Which Way to Die? (17 page)

Corrigan said, “One of Marty Martello's hoods used to belong to the 305th. If he knew your brother was supply sergeant, there's your answer.”

“Which one of Martello's hoods?”

Corrigan said genially, “Andy, you sound as if you're fishing for enough information to make up a story.”

“I'm trying to figure things out, Captain. Maybe the guy was a Martello hood.”

“What guy?”

“The guy I sold the belt to.”

It came so suddenly, so readily, that Corrigan and Baer both blinked. For all his experience, the MOS man was never quite prepared for the phenomenon of witnesses who decided to talk just when he was about to give up on them. But there was often a weenie. In cases like this it was wise to look the gift horse in the mouth.

“Okay, Andy,” Corrigan said, “now you're being smart. Though I can't figure out why you decided to admit it all of a sudden, after being willing to be parked behind bars rather than talk.”

“My brother Arnold confessed, didn't he?” Betz shrugged. “I'm not going to take the rap for this other guy.”

“What guy, Andy?”

“I don't know his name. I ran into him in a bar.”

“What bar? When?”

“Tracy's, on Forty-second Street. It was late Monday night.”

“You mean a week ago yesterday?”

“That's right.”

“Go on.”

“We started talking and he stood me a couple of shots. Then he told me he'd pay me five hundred dollars if I could get him a rocket belt.”

“Out of the blue? Just like that? How did he know you had access to a belt?”

For a moment Betz looked confused. Then his face cleared. “It's all kind of foggy, because I was loaded. But now that I think of it, he worked up to it. We got talking about my brother being supply sergeant for the 305th.” He paused. “I think he brought that up, not me. How would he know that?”

“Maybe he knew all about you beforehand,” Baer suggested. “Maybe it was a deliberate contact.”

“Was he in the bar when you arrived?” Corrigan asked.

Andy thought for a moment. “He came in right after. Say, you think he was following me?”

“I think,” Corrigan said. “So you were discussing your brother, Andy. Then what?”

“He said he happened to know the 305th had two Bell Aerosystems Rocket Belts in storage, which nobody would miss because they hadn't been used for years. If I could talk my brother out of one, he'd pay me five hundred bucks for it.”

Corrigan and Baer looked at each other. Baer said, “Sounds like Benny.”

Corrigan nodded. “When and where did you deliver the belt, Andy?”

“At the same bar last Friday night.”

Corrigan frowned. “You walked right into a bar carrying that contraption?”

“No, no,” Betz said. “I just met him there. I had it in my car. We went outside, transferred it to his car, and he paid me off.”

Baer said, “Did he give you any name?”

The man shook his head. “I think he introduced himself when we first started talking, but you know how it is with a guy you just meet. Two minutes later you can't remember his name. It was probably a phony, anyway.”

“What did he look like?” Corrigan demanded.

Andy furrowed his heavy brows. “I was pretty drunk,” he said apologetically. “I don't remember.”

Baer said, “You weren't drunk when you delivered the belt Friday night, were you?”

“Well, no, but I was nervous. I didn't look at him too good.”

Corrigan said, “Andy, you're making this all up.”

“No—no, I'm not, Captain! I'm trying to cooperate. I'm just not much good on faces. He was above average height, I remember. Maybe as tall as me. But skinnier.”

“How old was he?”

“Thirty, forty,” Andy said. “I'm not much of a judge on age.”

“You're not much on anything,” Corrigan said tartly. “I don't suppose you noticed what kind of car he had, or the license number?”

“Just that it was a black sedan,” Betz muttered. “And new. All these new cars look the same to me. It wasn't one of the big ones, though. Ford or a Plymouth, something like that.”

Corrigan shrugged. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Sure thing,” Betz said confidently.

“Think you could pick out his picture?”

Andy looked eager. “I could give it a try.”

“All right,” Corrigan said. “I'm going to check you out and run you over to BCI to look at some mug shots. We'll be back as soon as I sign for you.”

On the way Corrigan said to Baer, “What do you think, Chuck?”

“I'm not sure,” the private detective said. “A couple of times I got the impression he was feeling his way—making it up as he went along. But is he bright enough to pull anything like this?”

“He's not loaded with brains. I got the same impression, but it doesn't make sense. Why would he come up with such a wild story?”

“To get off the hook for murder, is why.”

Corrigan nodded glumly. They waited for a guard to let them out. “I can't see him as the killer, Chuck. He handed that belt over to
somebody
. But why would he lie about who?”

“Who knows, Tim? Sometimes you get one that's incapable of telling a straight story. Especially the dumb ones. They think all cops are out to get them.”

“Well, we'll play it by ear and see what happens.”

The guard unlocked the door.

At the Bureau of Criminal Identification they sat Andy Betz down and had him go through mug shots. To test his reactions, Corrigan first showed him a book of miscellaneous criminals. He and Baer sat on the other side of the table and watched his face.

Betz turned the pages slowly and studied the photos with an air of profound concentration. He went through the entire book without giving a sign of intelligence, or even pausing to study a particular photograph closely.

“Not in here,” he said.

Corrigan tossed him four loose front-and-profile shots. They were of Marty Martello, Little Jumbo Barth, the Acid Kid, and Benny Grubb.

“Hey, this is Martello,” Betz exclaimed at the first picture.

“You know him?” Corrigan asked.

“Sure, from four years ago. He was out to the Alstrom estate the day the body of his kid was dug up, and I'd driven the Grants over there, too. Then I saw him in court a couple of times.”

“Is he the man you sold the belt to?”

“No.”

He scanned the photos of Little Jumbo, set the card aside, and studied the Acid Kid's mugs. He set those aside, too. Then he stared at Benny Grubb's front-and-profile shots.

“This is the guy.” He looked up in triumph. “This is him, all right!”

Corrigan let his breath out. Top hoods like Martello were so frustratingly above the law that it was every decent officer's dream to bust one. If Benny Grubb could be tagged with young Alstrom's murder, it was possible, even likely, that Martello could be tied in for conspiracy to murder. Benny was not the martyr kind. He would not take the rap without fingering the man who had ordered the hit.

“You're sure now, Andy.”

Betz looked confident. “I'll testify to it in court.”

“You'll get your chance.” Corrigan rose. “Okay, Andy. Back to your cell.”

22.

The same middle-aged receptionist was on duty at The Martello Realty Company when Corrigan and Baer got off at the twenty-fifth floor.

The moment she saw Corrigan she said in a positive voice, “Mr. Martello
really
isn't in today, Captain. He isn't even in
town
.”

Corrigan pushed through the wooden gate and headed for Martello's private office. As he passed her desk he said, “We're not looking for Marty this time.”

They went into the room marked PRIVATE.

The sleek blonde with the upslanted eyes was again hanging up her phone when Corrigan and Baer got there. She gave Corrigan a charming smile. “Mrs. Hakes told you he wasn't here, Captain. He flew to Buffalo this morning.”

She actually got up and went over to the door behind her desk and opened it to show them that Martello's office was empty.

“I told her we weren't looking for Marty,” Corrigan said. “Didn't she tell you?”

The Acid Kid and Benny Grubb were lounging in chairs. Corrigan went over and planted himself before Martello's wheel man. Baer lined up beside him, blocking Al Jennings.

Corrigan said, “You're under arrest on suspicion of murder, Benny. Sergeant Bender gave you the standard spiel about your constitutional rights at Homicide the other night, so you know how it goes. On your feet.”

Grubb and Jennings slowly came erect. The blonde stood watching, open-mouthed. Then she said in a complaining voice, “Are you going to start a fuss again, Captain?”

He paid no attention to her.

Benny said, “You're nuts. I ain't killed nobody. What hit you trying to stick me with?”

“Gerard Alstrom's.”

“You know I got an alibi for that.”

“It just fell apart.”

The alibi had not fallen apart—yet. At that moment Detective Second Grade Meisenheimer was en route to Brooklyn to pick up the two girls who had furnished it, but until the girls could be broken down the alibi stood. Corrigan was just assuming that the alibi was rigged. He was confident his interrogation would get the girls to talk.

Benny Grubb fell for it He was being arrested, so Corrigan must have broken his alibi.

“Those stupid broads talked!”

Corrigan said as casually as if it didn't matter, “They blew the whistle all right, Benny.”

“Listen, we didn't set up the alibi on account of that kid Alstrom, Captain. That was a coincidence.”

Corrigan looked at him with genuine amazement.

“Honest,” Benny said. “Al and I were going to lean on a welsher that night. Nothing to do with the boss. Just a favor for a bookie pal. We never did find the welsher, so we didn't need the alibi after all. When you tagged us, we just used it.”

“So it shouldn't be a total loss, eh, Benny?” Corrigan looked over at the Acid Kid. “Your buddy's admission tags you as an accessory, Al. You went along on the job, or you wouldn't have planted an alibi, too.”

“Big mouth!” Jennings snapped at Grubb. “Dig your own grave if you want, but don't pull me in with you!”

“He already broke the alibis,” Benny said feebly. “I was just explaining, Al.”

Corrigan said, “Both of you turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

“You ain't tagging me with no bum rap,” Jennings snarled.

His hand flashed to his pocket. There was a snicking sound, and there was the hand with a seven-inch blade.

Benny Grubb threw a right at Corrigan's jaw.

Several things happened in a blur. One of Baer's mitts clamped on the Acid Kid's wrist; the other grabbed him by the hair. The Kid's feet left the floor as Baer swung him like a chicken. Then Baer let go, and the Kid sailed across the room, turning slowly in mid-air like a satellite, to crash into the far wall.

At the same time Corrigan's knees flexed to let Grubb's fist whistle over his head. Both his hands shot up to grab the man's wrist; he turned his back on Grubb and heaved. The man flipped over Corrigan's shoulder to land on his back,
hors de combat
.

Corrigan slipped cuffs on him, gave him a quick shakedown, and removed a .38 revolver from under his armpit.

“You did it again, you did it again,” the blonde said excitedly.

Baer ran across the room, picked up the knife Al Jennings had dropped, snapped it shut, and dropped it into his pocket. Jennings lay on his face, shaking his head. He pushed himself to his hands and knees.

The private detective hoisted him to his feet by the scruff of the neck, removed a snub-nosed Detective Special from a belt holster, and let go. The Acid Kid fell back to his hands and knees. After a few moments he crawled over to a chair.

The blonde said in the same high voice, “Wait till I tell Mr. Martello. You just wait!”

Corrigan ignored her. He jerked Benny Grubb to his feet. “You carrying cuffs, Chuck?” Baer shook his head regretfully. Corrigan jockeyed the weaving Grubb across the room, shoved him into the chair beside Jennings, and unlocked his left cuff. He snapped it around Jennings' right wrist.

Grubb said, “Listen, Captain, I wasn't going to make no break. I only followed along because this jerk did.”

“Who you calling a jerk?” the Acid Kid spat at him.

“You, you jerk!” Grub spat back. “We weren't in any jam till you pulled a shiv on a cop. We could have beat this lousy bust if you'd kept your head.”

“Argue it out in a cell,” Corrigan said.

When they got back to the squadroom, Corrigan removed the handcuffs. He told the prisoners to sit down. Meisenheimer came in and gestured Corrigan over to a corner, beyond the prisoners' earshot.

“They've bugged,” the detective told Corrigan. “The two broads. Moved two days ago and left no forwarding address.”

Corrigan cursed. “We'll need them eventually to make this stick. Better put out an APB and a local, Meis.”

“Okay.”

“Then run over to Detention and check out Andy Betz. I want him here.”

When Meisenheimer returned with the oversized ex-chauffeur, Corrigan steered Betz over to where Martello's men sat. He said nothing, letting Betz look them over.

He pointed to Benny Grubb. “That's the man, Captain.”

Grubb said indignantly, “What's he fingering me for?” Then his eyes narrowed. “Hey, don't I know you?”

“Sure you do,” Betz said. “You gave me five hundred dollars for that belt.”

Grubb looked at Corrigan. “What's he talking about, Captain? Who is this monkey, anyway?”

“You know who he is,” Corrigan said.

“The hell I do! I've seen him some place, but I don't know where.” He glared at Betz. “Who the hell are you?”