The McBain Brief Page 14

So Clara goes to work on the mark.

  She tells him she just adores this car, this is the car she’s been looking for all her life, and it is certainly the frivolous kind of car that will help her get over her recent bereavement, a year is a long enough time to be mourning a husband, doesn’t the mark think so? Yes, the mark thinks so. But she’s worried, you see, about whether the car is in good running condition, she just wishes her mechanic friend had been able to come down there to the Bronx with her, would it be all right if she drove it around the block a few times, just to see if it worked and all? So the mark and her get in the car, and she drives it around the block three or four times, and then they come back to the garage, and she says, “Well, it seems to be all right, but I’m just not sure.”

  “Well,” he says, “why don’t you come back tomorrow with your mechanic friend?” It is now almost midnight, and the guy wants to go to bed, right? He can’t stand there all night trying to convince this nice lady she should buy his car.

  “Yes, but by that time you might have sold the car,” Clara says.

  “That’s a possibility,” he says.

  “I just love the car.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says, “what can I tell you, lady?”

  “Oh, I don’t care,” she says, “I’ll buy it!” She gives a nervous little giggle which is supposed to convince the mark she’s never made such a big business decision in her life. And then she says, “I still wish my mechanic friend could look it over, though.”

  “Well, then, come back tomorrow,” the mark says.

  Now this is the moment of truth. This is when the mark can get away completely, wriggle off the hook, this is where Clara can blow the whole thing if she’s not careful, and if she’s not a very good actress, which of course she is. You have to remember that before this night, we had successfully swiped a total of seven cars in seven states, without running the risk of getting shot at in the street by some cop anxious for a promotion.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she says, “I’ll leave you a deposit, would that be all right? That way you can hold the car for me, and when I get a chance to have my mechanic friend look it over, we’ll close the deal. Would that be all right?”

  “That will be fine,” the mark says, “but it has to be a non-returnable deposit.”

  “Oh,” Clara says.

  “Because otherwise your mechanic friend could look over the car and decide he doesn’t like the way it rattles or something, not that it rattles, but you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I see,” Clara says. “Well, how much of a deposit do you want?”

  “The car is selling for forty-five hundred dollars,” he says. “That’s what I put in the ad, that’s a fair price for this car.”

  “Oh, yes, it is, I’m not arguing about the price.”

  “So if you let me have a check for, say, fifteen hundred, I’ll hold the car for you till your mechanic friend takes a look at it.”

  “Well, fifteen hundred sounds like a lot,” Clara says, “especially if my friend should find something wrong with the car, and I lose the whole thing.”

  “That’s true,” the mark says, “how does a thousand sound?”

  “Well, I suppose,” Clara says, and thinks about it for another minute, and then takes out her checkbook and writes the guy a phony check for a thousand, signing the name Abigail Hendricks, which is the name on the checking account we have opened in Larchmont with a minimum deposit of two hundred dollars. There is not a bank in the entire United States that will ask you for identification when you are opening a checking account. All they care to see is the long green, and you can tell them you are Adolph Hitler, and they will say, “Very good, Mr. Hitler, did you want the checks in green, yellow, pink, or blue?”

  So Clara hangs the paper on the guy, and they shake on the deal, and then she starts worrying out loud. The trouble is that her mechanic friend goes to work at eight in the morning, and he doesn’t quit till five, and by the time they got down here it’d be maybe six-thirty, and besides he’s usually tired after a long day’s work, and maybe wouldn’t want to come down here at all, it’d be so much easier if she could take the car up to him. Still worrying out loud, still trying to figure this out, she says that maybe, if this is all right, maybe she could come down for the car in the morning, and drive it up to the garage where her friend works, and have him look at it there. Then, if everything was all right, she’d come down with a certified check which she’d have to get from the bank before three o’clock when it closed. But no, that wouldn’t be so good because that would mean she’d have to make the trip in, and then drive back to Larchmont, and then drive the car back to the Bronx again, whereas she has a better idea.

  Since she has to come to the city anyway tomorrow morning, to pick up her bank guard friend who was kind enough to drive her in, if she could take the Benz home with her tonight, she would have her mechanic friend look at it first thing in the morning, and then she could drive it back down with a certified check in her hand, no later than ten a.m., and that would be that. In the meantime, if it was all right, and if the mark promised to take good care of it, she would leave her bank guard friend’s Volkswagen in the garage there overnight. That would be some sort of security for the mark, although he already had her check for a thousand dollars, and she was sure his collision insurance covered anybody else driving his car, though she had never had an accident in her entire life.

  It is at this point that the mark either says yes or no.

  He has seen the lady, he has sized her up as a respectable widow with a bank guard friend and also a mechanic friend, he has her check for a thousand dollars in his hand, and he also has a 1963 Volkswagen in his garage, and nine times out of ten he will say, “Okay, lady, take the car home with you, but be back here with it tomorrow morning at ten o’clock the latest, with the certified check in your hand.”

  Then Clara gives the mark her phony address in Larchmont, and also her phony telephone number, and she tells him the mechanic’s name is Curly Rogers or something, and he works for a Mobil station in town there, and that is where she’ll be at eight o’clock on the dot tomorrow morning, after which, if everything is okay, she will go to the bank and get the certified check, and be back with it at ten. That’s the way it usually works, unless the mark says no he will not under any circumstances allow anyone to take his car overnight, in which case nothing ventured nothing gained. But that is the way it worked seven times for us, and that is exactly the way it worked this time too. Clara shook hands with the mark, and gave him the keys to the Volkswagen, in case he had to move it or anything, like in case the garage caught on fire, and she drove off in the tobacco-brown 1968 Mercedes-Benz 280SL with the genuine beige leather interior, and she picked me up at the cafeteria where she knew I’d be waiting, and then I got behind the wheel of the car while she took a taxi to the hotel on West Forty-seventh.

  I drove to New Jersey already counting the money in my head. The Benz was not yet hot, you understand that, John? The mark did not yet know it had been heisted, he did not yet know he was never going to see Abigail Hendricks again as long as he lived, he did not yet know the Volks in his garage had been stolen in Georgia a month ago, and painted blue instead of red, and fixed up with New York plates and a phony registration in the glove compartment, he did not even know that Clara’s check was a phony. All he knew was that he had a deal almost in his pocket because the mechanic was sure as hell not going to find a thing wrong with this little beauty of a car.

  John, that Benz was a little jewel, I have to tell you. I went over the Washington Bridge with it, and I could understand why that guy kept it padlocked in his garage, it was some sweet little automobile. I figured it was worth on the retail market at least what he had advertised it for, and I figured I could get fifteen hundred, maybe even two grand when I turned it over in New Jersey, and I was already counting that bread, I was already spending it with Clara in some fancy nightclub in Washington, D.C., which is where we intend
ed to stop next; that is a nice city for heisting cars, Washington, D.C., but not Seattle, Washington. I was driving along at a nice respectable speed of thirty-five miles an hour because, whereas the car would not become hot till the next morning when the mark realized he was never going to see Clara nor the Benz again, I still did not want to take no chances on cops stopping me, the one thing I always try to avoid is traffic tickets of any kind.

  When I heard the siren behind me, I was very much surprised.

  I did not think it was me at first, but then I saw the red dome light blinking, and this cop’s car was right alongside me and one of the cops was waving me over to the side of the road, so naturally I pulled over. They both had guns in their hands when they got out of the car.

  “Hey, what is the trouble, officers?” I said.

  “No trouble,” one of them said. “Let’s see your license and registration.”

  I showed them my license, and I fished around in the glove compartment for the registration, and I handed that to the cop who was doing all the talking while the other cop kept his gun pointed at my head and making me very nervous.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the cop who was holding the registration said, and then he went back to the police car while the other cop kept holding the gun on me. I didn’t understand what was happening. The car was not yet hot, and I had just shown them the real and legitimate registration for it. In the police car up ahead, I could see the first cop talking on the radio. The other cop still had his gun pointed at me.

  Do you know what it was, John?

  The friggin car was a stolen car! I don’t mean me and Clara stealing it, I mean the mark. The mark had stolen that friggin Benz two weeks before from a dentist in Poughkeepsie and he hadn’t so much as even changed the license plates, and he’d also had the nerve to advertise it for sale in the goddamn New York Times! Now that is what I call amateur night in Dixie. And also, John, when I tried to explain to the detectives who later questioned me that I had only borrowed the car from a friend in the Bronx, and I told them where the friggin mark lived, and they went there, it turned out he didn’t live there at all, he was only renting the garage with the padlock on it from an old lady who was half-deaf and arthritic besides, and the name he had given her was probably a phony, and I guess he couldn’t have cared less if Clara ran off with his friggin car because he already had her check for a thousand bucks, which he didn’t know was phony, ahh, John, it was some mess, there ain’t no justice.

  So here I am doing time, and God knows where that friggin thief mark is, and also God knows where Clara is, though I’m sure she’ll come see me next week, don’t you think, John?

  John?

  Jesus, John, I hate it when you snore like that.

  Eye Witness

  He had seen a murder, and the sight had sunken into the brown pits that were his eyes. It had tightened the thin line of his mouth and given him a tic over his left cheekbone.

  He sat now with his hat in his hands, his fingers nervously exploring the narrow brim. He was a thin man with a mustache that completely dominated the confined planes of his face.

  He was dressed neatly, his trousers carefully raised in a crease-protecting lift that revealed taut socks and the brass clasp of one garter.

  “That him?” I asked.

  “That’s him,” Magruder said.

  “And he saw the mugging?”

  “He says he saw it. He won’t talk to anyone but the lieutenant.”

  “None of us underlings will do, huh?”

  Magruder shrugged. He’d been on the force for a long time now, and he was used to just about every type of taxpayer. I looked over to where the thin man sat on the bench against the wall.

  “Well,” I said, “let me see what I can get out of him.”

  Magruder cocked an eyebrow and asked, “You think maybe the Old Man would like to see him personally?”

  “Maybe. If he’s got something. If not, we’d be wasting his time. And especially on this case, I don’t think . . .”

  “Yeah,” Magruder agreed.

  I left Magruder and walked over to the little man. He looked up when I approached him, and then blinked.

  “Mr. Struthers?”

  “Yes,” he said warily.

  “I’m Detective Cappeli. My partner tells me you have some information about the . . .”

  “You’re not the lieutenant, are you?”

  “No,” I said, “but I’m working very closely with him on this case.”

  “I won’t talk to anyone but the lieutenant,” he said. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then turned away. He was not being stubborn, I decided. I hadn’t seen stubbornness in his eyes. I’d seen fear.

  “Why, Mr. Struthers?”

  “Why? Why what? Why won’t I tell my story to anyone else? Because I won’t, that’s why.”

  “Mr. Struthers, withholding evidence is a serious crime. It makes you an accessory after the fact. We’d hate to have to . . .”

  “I’m not withholding anything. Get the lieutenant, and I’ll tell you everything I saw. That’s all, get the lieutenant.”

  I waited for a moment before trying again. “Are you familiar with the case at all, sir?”

  Struthers considered his answer. “Just what I read in the papers. And what I saw.”

  “You know that it was Lieutenant Anderson’s wife who was mugged? That the mugger was after her purse and killed her without getting it?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Can you see then why we don’t want to bring the lieutenant into this until it’s absolutely necessary? So far, we’ve had ten people confessing to the crime, and eight people who claim to have seen the mugging and murder.”

  “I did see it,” Struthers protested.

  “I’m not saying you didn’t, sir. But I’d like to be sure before I bring the lieutenant in on it.”

  “I just don’t want any slip-ups,” Struthers said. “I . . . I don’t want him coming after me next.”

  “We’ll offer you every possible protection, sir. The lieutenant, as you can well imagine, has a strong personal interest in this case. He’ll certainly see that no harm comes to you.”

  Struthers looked around him suspiciously. “Well, do we have to talk here?”

  “No, sir, you can come into my office.”

  He deliberated for another moment, and then said, “All right.” He stood up abruptly, his fingers still roaming the hat brim. When we got to my office, I offered him a chair and a cigarette. He took the seat, but declined the smoke.

  “Now then, what did you see?”

  “I saw the mugger, the man who killed her.” Struthers lowered his voice. “But he saw me, too. That’s why I want to make absolutely certain that . . . that I won’t get into any trouble over this.”

  “You won’t, sir. I can assure you. Where did you see the killing?”

  “On Third and Elm. Right near the old paint factory. I was on my way home from the movies.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Well, the woman, Mrs. Anderson—I didn’t know it was her at the time, of course—was standing on a corner waiting for the bus. I was walking down toward her. I walk that way often, especially coming home from the show. It was a nice night and . . .”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, it was dark, and I was walking pretty quiet, I guess. I wear gummies—gum sole shoes.”

  “Go on.”

  “The mugger came out of the shadows and grabbed Mrs. Anderson around the throat, from behind her. She threw up her arm, and her purse opened and everything inside fell on the sidewalk. Then he lifted his hand and brought it down, and she screamed, and he yelled, ‘Quiet, you bitch!’ He lifted his hand again and brought it down again, all the time yelling, ‘Here, you bitch, here, here,’ while he was stabbing her. He must have lifted the knife at least a dozen times.”

  “And you saw him? You saw his face?”

  “Yes. She dropped to the ground, and he came run
ning up the street toward me. I tried to get against the building, but I was too late. We stood face to face, and for a minute I thought he was going to kill me, too. But he gave a kind of a moan and ran up the street.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the police at once?”

  “I . . . I guess I was scared. Mister, I still am. You’ve got to promise me I won’t get into any trouble. I’m a married man, and I got two kids. I can’t afford to . . .”

  “Could you pick him out of a lineup? We’ve already rounded up a lot of men, some with records as muggers. Could you pick the killer?”

  “Yes. But not if he can see me. If he sees me, it’s all off. I won’t go through with it if he can see me.”

  “He won’t see you, sir. We’ll put you behind a screen.”

  “So long as he doesn’t see me. He knows what I look like, too, and I got a family. I won’t identify him if he knows I’m the one doing it.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” I clicked down Magruder’s toggle on the intercom, and when he answered, I said, “Looks like we’ve got something here, Mac. Get the boys ready for a run-through, will you?”

  “Right. I’ll buzz you.”

  We sat around and waited for Magruder to buzz.

  “I won’t do it unless I’m behind a screen,” Struthers said.

  “You’ll have a one-way mirror, sir.”

  We’d waited for about five minutes when the door opened. A voice lined with anguish and fatigue said, “Mac tells me you’ve got a witness.”

  I turned from the window, ready to say, “Yes, sir,” and Struthers turned to face the door at the same time.

  His eyebrows lifted, and his eyes grew wide.

  He stared at the figure in the doorway, and I watched both men as their eyes met and locked for an instant.

  “No!” Struthers said suddenly. “I . . . I’ve changed my mind. I . . . I can’t do it. I have to go. I have to go.”

  He slammed his hat onto his head and ran out quickly, almost before I’d gotten to my feet.

  “Now what the hell got into him all of a sudden?” I asked.