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“Yeah,” I said. “Do me a favor, huh?”
“What’s that?”
“These cuffs — wipe my nose if I cry.”
CHAPTER 21
Someone had taped a newspaper photo of Marilyn Monroe behind the door of the interrogation room. One of her eyebrows was raised, and she was pouting, and she definitely had something in mind.
They’d taken my cuffs off, but for forty minutes she had been my only company. Now Toomey was straddling one of the rooms two desks, and a severely combed civil service stenographer in a shapeless brown suit had just taken a chair near the far wall. It was 2:26. Behind the other desk a mountainous Laird Cregar type in shirtsleeves was considering me impersonally. His name was Vasella and he was a detective lieutenant. He had a chest like a tombstone.
His tone was completely neutral. “You’re ready to make that statement now, I assume?”
I nodded.
I’ve spoken to Nate Bra
He did not wait for any comment on my part, turning to the stenographer. He gave her my name, my office address and my state license number, reading from a sheet he’d brought in, probably my statement about Josie Welch. “Nothing between your previous declaration and the time you were retained by this Ulysses Grant?” he asked me.
“Nothing.”
“We’ll start there, then. You’ve done this before.”
I nodded again, taking a Camel, and then told it. I was able to forget Constantine’s request for silence, since the telegram had taken me off the hook in that regard, although I did skip the matter of Margaret Constantine’s exotic automatic. The whole thing took less than twenty minutes.
Neither Vasella nor Toomey had interrupted. Vasella had taken out a thick yellow copy pencil, which he clicked against his front teeth. “Turk is the keystone, of course,” he said. “But I’d be more comfortable if Grant’s money were all there was to it.”
“Why Turk?” I said.
He looked toward Toomey, who was lounging against the doorjamb. “After that party quieted down over there,” Toomey told me, “this swish who lives in the place, McGruder — he told us that Turk was married to Audrey Grant.”
I frowned at him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Toomey said. “But according to McGruder it happened about six months back. There was a crew of them, they got one of these automobile bugs and wound up in Maryland. Just for laughs the girl and Turk woke up some J.P. and got spliced. Then she laughed in his face when he tried to claim his rights as a husband. McGruder says there wasn’t much gossip about it because people felt sorry for Turk— evidently he’s that kind of fool. We’re checking it, but McGruder was sure the girl never did anything to cancel it out. The way these fruitcakes live down here—”
“You bring Turk in?” I asked him.
“Nah, that’s the trouble. I suppose you did as well as you could at the party — just reporting the kill and then locking that room, I mean. In fact it was probably best that way, since we were able to surprise the whole mob.” Toomey snorted. “Some screwball dame was standing on a chair in a bedsheet singing old labor songs, for Chrissake—’Join the Needle Workers’ Union.’ We got all the names and addresses, and we got statements from everybody who had anything to tell. But then, like I say, all of a sudden McGruder remembered this marriage bit — only Turk wasn’t there. His name wasn’t on the list, which means he’d ducked out before we showed up.”
Vasella was toying with the pencil. “Turk was the one you booked on the Welch killing Tuesday. I thought he had a corroborated alibi.”
“It has to be fishy under reconsideration, lieutenant,” Toomey said. “This guy Peters didn’t show up with his story until today — said he’d been on a bat. But here’s the thing. Half a dozen people mentioned the brawl he had with Fa
“A man would have to be little short of moronic to kill three people for a legacy when everything would point to him,” Vasella said dubiously. “Or even to arrange for the killings. That knife — no one saw it after Fa
“It’s McGruder’s,” Toomey said. “He said he always kept it in the latrine. But after Fa
Vasella shook his head. “All right, let’s assume for the moment that Fa
“There’s more than just Turk,” I said. “Both of those girls told Constantine they were coming into money.”
Vasella’s hand lifted to slap the desk. “Which would appear to indicate they themselves knew Grant was going to die—”
“Where does that take us, now?” Toomey said. “It’s as if the three of them were in it together — and then Turk crossed the two dames.”
“No one talks about money someone is going to be murdered for,” Vasella said. “It’s too self-evident to mention. You don’t think they could have been referring to some other money altogether?”
“Grant’s dead,” I said.
“So he is. Could this Constantine have been lying — repeating something which hadn’t been said?”
I shrugged. “I don’t get it, if he was. The only reason I went to Grant’s was because of what he told me. Grant’s money has to be the motive, one way or another.”
“Something’s missing, all right.” Vasella reached to a phone. “This O. J. Fosburgh — you have any idea where he lives?”
“His office would probably have an all-night service.”
He told his switchboard to put through the call, hanging up again. “There a collect-for-questioning on Constantine?” he asked Toomey.
“DiMag put it through as soon as we got the message on that telegram. Vice Squad finally admitted they’d heard of him, once we gave them the full name.”
“Yeah, that telegram — wherever that fits in.” Vasella puffed a cheek. “I think we better see that painter in here also, Floyd-Ivan Klobb. If he’s able to provide girls for the racket there could be some sort of intimidation involved.”
Toomey went out. The stenographer was still sitting, patient as a tin can on a shelf. Vasella nodded her out also. The phone rang before the door had closed after her.
Vasella identified himself and then apologized for the hour. There were pauses while he told Fosburgh about Grant’s death. He verified my position, and after that there was considerable talk about Grant’s financial situation. I sat there contemplating Marilyn again.