Vice Cop Page 12

  “He is.” Again I went through the explanation that I was trying to track down Isobel’s source of marijuana.

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said. “Until last night I had no idea she used dope, or even that she was giving that type of parties. It was a complete shock to me.”

  “It seemed to be common knowledge among the country-club set. How’d you happen to miss the rumors?”

  He smiled ruefully. “Isn’t it always the husband who last hears gossip about his wife? Or even his ex-wife?”

  “I suppose,” I conceded. “Your office told me you’re ill. You don’t look very well. Anything serious?”

  “Nothing physical, Sergeant. My sickness is inside. I happened to be in love with my ex-wife. Her death would have been enough of a blow, but learning what she had become on top of it—” He allowed his voice to trail off.

  “Which was the worse shock?” I inquired.

  He gave a curious glance. “That’s an interesting question, Sergeant. Actually, I think I was so numb with shock at what I had seen going on by the time I learned Isobel was dead, I hardly felt grief until today. I think perhaps seeing what went on at that party has assuaged my grief to some extent. It may sound heartless, but mixed with my grief at her death, I can’t help feeling a certain sense of relief that I don’t have to torture myself wondering about her engaging in future orgies.”

  “You mean in a way you’re glad she’s dead?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said quickly. “I’m just glad I won’t have to lie awake nights imagining what horrible thing she is doing now.”

  I wondered if it had occurred to him last night that he could gain this sense of relief if his ex-wife died. I tried the same bluff on him I had used on Farrell.

  “Sharon was able to remember a little more this morning than she could last night.”

  If this revelation upset him, it wasn’t apparent. He merely asked, “Oh? Has she confessed?”

  “She remembers not killing Isobel,” I said. “Someone took the letter opener away from her in the dark.”

  He elevated his eyebrows. “Does she know who?” His tone suggested he thought she had made the story up.

  “Only that it was a man. She got the impression that he came up the stairs behind her.”

  “Oh, but that couldn’t be,” he said innocently. “I was standing right at the foot of the steps. No one could possibly have slipped past without my being aware of it. Isn’t it probable she invented this man as an alibi?”

  If he was putting on an act, he had a lot of stage talent. It didn’t even seem to occur to him that he might be a suspect.

  “I suppose,” I said, getting out of my chair. “Well, if you don’t know anything about Isobel’s source of marijuana, I won’t keep you any more. Sorry to have disturbed you when you’re feeling so low.”

  “That’s all right, Sergeant,” he said politely. “Any time.”

  He escorted me to the door and held it open for me.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Third District covers three wards on the east side of town along the riverfront area. The same river runs past the Riverside Country Club west of town, skirts St. Cecilia’s north edge and curves south to form its eastern boundary. There is a vast difference between the west side waterfront and the east side, though. Out near the country club there are sand beaches, big estates and summer cottages. On the east side there are docks, warehouses, crummy taverns and cat houses. The population is predominantly Italian, Greek and Puerto Rican, with a smattering of Poles who have infiltrated from the south side Polish section, which abuts the Third District.

  Councilman-at-large Joe Greco ran the Third District in the same benign but dictatorial manner that Mayor Hague once ran Jersey City. If you couldn’t get welfare, you went to Joe Greco. If you wanted a street-department job, you went to Joe Greco. If your son was in jail because of a barroom fight, Joe Greco could be counted on to get him out. In return for his benevolent patronage, the Third District voted solidly as Greco dictated. It was a sort of vicious cycle. Greco was able to wield enough influence to get his constituents the favors they wanted because he delivered the vote; he was able to deliver the vote because he got his constituents the favors they wanted.

  The Third District Athletic Club was Greco’s headquarters. A big, rambling, two-story building in the heart of the dock area, it had a bowling alley in the basement, a gym and a barroom on the first floor, poolroom and some offices on the second floor. Theoretically it was a private club, but since the only membership requirements was residence in the Third District, there was no initiation fee and dues were only a dollar a year, practically everyone in the district belonged. Greco induced further gratitude from his constituents by having the lowest-priced drinks in town and periodically buying drinks for the house. It was generally rumored that the bar lost money, but that the bowling alley and the poolroom brought in enough to offset the loss and let the club just about break even. It was the social hub of the Third District.

  At three-thirty in the afternoon the club was relatively deserted. Most of the members were either factory, warehouse or dock workers. None of the first category were there because those who worked second shifts in the factories were on their way to work; those who worked the first shift didn’t get out until four. The warehouse and dock workers for the most part worked from eight to five. A handful of elderly men sat around the barroom playing pinochle.

  “Joe Greco around?” I asked the bartender.

  Apparently he mistook me for a favor-seeking constituent He pointed his thumb at the ceiling.

  I assumed that meant upstairs in his office. I had never been in the place before because, except for beat cops, police officers weren’t encouraged to drop in socially. And since Greco refused to allow disturbances, heavy gambling, prostitutes or dope pushers in the place, there had never been occasion for the police to make an official visit. I didn’t ask directions, however. I just climbed the stairs and looked into doorways until I located the politician’s office.

  It was the second door beyond the poolroom. Joe Greco didn’t barricade himself behind an array of private secretaries, as did some of the big politicians downtown. His office door was open and his desk was right in the center of the room, where his constituents could get to him without delay and without previous appointment. There were three other desks along one wall at which two young women and a young man worked. Filing cabinets lined two other walls and the fourth was a solid bank of windows giving a view of the docks.

  An elderly woman in a faded black dress was seated in a chair next to Greco’s desk. He was listening to her attentively. As I walked over to stand behind her a few feet, where I could unobtrusively wait until he was finished with her, he glanced up briefly and gave me a nod of recognition, then returned his attention to the woman.

  “You tell your Luigi to go see Jim Thompson at the welfare office tomorrow, Mrs. Lombardo,” Greco said. “I’ll phone Mr. Thompson to expect him at nine A.M. He’ll get his investigation fast, and if he meets the requirements, he’ll get his old-age pension. You understand that this is a type of relief, though, don’t you? It’s not the same as social security.”

  “It’s old-age pension, ain’t it?” the old woman said. “My Luigi is past seventy.”

  “They call it a pension, but it’s really public welfare,” Greco said patiently. “You not only have to meet the age requirement, but also be in need. Mr. Thompson will explain everything to you, though. If his investigation shows you need it, you’ll get it.”

  Thanking him, the old lady got to her feet and slowly walked out. I went over and took the chair she had vacated.

  Greco called across to the young man,, “Al, phone Jim Thompson over at welfare and tell him to expect an old-age-assistance applicant named Luigi Lombardo at nine in the morning. I want him taken care of.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said, picking up the phone on his desk.

  Greco turned to me. “Yes,
Sergeant?” His tone lacked the patience and understanding with which he had spoken to the old woman. It was the crisp tone of a businessman who has very little time.

  I said, “I’m here in connection with last night, Mr. Greco.”

  The politician frowned. “You’re working out of Homicide now?”

  I shook my head. “I’m still with Vice, Gambling and Narcotics. We’re following up on one angle.”

  “You are?” he inquired coldly. I could see him planning to make another call to the commissioner.

  “Nothing which will involve any of the party guests,” I said easily. “We’re merely concerned with the source of Mrs. Whittier’s marijuana supply. We’re contacting all the guests to see if any of them know who the pusher is.”

  He looked a little mollified. “Oh, I see. I’m afraid I can’t help you, Sergeant. Until they were brought out last night, I had no idea Isobel used marijuana.”

  He paused, as though trying to make up his mind on some matter, then said with an air of decision, “There’s something I’d like you to know, Sergeant.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I really had no idea what that party was going to be like last night. If I had, I would never have attended. I hope you don’t think I regularly go in for that sort of thing.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” I told him. “I don’t care what your sex habits are.”

  He flushed slightly. “Your opinion of me is hardly a matter of vital concern to me, Sergeant. But I wouldn’t want anyone to believe I approved that sort of degradation. I’ve known Isobel Whittier for some time, and recently we’ve become quite intimate. As a matter of fact I had rather come to regard her as my girl. My wife has been dead for some years, you know, and I haven’t been involved with any women since.”

  “I knew you were a widower,” I said. “I haven’t kept track of your personal life.”

  “Well, that’s the way it was. In thinking back, I can see that Isobel dropped a number of hints to prepare me for what to expect at her parties. But I completely misinterpreted them. The whole thing was as much a surprise to me as it was to Ross Whittier.”

  “I just came from seeing Whittier,” I said. “He’s relieved that she’s dead. He says now he won’t have to lie awake nights imagining what she’s doing at future parties. You feel that way?”

  He frowned at me. “After last night what Isobel did wouldn’t have concerned me. I had no intentions of ever seeing her again.”

  I hiked my eyebrows. “You were that disgusted?”

  “I was that disgusted,” he affirmed. He emitted a short, humorless laugh. “I had actually considered asking Isobel to be my wife.”

  “Which was the greater shock?” I asked. “Learning how she behaved at parties, or learning she was dead?”

  He frowned again. “That’s a rather odd question.”

  I shrugged. “I asked the same one of Ross Whittier and got an odd answer. I thought I’d try it again.”

  He visibly grew cooler. “It seems to me you’re concerning yourself more with the murder than with the possible source of marijuana, Sergeant Rudowski. Don’t you think Homicide is capable of handling that?”

  I knew I was treading on dangerous ground, but so far I was nowhere in my investigation, and if I couldn’t get some kind of lead from Greco, I might as well give up. I decided to stick my neck out and risk having it stepped on.

  I said, “Homicide isn’t looking anywhere but at Sharon Manners. I don’t think she did it.”

  “I gathered last night that you had some sort of personal interest in the girl,” he said coldly.

  “Only the interest of not wanting to see an innocent person framed.”

  He gazed at me steadily, his mouth a straight line. Again he reminded me of a Prussian colonel.

  Eventually he said in a frigid voice, “You made it clear last night that there were only three alternate suspects to Miss Manners. Farrell, Whittier and me. Have you narrowed it down any since then?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I have plans to.”

  “How?”

  Since on two occasions my bluff that Sharon had remembered what had happened the previous night hadn’t worked very well, I decided to switch tactics. I said, “Sharon can’t recall what happened because she was in a dream state. But she wasn’t unconscious. She was walking around and functioning physically, so probably subconsciously she was fully aware of what was going on at the time. Ever hear of hypnosis?”

  “Of course. Everyone has.”

  “Well, under hypnosis people often recall things lodged in their subconsciouses which they consciously can’t remember at all. You never really forget anything, you know. Everything you ever did, everything you ever heard or saw or read is tucked away in there somewhere. Under hypnosis people even have recalled long-forgotten events which occurred in their childhoods as vividly as though they had just hapened.”

  Without changing expression he asked. “You plan to take her to a hypnotist?”

  “I plan to take one to her. She’s in jail. A psychiatrist who knows hypnotism, not just some quack. I want it to be someone reputable, with a solid enough reputation to qualify as an expert in court.”

  “I see,” he said. “Why don’t you suggest this to Lieutenant Wynn instead of messing around in something which is none of your business?”

  “I told you that Homicide is satisfied that Sharon is guilty. I know Wynn too well. He’ll just tell me to get out of his hair.”

  Greco examined me for another period, finally asking, “You really have belief in this hypnosis stuff?”

  “I’ve read up on it some. It works. Furthermore, the testimony of psychiatrists who have hypnotized subjects has been admitted in court on a number of occasions. Of course we’ll be taking the calculated risk that if Sharon did kill Isobel, she’ll remember that, too. But in that case, at least I’ll be satisfied that she wasn’t framed.”

  Greco grunted. In a sour tone he said, “I doubt that the police commissioner would be happy to know that a member of the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division was neglecting his own work to do some of Homicide Division’s.”

  I let my eyebrows climb. In a quiet voice I asked, “Are you warning me off, Mr. Greco? Naturally I wouldn’t pursue this any farther if you have some reason to want me to lay off.”

  He subjected me to sharp scrutiny to see if I were being sarcastic or subservient. I didn’t help him any. I kept my face expressionless.

  He said curtly, “Why should I care how you waste your time? I really can’t let you waste any more of mine, though. I see someone standing in the hall waiting to see me.”

  Glancing over my shoulder at the open door, I saw a young man in work clothes leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hall. Rising, I said. “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Greco.”

  “Not at all, Sergeant,” he said distantly, and motioned for the young man to come in.

  Outside I wondered if the captain would call me on the carpet the next day because of another complaint from Joe Greco. If he did, it would indicate that Greco wanted my investigative activities stopped, which in turn would indicate that he might have some fear of what a hypnotist could pull from Sharon’s subconscious.

  I doubted that I’d be in much of a position to take advantage of the second indication, though. For if Greco complained again, I’d probably be out in the sticks pounding a beat.

  CHAPTER XIX

  IT WAS a quarter to five when I checked back into the squad room. I found Carl Lincoln already there.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “Lots,” he said. “Mrs. Gains tried to make me. I figure escaping that was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to me.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said sourly. “How about the others?”

  “I was lucky with Georgia Cobb, too. She didn’t try to make me. I saw Clyde Gains and Sam Cobb at their offices. They were embarrassed. They said they had no idea who the pusher was and oozed me out. I couldn’t l
ocate either of the young guys—Lester Hart and Allan Reginald. They weren’t home and nobody knew where they were.”

  “So you struck out too, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Carl said negligently. “The pusher is a guy named Amos Wood who runs a teen-age hangout over on North Seventh.”

  I looked at him.

  “I got it from Penny Doyle,” he explained. “The young gal who was so high last night they had trouble getting her dressed. Remember? The one built like a kid.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Isobel’s death threw her for a loop. She’s having a fit of conscience for ever getting tangled up in such a mess. Seems she was fond of both Isobel and Sharon, and blames the whole thing on smoke. She can’t get it out of her head that she was just as high as Sharon last night. She keeps thinking that but for the grace of God, she might have done something like Sharon did. She’s decided it’s all Amos Wood’s fault for pushing the stuff, so she blew the whistle on him.”

  “Good,” I said. “We’ll get some young-looking rookie to start hanging around the place until he can work himself into Wood’s confidence.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Carl said casually. “Penny’s willing to co-operate all down the line. She’s bought sticks from him on occasion herself. It’s all arranged for her to set him up for us tomorrow.”

  I gave him another look. “You sure like to draw things out, don’t you?”

  He grinned at me. “I thought you’d enjoy the suspense. When you turn a fancy bit of police work, don’t you like to savor it a little?”

  “So you’ve savored it,” I said. “What time is she going to set him up?”

  “One P.M. The place is a restaurant, so we’ll lunch there. She’s to come in and make the buy exactly at one.”

  “Fine,” I said. I hoped I’d still be a member of the division by one P.M. the next day.

  We both checked out for the day at five. When Carl pulled off the parking lot, I sat in my car thinking for a while.

  When I had told Joe Greco I planned to have Sharon hypnotized, it had been pure bluff just to see how he’d react. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like an idea actually worth looking into.