Jocelyn was late.
Commissioner Moran was alone in his office when I walked in, studying the latest development in the case on the portable viewer that was angled toward him in the corner of his desk. He looked up when he saw me, mumbled something, then reached across the desk and snapped the viewer off.
"Have a seat, Mal," he said.
I dropped heavily into the chair. "Jesus, I'm tired," I said. I stretched until the bones in my shoulder "popped", then I yawned. "I've got to take some more energy pills. My ass is dragging."
"Why don't you try sleeping at night," Commissioner Moran suggested. "A normal good night's sleep will do you a world of good more than any chemicals you pump into your body. Energy pills – junk."
"Where's Jocelyn?"
"On her way here. She was checking something out over at Effie Spade's apartment building. She thinks she may be on to something."
I laughed. "Well, let's hope her theories prove a little more substantial than mine did."
"I'd like to talk to you about – that, Mal." He was falling into his fatherly role with me, and I realized that much of our relationship was characterized by exactly that feeling between us. Commissioner Moran was almost like my father, and he treated me very much like the son he had never had. "Perhaps its fortunate that Miss Wolfe isn't here. We can be frank about things, if you know what I mean."
I nodded. "I think I follow you."
"First let me say this, Mal – I'm very much aware of the kind of relationship you have with Miss Wolfe. I feel responsible for it in some way, and I'm sorry for the extra burdens it places on you. But they are necessary, as I'm sure by now you can well attest."
I nodded. "Yes, Jocelyn is a damn fine policewoman. A little obsessive at times, but I guess that's understandable in light of her background. But you're right: she should be saved regardless of the price. You just don't throw away that kind of raw material."
"That's very gracious of you, Mal. You truly are a professional. I realize that this case has become something personal between the two of you – mostly because of Miss Wolfe – and you had a chance just then of sabotaging her. You didn't, which says something about your character. I doubt, I sincerely doubt whether Miss Wolfe in a similar circumstance would have said the same about you."
I shrugged. "Maybe you're being too hard on her. She's had her good moments."
"Nevertheless, Mal," he continued, "what happened at Dr. Gideon's need not come out. I'm not going to give her any new ammunition with which to shoot you down. As far as I'm concerned, Dr. Gideon and your theory about his group never existed. Simply, they were leads which failed to work out. You'll continue the case as if it never happened. It's bad enough that she'll have something to say about your original theory that Effie Spade was murdered by someone she knew; I don't want to see you humiliated in front of her. I'm not about to allow her to rebuild her ego at your expense."
I was grateful, of course, and for a moment my mood perked up. It was depression, I realized in a sudden per sonal insight, and not fatigue that was working on me physically.
"Do you think that's wise, Spens?" I asked, knowing the question had to be asked. "Do you think it's a smart move to keep any of the details of this case from her?"
"Look, it was a dead end, you know that as well as I do. I'm not going to let her humiliate you with it. I at least owe you that much."
I shrugged. "Well, if you think so."
"I do. And not another word about it, is that clean. Good." He smiled. "Mal, what do you say when this is al over, just you and I go out together and get good and drunk?"
"Spens, I think that's one of the finest ideas you've ever had in your life."
The communicator on his desk-buzzed, and Commissioner Moran reached across and flipped a switch. "Yes?"
"Policewoman Wolfe is out here, sir."
"Thank you, Mycroft. Send her in, please." He closed the communicator. "And none too soon. Remember what I told you, Mal."
The door of the office opened inwardly, and in walked Jocelyn Wolfe. Instead of the standard uniform she usually wore, she had on a short, tight-fitting orchid-colored dress that fit her like her flesh did. The skirt was short and it flounced against her well-shaped thighs. Her breasts were high and firm, and under the thin gauzy material, her nipples were erect.
"Good afternoon, everyone," she announced. Jocelyn was in an exceptionally good mood. "And how is every one today?"
"Hum," I snorted cynically. "Murder must agree with you: I've never seen you so congenial. What would you do if there were another murder? Begin giggling?"
She dropped into the empty chair across from me. "Ha-ha, very funny. You're hysterical. But I'm not going to let you bother me: I'm in too good a mood."
"Oh, really. Why?"
Jocelyn looked at me levelly. "Because this second murder proves all your theories are wrong. It's all a bunch of hot air. And, what I've been saying all along is right after all. Besides, I have a good solid line on the murderer."
Commissioner Moran frowned at her gloating;. "Oh, is that so? Tell us about it, Miss Wolfe."
"I will," she quipped, "in due time. But first let's discuss everything else. I want to save the best for last. I love surprises."
"All right," I said coming to grips with her challenge, "let's discuss all my theories. Where would you like to begin?"
"How about beginning with the latest murder?" she suggested. "Let's see what the murder of Shelley Charles does to your typically male prejudices."
"All right, I admit that my idea about the murder being the turning point in this case was wrong. Clearly, Effie Spade was not murdered because she knew her attacker as someone she could identify. Shelley Charles' murder proves that without any doubt. These acts of murder were the beginning of a newly emerging behavior for pattern for our rapist/killer. It would be stretching probability to the limits of reason for me, or for anyone for that matter to suggest that Shelley Charles knew of could have recognized her attacker."
"There are a couple of other points," Jocelyn interjected. "Like for instance, what the computer says about the two women. No link – I'll repeat that – no link whatsoever has been found to tie the two murdered worrier together. They were strangers; consequentially, the murderer could not have killed them because he knew them. There was no way for him to know them both: they had nothing at all in common. Effie Spade and Shelley Charles never worked in the same places, never lived in the same places, didn't know the same people, never went to the same schools, and so on. What it comes down to is this: Effie Spade and Shelley Charles lived two separate, never overlapping lives. The man who raped and murdered them was a stranger to the both of them."
"I noticed," Commissioner Moran said, "you've made it a point to stress that the murderer was a man. Is this more rejoicing on your part, or do you have a reason for being so positive."
"I always have a reason for what I say find do," Jocelyn said, smiling sweetly. "The both of you should know that by now."
"I'd like to hear that proof," I said.
"Well," she said, "in my discussions with her neighbors, the people who lived in her building, as well as the people in her general neighborhood, I learned something very interesting about Miss Effie Spade." She paused dramatically, just to make sure she had our rapt attention. She did. "Effie Spade was a lesbian."
I smiled.
When no one reacted, Jocelyn looked confused. "I don't understand. I thought you'd see…"
"We already know that," Commissioner Moran explained. Even he looked pleased. "Mal brought that to my attention earlier in the day."
"He did?" Jocelyn's face sagged with disappointment for an instant. She looked over at me, warily holding something back. "How did you find out about that? I thought it was a deep dark secret."
"From a friend of hers," I said. "A sometime lover. Her name was Michelle Poirot."
"Oh." For a moment Jocelyn considered this. "Well, did you also know that Effie Spade never went out with men? I mean never, not even on dates."
"Yes; we knew that as well," I said.
"Mal also found that out from Miss Spade's friend, Michelle Poirot," Commissioner Moran lied deftly. "None of this comes as a surprise."
Jocelyn smiled, like the cat who had secretly swallowed a canary. "Oh, well, by itself those facts are not really important. They only become important when weighed against what I found out about Shelley Charles, the second murdered woman."
"And what is that?"
"Only that Shelley Charles was not a lesbian. From what I found out about her, she was anything but a lesbian. Even in our free-thinking culture, Shelley Charles would have been considered promiscuous. According to her neighbors, she would fuck with any man who had a cock, regardless of what he looked like, and how he made the suggestion to her."
"Interesting," Commissioner Moran said. "Develop the hypothesis."
"First of all, we know that Shelley Charles wasn't a lesbian, so that the probability that she was murdered by a female lover is quite remote. Granted she might have been, but I think a male lover would have been more in character for her. Second, she probably would have been open to any suggestion of fucking, regardless of how that suggestion was made. Again, that seemed to suggest she was indeed with a male rapist. Third, if Shelley Charles probably was not murdered by a woman, then logically neither could Effie Spade have been murdered by a woman. Unless, of course, you want to subscribe to the uncertain theory that there are indeed two rapists and murderers on the loose?"
"One is still enough," Commissioner Moran said dryly. "Go on. I still haven't heard anything I would consider conclusive proof. It still sounds awfully speculative."
"My fourth and final point," she said casually, "has something again to do with Effie Spade, the first murdered woman. Several of her neighbors maintain they heard someone in the apartment a little while before she was found murdered. According to them, it was a male visitor."
The words dropped like a bombshell. I glanced at Commissioner Moran, but he was concentrating on Jocelyn. He was very interested.
"Are you – sure?" he asked.
"Her neighbors were fairly certain."
"But can they identify him?"
Jocelyn shook her head. "The ones I spoke with couldn't, unfortunately, because all they heard was his voice through the paper-thin plasteel walls separating their apartments. Thank God for shoddy constriction materials; it's a good thing they don't build things like they used to."
"They thought they heard a man's voice," I pointed out. "But they might have been mistaken. They could have heard a woman's voice."
Jocelyn smiled. "Oh no, it was a man. Someone saw him."
"Saw him?" Commissioner Moran's eyes glittered.
"The landlord of the apartment building," she explained. "A man by the name of Hammer. Archie Hammer. I haven't spoken to him yet because he's been out of town on business. But before he left he mentioned to some of the people in the building that there had been a visitor to Miss Spade's apartment. A male visitor."
"Have you tried to trace this man down?" the Commissioner asked. "This landlord fellow."
"He'll be back sometime this evening. With any luck this case will be wrapped up by morning."
"You will, of course, speak to him the moment he gets in tonight."
Jocelyn frowned and rubbed her forehead. "Would it be possible for Mal to handle that?" she asked. "I'm not feeling all that well. Besides, it should be a matter of routine from here on in."
"Of course he will," Commissioner Moran assured.
Then they both looked at me.
"Of course I will," I answered evenly. Underneath, however, it was another matter. The bitter realization welled up inside me that if this did work out, then Jocelyn essentially would have solved the case. Already our positions had somehow reversed themselves. Just as she had planned it, her "illness" not withstanding. Jocelyn was on her way home, while I, almost like her junior partner, was reduced to running down leads late into the night.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Mal Investigates A Clue
It was dark by the time I got to west Thirty-fifth Street. Located in one of the oldest sections of Bos-Wash, in an area once called Manhattan, the neighborhood was quite run down. During daylight hours the section must have seemed quaint with its small and impractical brownstones, the largest of which would barely contain ten or twelve modules, even when utilized to capacity. At night there was something positively sinister about it. The square old-fashioned doorways were swallowed in inky pools of shadow, and the long narrow windows which lined the face of the buildings reminded me of blank, dead-staring eyes.
I left my tube car sitting at the side of the walk path – here they were called sidewalks – and I climbed the old stone stairway which led up to the front door. The door itself was a novelty, made out of wood and real glass so that you could look into a small hallway beyond. There was another door at the end of the hallway, this one made from heavy-duty plasteel, the building's one concession to security.
All the buildings in this area of the city remained exactly as they originally had been built. Except where absolutely necessary, no improvements were ever made on the buildings, and every replaced part first had to be approved, and then refitted exactly to ancient specifications. Almost a century ago a wave of nostalgia had swept over the City Council, and these buildings had been salvaged as landmarks representative of Bos-Wash's long and glorious past. Since then, however, very little had been done with or to the buildings, and they were left to deteriorate. Perhaps after another century had gone by the buildings would be remembered again the next time the cry for their demolition was raised against them.
In the meantime, they were eyesores: small, dirty, over-crowded, and incredibly neglected. Because they were landmarks, and therefore were without any of our society's technological advancements, only the fringe members of our culture lived in them: the artists, the malcontents, the criminal elements – people who were content to look backward toward a simpler and, in their opinion, better life style.
I peered in through the dirty glass of the door. The hallway was lit by a small round globe attached to the ceiling, and the light it cast out was sagging and muted. I pushed open the door, it protested squeakily, and I stepped into the hallway. It reeked of urine. I tried the plasteel door, but it wouldn't budge.
I stepped back. "Police. Open up."
The door didn't move. I repeated the command. Again nothing happened.
"Humm…" I said aloud. Strange. It doesn't work by voice control. And there doesn't seem to be any place to insert a voice card. I wonder how the hell it opens?
I looked around the hallway. It was finished in large porcelain rectangles, now cracked and filthy with age, going up the walls to a certain point, and then the rest of the wall was bare. It was painted a dingy green up and across the peeling ceiling. On the opposite wall was a flat metal square, divided into six evenly-spaced metal rectangles placed one against each other. There was a slot at the bottom of each, and in one or two were slips of paper on which names were written. Each rectangle also contained a little round black button.
A directory? I wondered. I pushed one of the buttons. "Hello?" I called out, looking for a speaker in which to talk.
Something buzzed behind me, and I whirled. No one was there. It was the door that seemed to be buzzing. After a moment it stopped. Nothing happened.
"I wonder…?"
I pushed another bell. Nothing at all happened. I pushed the first one again. The plasteel door buzzed. I jumped at it and twisted the handle – it turned! – and I stepped inside.
"What the fuck ya playin' with the bells for?" someone out of sight screamed.
There was a long narrow corridor, and against one side of it a steeply sloping wooden stairway. The voice seemed to be coming from there.
"Police," I said, looking up.
All the way up above, looking out over the railing of a banister, was a face. "What the fuck do you want?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Archie Hammer. Which is his module?"
"He's in the basement." The face began to withdraw.
"Wait!" I cried. "What did you say?"
"The basement… the basement!"
"What's a base-ment?" I asked.
"Jesus Christ!" the face exploded. "Downstairs, under the ground, for Christ's sake!"
Why would anyone want to live under the ground? I wondered. I said: "How do I get down there?"
"Out the door, down the stairs, turn sharp left, and go back under the stairs. You'll see a door there. That's his apartment."
I followed the instructions, and found myself facing a warped, gritty-looking solid wooden door painted jet black. I looked around for a buzzer or a bell to ring, but there was none. I didn't know what to do, so I banged on the door with my curled fist, reasoning it to be a reasonable way of attracting the attention of anyone inside.
The only response I received was a loud barking sound, followed closely by growling and yapping. Apparently Hammer kept an animal. I wondered what kind it might be. Probably a dog. I saw a dog once in the zoo.
I continued to hammer the door, and the dog continued to bark at me. No one else came to it so I shrugged and assumed I was too early. Mr. Hammer had not retained yet. I left my card in the door.
I walked back to my car and got in. I punched out my authorization, and put the car on auto drive, snoozing my way across town. When I got to my apartment, I undressed, fixed myself a drink, and while I sipped it, took a shower. I was standing under the blowers, luxuriating under the soft fingers of warm air caressing my body, when my wall screen hummed to live.
Shit. I wrapped a towel around my middle and walked into the living room, feeling the air around me rising in temperature in compensation for my nakedness. "Yes?" I said.
Like an eye opening, my wall screen expanded in a pool of light, depth and color. A grubby-looking man with a broken nose glared at me.
"You Browne?" he demanded.
"I am, sir. You must be…"
"Hammer," he said. He put a cigarette between his thick lips, struck a multi-match with his thumbnail, and lit the cigarette. It wasn't a vita-cig either, judging from the faint smell wafting through the sensors. He exhaled at the screen. "Archie Hammer. What's this all about, pal?"
"Are you at home, Mr. Hammer?"
"Near to it. I ain't got a wall screen. Don't believe in 'em. I'm at a – shall we say, friend's house."
"All right, I'm on my way over now. I'll be at your apartment in twenty minutes."
"Wait! What's this all about, bub?"
"I'll explain to you when I get there." I terminated. I turned back toward my bedroom, cursing to myself. All I could think of was Spens' suggestion: get a good night's sleep. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
Seventeen minutes later I was standing again in front of that warped, gritty black door. "Hammer!" I shouted. "Open up! It's me, Detective Browne."
The animal began to yap and bark. From inside I heard: "Shaddup!" The door snapped suddenly open, and peering out at me, another cigarette dangling from his lips, was Archie Hammer.
"What the fuck you yelling about?" he demanded. He stepped outside and carefully looked around, squinting into the darkness. Apparently satisfied, he moved back inside. "Why don't ya knock, fer Christ's sakes! Where were you brought up? A barn?"
I wanted to ask him what knocking and a barn were, but I reconsidered and didn't. This wasn't the time for broadening my vocabulary, as archaic as the words might have been. I followed him into the apartment.
Something small and white ran at me, growling loudly and barking. I froze in terror, not knowing how to react.
"Quiet, Blackie – quiet!" Hammer demanded. The animal growled once, then made a purring sound, and rolled over on its back, all four-legs pointing at the ceiling. Hammer bent down and stroked the animal. "Good boy, Blackie… good boy. Good dog."
A dog, I thought. Seeing it as submissive as it was, watching Hammer stroke it affectionately, some of my fear of animals lessened. After all, it did look harmless enough; although those teeth… Why would anyone keep an animal in a city? Animals belonged in zoos.
"Is he dangerous?" I asked tentatively.
"Who, Blackie here?" Hammer laughed. "He'd rip your arm off if I told him to. But don't worry; as long as I'm here you've got nothing to be afraid of."
That was reassuring.
Still holding myself back, away from the dog, I asked: "What kind of dog is he?"
"Blackie is a bulldog. He's a good of dog, he is. Me and him been together a lot of years." He petted Blackie's belly. "I used to have a Boston Terrier, but he died. Now all I got is my Blackie."
I looked at Blackie's mug-like face, and I studied Hammer's pushed in, stubble-darkened face, and I realized they had a lot in common. They were both incredibly ugly. I think I liked the dog better.
"If we can get down to my questions," I suggested, inching into the apartment, edging past the lazy but fierce-looking dog. "I realize it's late…"
"Right," Hammer said. He straightened. "Inside now, Blackie. Good doggie. Inside."
The dog ran off deep into the apartment. Hammer turned toward me. "Now what's this all about?"
"Effie Spade."
He blinked. "Effie? The lez from upstairs?" He sounded surprised. "The one what croaked?"
"Yes. We're having some difficulty in locating her family," I lied. No sense in telling him she was murdered. The fewer people who knew the better. "Something was wrong with her name card. We think that Effie Spade might not be her real name."
"Effie," he said. He laughed. "Why didn't you say so right off?" He thought for a moment. "Not her real name, you say? As far as I always knew…"
"Could we go inside?" I suggested.
"Sure… sure." He took me by my arm and led me into the apartment. We sat at a kitchen table, Hammer on one side, me on the other. Blackie was in the corner, Hammer said: "I'd offer you a drink, but I don't drink anything but milk." He patted his broad belly. "Ulcers."
"That's quite all right. Actually, all I want are a few answers and I'll be on my way."
"Shoot." He poured himself a glass of milk.
"Some of the other people upstairs," I made a generalized gesture toward the ceiling, "mentioned something about her having had a visitor before she died. Do you know anything about that?"
He sipped his milk, then wiped the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. "Sure I do. I saw him."
"Him. Then her visitor was a male."
"Sure. I recognized him from her group therapy meetings."
The casualness with which he'd said that last sentence was electrifying. Her visitor, the man who was the last known person to see Effie Spade before she was found murdered, was a member of her group! What did that mean? Was I right after all? Was there a connection between the two murdered women? But what could it be?
The revelation, I suddenly saw, said something even more disconcerting: all of a sudden, Archie Hammer knew an awful lot about Effie Spade.
I shook my head. "I don't understand," I said. "How do you know the man you saw visiting Miss Spade was in her therapy group? Are you one of its members?"
"Me?" Hammer questioned with rising incredulity. He began to laugh. "I ain't no psycho from the loony-bin! Not by a longshot."
"Well, then, how do you know?"
"I recognize the guy. You see, sometimes the group used to meet in Effie's apartment. It's a very progressive group, or so Effie tells me. They like to get away from the doctor's office for their meetings, you know what I mean? It's a very casual, loose group."
"You've seen him then, coming and going?"
"That and I saw him in her apartment. Sometimes they got a little loud, and the rest of the tenants began to complain about all those nuts up there. So I had to go up once or twice."
"Can you recognize him?" I pressed. "Do you know who he was?"
"Sure I recognized him. He's a good-looking son of a bitch too. Young." Archie Hammer drained his glass of milk. "He's the guy who runs that group. What's his name again? Dr… I got it. Doctor Gideon."