Which Way to Die? (16 page)

“Sure, Major. I'll have to check the belt and charge the tanks, though. Give me twenty minutes.”

The demonstration took place on the airstrip. Corrigan, Baer, and the major were waiting near the hangar end of the field when Captain Morrison came from the supply building wearing the rocket belt. He took up a position a dozen feet from the group and glanced over his shoulder at the major.

“All set, Major.”

“Go ahead.”

Morrison gripped the controls that curved over his shoulders and twisted one of the grips. Twin streams of vapor spurted from the jets at the bottom of the gas generator.

With a loud whoosh he rose gracefully into the air in an arc that lifted him a good forty feet from the ground. He maintained that altitude for the length of the field, then descended so gently that his knees did not even bend when he landed.

“Three, four hundred feet,” Chuck Baer guessed.

“About three-fifty to that point,” Major Conners said.

Captain Morrison turned and soared into the air again. He landed on almost the exact spot from which he had originally taken off.

He grinned at Corrigan. “Want to try it, Captain?”

“No, thanks,” Corrigan said. “I'd land on my head.”

“You might if you tried that long a jump the first time. But I could teach you to make jumps of only a few yards with absolute safety within a half hour.”

“How long would it take to become expert?” Baer wanted to know.

“I was in training for a month, Mr. Baer. I probably could have made a jump as long as those I just made within a week, but they wouldn't let me. In my opinion anybody with a good sense of balance could master it in a few days of intensive training.”

Andy Betz got his hands on the belt Friday, Corrigan thought. It had been used on Sunday night. That allowed only two days for practice—if Andy had used it himself. It seemed far more likely that he had turned it over to someone with long-standing jumping experience.

“Thanks for the demonstration, gentlemen.” Corrigan glanced at his watch; it was after eleven. “We'd better head back to town, Chuck. We've got a lot to do.”

20.

Corrigan and Baer stopped for a quick lunch, and got to headquarters a little past one.

Andy Betz was parked at one of the long tables in the MOS squadroom across from Detective Meisenheimer. Both had plastic cups of coffee before them, and Meisenheimer was munching on a sandwich. The meerschaum pipe was not in evidence; the only times Corrigan had ever seen Meisenheimer without it was when he was eating.

The ex-chauffeur's face was flushed and there was an aroma of alcohol around him, but his eyes were less glazed than they had been the day before.

Corrigan said to Meisenheimer, “He relatively sober?”

“Getting there,” the bushy-haired detective said from a mouthful. “He was pretty lofty when I located him in that bar at eleven, though.” He shuddered. “How can anybody drink boilermakers before noon?”

“He have lunch?”

“Didn't want any. That's his third cup of coffee.”

Corrigan said to Betz, “Know why you're here, Andy?”

In a cavernous voice the man said, “This detective says for receiving stolen property. I don't know what he's talking about.”

“You explain his constitutional rights?” Corrigan asked Meisenheimer wearily.

The detective nodded.

“Okay, Andy,” Corrigan said. “I'll lay it on the line for you. Your brother Arnold is under arrest by the Long Island police. He confessed to selling you that rocket belt for two hundred dollars. Is that true?”

Andy gulped the rest of his coffee and crushed the plastic cup in his fist.

“Well?”

“This cop says I don't have to make a statement.”

“No.”

“Then I'm not going to.” The ex-chauffeur looked defiant.

Corrigan said patiently, “Arnold's already confessed, Andy. What do you gain by clamming up? Arnold says you got the belt for somebody else. You tell us who, and it might make it a lot easier for you. Otherwise we have to assume you used it yourself. Which means you get tagged for a murder rap.”

The man ground his jaws. He remained silent.

Corrigan waited. He said suddenly, “What size shoes do you wear?” The man made no answer. “We can take them off and measure them, you know.”

Andy looked baffled. Finally he said, “They aren't twelve-and-a-half-D.”

“How do you know the killer's shoe size?” Corrigan asked swiftly. “It wasn't in the papers.”

Andy fell all over himself answering that one. “I was there that night, remember? I heard one of the cops say.”

“All right. What is your shoe size?”

“Twelve-C.”

“Ever been in military service?”

Andy shook his head. “I got real bad flat feet.”

“Let's get back to the rocket belt. Who'd you get it for?”

No answer.

“Willing to answer some questions but not others, eh?” Corrigan turned away. “He's standing on his constitutional rights—partly. Meis, book him on suspicion of murder and shoot him into a cell.”

Betz opened his mouth. But before he could get anything out, the squadroom door opened and an officer brought in Harry Barber and Pat Chase. The football player wore a jazzy sports coat, tight slacks, and an open-necked jersey shirt. The girl was in a simple sun dress that came eight inches above her knees and left her shoulders and back bare; she had thong sandals on bare legs; her toenails were painted mother-of-pearl.

Pat Chase's face was without color; she seemed on the verge of tears. Barber greeted Corrigan with a sheepish smile.

“Well, well, the coop-flying lovebirds.” Corrigan turned to the uniformed man. “Where'd they turn up?”

“In a rat-hole hotel over on the Lower East Side. Registered as Mr. and Mrs. Harry Babcock.”

Corrigan said to the football player, “Not very imaginative, Harry.”

Barber said earnestly, “This wasn't what you think, Captain. I guess I shouldn't have run, but I can explain.”

“We'll get to your explanation in a minute,” Corrigan said. “Andy, do you know this man?”

“Sure,” Betz said. “It's Harry Barber.”

“How do you know him?”

“I seen him on TV.”

“I mean do you know him personally?”

The ex-chauffeur shook his head. “I never saw him close up before. I been to see the Cougars play.”

Corrigan glanced at Barber. The halfback said, “I don't know him. Am I supposed to?”

Corrigan said, “Okay, Meis. You can take Betz away.”

Meisenheimer led the big man out, Corrigan indicated seats, and Barber and Pat Chase sat down. Baer parked himself on a corner of the table, one leg dangling. The uniformed man took a chair at a nearby table. Corrigan did not sit down.

“Now you can give me your explanation,” he said to Barber.

The blond giant coughed. “It was because you took that typing sample, Captain. I panicked; I knew you'd trace that note to me and would think I was the killer. So I lied to you to stall for time. Pat didn't want to run. She thought I should stick around and face you.”

Pat Chase said, “Oh, Harry, I told you!”

“Hold it, Pat,” Corrigan said. “If you're not the killer, Harry, why did you write that note?”

“I blew my top when I heard the TV announcement of Alstrom's and Grant's release. I sat down, typed it out, and mailed it while I was still mad. When I cooled down, I realized what a damnfool stunt it was. But by that time it was too late.”

“Damnfool isn't the word, Harry,” Corrigan said in his coldest voice. “You know what I think? I think anyone capable of writing a note like that is capable of carrying out the threat. You're in a real jam, Harry. Your shoe size is the same as the killer's. You're the physical size of the man Frank Grant saw silhouetted against the sky. You tailed Mrs. Grant's limousine to Ossining, and don't give me that bull-flop about driving up there for a knee brace that day. Any reason you can think of why I shouldn't book you for murder?”

Pat Chase said in a quiet voice, “One, Captain. He really was with me from seven o'clock on Sunday night.”

Corrigan looked at her. Her face was still pale, but her glance was unwavering.

He put a sneer in his voice. “After your disappearing act, Pat, why should I believe
you?
”

She moistened her dry lips. “I tried to talk Harry out of it. Believe me, Captain, I'm telling the truth. I'll testify under oath that Harry wasn't out of my sight from seven Sunday night until you showed up at four in the morning, that he was most of the time in bed with me. Even that!”

Her voice held the same ring of truth Corrigan had detected early Monday morning. If she was lying, she was doing it so effectively that a jury might well believe her.

He glanced at Baer, nodded in the direction of his office, and left the squadroom. Baer followed him.

He shut his door. “What's your impression, Chuck?”

“If she's lying, Tim, she's one hell of an actress.”

Corrigan scowled. “Check. And I don't think Andy and Harry were putting on an act about not knowing each other. And if Andy isn't the killer, he should have shown some reaction when he was confronted by the man he sold that belt to.
He's
no actor.”

“I don't think either one was putting on an act,” Baer said. “Tim, I don't think Barber's our man.”

“Then why did he write that idiotic note?”

“He could be telling the truth there, too. People do stupid things when they're mad. I once wrote a hot letter to one of the networks because a deodorant commerical teed me off.”

“The guy has to be neurotic, Chuck. Only neurotics write crank notes.”

“The world is full of them,” Baer said. “But how many are killers? I believe the girl, too, Tim. It takes a lot to make a girl like that admit publicly she was rolling in the hay with a guy.”

Corrigan sighed. “So do I, damn it. But I can't just turn Barber loose. After his runout, the skipper would have my hide.”

“Can't you charge him with something?”

“Nothing but criminal threat, I guess. Which is a bondable offense. He'll just bail out. And if he should run again, I'll look like a rookie. I might even get boarded.”

Baer grinned at him. “There are advantages to being a private cop. Why don't you dump the decision in Inspector Macelyn's lap?”

“Because in the MOS we don't pass the buck. You stick your own neck out, and take the consequences.”

He went back into the squadroom, trailed by Baer.

Corrigan said to the officer, “Take this man downstairs, book him for criminal threat, and let him post bond.” He turned to Barber. “I'm accepting Pat's story, Harry. But if you try to run again, I'll crucify you. Understand?”

“I won't run again,” Barber said in a subdued voice. “Thanks.”

“Don't thank me,” Corrigan snapped. “If I thought I could make a bigger charge stick, you'd be behind bars. Thank this girl. She's more than you deserve.”

He fixed his good eye on the girl. “I'm releasing you on your own cognizance, Pat. But remember, you're a material witness. If you run again, it's the pokey for you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She was looking happy.

He wasn't even Captain now, Corrigan thought sourly. He was “sir.”

In his office, while Baer sat by, Corrigan looked up a number and dialed.

A feminine voice said, “Alstrom and Grant.”

“Is Mr. Alstrom there?” Corrigan asked. “This is Captain Corrigan of the police.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

When John M. Alstrom came on his tone was formal. “What can I do for you, Captain Corrigan?”

“Just called to ask a question,” Corrigan said. “Last Sunday night, was Andy Betz home all evening?”

“Yes, Captain. We both went to bed about eleven o'clock.”

“I assume you occupied separate rooms?”

“Of course.”

“Then it's possible he might have gone out without your knowing it?”

“It's possible, I suppose.” There was a long wait “You're not suggesting that Andy could have had anything to do with Gerard's death?”

“Just checking all possible angles, Mr. Alstrom. Thanks for the information.”

Corrigan hung up. He said to Baer, “Let's go talk to Andy some more.”

21.

Betz was in a detention cell designed for two, but he was alone. He lay on his back on one of the drop-down bunks. When Corrigan and Baer stopped at the cell, Betz sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

Through the bars Corrigan said in a friendly way, “Still standing on your constitutional rights, Andy?”

Betz said, “Yeah,” definitely.

“Have you asked for a lawyer?”

The man shook his head.

“Why not? If you're not the killer, I think a lawyer would advise you to talk You don't
want
to be tagged for murder, do you?”

“I didn't kill Gerard.”

“I'm inclined to believe you,” Corrigan said. “I can't figure any motive.”

Betz seemed surprised. “Then why have you got me in jail?”

“I think you're guilty of being an accessory, Andy. But maybe it's only technically.”

“Talk English,” Betz growled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Somebody hired you to get hold of that belt, but you didn't know what it was going to be used for until after the murder. Then, when you realized you'd almost got your precious young mister killed, you weren't able to face him or his mother again. That's why you quit by phone and started drinking. Correct me if I'm wrong.”

A thoughtful expression appeared in Betz's eyes, but he said nothing.

“You didn't correct him,” Chuck Baer said.

Betz looked coy. “I didn't think he was finished. How would anyone know I had a way to get hold of a rocket belt?”