Time Off for Murder (20 page)

  "Because it's built on wishful thinking." Mary Carner made an interruption stick at last. "Rockey Nardello's name has come into this case. Rockey's a natural to blame for anything. As I recall, he was questioned when Phyllis first disappeared and he and his lawyer said they'd been together the entire evening of the nineteenth of October…. "

  Inspector Heinsheimer reached for his phone. "Get the records in the Nardello prosecution," he ordered. "Find out who was Nardello's counsel. Bring him in as fast as you get to him. Go on, sister."

  Mary said: "Rockey's lawyer's a good person to talk to on general principles. But the October date doesn't mean a thing because Phyllis was alive in November. No." She shook her head. "Nothing clicks yet, except

that it was Lieutenant MacKinoy's gun that killed Phyllis. And that a nervous music teacher thinks she saw Rockey Nardello once on the steps of the Seventyfirst Street house. And that Flo Gordon who might have been a friend of Rockey's had a place next door to the house where we found Phyllis. That's all that's positive, except that certain notepaper and certain ink seem to match, and the plaster and dust on a certain suit are like the plaster and dust on a certain wall. And the suit might have been worn by Rockey Nardello, at a certain murder, if he hadn't been in jail when it happened. And all that's little enough. All we can be sure of is that we're dealing with someone who is ruthless and daring. Someone who isn't afraid to take a long chance. Our man is as clever as all hell."

  "So clever," the Inspector grumbled, "that he's gonna outsmart himself. On the next move, or the next, that little guy'll be just a little bit too clever."

  "The next move." Miss Carner's tones were grave. "His next move may mean death for someone else. Why wait for it? Our man's desperate. Must have been to go to MacKinoy's flat, take the risk of running smack into the police. I'm afraid of him, Inspector. I'm scared of that skinny man."

  "Cut it out." The Inspector spoke sharply. "What've you got to be scared of? That little guy ain't no killer. The killer's dead. Can't you get that through your dome. MacKinoy killed the girl. Bullets never lie. MacKinoy fired that gun. Him and nobody else."

  Mary said: "MacKinoy's gun fired the bullet that killed Phyllis. That doesn't mean MacKinoy's finger pulled the trigger."

  "Y'think Rockey could have killed her with MacKinoy's gun?"

  "I don't. He'd have had to fire it from the Tombs. He might have ordered Phyllis' execution…No. She couldn't have been that important to him. No." She was emphatic now. "We've got to look for someone else. The someone who brought her to that house. The someone who dropped a pair of eyeglasses and a revolver. And while we're hunting for him, we could keep an eye out for Bessie Jackson. And Flo Gordon might know some of our answers, too."

  There was a knock at the door. Johnny Reese got up and opened it. "Mrs. MacKinoy is here, Inspector," a policeman announced.

  "Send her in."

  Two women entered on Sarah MacKinoy's introduction. One was a large redfaced, parrot beaked woman, of the contours politely known as "stylish stout" voluminous curves, tightly girdled under the sleek lines of a fur-collared, black coat, and a silly, tiny, shiny black straw hat, with a witch's peak and a dotted black veil, tilted over one eye; the other, a shade thinner, less expensively dressed, less florid, but more aggressive.

  Inspector Heinsheimer got up, stretched a welcoming hand between the two women. "Mrs. MacKinoy?" he said. "How do?"

  The woman with the silly hat shook his hand limply, said, "Pardon my glove. I'm Sarah MacKinoy. This is my sister Grace, Missus L'Hommadieu. She came down with me. . ." Mrs. MacKinoy's manner was nervous. Her voice was a peanut stand whistle.

  "Please to meet you. Get the ladies chairs, Reese. Make yourself comfortable, Missus MacKinoy. Now," he glanced uncertainly from one woman to the other, "I'm glad you brought your sister down here with you. This isn't going to be easy."

  The sister had elected herself spokesman. "Sarah knows about Mitch," she informed them. "She saw it in the papers when she came out of the show."

  Mrs. MacKinoy's bosom heaved in an assenting sigh. Her black-gloved hand raised a handkerchief to her eyes. "My poor little girls," the peanut whistle vibrated.

  The Inspector looked adequately sympathetic. "Now…Now…I'm gonna try to spare you and your children all I can. I don't know how much you know. Your husband took his own life, it seems. You know that? He left two letters. One to you."

  "Where is it?" Sarah MacKinoy snapped. "Why hasn't anybody given it to me?''

  The Inspector took a glassine envelope from his desk. He handed the widow the letter. "I opened it," he explained. "Had to."

  Mrs. MacKinoy rolled off her right hand glove, pulled a white gold chain from her bosom, pressed a spring, adjusted
pince-nez.

  Her sister stood behind her. Mrs. L'Hommadieu's lips moved as she read. She clucked.

  Sarah MacKinoy remained expressionless. At last she put the sheet of notepaper on the desk and said with bitterness: "He left me a fine mess. Me with three little girls to raise." She removed her glasses, dabbed her eyes.

  "Your husband refers to certain things in that letter," the Inspector said. "Things he was involved in. Certain things he couldn't get out of. What were those things, Missus MacKinoy?"

  Sarah MacKinoy's eyes widened. "I haven't the least idea."

  "Of course she hasn't," her sister added. "Sarah's a home woman. She don't know anything about her husband's affairs."

  The Inspector glared. "I am addressing Missus MacKinoy."

  Mrs. MacKinoy's lips tightened. "I don't know anything," she whined. "My husband never told me a single thing."

  "You knew he was a good provider, didn't you? You knew he gave you plenty of money. You knew what his pay was, didn't you? You knew he didn't earn enough on the force to live on the Drive and give you all that money. Didn't you wonder where it came from?"

  "She knew where it came from," the sister volunteered again. "He had investments."

  "Madam, I am addressing Missus MacKinoy, and no one else." The Inspector was having trouble with his temper. "I'll ask you to stay out of this, or leave the room."

  Mrs. L'Hommadieu sniffed. "I'm just trying to help her."

  "What kind of investments did you believe your husband had?"

  Mrs. MacKinoy raised a plump shoulder. "I took what he gave me. I didn't question him."

  "You didn't, hey? Now look here, Mrs. MacKinoy. I'm gonna ask your sister to step outside, and I'm gonna ask these detectives to step outside, and you and me are gonna have a nice little heart to heart talk. It'll be a whole lot better if you tell me everything that's on your mind."

  Mrs. MacKinoy's eyes were red, her cheeks flushed when, after an hour, she came from the Inspector's office. Her sister put an arm around her, whispered: "For God's sake, Sally, powder your nose," looked anxiously at her. "He didn't do anything to you?"

  The Inspector patted the widow's shoulder. "She'll be all right. An officer'll take you up to Bellevue. Identification. Gotta be done. Then you take her home and give her a bromide and let her lay down and sleep."

  He held his office door open for the two detectives. Johnny Reese carried a slip of paper back in with him.

  "There ain't nobody going to say I'm not a good psychologist," the Inspector began, when the door was shut. "I guessed what was wrong with that woman the minute I saw her. Y'remember there wasn't a single word about her being a good wife, or him loving her or anything like that in MacKinoy's letter. S'a fact. He ain't been living with Sarah as husband and wife for seven years, not since that last little girl was born. No separation. Just not having nothing to do with her."

  Mary interrupted to say: "It's not a pretty thing to bring up. But could he have changed his habits? Preferred a boy friend? That lipstick on the butt - "

  The Inspector blinked. "For a nice girl, you can think of the damndest things. Well, whatever he was up to, he gave Sarah plenty of money to keep her quiet. The way she figured it, he was living with some other woman, but so long as she was getting plenty of cash she didn't holler. So far as she thinks, the only trouble he could've got in would be on account of a female."

  "Ain't it the truth?" Johnny Reese said. "He sure did get in trouble on account of a female. Phyllis Knight. But that don't look like no romance."

  The Inspector nodded sagaciously. "Unless. Say, Miss C., you don't think your high-toned girl friend would have been romancing with a copper, do you?"

  "That would be funny," Mary answered. "But I can't laugh. When Phyllis went in for romance, she chose a tall, dark and handsome millionaire."

  "Millionaire? Oh yeah. That reminds me." The Inspector picked up the phone. "Y' got Rorke's number?"

  Johnny Reese told it to him. The Inspector passed it along to the switchboard. He held the receiver, listened to the no-answer hum. "Nobody home." He hung up, thought better of that, called the switchboard back. "Keep after that number," he ordered. "When you get it, ask Mister Saxon Rorke to come in to see me. Any time tonight."

  "I'm losing my mind." Johnny Reese slapped the side of his head. "Wake up, Johnny. Here I am sitting here, with a piece of paper in my hand, looking at it and not remembering what it is. The boys brought it in while you were here with the MacKinoy dame. It's the prescription for the eyeglasses we found in fifty-nine. An optician on Broadway, near a Hundredth Street, he recognized 'em. He says he made them up ten years ago for a guy named Peterson. Nils. Our pal. I don't know what the numbers here mean, but it says 'severe myopia.'"

  "Near-sighted." Mary explained.

  "That's Nils. Near-sighted. Maybe that's what made him such a bum shot, if it was him used the little gun."

  "That brings Peterson definitely into the house," Mary said. "And makes us believe he saw what was going on. And so we've got to find Peterson…He's our key person."

  The Inspector shifted in his chair. "He's ducked out. The way we go chasing around you'd think this was Missing Persons, not Homicide."

  "Sure," Johnny Reese grinned. "Makes me feel right at home…."

  Again, there was a knock on the door and a policeman entered.

"Gene Vigo's here," the officer said, "to see you, Inspector."

"Gene Vigo?" The Inspector looked puzzled. "Who's he?"

"Says you sent for him. And looking damn sore about it."

"Me? I sent for him? Never heard of him."

  "Oh yes, you did," Johnny Reese spoke up. "It just come to me. The old flypaper. He was Nardello's mouthpiece."

  "Send him in."

  The man who entered was short and thin and swarthy. He moved with nervous quickness. His top-coat was expensive, well-tailored. It covered a dinner jacket and stiff-bosomed shirt. He exuded prosperity, from the closely shaved and powdered Chaplin-mustached face above his wing collar to his lemon yellow gloved fingers. His greeting was affable.

  "Good evening. I'm Eugene Vigo. I believe you sent for me, Inspector."

  "Pleased to meet you, Counselor. Have a chair."

  "Thank you." The man seated himself. "I hope this won't take long. I left a dinner party at home."

  "We'll send you right back. Just one or two things to be cleared up."

  The attorney's smile was faintly worried. "Nothing serious, I hope. No trouble?"

  "Not for you."

  "Client of mine in trouble?"

  "Yep. Nardello."

  "Nardello?" The man seemed amazed. "But he's in prison."

  "Wasn't there last October."

  "A good part of it," the lawyer answered quickly.

  "Not the nineteenth of October, was he?"

  "The nineteenth of October?" The attorney bent forward, his nose wrinkled thoughtfully. He was studying the detectives' faces. "What's this all about?"

  "Keep your shirt on," the Inspector growled. "All we're asking you is where Rockey Nardello was on the evening of October nineteenth - the night before he went on trial."

  Mr. Vigo stripped off his gloves. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat, took out a long silver case, snapped it open. "Have a cigar, Inspector?"

  Inspector Heinsheimer's hand went toward the case, returned empty. "No thanks. The Commissioner says nix. Not even a cigar."

  Eugene Vigo laughed unpleasantly. "Mother knows best. Mind if I light up?"

  "Go ahead."

  The lawyer peeled a cellophane wrapper and paper band from his cigar, dropped them carelessly on the floor. The flare of his lighter illumined a weasel face.

  "Let's quit stalling," the Inspector said impatiently. "Where was Rockey the night before his trial?"

  Eugene Vigo flicked a speck of ash from his cigar. "Rest easy," he said. "He was with me. In my apartment." Cigar smoke made an aromatic halo around his head.

  "You said that before," Johnny Reese broke in. "When the Knight woman disappeared, you said that."

  "Oh." The attorney's eye-brows rose. "So that's what it is? The Knight case. So you're still trying to pin that on poor old Rockey."

  "Poor old Rockey, my eye," the Inspector growled, "with what that guy's got salted away."

  "Not so much as you think, gentlemen."

  "Not after you got through with him, eh?"

  The lawyer looked down at his manicured fingers. He said with dignity. "I believe I earned my fees."

  The Inspector shrugged. "That's your business…. Let's come back to my business. What time was Nardello with you on the night before his trial?"