1971 - Want to Stay Alive (9 page)

Anders was wasted no time pointing and shouting. Ploughing his way through the gathering crowd, he lumbered into the road and started off towards the nightclub at the end of the boulevard.

“Jack!”

Without stopping, Anders looked over his shoulder. He saw Police Officer McNeil pounding up behind him.

“The bastard’s up there!” Anders panted and pointed to the roof of the nightclub. “Come on, Paddy! We’ll get him!”

But age, soft living and too many shots of Cutty Sark were already taking toll of Anders’ legs. His stride began to falter as McNeil reached him.

“I saw him!” Anders gasped. “The fire escape, Paddy!”

McNeil grunted and pounded past Anders, his big hand matching his gun from its holster. People gaped at him and moved hurriedly out of his way.

None of them went with him to help. This was strictly police business: why should they stick their necks out?

As Poke Toholo came slithering down the fire escape, McNeil came charging around the building. They saw each other at the same time. McNeil saw the Indian had a gun in his hand. He pulled up, his barrel shaped chest heaving from his run, and swung up his gun arm. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he felt a violent blow in his chest that lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing down on his back.

Poke took the last ten steps of the escape in a j u m p and made for the parking lot. McNeil forced himself up, lifted his gun as Poke looked back over his shoulder. Seeing the gun aiming at him, Poke swerved aside as McNeil fired, then paused to take careful aim, he shot McNeil through the head. Spinning around, he raced into the parking lot, his black eyes looking for danger. Only a dozen or so cars, left over night, greeted his eyes. It took but a moment to find one of them unlocked. He slid into the back seat, shut the door and crouched down.

He was out of sight as Anders, panting, his face purple from his exertions, came into the parking lot and found McNeil’s body.

One brief look told Anders that McNeil was beyond his help. He snatched up McNeil’s gun and started across the parking lot to the far exit, sure his man had gone that way. As he did so three frightened faced men came reluctantly into the parking lot. Seeing Anders with a gun in his hand and recognising him by his uniform as the doorman of the Plaza Beach hotel, they plucked up their courage and ran after him.

Unflustered, Poke watched them go, then taking out his handkerchief, he carefully wiped the gun. He would have to leave it, he thought regretfully.

He lifted the car seat and thrust the gun out of sight.

More people were spilling into the car park. Police and ambulance sirens were making the air hideous with noise. Sliding out of the car, moving unhurriedly, Poke walked over to the crowd surrounding the dead policeman: The crowd accepted him as one of themselves. He was still standing gaping as they were gaping when the car park became flooded with policemen. He allowed himself to be herded away with the others and when he reached the main boulevard, he moved slowly and quietly back to the Buick.

While all this was going on, Chuck, sweat running down his face, had joined the milling crowd surrounding Mrs. Dune Browler’s body. No one had eyes for her dog, Lucy who stood on the edge of the kerb in fat bewilderment. Chuck bent over the dog, his hand going to her collar. Lucy disliked strangers. She backed away. Cursing, Chuck grabbed her. No one noticed him.

It was only after the police had restored order, after some of the hotel staff had rushed out to cover Mrs. Dune Browler’s body with a sheet and after the crowd had been dispersed that the assistant manager of the hotel, a dog lover himself, remembered Lucy. It was he who found the luggage tag fastened to Lucy’s collar. Written on the tab in printed letters was the legend: The Executioner.

FOUR

T
he news that a killer was loose in a City more famous for its idle rich than Monte Carlo made banner headlines in the press of the world. Foreign newsmen and independent TV units and the like descended on the City like a flock of vultures. They invaded every hotel and motel and were even prepared to take to tents when room accommodation ran out.

The man they were after was Doorman Jack Anders, being the only one to have caught a glimpse of the Executioner, but before they could get at him, he had been whisked from the scene. After a brief consultation with the Director of the Plaza Beach hotel, Mayor Hedley had persuaded him that Anders would be better off for a while with his brother who lived in Dallas.

Anders had been smart enough to accept the situation. The old, the rich and the raddled would not take kindly to him once he became a TV character.

Limelight was their prerogative and not the prerogative of a hotel doorman.

Before he was smuggled out of the City, Anders had been interrogated by Beigler with Terrell and Hedley sitting in.

Beigler knew he was dealing with an old soldier: a man with a keen mind and whose observation could be trusted. He knew Anders wouldn’t exaggerate to make himself important as so many people in his place could have done. He was sure the facts Anders gave him were facts he could rely on.

“Don’t rush this, Jack,” Beigler said. “Let’s go over it again.” He looked at the notes he had taken. “Mrs. Browler always left the hotel at 9.45. . .right?”

Anders nodded.

“This was a set routine?”

Again Anders nodded.

“This routine . . . how long has it been going on?”

“Since she has been with us . . . some five years.”

“Mrs. Browler was a well-known character. You could say she was an eccentric . . . right?”

“She was that all right.”

“So a lot of people would know she would leave the hotel at this time.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Jack. We have this established. Let’s skip to the shooting. You were talking to her: then it happened. Let’s go over that again.”

“Like I said: I saw by the head wound and by the way she fell she had been shot by a high velocity rifle,” Anders said. “I looked around. There were one or two possible places for a sniper to be hidden, but the best place was the roof of the Pelota club. I looked that way and I saw the killer.”

“Now let’s take this slowly,” Beigler said. “You’ve already told us you caught a glimpse of the killer. Let’s try to develop this. I’m not asking you for facts this time. I’m asking you for an impression. You get me? Don’t worry about whether the impression is right or wrong. Just give me your impression.”

Anders thought for a moment.

“I saw a movement. I didn’t see a man . . . it was a movement. By this movement, I knew a man was up there. I knew this man, by the way he ducked out of sight, was the sniper . . . so I went after him.”

“That’s not what I asked you,” Beigler said patiently. “You’ve already told me that. You saw a movement and you knew there was a man up there. Okay, now I’m asking you for an impression of this man.”

Anders looked uneasily at Terrell and Hedley, then he looked back at Beigler.

“I’m giving you the facts,” he said.

“I have your facts here.” Beigler tapped his notebook. “Now I want you to sound off. You had a glimpse of a man ducking behind the wall. Was he white or coloured? Don’t think about it . . . just give me your impression. I don’t give a damn if you’re right or wrong. Was he white or coloured?”

“Coloured.” Then Anders caught himself up and shook his head. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know. I just saw a movement. I tell you I didn’t see him.”

“But you have the impression he was coloured?”

“I don’t know. Yes . . . maybe. He could have been sun tanned. I can’t swear to it. I did get the idea he was dark.”

“What was he wearing?”

Anders began to look worried.

“How do I know? I told you . . .”

“Was he wearing a black shirt, a white shirt, or a coloured shirt?”

“Maybe a coloured shirt.” Anders rubbed his sweating chin. “I’m trying to help, but I don’t want you to talk me into telling you lies.”

Beigler looked at Terrell who nodded.

“Okay, Jack, thanks,” he said. “You’ve been a help,” and the session was over.

When Anders had gone, Hedley said, “You call that helpful? You practically talked him into giving false evidence!”

“Anders has a trained mind,” Terrell said quietly. “He has an impressive record as a combat soldier. I’d rather go along with an impression from him than so called solid evidence from the usual witnesses we get. Anders has been helpful.”

Hedley shrugged and got to his feet.

“Three killings! And what have we got? Nothing!”

“You may not think so, but I do,” Terrell said. “You see, Lawson, you don’t understand police work. Right now we have one concrete and one abstract clue. We now know this man isn’t working alone. Someone let the air out of Riddle’s tyre so the killer would find Lisa Mendoza alone. Someone clipped a luggage tag on Mrs. Browler’s dog . . . so we know this man has help. We now have a hint that this man could be coloured. You say we have nothing, but I don’t.”

“But what does it amount to?” Hedley asked. “This lunatic . . .”

“Take it easy, Lawson. Come with me.” Terrell got up and putting his hand on Hedley’s arm, he led him down the passage and into the Detectives’ room. Every desk was occupied. Each detective was talking to a witness who had either seen Mrs. Dunc Browler shot or had heard about McCuen’s murder or knew something about Riddle and his mistress: eager, public spirited people, longing to give information, most of it worthless, but some of it that just might steer the police closer to the Executioner. The queue of these people extended along the corridor, down the stairs and to the street.

“One or more of these people,” Terrell said, “could come up with a clue. This is police work, Lawson. Sooner or later we will get him.”

“And in the meantime he could kill again.”

“Sooner or later he will make a mistake . . . they all do.”

“So what do I tell the press?”

“That we are continuing the investigation. Don’t tell them anything else,” Terrell said. “This is important . . . if you have to blame someone, blame me. Say we are doing our best.”

Hedley nodded, then went down the stairs past the long queue of sweating, patient people and on to the waiting press men.

Terrell returned to his office where Beigler was waiting. The two men looked at each other.

“Well, now he’s gone, let’s see what we have so far,” Terrell said and sat down. He reached for a sheet of paper on which he had made notes, broken down from the summaries of reports supplied by his men. “We could just be getting a picture: not much of a picture, but maybe something. I’m still after the motive. These three victims were all top class bridge players and members of the Fifty Club.” He looked up from his notes. “What do we know about the Fifty Club?”

Beigler knew Paradise City far better than Terrell did and Terrell knew it.

He had only to ask Beigler any question about the City and Beigler never failed to come up with an accurate answer.

“The Fifty Club? Super snob.., handpicked members. The entrance fee is around $15,000 and the sub twice that. If you get elected, you can consider yourself one of the top snobs of the City, but you have to play bridge at professional standards.”

“McCuen, Riddle and Mrs. Browler were members . . . could mean something . . . could mean nothing. We’ll have to talk to someone at the club. The motive could just possibly be there. Another thing that interests me is the killer is familiar with the way the victims lived. He knew Mrs. Browler left her hotel at 9.45. He knew McCuen always left his house at three minutes after nine and he knew Lisa Mendoza would be at the bungalow on a Friday night. This makes a pattern. This man is local.”

Beigler nodded.

“So we start looking for a man who has this inside information. Maybe a servant at the Club. I’ll get men onto these people who Riddle mentioned before he knocked himself off.”

Terrell reached for his pipe.

“Do you think he could be coloured, Joe?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but Anders seemed to think so.”

The telephone bell rang. Terrell scooped up the receiver, listened, grunted, said, “Okay . . . thanks . . . yes, get the report over to me,” and he hung up. “That was Melville. They’ve checked out the rifle. It killed McCuen and Mrs. Browler, but of course there are no prints. Danvaz has identified it. That doesn’t get us far.”

“Except this bastard now hasn’t a rifle,” Beigler pointed out. “That won’t stop him stealing another, will it?” Terrell said and set fire to his pipe.

***

If there was one thing Lepski hated among a lot of things he hated it was interviewing people and writing reports. He thought anyone who offered themselves voluntarily to be questioned should be in a home for the mental retarded. But he accepted the fact that this was police work. When he could avoid it, he avoided it, but when he was stuck with it as he was now stuck with it, he handled the situation and somehow managed to restrain his temper. He was now looking with despair at the ever lengthening line of people, eagerly waiting to be questioned.

Max Jacoby was at the next desk. He had just got through coping with a voluble old man who had seen Mrs. Dunc Browler die. All the old man could talk about was the artificial fruit on her hat. He was trying to convince Jacoby that the killer had been hostile to the fruit on her hat. Jacoby finally got rid of him as Lepski finally got rid of an old lady who was explaining to him that Mrs. Dune Browler’s lovely dog had seen the killer and shouldn’t the police do something about it?

The two men looked at each other.

“How’s life?” Jacoby asked with a tired grin.

Very aware he was Jacoby’s senior, Lepski glowered at him. “This is police work,” he said. “You have to dig deep to find water.”

Jacoby shook his head in mock wonderment.

“Is that what we’re looking for?”

A fat, elderly, shabbily dressed man sat down with a thud before Jacoby’s desk and with a suppressed groan Jacoby reached for another pad of paper.

“Yes, sir? Your name and address?”