Leopold's Way (6 page)

“It figures. With a Scuba tank and mask, the killer could have escaped unnoticed from Dr. Flown's yacht. And the fisherman's brother thinks he heard a splash after the shot.”

“What's the motive?”

“He might be a nut of some sort. If so, there may be more killings. We've got to find him fast.” Captain Leopold sat forward in his chair. “How would a skindiver transport a gun underwater?”

“Simple. A waterproof pouch of some sort. There are several on the market.”

Leopold frowned. “The gun bugs me. Why use a gun at all? A knife would be a lot safer—no noise. Skindivers usually carry knives, don't they?”

Browning nodded. “But maybe the killer's a woman, or a man who doesn't like knives. It takes strength and a certain kind of guts to kill with a knife.”

“And maniacs have both.” But Leopold still looked unhappy. “How can we get a list of all the skindivers in this area?”

Browning thought for a moment. “Two ways, Captain. A local Scuba group puts out a sort of newsletter. Goes to about two hundred names. I can latch onto that list easy enough. The second possibility is the supply stores. Those air tanks have to be filled, and there are only three places in town that do it. Since most customers of that sort have charge accounts or are known to the clerks, I should be able to get another list there and check the two lists against each other.”

“Okay, Browning, go to it. Try to have a report for me by tomorrow morning.”

For a time, after Browning went out, Leopold sat watching the comings and goings of the city below. Somewhere down there stalked a killer, a man or a woman who appeared, murdered, and vanished like a phantom. Had Dr. Flown and Thad Proctor been the random victims of a psycho, or had they been coldly chosen pawns in an overall plan whose design was still obscure?

He dialed the harbor patrol and spoke briefly to the officer on duty. “This is Captain Leopold of Homicide. I want a boat dockside on twenty-four-hour duty, ready to move out at five minutes' notice. That's right…I'll clear it with the Commissioner.”

He hung up and thought some more. All right, suppose Flown was the real objective, and Proctor's murder was only a cover for it. Suppose…He suddenly remembered that he should talk to the Reevers.

The street was as silent as it had been on Sunday. But this time, after his second ring, a tired-looking woman with gray hair answered the door.

“Yes, that's my name. What are you selling?”

Leopold showed her his shield. “I've got a few questions to ask you, Mrs. Reever.”

“If it's about the dog, we don't know a thing! He's been gone all week. Anyway, it wasn't him that bit that woman.”

Leopold smiled. “It's not about the dog, Mrs. Reever. It's about Dr. Flown.”

The woman stepped aside and he entered a room with dirty windows. The room looked as tired as she did. “I can't say I was sorry to hear about him dying. That man killed my Donald, and after that he does us out of the insurance money from the accident policy.”

“Mrs. Reever, if you really believe Dr. Flown was responsible for your son's death, you can't also hold that the accident caused it. You can't have it both ways.”

She waved a hand in listless despair. “I don't know. Talk to my husband.”

“Did either of you ever threaten Dr. Flown's life?”

“I don't know what my husband said.” Her eyes flashed into vicious life for a moment. “Him and his damn yacht—bought with blood money from poor people like us!”

“I'd like to talk to your husband, Mrs. Reever. Where can I find him?”

“At work! He puts in an honest eight hours every day. Down at the Harbor Fish Market.”

As Leopold made his way through the fish markets, seeking Frank Reever, it occurred to him that a man working daily among these sights and sounds and smells might at times find his eye wandering across the stretch of open water to the yacht basin, might find himself increasingly resentful of the plush life there, just out of reach. A man like Frank Reever might even decide to do something about it.

Reever was big, built like a gorilla. His handshake was a closing vise, his breath a blowtorch of fishy decay. “Police?” the man growled. “What about?”

“About the murder of Dr. Flown. I understand you made certain threats against him.”

Someone wheeled in a new barrel of fish, and the men around them got to work. Reever seemed glad of the break in the routine; he led Leopold to an out-of-the-way corner. “Sure, I threatened him. What he did to my kid, he deserved to die. I told him someday I'd come out to that fancy yacht of his and work him over good with a fish knife.”

“Did you?”

“He was shot, wasn't he? If it was me, I'd 'a' used a knife.”

“Where were you a week ago Saturday night?”

“Home with my wife. Or maybe down at the bar for a while.”

“Which was it?”

“You think I killed him?”

“I'm just asking you where you were,” Leopold said. “If that's too tough a question, Reever, I can give you plenty of time down at headquarters to think up a good answer.”

“I was down at the bar till around eleven,” the man said sullenly. “Then I went home.”

“Flown was killed around eleven. Ever do any skindiving?”

“Me? You kidding?”

Someone in the crowd around the fish barrel yelled at Reever to get back to work. Leopold stood in the corner a few minutes, watching. Then he went over to the man. “Did you know Thad Proctor, too?”

Reever frowned. Finally he answered, “We get to know all the regular fishermen. Sure I knew him.”

“Thanks. We'll be in touch with you.”

Driving back downtown, Leopold felt he had accomplished something. Frank Reever was a link between the two murdered men—he had known the fisherman, Proctor, and he admitted having threatened Dr. Flown. It was something for the boys to work on…

But, by Tuesday morning, Leopold's fire had cooled. The Reever lead seemed remote and the calendar on his desk made the coming Saturday night loom large with another possible killing. Well, all right, if he didn't get a break by Saturday he could put a dozen police boats out on patrol. He might even persuade the Safety Commissioner to ban all boats from the harbor. Or were two murders the end of it?

Fletcher poked his head into the office. “The Commissioner was looking for you yesterday on those harbor killings, Captain.”

“I was working on them.”

“I told him that. But he doesn't think a captain of Homicide should have to pound the pavements himself. Said that's what you've got us for.”

“Hell! Does he want this nut or doesn't he?” Leopold exploded. “I could use another ten men on this case! Oh, Browning, come in.”

Browning had appeared in the doorway behind Fletcher, holding a stapled sheaf of typewritten sheets. “Here's the dope, Captain. Every skindiver within fifty miles.”

“How many are there?” Leopold asked eagerly.

“I counted 252 on the mailing list of that newsletter, and we picked up an additional 28 names at the area stores—I mean, names that weren't on the newsletter list. I've combined them into one master list—280 names and addresses, arranged alphabetically. Of course, not all these people are active skindivers. Some just have a casual interest in it.”

“Leave one copy with me, and you and Fletcher start working down the other one. Get help if you need it. Check every name, report anything suspicious. Oh, one other thing, Browning. Get me a list of expert swimmers in the area—the college swimming team, that sort of thing. Just in case we're on the wrong track with this skindiver angle.”

Leopold went carefully through the skindiver list, studying each name in an attempt to jog some dormant memory: Adams, Aldrich, Anderson, Appelbaum, Babcock, Bailey, Bauer, Beckerman, Bentley, Bishop, Bond, Brown, Brozzi, Burns, Callario, Childs…

His eyes skipped to the P's, but there was no Proctor. Also no Reever, and no Mrs. Flown. Which proved nothing, really. But the thought of Mrs. Flown reminded him of unfinished business. He left the list on his desk and reached for his hat.

This time Mrs. Flown was sober. But she was in no better spirits. He found her working in the garden behind the house, and she was on the defensive from the beginning. “You trying to pin Oscar's murder on me?”

Leopold said, “Only if you're guilty, Mrs. Flown.”

“I was with a dozen people when he was shot.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Did you know this other man who was killed—Thad Proctor?”

“The fisherman?” She made it a dirty word. “Of course not.”

“Your husband ever have any dealings with him?”

“He never mentioned a Thad Proctor to me.”

“Can you give me a list of your husband's patients, Mrs. Flown?”

“Some. The hospital would have the rest.”

She took Captain Leopold into the house and he went through the names. He could not recall seeing any of them on the skindiver list. So he thanked her and drove downtown to the hospital, where he obtained a list of all the patients Flown had treated there during the past year. Again, there was nothing familiar about any of the names.

Leopold went to bed early that night. He was awakened at eleven thirty by his bedside telephone. “Hello?” he mumbled.

“Captain, this is Browning. I'm at the harbor. There's been another one.

“Another one?” His mind snapped into focus.

“Another killing.”

Leopold cursed. “Meet me at the police boat. I'll be there in fifteen minutes!”

Leopold stood beside Browning in the sea-swept bow of the police boat as it churned through the harbor, its high-powered searchlight sweeping the water in random arcs. They followed a zigzag route leading nowhere, and before they had completed their second pass the police captain was convinced it was useless.

“It's been a good forty-five minutes,” he said. “Time enough to swim to any of those boats or to shore. We're wasting our time.” He ordered the police boat to head in toward the battery of lights that marked the scene of the latest crime.

It was a converted whaleboat fitted with sails and an eight-horsepower motor, an odd sort of craft even for this portion of the Sound. Leopold guessed it had come from up north, somewhere along the New England coastline.

There was a young man in swimming trunks aboard, crying like a baby over the body of a pretty girl. She had been shot. The bikini she was wearing accented the youthful curves of her body. Leopold dropped the canvas with a sigh.

“I'm Captain Leopold, Homicide. Suppose you tell me what happened.”

The young man looked up, his eyes still blurred with tears. “She's dead. She's dead.”

“Did you see the killer?”

“Yes. We were going for a late swim. Jean had already changed to her suit, and I was below getting into mine. I felt the boat sway a bit, heard Jean scream. There…there was a shot. I ran up on deck and saw a figure in shiny black bending over her. It was horrible—he seemed to be looking at the wound his bullet had just made. Even though he saw me, he stayed long enough to fire one more shot into her. Then he went over the side. I went in after him, but I lost him in the dark. So I came back on board, and…”

Leopold turned to one of the uniformed men. “You got their names?” he asked softly.

“He's Martin Irving, and the girl's name is Jean Young. Down from the Cape, pulled in tonight. Hadn't heard about the murders, Irving says.”

“Engaged?”

The patrolman shook his head. “Week's vacation together. Just shacking up.”

“All right. If the Doc finds she was pregnant, let me know right away.”

Browning edged forward. “You think the guy killed her, Captain?”

“Maybe. Two bullets in this one. Change of pattern. He could have heard about our murders and decided to tie in.”

They stood around while photographers snapped flash photos and the doctor made a preliminary examination. As the body was being carried ashore, Leopold asked the medic what he thought. “Funny thing,” the doctor answered. “Looks to me like the first shot killed her. Why he would stop for a second shot this time beats me.”

“Let me have your report first thing in the morning.”

Leopold went home, but he did not sleep. He spent the rest of the night pacing the floor, seeing the mysterious figure in its glistening black skindiver's suit.

On Wednesday morning the papers had a ball:
HARBOR PHANTOM KILLS AGAIN! THIRD MURDER IN 11 DAYS!
Leopold read it all, even the editorial he could have written himself. “Citizens demand action.” Sure they did!

Fletcher slipped some typed sheets onto Leopold's desk.

The Captain skimmed through the lab reports. Not pregnant. First shot passed through the body, killing her instantly. Slug not recovered, probably skidded overside. Second shot in the chest as she lay on the deck. Bullet identical with the ones that had killed Flown and Proctor.

He picked up the report on Martin Irving. Apparently the young man had been a hundred miles away at the time of the first and second murders, each of which had been committed on a Saturday night.

Leopold flicked a button on his desk. “Browning?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Find out if this fellow Irving does any skindiving back home. And assemble everyone for a meeting right after lunch. We've got to move fast if we're going to get the newspapers off our backs.”

But the noon editions moved faster. The morning's
HARBOR PHANTOM KILLS AGAIN!
had been replaced by
POLICE HELPLESS AGAINST MADMAN.
And when Leopold returned from lunch, the hallway outside his office was crowded with reporters. He slipped through another door before they noticed him, and buzzed Fletcher, Browning, and the others.

When they were all in the tiny office, Leopold lolled back in his chair in his deceptively sleepy manner. “Killings—three in eleven days. All by the same man, with the same gun, and you wouldn't bet he's through yet. Our skindiving killer may be nuts—but even nuttiness can make sense of a sort.