The Third Figure (13 page)

“How do you mean?”

“Well, let’s assume for the moment that Johnny Hanson’s somewhat dubious testimony is true. Let’s assume there’s another man in Faith Hanson’s life. Then let’s assume that this man is, in fact, Russo. Now, if those two assumptions—however farfetched—are the real goods, then we’ve got a very interesting situation. Russo has got himself involved in precisely the same jackpot that Vennezio manufactured for himself, presumably to the consternation of the Outfit. As everyone knows, the Outfit doesn’t like scandal. Russo is vulnerable, in other words—just like Vennezio was vulnerable. So that, if there’s some kind of an intramural power-play afoot, possibly featuring Larry Sabella as the young Turk, then Russo’s got to protect himself. So, when you arrive on the scene so ingenuously, Russo’s got a choice: either send you packing, and perhaps strengthen Sabella’s hand, or try to bluff it out. Now, let’s say he decides to bluff it out. Maybe he wants time while he arranges a transfer for Sabella to the Des Moines office. Meanwhile, to keep the light touch, he acts amused at your poor efforts. He invites you to do your meager best—being careful to make very sure you report everything to him. See?”

“Yes,” I answered slowly. “That’s all occurred to me. On the other hand, as you suggest, there’s always the possibility that both Johnny Hanson and Larry Sabella are nothing more than troublemakers.”

“To me,” Gross answered, “that’s the most likely construction. Unless young Hanson can come up with something more than adolescent mysticism, you can’t put too much stock in what he says. As for Sabella, he’s young and ambitious. Most people think he took up with Vennezio’s daughter out of pure ambition—in spite of the fact that he was running considerable risk. So when you tell me that after hearing of this alleged second lover Sabella identified him as Russo, I’d be inclined to say it was pure spur-of-the-moment opportunism.”

“You haven’t heard anything about it through the grapevine, then?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Have you heard anything unofficial down at headquarters about Vennezio’s murder?”

He shook his head. “Negative. You know as well as I do, everyone in law enforcement would like to pretend the Outfit doesn’t exist. Most of the time they succeed. Brilliantly.”

“But you must’ve heard something.”

He thought about it before saying, “Well, one friend of mine on the Los Angeles force seems to think there’s a personal motive involved. Something in Vennezio’s love life, which we’ve already covered, or his family or his past.”

“What about Vennezio’s son?”

“Angelo?” He snorted. “I doubt it. Angelo’s one of these hysterical tough guys; he’s not for real. And, believe me, whoever pulled the trigger on Dominic had to be for real. Angelo is a punk, nothing more and nothing less. The Mafia blood thins rapidly, you know. Apparently it can’t stand long exposure to the American way of life.”

“When you say the motive’s personal, though, you’re forgetting how professional the murder looks. Even Russo thinks so. And you said it yourself: three neat holes in the chest. The ordinary person keeps shooting until the gun’s empty, an then he’s lucky if he scores twice—and at that it’s usually one shot in the left thigh and one that just happens to sever an artery or something.”

“I can’t argue with you there, Steve boy. And I did get it straight from the horse’s mouth: Vennezio was shot by three bullets placed in an eight-inch circle. No wild shots, nothing in the room disturbed. No fuss, no flurry. The police reconstruction is the essence of simplicity. The murderer rang the bell. Dominic answered. Then he got shot. Then the murderer disappeared into the mists. One witness thought she heard the shots, and another witness thought he remembered seeing a car leave the community parking area about that time. But that’s all.”

“Could the witness identify the car?”

“Of course. It was a medium-size, dark sedan. Maybe a Ford, or possibly a Chevrolet. Or it could have been a Pontiac, he finally decided, or maybe a Mercury—or a Plymouth, or a Dodge.”

“No license number.”

“That’s correct.”

“Do the police think Vennezio was shot at the door, as soon as he answered it?”

“Now, that’s a rather beguiling point. It seems that official opinion is divided on exactly where he stood when he got shot. The body actually lay, as I remember it, with the feet toward the door and the head in a direct line away. In other words, he was lying as if he might have fallen directly on his back as he faced the door. However, the feet measured maybe ten or eleven feet from the door, and there was a certain amount of blood on the carpet between the feet and the door, indicating that he might possibly have been shot as he stood at the door, then staggered back, then got shot again and finally fell in the living room. Of course, there’s also the possibility that he could have walked back into the room, then got shot.”

“It makes a difference, though, which way you figure it. If he got shot at the door, the chances are that he didn’t know the murderer—or at least didn’t know him very well. If the shooting actually occurred while Vennezio was inside with the door closed behind him, that’s a different matter.”

“Very good.” Dick nodded, burlesquing a ponderous approval. “Very sound detection. I will only correct you on one point.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, it’s already been established that Vennezio wasn’t in the habit of unlocking the door at night until he looked through a peephole. So we can assume that he knew the murderer. We can also assume that the better they knew each other, the farther the murderer probably got inside before firing the fatal shot. As you said.”

“I wish I could see the police photos,” I mused.

“I can probably get copies for you. If not, we’ve got pictures in our files. I don’t think they’ll help much, though. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle. Neither was there a package of Egyptian cigarettes on the coffee table, nor a woman’s embroidered handkerchief lying beneath the body.”

“Do you know how many people were questioned?”

“As I remember it, I’d say most of your cast of characters was questioned, more or less perfunctorily. Russo made a state appearance at headquarters, flanked by two well-tailored lawyers. Sabella was there, too. It was all very convincing—and very brief.”

“What about Mrs. Hanson?”

“She was questioned at the scene of the crime and then later at her place. I don’t think she went down to headquarters.”

“What about the anonymous phone tip?”

“That, too,” Gross said, “is a rather beguiling point and one that you haven’t stumbled across, apparently.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well it seems that the police were tipped before Mrs. Hanson arrived on the scene. According to her story, she’d only been on the premises a few minutes when the police arrived.”

I felt a quick lift of excitement as I asked, “What time did the phone call come in, do you know?”

“Just a few minutes before eight, if I’m not mistaken. And Mrs. Hanson said that she arrived about eight-fifteen. Is that what she told you?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what she said.”

“Do you believe her?”

I thought about it, finally saying, “Yes, I do. As nearly as I can see, she told me a completely straight story. She even seemed anxious to tell it all. Everything.”

“Did she mention the anonymous phone call?”

“No,” I admitted. “Not a word. But then I didn’t ask. Somehow it never occurred to me.” I sat silently for a moment, thinking about it. “Did the police make any effort to find out who phoned?”

“Sure. But they didn’t get very far. They questioned everyone who was living nearby or who might’ve been on the beach.”

“I wonder,” I said slowly, “whether it could’ve been the murderer who called.”

Gross nodded, eyeing me ironically. “One wonders indeed. It’s a pity your vision faded so soon.” He smiled. “I still think that’s a nice touch, that cloak.”

“But why would he have called—and so soon? What time did the witness think she heard the shots?”

“Between seven thirty and eight. She wasn’t sure.”

I shook my head. “It’s crazy.”

“What’s crazy?”

“That the murderer would call. It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s true, if you assume he called merely to lighten the policeman’s burden. However, there’s another explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“He might’ve known that Mrs. Hanson was due at the beachhouse.”

“You mean he might’ve wanted to frame her for the murder?”

Gross spread his hands. “Can you think of a better reason? Nothing else makes much sense, that I can see.”

“But there wasn’t any other effort made to frame her. Nothing of hers was left at the scene of the crime.” I paused. “Was there?”

“No. There were things of hers in the house, of course. But there wasn’t any embroidered handkerchief under the body.”

“What kind of a gun was used?”

“A .32,” he answered, watching me. “What’s known in the trade as a woman’s gun. Unlike the more efficient .38 or .45, universally favored by cop and hood alike.”

“All in an eight-inch circle, you said.”

He nodded. “All in an eight-inch circle. Then he got in his car, drove to the nearest phone and called the police. Then he disappeared. Assuming, of course, that he was alone. We mustn’t forget about the lady in the long cloak.”

I shook my head. “That’s hypothetical. It doesn’t necessarily have any relation to what might’ve actually happened—or how it happened.”

“What does it relate to?”

I snorted. “I’ve never known. And I’ve never said.”

He looked at me for a long, silent moment. Then, thoughtfully, he said, “You know, I don’t think you’re really so different from any good, experienced cop who, after a few years on the force, can take one look at someone in the street and tell whether the guy’s ever done time. The only real difference,” he continued, “is in the effectiveness of your subconscious. Do you know what I mean?”

“Well, I—”

“You learn in Psychology 101,” he continued, obviously warming to the subject, “that the subconscious is like a—a computer, filing a million punch cards of memories and impressions, only a very few of which register at any one time as conscious thought. In your case, though, I figure that you simply get a better alignment of cards than the rest of us. You don’t necessarily have access to any more cards, it’s just that the alignment is better. So, at some unpredictable moment, bingo: you’ve got the picture of the lady in her long flowing cloak.”

“I guess that’s probably true. I’ve never claimed that—”

“It could be that you’ve actually got a short circuit somewhere,” he said, his familiar flippancy returning. “Did you ever think of that? It comes to you all at once, instead of gradually. The poor, plodding, underpaid, overworked cop trudges on and on, painfully gathering three facts a day, five days a week, until he’s got fifteen: the magic number. You, on the other hand, plod on for the same five days, four of them big fat blanks. Then, on the fifth day, bingo: it all comes at once. The shock is such that you feel light-headed, naturally. You swoon. Then you call up headquarters, and then the
Sentinel
. Everyone thinks you’re a phenomenon from the netherworld—completely forgetting the detective who’s still out there somewhere in the night, racking up his three facts, then calling it a day—returning to a wife who’s already been sound asleep on the sofa since halfway through the early late show.”

I smiled, shrugged and spread my hands. “You’ve hit it, Dick. You’ve discovered my secret: a short circuit in the head. More coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Doughnut?”

“No. I’d spoil my appetite for tuna salad.” He looked at his watch, then began gathering up his cigarettes and matches. “What’re you going to do?” he asked, toying with his hat.

“Just plod along, I guess, waiting for a short circuit.”

“Are you still going with your mysterious couple on the beach?”

“According to what you’ve just said, I guess I should.”

He nodded. “I think you should, too. However you do it, short circuit or not, you’re a proven performer. From what you’ve told me, there’re three women in Dominic Vennezio’s life, either one of which could’ve got a mysterious male friend to do the job, for a cut of the swag.”

“I’m not so sure Mrs. Hanson qualifies on that basis, especially if she has to cut up the swag. Ten thousand dollars isn’t much money these days. Besides, she probably got that much from Dominic every six months—and had someone to keep her warm besides.”

He rose to his feet, adjusting his hat.

“Maybe. Still, I wouldn’t check off Mrs. Hanson just yet. Not until you’re certain someone wasn’t trying to frame her. That could be motive enough in itself, you know. Everyone isn’t preoccupied with money. Take Russo, for instance. He could have done it for pure, red-blooded love—with a borrowed .32.”

I reached in my pocket, searching for loose change. “I think you’re reading too much into that .32, Dick. I’ve heard of hired professionals using .22’s because of the noise. After all, it’s a matter of accuracy. A .22 in the right spot can be deadlier than a .45.”

“No argument. In fact, I can even top your own point. Two or three weeks ago a moderately successful pimp was murdered with one of these compressed-air pellet guns. He was playing poker, and no one knew he’d been shot till his head hit his chips.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. Those pellet guns’re the newest wrinkle in underworld armament. They’re made in .22 caliber, as you know, and there’s a new gun just on the market that’s as powerful as a regular .22 rifle, at distances up to twenty feet. And, of course, there’s the no-noise advantage.”

“True.” I left a tip, and we walked together to the door. “Say, will you do me a favor?”

“Why not?”

“See if you can find out what Larry Sabella said to the police when he was questioned. He had as much motive as anyone—more than most, when you think about it.”

Gross smiled. “You mean when you double think about it. One time around, he’s a lot better with Russo pulling the trigger.” He opened the restaurant door, and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Nevertheless, I’ll see what I can find out. Where’re you staying?”