeals to my sex…” sounded about as much like a Czecho-Slovakian waiter as he did.

His eye kept drifting to other stories. But war and the rumors of war had been relegated to the inner pages of the
News-Journal.
This was hot, this was the essence of life: an immigrant waiter had confessed to killing a high-class hooker. Don’t call her a whore, Captain Martin, because she got paid too much to be a whore.

A red light on his box went on, and he flipped the switch for Jake to say, “Rein’s here, Captain.”

“Send him in.” With Rein, he was more cordial, asked him how he liked the detective bureau, told him to sit down next to Page. “I’m filling in the picture on the Hogan DeLisle thing, Jimmy. Just smoothing off the top. You and Page look over your typed log there, and see if you can recall anything out of the ordinary.”

It was noticeable that Rein didn’t offer to shake hands with Page. Cap Martin had done his uniform patrol back when there was still a lot of walking done, and a patrolman walked alone; but when he had become a detective, he had frequently been teamed with insufferable partners. He imagined that being penned up in a patrol car with a man like Page was as rough duty as could be found.

Rein was leaning on the back of Page’s chair, reading over the other man’s shoulder. He said, almost immediately, “That was the night we started Chief Latson’s car for him, Ray.”

Ray Page shook his head. Plain clothes didn’t help him; he wore a nubbly tweed with an under-shade of purple to it. “It ain’t here, Jim.”

“The girl left it out,” Rein said. Across the top of Page’s head, he looked at Captain Martin. What he saw there must have led him to say, “Or maybe I’m wrong.”

“Sure you’re wrong,” Ray Page said. “It ain’t here. And we kept a good log.”

“My mistake,” Rein said. “It was some other night.”

“Well, if that was just a routine patrol,” Cap Martin said, “I won’t need you any more, Page. Thanks for your co-operation.”

“Any time, Cap, I mean, Captain. Any time at all.”

Cap Martin said, “There was something else I wanted to see you about, Rein. Your commander phoned while you were on the way here.”

“Yes, sir…?”

They waited till Ray Page had left. Then Cap Martin tilted his chin at the chair closest to the desk. “Sit down, Jim. Cigarette?”

“Thank you, sir.” It was Rein who got the match lit. They blew out smoke silently.

Finally Cap Martin said, “Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell,” Jim Rein said. “We got a call that a department car was stalled and where. Went there, and pushed Chief Latson’s sedan with our cruiser. It started at once. I saw Page log it.”

“Good report,” Cap Martin said. “You’ll make an excellent detective. If I asked for you for Homicide, what would you think?”

“I would think,” Jimmy Rein said, “that the captain thought me competent.”

Cap Martin nodded and stood up, something he seldom did for his inferiors. “Exactly what you’re supposed to think. It may take a few days. I wouldn’t want to ask Chief Latson for the transfer.”

“No,” Jimmy Rein said. “If you did, I wouldn’t want to take it.

The red light lit up; Cap slipped the switch to hear that Harry Weber was outside.

He sighed, shook hands with Rein and escorted him to the door. Then he stuck his head out and called Harry Weber.

Weber came in silently, and silently took the hard chair Captain Martin pointed to.

Harry Weber said, “Any statement on Guild’s confession, Captain?”

Captain Martin shook his head, smiling a little. “Nope. You covered the story?”

“They dragged me away from a game of Russian bank. My wife was taking a beating for the first time in a month.”

“Tough,” Cap Martin said.

“And rough,” Harry Weber added.

“Typed confession?”

Harry Weber said, “No. Corday’s handwriting. I happen to know it.”

Cap Martin nodded, staring at the ceiling. He was going to have to spend a few words; and Weber was not stupid. What did the military call it: a calculated risk? Cap Martin didn’t usually believe in them. But maybe the time had come. He asked, “Was Chief Latson there?”

Harry Weber’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Why, no. Should he have been? We got to see Guild, talk to him. He hadn’t been beaten up.”

It would hardly do to smile now. Cap Martin said, “What’s the political gossip these days, Harry?”

Weber’s reaction proved to the captain that it paid to be taciturn. In a Civic Center lousy with first names, having yours used by Captain Martin was a rare honor. Harry Weber beamed, and said, “The governor’s swinging for the United States Senate. The scoop is, Frederick Van Lear will take the nomination for D.A. in exchange for not running for governor. He’s a shoo-in here in the city, where he’s known; he’d have tough running in the state, where he’s not.”