Ed McBain_87th Precinct 22 (16 page)

One of the faces had been part of the Cadillac’s dashboard clock. The other had come from a nationally advertised, popular-priced electric alarm clock. There was one other item of importance found in the rubble: a portion of the front panel of a DC-to-AC inverter, part of its brand name still showing where it was stamped into the metal.

These three parts lay on the counter in Grossman’s laboratory like three key pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. All he had to do was fit them together and come up with a brilliant
solution. He was feeling particularly brilliant this Sunday morning because his son had brought home a 92 on a high-school chemistry exam only two days ago; it always made Grossman feel brilliant when his son achieved anything. Well, let’s see, he thought brilliantly. I’ve got three parts of a time bomb, or rather
two
parts because I think I can safely eliminate the car’s clock except as a reference point. Whoever wired the bomb undoubtedly refused to trust his own wrist watch since a difference of a minute or two in timing might have proved critical—in a minute, the deputy mayor could have been out of the car already and on his way into the synagogue. So he had set the electric clock with the time showing on the dashboard clock. Why an
electric
clock? Simple. He did not want a clock that
ticked
. Ticking might have attracted attention, especially if it came from under the hood of a purring Cadillac. Okay, so let’s see what we’ve got. We’ve got an electric alarm clock, and we’ve got a DC-to-AC inverter, which means someone wanted to translate direct current to alternating current. The battery in a Cadillac would
have
to be 12-volts DC, and the electric clock would doubtless be wired for alternating current. So perhaps we can reasonably assume that someone wanted to wire the clock to the battery and needed an inverter to make this feasible. Let’s see.

He’d have had to run a positive lead to the battery and a negative lead to any metal part of the automobile, since the car itself would have served as a ground, right? So now we’ve got a power source to the clock, and the clock is running. Okay, right, the rest is simple, he’d have had to use an electric blasting cap, sure, there’d have been enough power to set one off, most commercial electric detonators can be fired by passing a continuous current of 0.3 to 0.4 amperes through the bridge wire. Okay, let’s see, hold it it now, let’s look at it.

The battery provides our source of power …

… to the inverter …

… and runs the electric clock …

… which is in turn set for a specific time, about eight, wasn’t it? He’d have had to monkey around with the clock so that instead of the alarm ringing, a switch would close. That would complete the circuit, let’s see, he’d have needed a lead running back to the battery, another lead running to the blasting cap, and a lead from the blasting cap to any metal part of the car. So that would look like …

And that’s it.

He could have assembled the entire package at home, taken it with him in a tool box, and wired it to the car in a very short time—making certain, of course, that all his wires were properly insulated, to guard against a stray current touching off a premature explosion. The only remaining question is how he managed to get access to the car, but happily that’s not my problem.

Whistling brilliantly Sam Grossman picked up the telephone and called Detective Meyer Meyer at the 87th.

The municipal garage was downtown on Dock Street, some seven blocks from City Hall Meyer Meyer picked up Bert Kling at ten-thirty. The drive down along the River Dix took perhaps twenty minutes. They parked on a meter across the street from the big concrete and tile structure, and Meyer automatically threw the visor sign, even though this was Sunday and parking regulations were not in force.

The foreman of the garage was a man named Spencer Coyle.

He was reading Dick Tracy and seemed less impressed by the two detectives in his midst than by the fictional exploits of his favorite comic strip sleuth. It was only with a great effort of will that he managed to tear himself away from the newspaper at all. He did not rise from his chair, though. The chair was tilted back against the tiled wall of the garage. The tiles, a vomitous shade of yellow, decorated too many government buildings all over the city, and it was Meyer’s guess that a hefty hunk of graft had influenced some purchasing agent back in the Thirties, either that or the poor bastard had been color-blind Spencer Coyle leaned back in his chair against the tiles, his face long and gray and grizzled, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the comic section still dangling from his right hand, as though he were reluctant to let go of it completely even though he had stopped lip-reading it. He was wearing the greenish-brown coveralls of a Transportation Division employee his peaked hat sitting on his head with all the rakish authority of a major in the Air Force. His attitude clearly told the detectives that he did not wish to be disturbed at
any
time, but especially on Sunday.

The detectives found him challenging.

“Mr. Coyle,” Meyer said, “I’ve just had a telephone call from the police laboratory to the effect that the bomb …”

“What bomb?” Coyle asked, and spat on the floor, narrowly missing Meyer’s polished shoe.

“The bomb that was put in the deputy mayor’s Cadillac,” Kling said, and hoped Coyle would spit again, but Coyle didn’t.

“Oh,
that
bomb,” Coyle said, as if bombs were put in every one of the city’s Cadillacs regularly, making it difficult to keep track of all the bombs around. “What
about
that bomb?”

“The lab says it was a pretty complicated bomb, but that it couldn’t have taken too long to wire to the car’s battery, provided it had been assembled beforehand. Now, what we’d like to know …”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it was complicated,” Coyle said. He did not look into the faces of the detectives, but instead seemed to direct his blue-eyed gaze at a spot somewhere across the garage. Kling turned to see what he was staring at, but the only thing he noticed was another yellow tile wall.

“Would you have any idea who installed that bomb, Mr. Coyle?”

“I didn’t.” Coyle said flatly.

“Nobody suggested that you did,” Meyer said.

“Just so we understand each other,” Coyle said. “All I do is run this garage, make sure the cars are in working order, make sure they’re ready to roll whenever somebody up there wants one, that’s all I’m in charge of.”

“How many cars do you have here?” Meyer asked.

“We got two dozen Caddys, twelve used on a regular basis, and the rest whenever we get visiting dignitaries. We also got fourteen buses and eight motorcycles. And there’s also some vehicles that are kept here by the Department of Parks, but that’s a courtesy because we got the space.”

“Who services the cars?”

“Which ones?”

“The Caddys.”

“Which one of the Caddys?” Coyle said, and spat again.

“Did you know, Mr. Coyle,” Kling said, “that spitting on the sidewalk is a misdeameanor?”

“This ain’t a sidewalk, this is my garage,” Coyle said.

“This is city property,” Kling said, “the equivalent of a sidewalk. In fact, since the ramp comes in directly from the street outside there, it could almost be considered an extension of the sidewalk.”

“Sure,” Coyle said. “You going to arrest me for it, or what?”

“You going to keep giving us a hard time?” Kling asked.

“Who’s giving you a hard time?”

“We’d like to be home reading the funnies too,” Kling said, “instead of out busting our asses on a bombing. Now how about it?”

“None of our mechanics put a bomb in that car,” Coyle said flatly.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know all the men who work for me, and none of them put a bomb in that car, that’s how I know.”

“Who was here yesterday?” Meyer asked.

“I was.”

“You were here alone?”

“No, the men were here too.”

“Which men?”

“The mechanics.”

“How many mechanics?”

“Two.”

“Is that how many you usually have on duty?”

“We usually have six, but yesterday was Saturday, and we were working with a skeleton crew.”

“Anybody else here?”

“Yeah, some of the chauffeurs were either picking up cars or bringing them back, they’re in and out all the time. Also, there was supposed to be an outdoor fishing thing up in Grover Park, so we had a lot of bus drivers in. They were supposed to pick up these slum kids and take them to the park where they were going to fish through the ice on the lake. It got called off.”

“Why?”

“Too cold.”

“When were the bus drivers here?”

“They reported early in the morning, and they hung around till we got word it was called off.”

“You see any of them fooling around near that Cad?”

“Nope. Listen, you’re barking up the wrong tree. All those cars got checked out yesterday, and they were in A-number-One shape. That bomb must’ve been put in there
after
the car left the garage.”

“No, that’s impossible, Mr. Coyle.”

“Well, it wasn’t attached here.”

“You’re sure of that, are you?”

“I just told you the cars were inspected, didn’t I?”

“Did you inspect them personally, Mr. Coyle?”

“No, I got other things to do besides inspecting two
dozen Caddys and fourteen buses and eight motorcycles.”

“Then who
did
inspect them, Mr. Coyle? One of your mechanics?”

“No, we had an inspector down from the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.”

“And he said the cars were all right?”

“He went over them from top to bottom, every vehicle in the place. He gave us a clean bill of health.”

“Did he look under the hoods?”

“Inside, outside, transmission, suspension, everything. He was here almost six hours.”

“So he would have found a bomb if one was there, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Coyle, did he give you anything in writing to the effect that the cars were inspected and found in good condition?”

“Why?” Coyle asked. “You trying to get off the hook?” “No, we’re …”

“You trying to pass the buck to Motor Vehicles?”