Ray Fleck looked at his watch again and saw that it was just time for
him to leave. He'd sat there nursing his drink ever since the psycho
had left--thinking. There couldn't be any possible slip-ups on his
alibi and he'd thought it out and covered every contingency.
The all-night poker game at Harry Brambaugh's was, of course, the basis
of it. But he'd worked things out so that game would alibi him for all
night no matter what happened. Someone in the game might or might not
buy the diamond ring to let him play. And if someone did buy it, he
might still go broke within the first hour, and that would be no good
at all. His alibi had to be for _all_ night, clear up to dawn.
He'd told the psycho, in effect, that an attack on Ruth would be safe
any time after midnight; he couldn't possibly pinpoint it by suggesting
a specific time or even a deadline. And for all Ray knew the guy might
as easily make his call at two or three in the morning as at half past
twelve. Besides, even if he had any way of timing it, he didn't dare
get home too soon after the psycho had left. The minute he got home and
found Ruth dead he'd have to call the police--and if she were freshly
dead they'd still suspect him of having killed her and having done it
in such a way as to throw suspicion on the psycho. He didn't dare find
her until she'd been dead at least a couple of hours, and with him
having a solid alibi for the time at which she'd died.
To be safe he didn't dare get home before five in the morning and six
would be better.
So, since the psycho had left, he'd been planning carefully; he was
going to have an all-night alibi from Harry and whoever else was in the
game, whether or not he could sell the ring and whether or not he went
broke quickly if he did sell it. All it took was the right build-up.
Harry had a downtown apartment, only a block and a half from here. Five
minutes walk and if he left at five of twelve he could establish the
time of his arrival by saying "Cold on the stroke of midnight," when he
walked into the room. That wouldn't sound suspicious or as though he
was trying to establish an alibi because it was a phrase he often used
anyway. So did some of the other boys. It was a quotation from a poem
or something, and it was a cliché that fitted in any time the question
of time came up at or within a minute of midnight.
Second step: The minute he got in he'd tell Harry he felt lousy, had an
upset stomach and a headache. He'd say it would probably wear off, but
did Harry have a Bromo-Seltzer or an Alka-Seltzer around, and maybe a
couple of aspirin tablets too. And Harry would have; Harry had a bad
stomach and headaches himself and was always well stocked with patent
medicines; Harry would give him something and he'd take it. Point made.
Then, at the poker table but before sitting down, he'd explain
apologetically that he was short on cash but had a hell of a bargain in
a diamond ring, if anyone might be interested in buying it, and he'd
pass it around. He'd try to get a hundred, but settle for fifty if
someone wanted it but quibbled about price. Either someone would buy it
or no one would buy it.
If no one bought, well, he'd laid his groundwork, by convincing Harry
he was sick. He'd say he didn't feel up to going home right away, and
would Harry mind if he lay down on the sofa a while first. Harry had
a comfortable sofa right in the living room, the room in which they
played cards. Lying there he'd be in sight of everyone in the game. And
Harry was a nice guy; he certainly wouldn't mind. That sofa had been
used before for similar purposes; once in a while someone got tired in
the middle of a game and wanted to rest a while and then get back in.
So he'd pretend to go to sleep on the sofa--or really go to sleep if he
could. And stay there till the game broke up, which was never before
five o'clock.
Same deal with a minor variation if he sold the ring but lost the money
too soon. His upset stomach and headache would have come back by then;
he'd take more Alka-Seltzer and aspirin and then lie down a while to
give them a chance to work.
It would work. Parts of the story might sound mildly strange to the
police when they questioned him, but there'd be too many witnesses for
them to have any serious doubts. Especially if Milt Corbett was there
as one of the witnesses, as he probably would be; Milt was a prominent
member of the city council and the strength of his word would be as the
strength of ten, to the police.
He left a dollar tip on the bar, to make the bartender remember him;
it wouldn't hurt to be able to extend his alibi backward a bit in case
Ruth died very shortly after midnight, and left.
He'd timed it right; it was midnight on the head when he rang the bell
of Harry Brambaugh's apartment.
Stella, Brambaugh's wife, opened the door. On a chain, of course, but
she opened it the rest of the way when she recognized Ray. He was a
little surprised to see that she was wearing a robe and had her iron
gray hair in pin curlers; usually she stayed dressed and made coffee
and sandwiches about one o'clock, and then went to bed.
"Cold on the stroke of midnight," Ray said. "Game been going on long?"
"Ray, I tried to call you but you weren't home. There isn't any game.
Harry got a telegram while we were eating tonight; his brother is
seriously hurt in a car accident and he had to leave right away, the
first plane. He gave me a list of six men to call up, and I got all of
them except you."
Ray frowned, thinking frantically. "Mrs. Brambaugh, I wonder if you
could give me that list. I know all the boys on it, but not all their
phone numbers. And maybe we can still get a game going, especially if
you'd let me use your phone so I can call them right away."
She shook her head. "I might find the list in the wastebasket, but
it wouldn't work anyway, Ray. Three of them said they wouldn't have
been able to make it tonight anyway. I don't know whether Harry would
have played four-handed or not; he'd probably have postponed it. But
that leaves only two besides yourself, and they've probably got doing
something else by now. Or gone to bed."
His mind went in frantic circles as he walked down the stairs and out
into the night. What now? He could alibi himself by going to any tavern
where he was well known, between now and one o'clock when the tavern
would close. God, oh, God, what could he do? He could go to a hotel,
but what good would that be as an alibi? The clerk could testify when
he checked in and when he checked out, but could he give positive
testimony that he had not sneaked out and back in again sometime during
the night?
Of course if he picked up a woman and took her to a hotel, or to
her own place--He considered that and abandoned it reluctantly. The
testimony of a woman like that would be of only slight value, for
one thing. For another, the chances of his finding such a woman were
slight, especially since he had less than an hour to do it in. There'd
been a recent crackdown and available pickups in bars were currently
few and far between. Outside of bars, he didn't have the faintest
idea where to start looking. He didn't have a little black book of
addresses; for the last few years, his only extramarital adventures had
been those with Dolly, and Dolly--well, he could forget Dolly tonight,
if not forever.
Besides, he was broke. He couldn't have over a few dollars left after
all the drinks, many of them doubles, that he'd been buying.
For a moment he entertained the wild idea of walking in front of a
car, getting himself injured and taken to the hospital. But that
was too risky; he could be killed--or permanently crippled, which
would be almost as bad. Or if for safety he picked a slowly moving
car and just let it knock him down his injuries would probably be so
superficial that a hospital would simply check him over and discharge
him immediately. Could he feign a heart attack? No, it would take the
admitting physician only half a minute with a stethoscope to learn that
his heart was as sound as a preinflation dollar. Acute appendicitis?
Hardly, with his appendix already out and a scar to prove it. Or--no,
damn it, he knew too little about illnesses to be able to get away with
feigning anything. He'd never had a sick day in life, except for that
attack of appendicitis and the time he'd been in the army infirmary on
account of his allergy to wool.
The hospital idea wouldn't work. But what else would be open all night
after the taverns closed?
The answer was so simple that he wondered why he'd sweated thinking
about hotels and hospitals. The jail was open all night. It wouldn't
hurt him to spend a night in the drunk tank, to save his life, and to
pay a ten-buck fine in the morning. Maybe even no fine, just a warning,
for first offense; and what alibi could possibly be better than being
in jail? He wondered why he hadn't thought of it the moment he'd
learned that the poker game was called off.
But he'd better make it good and _really_ get drunk, roaring drunk,
not depend on acting. He looked at his watch. It was only five minutes
after twelve. Fifty-five minutes to go and that was plenty of time, if
he drank straight shots, doubles. He had a hell of a good capacity for
liquor if he took it in highballs and reasonably spaced his drinks--as
he had thus far tonight--but straight whisky always hit him hard and
fast. With the slight edge he already had, five or six straight doubles
would be plenty, if he took them no more than five minutes apart.
Money wouldn't be a problem, even though he had only two bucks, enough
for two doubles, left. Since he'd never done so before, he could borrow
five or ten from almost any bar owner or bartender in town. And even
five, with what he had, would get him seven doubles, more than enough.
He'd been walking without thinking where he was going, but now he
looked to see where he was. Half a block from the Log Cabin, run by
Jerry Dean. It would be as good a place as any. He was known there at
least as well as at any other tavern, and Jerry was at least as likely
to lend him money as anyone else; he'd spent hundreds of dollars in
Jerry's.
Jerry was behind the bar and, Ray was glad to see, so was his son
Shorty Dean, whom Jerry was teaching to be a bartender. Two witnesses
would be better than one--and he might as well establish the time right
away. He put a dollar on the bar and asked for a straight double. Then
while Jerry was pouring it he glanced up at the wall clock. "Hey, your
clock's half an hour off."
Jerry looked up at the clock and then at his own watch. "Seven after
twelve. That's what I got. How about you, Shorty?"
Shorty had five after but said his watch had been running a minute or
two slow a day.
"Then seven after must be right," Ray said. He held his own watch to
his ear. "Hell, mine's stopped. Must have forgot to wind it." He wound
it and pretended to set it. "Say, Jerry, I ran short of cash tonight.
Can you spare a sawbuck, just till tomorrow night?"
"Sure, Ray." Jerry pulled out a wallet. "Can even make it a double-saw,
if you want."
"Swell," Ray said. He left the bill on the bar and tossed off his
double. It tasted like hell to him; he didn't like the taste of raw
whisky. But he ordered another.
Twenty minutes and four drinks later he was feeling high, definitely
high. His tongue was thick and if he stared fixedly at anything or
anybody he found himself seeing double; to keep his eyes focused he had
to move them frequently. And he knew that the full force of the drinks
hadn't hit him yet; fifteen minutes or half an hour more and he'd feel
them a lot worse.
"One more," he said.
"Listen, Ray, you've had plenty. Don't you think you'd better call
it off for tonight?" Jerry sounded genuinely concerned. "Uh--are you
driving?"
"Nope. Car's being worked on. So one more, then I'll call it off. Okay?"
But he sat staring at the one more, and he was realizing that maybe
getting arrested for being drunk wasn't as easy as getting drunk was.
How do you get arrested if there isn't a cop around? Was he going to
have to start trouble or a fight so Jerry would have to call the cops?
He hated trouble, and he hated fights worse, but--
And then the answer came through the door. Officer Hoff and his squad
car partner, the pair he'd talked to earlier in Jick's place, came in.
Hoff said, "Hi, Jerry. Two damn quick quickies. Hi, Ray. How goes it?"
This was his chance. With drunken dignity Ray got off the stool and
started back toward the juke box. He tried to stagger--and found that
he didn't have to try. He almost fell, caught himself with a hand
against the wall, and apparently forgot where he'd been going and came
back to his stool, but stood there behind it, swaying. He reached for
his drink and spilled half of it, got the rest down and dropped the
glass. He swayed back onto the stool--he was exaggerating, acting,
but not much--and sat there glowering at Hoff. "Goddam cop," he said
thickly. "God, how I hate cops."
"Look, Hoffie," Jerry said, conciliatingly, "he's drunk, so don't get
mad. And don't blame me. This hit him sudden like, or I'd of cut him
off sooner. He's been in here only twenty minutes or so, and he acted
cold sober till just now. I'd hate to see him get jugged--Ray's a nice
guy. Could you guys spare time to run him home and get him out of
trouble?"
Hoff said, "Sure, Jerry. Ray's all right. It can happen to any of us."
He downed his shot quickly and then came back and put his hand on Ray's
arm. "Come on, Ray. Time for beddy-bye. Where do you live?"
Ray slid off the stool and jerked away. If only violence was going to
get him arrested, then he might as well get it over with. "Keep your
goddam hands off me. Mind your own damn business." And he started a
roundhouse swing. He didn't really know whether or not he was trying to
make it connect--but it didn't. And then he saw Hoff's fist coming up
in a short sharp uppercut for his own chin--saw it, but not in time to
duck. The lights went out.
He came to, to the sound and motion of a car. Thank God, it had worked;
they were taking him in. He shook his head to clear it a little and
saw that Hoff was sitting beside him in the back seat, the partner was
driving.
Hoff said, "Take it easy, Ray. I can handle you but I don't want to
have to hurt you. And you're not pinched--this time. I got your address
from your wallet--and put your money that was on the bar in it. We're
taking you home to the little wifie."
_Oh, God, Oh, God_, he thought; _this can't be happening. They can't
take me home now. It's only half past twelve or a few minutes later.
It's too early, it's hours too early._
Under an alcoholic haze, part of his mind worked; it scuttled like a
rat trying to get out of a trap. And it found a hole--a dangerous hole,
but still a hole.
He reached into his left pants pocket and pulled out a handkerchief,
unfolded it. As they passed a street light, jewels flashed. "Lookit,
Hoffie," Ray said. "Why I was getting drunk. Stole this. Conscience.
Give m'self up."
Hoff called out, "Hey, Willie. Pull in to the curb and give me the dome
light on."
On the way back downtown, the way toward the police station, Hoff kept
questioning him and he kept ducking. Yeah, he'd stolen the jewels.
Didn't remember who from. Drunk. Needed sleep, let him tell 'em
everything tomorrow when he'd sobered up.
He played drunker than he was and he was thinking that he hadn't really
given anything away. Tomorrow he could deny everything. He could say
he'd found the jewelry, in a handkerchief just as it was, and how could
they prove he hadn't. They'd doubt him, but they couldn't prove a
thing. Dolly and Irby weren't reporting the robbery, now that they had
the check and confession, so there'd be no theft report to match the
stuff. Why then had he told Hoff he'd stolen it? How did he know why?
He was drunk, didn't remember anything after taking a swing at Hoff in
Jerry's place. Some drunken impulse must have made him tell Hoff that,
but he couldn't remember what it was, couldn't even remember having
been in a squad car.
He was safe. They might doubt him, but they couldn't prove a thing,
except the drunk and disorderly charge--and they certainly wouldn't
press even that after they had to tell him that his wife had been
killed during the night, by the psycho. And on that angle, he was even
safer; his alibi was solid from seven minutes after twelve on. From
midnight on, really; Stella Brambaugh could testify she'd talked to
him cold on the stroke of midnight, and just seven minutes away from
Jerry's Log Cabin. Even farther back than that if the dollar tip had
made the bartender at the Palace Bar remember him, and remember what
times he'd been there. But even midnight was safe enough; Ruth didn't
even get home until then.
Hoff said, "Ray, we've got to take you in. Want me to phone your wife
so she'll know where you are?"
"God no," Ray said, and then made his voice calmer. "She won't worry
about me--thinks I'm in an all-night poker game so won't 'spect me home
anyhow."
"Okay. We're going to have to book you on suspicion of theft. Want a
lawyer? He might get you out on bail right away."
"Hell no, Hoffie. Too drunk to do any good if I did get out. Too drunk,
too sleepy. Just book me and jug me, and let me get some sleep."
"If that's the way you want it," Hoff said. The squad car pulled up in
front of the station.