Which Way to Die? (2 page)

Asked if any woman had ever replaced Audrey Martello in his affections, Barber had said, “Oh, I date occasionally, but there's no serious romance in my life. Anyway, that's nobody's business but mine.”

With wry amusement Corrigan noted that neither Harry Barber nor any of the other persons interviewed had made mention of the likeliest instrument of retribution, Marty Martello. The newspapers were sensitive about the laws of libel, and Martello had a team of lawyers on his string who were experts in the field; he was sensitive, too.

Martello had not been available for comment.

Corrigan threw the newspaper down and brooded. He was still brooding when Detective Second Grade Meisenheimer stuck his bushy gray head into the room, removed the inevitable meerschaum pipe from his mouth, and said, “Skipper wants to see you.”

“Urgent?” Corrigan mumbled. “I haven't even read my mail yet.”

“He just said when you're free, Tim.”

“So I'm not free,” Corrigan said.

He had a sour taste in his mouth.

2.

Corrigan thumbed through his mail. The obvious junk he scaled into his waste can unopened. Of the remaining three envelopes, one was a kickback from the Detroit police department on a routine inquiry of his. The second was an invitation to speak on law enforcement at a Lions Club meeting. Corrigan checked his calendar, saw he had the date open, sighed, and phoned to accept the invitation. He was a good speaker, and his appearance was impressive—“it's the eyepatch,” Chuck Baer kept needling him—and Inspector Macelyn, chief of the MOS, encouraged him to accept such dates whenever possible in the interests of public relations. (“God knows,” the Inspector said, “we can use 'em!”)

The third piece was a post office envelope with the typed address:
Capt. Tim Corrigan, Main Office Squad, Police Headquarters, Centre St., New York, N.Y
. There was no return address.

Corrigan had received or had had shunted onto him over the years so many anonymous notes that he had developed automatic precautions to preserve fingerprints. The no-return-address gambit was usually the tipoff. If it turned out that the enclosure was anonymous, as suspected, the precaution made it that much easier for the laboratory.

He slit one end of the envelope, used a pencil eraser to pull out the single folded sheet inside, then spread the sheet flat with the eraser and the letter-opener. It was an anonymous note, all right. On twenty-pound bond, he noted, and watermarked FOUR STAR BOND, SOUTHWORTH CO. U.S.A., 25% COTTON FIBER. The message was neatly typed:

Dear Captain:

Since the esteemed Pooh-Bahs of the Court of Appeals have seen fit to make a travesty of justice by letting two psychotic killers loose on the defenseless public, I personally intend to make sure neither lives long enough to kill again. If I know your true feelings about these maniacs, you won't try too hard to catch me.

Nemesis

“Nemesis” was typed, too.

The note was undated, but from the postmark the letter had gone through the main post office at seven o'clock the evening before. It must therefore have been written and mailed immediately following the six o'clock TV announcement of the Court's ruling.

Corrigan was interested. After four years the anonymous writer remembered which officer had broken the case. The writer's memory had to go back four years, because there had been no mention of Captain Corrigan either on TV or in the news item he had just read. It was possible that one of the other papers had mentioned him, but the news hadn't hit the papers before seven o'clock last night.

Corrigan phoned the lab and got hold of Chief Technician Yoder.

“I'm sending over a crank note,” he told Yoder. “You won't have to check my prints against any you find, because I haven't fingered it. You still have the file of notes in the Audrey Martello case?”

“Sure, Tim. You know we never throw anything away.”

“See if you can match this one with one of the old ones.”

“I suppose we'll get dozens,” Yoder said wearily. “After all the lab work I did on that case, I'm thinking about writing one myself. How'd the court decision hit you?”

“Where it hurts,” Corrigan said. “What makes it worse, we now have to give the sons all the protection other citizens are entitled to.”

“I'm glad it's not my job. Well, send it over,” Yoder said. “I'm only up to my belly button in work.”

Corrigan hung up, used the eraser and letter-opener to refold the note and tuck it back into its envelope, then slid the envelope into a clasp envelope and took the clasp envelope out into the squadroom. Meisenheimer was writing a report at one of the desks.

“Send this over to the lab, Meis. It's for Yoder. And tell the messenger not to get itchy fingers. This thing is to be checked for latent prints.”

From behind a billow of meerschaum smoke the big man said, “Crank, Tim?”

“It's unsigned,” Corrigan said shortly. Not every unsigned letter came from a crank. Sometimes the non-signer only wanted it to appear that way.

Meisenheimer stared after him, shaking his head.

Corrigan crossed the squadroom to Inspector Macelyn's office. He rapped on the door, and a bass voice said, “It's about time!”

Macelyn was an ageless man who looked forty, could have been fifty, and was actually just past sixty. He could be as tough with his men as a Marine D.I., but he was also mother hen to every man in his department. If he could be said to have a pet, Corrigan was it. And certainly Corrigan felt close to him. The Inspector had been the prowl-car partner of Corrigan's father in their youth. That was only part of the reason, however. Corrigan considered Macelyn an outstanding executive officer, and Macelyn knew that Corrigan was the best man on the Main Office Squad.

The Inspector took a cigar from his mouth and waved it at a chair before the desk. “Sorry I sounded off, Tim—I've been waiting. Sit down.” Corrigan took a chair, and waited. Macelyn said, “You've heard about the court decision in the Alstrom-Grant case?”

“Yes, sir. In fact, I just received the first crank note about it. I've sent it over to the lab.”

“They're starting to come in so soon?” Macelyn growled. “Well, that's an indication of what we're up against.”

“We?” Corrigan said. “You mean Alstrom and Grant.”

“I mean the Main Office Squad. We've been handed the job of keeping them alive.”

“Oh, great,” Corrigan said with disgust. “For how long?”

The Inspector jammed the cigar back into his mouth. “It could be worse. For just long enough to get them from Sing Sing to wherever they want to go. I don't know where that is, except that it'll probably not be their homes on Long Island. For security reasons no advance information will be forthcoming. Only the two themselves, their parents, and their lawyers know their destination.”

“And I'm elected to play nursemaid?”

“The Commissioner specifically asked for you. Incidentally, they're being released Thursday, not Friday. The Friday date was given out to throw a curve to anybody who might have ideas.”

“Like Marty Martello,” Corrigan said grimly. “It's cutting it fine, but maybe it'll keep me from having to fight my way through a mob of reporters. What's the procedure?”

“I really don't know. Except that you're to ride up to Ossining with John M. Alstrom and Mrs. Grant. They're using Mrs. Grant's chauffeured limousine, I understand. You and the released men won't be leaving Sing Sing in the limousine, however. You'll be informed of how and in what you're leaving when you get there.”

Corrigan frowned. “If I'm to be responsible for keeping those two alive, I'd like a part in planning security.”

“Sorry.” The Inspector's head-shake sent cigar ash cascading down his vest. “Orders from above are to let the boys' attorneys handle everything. I've been assured by the Commissioner that security measures will be adequate.”

“Then that's that,” Corrigan said with a shrug. “At least they can't blame us if something goes wrong.”

“I asked the Commissioner to make that very clear to Narwald and Fellows. Since we have no part in the planning, the lawyers are being informed that the police will fully cooperate, but we accept no responsibility if anyone gets to the two men in spite of our best efforts.”

Corrigan rose. “What time Thursday is this limousine leaving, Inspector?”

“Mrs. Grant is supposed to phone you. The Commissioner has already informed her that you're to be the police officer on security.”

Corrigan's Dick Tracy face showed nothing. “Then I'll wait till I hear from her.” He shut the door definitely behind him.

While Tim Corrigan was reading the newspaper in his office, Chuck Baer was reading the newspaper in his.

The private detective's office was larger than Corrigan's; it was furnished with good furniture and wall-to-wall carpeting. The building was air-conditioned, but in mid-May the system was not yet turned on. Unfortunately, the weather was paying no attention to the calendar; it was another hot day. Baer had both his window and the door open to coax what little breeze there was into the office.

He had just finished the piece about the release of the young murderers when a man and a woman paused, in the hall and peered in. The man was about sixty, tall, lean, and distinguished-looking, and dressed to the nines. The woman was a desperate fifty, with a plump, well-girdled figure and fluffy blonde hair of the kind seen in does-she-or-doesn't-she ads. Her skin had been labored over with superficial success. She might have been attractive if it had not been for the petulant lines drawing her mouth down. She wore a smart lavender suit Baer tabbed as a Paris original, a tiny gray hat, and white gloves. She reeked of money.

The man said, “Mr. Baer?”

The private detective rose. “Come on in.”

The man motioned the woman to precede him, and carefully shut the door behind them.

“If you don't mind, Mr. Baer,” he said abruptly. “We want this to be private.”

“Sure,” Baer said. He waved them to chairs, and waited, willing himself not to sniff at the fat-smelling fee in the air.

“I am John M. Alstrom, Mr. Baer. This is Mrs. Elizabeth Grant. I presume you know who we are?”

The big man sat down at his desk carefully.

“Uh-huh,” Baer said. “I've just been reading about your sons.”

“I'll get straight to the point,” John M. Alstrom said. “We're very much concerned about our sons' safety, as I'm sure you will understand. During their trial four years ago, a great many threatening letters were received by us, the police, the district attorney, and the judge. We're naturally afraid some fanatic may attempt to assassinate them. And then, of course, there's this Martello.”

“That horrible creature!” Mrs. Grant said. She had a sweet-cidery voice, with just a trace of fermentation. “He has no business being allowed to walk around among honest people. Everyone knows he's responsible for dozens of murders. He's a
gangster
.”

“I agree that Martello is more of a threat than the kooks who wrote the letters,” Baer said. “But even gangsters have feelings. The girl was his daughter.” There was something about Elizabeth Grant that he disliked on sight.

Mrs. Grant huffed. “Are you saying, Mr. Baer, that a man like that is capable of feeling a decent emotion? I think, John,” she said to Alstrom, “we may have come to the wrong person.”

“Now let's not be hasty, Elizabeth,” Alstrom said; he looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Baer comes highly recommended.”

“I don't
care
. Anyway, Frank and Gerard didn't kill that girl. Those confessions were forced out of them.”

Baer's bushy red brows elevated. He knew Tim Corrigan's methods, and they did not include brutality where the rights of suspects were concerned. “If you don't want me,” he said, beginning to rise.

“Sit down, sit down, Mr. Baer,” Alstrom said. “Mrs. Grant is naturally overwrought. What we came for is to hire you as a bodyguard for the two boys. The present plan is to take them from Sing Sing to a temporary hiding place for a week or so—that is, until the furor over their release dies down—then to quietly get them out of the country. We've been promised police protection, but we feel the boys will be safer with a personal bodyguard, too. The job should take no more than a couple of weeks.”

“Where is this hideout, Mr. Alstrom?”

John Alstrom shook his handsome head. “Sorry, but the boys' lawyers have advised us to avoid all possibility of a leak by keeping it secret until the last moment. We would like you to ride up to the prison with us on the release date. You'll be told the details then.”

Baer frowned. “If I'm to be responsible for your sons' lives, I prefer to be in on the planning of the security.”

“I'm afraid that's impossible, Mr. Baer. Those are the conditions. We're prepared to offer you double your usual fee if you'll accept the assignment.”

The private detective took a panatela from his humidor, twirled it in his fingers, and studied it. Then he threw it down. “In that case,” he said, “you'll have to accept a disclaimer on my part. I'll guard your sons, but I can't accept responsibility for anything that happens to them.”

“Nothing will happen to them, I'm positive,” Alstrom said. “Mr. Narwald and Mr. Fellows and the boys have worked out a really brilliant plan.”

“But it's their plan, not mine. Anyway, that's got to be understood. Otherwise no deal.”

Alstrom looked impatient. “Agreed. Then you accept the assignment?”

“Yes,” Baer said. “They're to be released on Friday?”

Mrs. Grant said fretfully, “Thursday morning, Mr. Baer. Friday was announced as a blind.”

“We'll pick you up at eight-thirty Thursday morning,” Alstrom said. “A police officer from the Main Office Squad will also be coming with us.”