No Pockets in a Shroud Read online

  “It might be. And your answer isn’t very definite. Do you really think he still loves you?”

  She thought for a long time, her forehead puckered with concentration. “He’s not jealous of me,” she said finally. “But I’m sure he’s still in love.”

  I rose. “That’s all the questions I have now. Where can I reach you?”

  She took the dismissal with good grace, getting up immediately and slipping on her coat. “Sherewood Apartments. Cleveland 3106. I’m always in mornings.”

  As I opened the door for her, she half turned toward me and smiled mischievously. “I came mostly on business, but partly to become better acquainted. You’re an interesting man, Mr. Moon.”

  “Sure. Old ladies, children and dogs go crazy for me.”

  “I must be an old lady.”

  Suddenly she placed a gloved hand beneath my chin, swayed her body at me and pressed her lips solidly against my mouth. Then she was through the door and her laugh floated back from the hall.

  The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was one of those men you read about who attract women because of the rugged homeliness of their features. Going into the bathroom, I studied my face in the mirror, noting hard, flat lips, an obviously bent nose and one eyelid that drooped slightly where a brass knuckle had caught it. Even with fresh lipstick on my mouth, I couldn’t convince myself that I was ruggedly homely. I’m downright ugly.

  I FOUND Inspector Warren Day glumly reading reports in his office. Easing into his spare chair, I snaked a cigar from the desk humidor before he could snap the lid on my fingers. He only glared when I asked for a match, so I dug out one of my own.

  I said: “I’m on the Bagnell case.”

  “Ha! By itself murder isn’t enough. Now I got you.” He picked up his papers. “Go away.”

  “Be sensible,” I said. “We’re both after the same thing. Let’s compare notes.”

  He shook his head emphatically. “I’ve bitten on that before. I give out and you give me the runaround. Who’s your client?”

  I ignored his question. “Wade didn’t hire it done.”

  He glanced up quickly and suspiciously. “Is Wade your client?”

  “No.” I waited while he fished a dead cigar butt from a cluttered ash tray, examined it and stuck it in his mouth. Then he slumped back in his chair, folded his hands across his stomach and waited for me to go on.

  I said: “Everything points away from Wade planning it.”

  “That wasn’t your story last night.”

  “Last night I didn’t know what I do now.”

  We sat looking at each other while three minutes ticked by. I broke the silence.

  “Answer me three questions and I’ll tell you about Wade.”

  We sat through another pause. “All right,” the inspector said resignedly. “Shoot.”

  “What did the autopsy show?”

  The inspector sorted through his papers, picked out one and frowned at it. “He was killed by a .45, slug. In nontechnical terms, it caught him from the left and lifted off the top of his head. The direction from which the bullet must have come and estimated distance of the weapon makes it probable the shot came from the bathroom window. The bullet was imbedded in the opposite wall at a height indicating the pistol was fired from about window sill level.”

  I twisted sidewise in attempt to read the paper spread in front of him, but he scooped it into his lap.

  “That’s not an autopsy report,” I said. “They don’t put stuff about bathrooms and window sills in autopsy reports.”

  “So you’re getting more than you asked for,” Day growled. “This is my summary of the whole case. Any kicks?”

  “No. You’re doing fine. What did you get from Mrs. Wade’s gun?”

  He pretended surprise. “Get from it?”

  “Don’t play innocent. You ran ballistic tests.”

  “It hadn’t even been fired.”

  I drew on my cigar, folded my hands and waited.

  “O.K.,” said Day. “So we don’t take any chances. It wasn’t the murder weapon. What’s your third question?”

  “Whose alibis have you checked, and who hasn’t got one?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “Don’t quibble.”

  “It’s too big a question. We’ve checked fifty or more. All Wade’s guns have nice prearranged ones. Nobody else matters.”

  “All of them, eh? How good are they?”

  “Perfect. Wade’s mob is clear to the last man. Too clear for coincidence.”

  “Hmm,” I said, wondering if my original theory of Wade being the murder engineer might not be correct after all, and my present reasoning sour. For a minute I thought about it, then decided my new reasoning had to be right.

  I said: “I guess that covers what I wanted to know. About Wade … His wife went to El Patio every Monday and Wednesday, and he knew it.”

  “You mean he knew she was fooling around with Bagnell?”

  “No. He thought she went for the roulette.”

  Inspector Day unsuccessfully mulled this over. “Well? S6 what?”

  “If you arranged a killing, would you pick a time when you knew your wife would be in the area?”

  He sat up attentively. “I see what you mean. You think he’d almost certainly pick one of the five nights his wife didn’t go there?”

  “I would, if I had planned it.”

  “What makes you sure he knew his wife would be there?”

  “Never mind. I’m sure.”

  He took the cigar butt from his mouth, looked it over carefully and exchanged it for another in the ash tray. He dusted ashes from the second before putting it in his mouth.

  Then he asked: “If Wade didn’t know Bagnell was due, why all the circus at your place?”

  I shrugged. “You guess. Maybe he needed an alibi for something else, and Bagnell getting it when he did was coincidence. What else happened last night?”

  “Nothing. Two bar room fights and a ten dollar stickup.”

  “Maybe what Wade had on ice went sour.”

  A rap sounded on the door and: Hannegan came in. “Just got a new stiff, sir. A woman.”

  “Murder?” asked Day.

  “Probably suicide, but the coroner wants you to have a look. A fisherman got her out of the river. Doc says she drowned last night.”

  I pricked up my ears. “What time?”

  “About eight.”

  “Any identification?”

  “Some. She wore an ankle slave bracelet with a name on each side. The outside says ‘Gerald Poster’, the inside ‘Margaret O’Conner’.”

  I let out a low whistle.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Day.

  “This could be the something else we’re looking for.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Mrs. Wade’s first husband was named Arthur O’Conner.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Blonde Bombshell

  A PLACARD HANGING ON one of El Patio’s double doors read, “Closed for Alterations.” I pounded until the doors opened a crack from the center and Mouldy Greene peered out.

  When he saw who it was, he pushed the doors wide. “Hi, Sarge. Come on in.”

  “Don’t call me Sarge,” I said. “The war’s over and my name’s Moon.”

  “Sure, Sarge. Habit, I guess. How’s the leg?”

  I said: “You’re a numbskull.” I walked on through the empty casino into the dining room.

  Vance Caramand sat at a table. Greene followed me into the room and flopped himself into a chair across from Vance.

  I asked Greene: “Where were you and Caramand when Louie got it?”

  Mouldy imitated deep thought, rubbed his chin and said: “I was at the bar. Vance was on duty.”

  “What’s ‘on duty’?”

  “One of us always stays—that is, stayed—with the old man. But sometimes he got tired of looking at us. Last night he told us to stay the devil out of his sight. When he did that, we always k
ept watch on his door, kind of. He kicked us out at six-thirty and Vance took first shift. I was due to take over at eight-thirty.”

  “So at sis-thirty he was alone in his office?”

  “Yeah.”

  I turned on Caramand. “Who went in after that?”

  He shifted malign eyes over me. “That dame. Nobody else.”

  “Sure?”

  “I was sitting by the door.”

  “After the shot, how quickly did you get in?”

  “Pretty quick.”

  “How quick is pretty?”

  Mouldy interrupted. “It must of been five minutes, anyway. I didn’t hear the shot, see, being way out at the bar. First I knew anything was wrong, the bar waiter walked In fast and said Vance was kicking on the boss’ door. I went running, and first we try both our shoulders against it. It don’t budge, so we stop to think and I get the idea of shooting out the lock.” He made the last statement modestly, as though disclaiming a great mental accomplishment.

  I said: “You’re both smart boys. Where’s Fausta?”

  “In the old man’s office with Gloria,” Mouldy answered.

  “Gloria?”

  “A dame. One of the old man’s.”

  When I knocked on Bagnell’s door, Fausta’s voice said: “Yes?”

  Opening the door, I went in. Fausta and a plump, round-faced blonde sat side by side on the sofa where I had first seen Mrs. Wade. Fausta nervously patted the woman’s hand. She looked embarrassed.

  The blonde wept oversized tears which rolled down her reddened face and were skillfully caught in a balled handkerchief before they could spatter the front of a flowered dress.

  Fausta said: “Hello, Manny.”

  “Hi. Is this Gloria?”

  The blonde’s head jerked up as though she were garroted. “Who are you?” Her eyes were frightened and she stopped crying.

  “He is friend of mine,” Fausta soothed. “It is not to be afraid.”

  I asked: “What are you afraid of, Gloria’?”

  “Nothing.” She pressed the kerchief against her mouth and stared at me.

  “She think her husband send you,” volunteered Fausta. “She think her husband maybe kill her.”

  “Yeah? Who’s your husband, Gloria?”

  “It’s nothing. Honest it isn’t.”

  Fausta said: “Manny will not hurt you. He is friend of mine. You tell him, and he tell your husband leave you alone. Manny very tough man.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. What’s your trouble?”

  “He will! He said he’d cut my throat. And he will! He killed Louie, and he’ll kill me too.” She started to blubber again.

  “Cut it out!” I said sharply. “What’s this about killing Louie?”

  Tears continued to roll, but she stopped sobbing. “He knew Louie and I were in love. He killed him.”

  “Who’s your husband?”

  “Amos Horne.”

  Fausta said: “He run Louie’s bingo game at Eighth and Market.”

  “How do you know he killed Louie?” I asked.

  “He must have. When he left last night, he called me awful names and said if I ever saw Louie again, he’d cut my throat. He said I was a tramp!” Sobs shook her plump shoulders.

  “Shut off that water and answer questions!” I snapped at her, and she stopped suddenly in the middle of a sob.

  She licked her lips and looked up at me wide-eyed.

  I said: “I hate weeping women. One more sniffle and I’ll take you home to your husband.”

  “Oh, no! I won’t cry. Honest.” Her big, dumb eyes pled with me like a stricken cow’s.

  I said: “Start from the beginning. How long did you know Bagnell?”

  “About three months.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “Out here. Amos works nights, and I go out alone sometimes. One night I came out here and met Louie and he asked me to have a drink. We liked each other right off. It was sort of love at first sight. After that I used to come out every Tuesday and Thursday, and we’d talk in his office and have a few drinks.”

  “Why Tuesday and Thursday?”

  She seemed surprised at the question. “Those were the quietest nights. Louie was never sure of being free other nights.”

  I asked Fausta: “Were those quiet nights?”

  “Not more than others.”

  “Those were just the nights he had open,” I said brutally. “Monday and Wednesday he had a brunette. Probably Friday and Saturday he had a red-head, and rested on the Sabbath.”

  She said, “That’s not true,” and looked distressed. But she didn’t start to cry again.

  “So you were in love and saw him twice a week. When’d your husband find out?”

  “I don’t know. Last night was the first he mentioned it. He goes to work at six, and just before he left he told me he knew all about Louie and me and if I didn’t stay away from him, he’d kill us both. He threatened to strangle me.”

  “Cut your throat, you said before.”

  “That’s the same thing.”

  “It’s not the same. Just what did he say? His exact words.”

  “He said, ‘I’ll wring your neck’.”

  I looked down at her bovine face a long time. “What did he say about Bagnell?”

  “He said, ‘I’ll stop him making a tramp out of you, if I have to wring both your necks’.”

  “Is that all he said?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “It’s a little different from threatening to kill you both,” I said dryly.

  “Where was your husband last night?”

  “He must have followed me here.”

  “Here? Were you here? Last night was the brunette’s night.”

  She looked hurt. “I felt I had to talk to Louie. But he was busy. I was out front when it happened. I didn’t even know about it until the police came, and when I heard Louie was killed, I got scared. I just stayed with the crowd and left when they did.”

  I said: “You sure must have been in love. How come you didn’t rush to throw your arms around the body?”

  “I was too scared,” she said defensively. “I knew Amos must have done it, and I couldn’t go home, so I stayed at an hotel all night.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Park.”

  “Under your own name?”

  “No. Mary Smith.”

  “Original,” I said. “What makes you think your husband followed you here?”

  “He must have. He killed Louie, didn’t he?”

  I tried it another way. “Where was your husband supposed to be?”

  “At work. His place opens at six-thirty and closes at one-thirty A.M.”

  “Where’s your husband now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I asked patiently: “Where is he usually this time of day?”

  “At home.”

  “Address?”

  “1418 Newberry. Apartment C.”

  To Fausta I said: “Can you put this gal up until I check on Amos?”

  “Sure. She can stay at Louie’s apartment upstairs.”

  “Good. Salt her away until I let you know it’s safe for her to go home.”

  IN THE dining room I found Caramand and Greene in the same positions I had left them.

  I said to Vance: “Who tended the parking lot last night?”

  “Romulus.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Upstairs sleeping. He don’t go on duty till five.”

  Mouldy said: “Tonight he don’t go on at all. Nothing to tend.”

  Looking at my watch, I saw it was four.

  “Get Romulus up,” I told Vance. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to talk to him.” To Mouldy I said, “You can be my guide,” and started toward the front door with the bulky bodyguard trailing along behind.

  From the driveway I examined the chunky building. Even with two stories it was squatly stockade like, an impression partly due to its
shape and heavy stone construction and partly to the thick bronze doors and vault-like windows with their vertical bars. We started to circle the drive around the building’s right side, but I stopped before we came to the turn in order to examine more closely the wrought-iron fence.

  At the edge of the building the horizontal components of the fence were set in mortar between stones. Midway between this point and where the fence turned with the driveway was a door-sized gate similar to the one I had noticed through Bagnell’s bath window the previous night. It closed from the outside with an iron padlock. I lifted the lock, noted the hasp was rusted to the frame and let it clang back against the gate handle.

  “No one’s gone through here for a long time,” I said.

  “Guess not,” Mouldy agreed in the polite tone people use when they don’t understand what you’re talking about and think they should.

  From our position near the corner of the building we could see the whole front of El Patio and the entire length of one side. I saw that all the lower floor windows were barred.

  We walked on to where the drive turned, and turned with it toward the rear. I stopped at the gate I had seen the previous night from the bathroom window. It was locked by an iron padlock identical to the other, also rusted shut.

  “How do you get from one side of this fence to the other?” I inquired. “Nobody’s used these gates for years.”

  Mouldy lifted his shoulders and let them drop again. “No one but Romulus comes back here. Maybe he climbs over.”

  Continuing on, we turned the corner where the drive entered the parking lot and the fence ran off toward the woods. Directly opposite the center of the building’s rear we came to a third gate. Its padlock was brass and looked new.

  “Who has keys to this?” I asked.

  “Just Romulus, as far as I know.”

  Paralleling the fence, we walked along the gravelled lot until we met the treed area at its end. The fence ended here too, suddenly and incompletely. I stepped around its edge onto the back lawn.

  “Fine fence,” I said. “Blocks three sides, but anyone could get in here from the highway.”

  “It’s just decoration. Louie counted on the bars for protection.”