long as the two crimes aren’t officially related, I can move more freely in trying to solve them. The media, the Chief of Police, the mayor, the chronic confessors, all those people who make a cop’s life complicated won’t be involved. It’s pointless to operate in a pressure cooker if you can stay out on the range.”
Nudger watched two white-uniformed morgue attendants saunter through the apartment and go down the hall toward the bathroom. Conversation and laughter drifted out, then the harsh ripping sound of the rubber body bag being zipped. A few minutes later they carried out the wrapped thing that had been Grace Valpone. Residual rigor mortis kept the limbs bent in the slumped position the body had assumed in the bathtub, giving the grotesque impression that the corpse was attempting to push its way out of the black bag. She’ll suffocate in there! Nudger thought inanely.
“Always a cheering sight,” Hammersmith said. “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything that connects Grace Valpone with Jenine Boyington, Nudge. In the meantime, is there anything you’ve found out that we should know?”
“I haven’t learned anything that would be of much help,” Nudger said. He told Hammersmith about Wallace Everest’s being Jeanette’s lover, and about the abortion under a false identity.
“That totally evaporates Wally Everest’s motive to kill Jenine,” Hammersmith observed, “and still leaves him in Cincinnati at the time of the murder.”
“I told you it wouldn’t help.”
Hammersmith stood up. He did fire up a cigar now, concentrating entirely on that task for a few minutes while greenish billows fouled the room. For once Nudger didn’t mind the cigar; its pungent odor overpowered the faint but unmistakable scent of death.
“I wanted to talk to you about this Valpone murder, Nudge,” Hammersmith said, “but there’s another reason I asked you to come down here. You haven’t been a cop for a long time, and I know the kinds of cases you’ve worked as a private investigator. Divorces, dips into the till, missing library books. Weren’t you even working on a dognapping?”
“I cracked that one,” Nudger said.
Hammersmith regarded him with calm appraisal through a greenish haze. “The police are taking the possibility of a series killer quite seriously now, Nudge. We’re very, very interested. And I wanted you to see Grace Valpone so you’d realized what you might be up against, so you’d be careful and remember not to exclude us entirely from your plans. Your police department cares.”
A pale vision of Grace Valpone in her claw-footed bathtub flashed like a Kodak slide on Nudger’s mind. “Your psychology is sound.”
“I hope it’s effective.” Hammersmith crossed his arms over his protruding stomach. Ashes from his cigar dropped onto the floor. “We won’t start to toss this place for another hour, Nudge. Want to go out for some supper? I’ll buy.”
Nudger’s stomach was doing gymnastics. Not perfect ten scores, too herky-jerky. “I think I’ll diet until tomorrow,” he said.
Hammersmith smiled. That was the answer he’d been seeking.
As he left the apartment building, Nudger passed the same dreary graffiti, the same hard-faced cop, the same striped cat staring at him smugly, as if it knew that the way out was always the same as the way in and was enjoying the joke.
When Nudger got back to his office, he checked the answering machine and heard Claudia’s voice tell him she was tired of trying to reach him and they could talk tonight in the usual way at the usual time. She sounded somewhat bemused that she would want to talk with him, maybe even slightly irritated. It was as if the recorder’s tone had sounded before she could hang up, signaling go, and she’d had little choice but to be polite and postpone the conversation rather than cancel it. One of life’s little electronic traps.
Quite an invention, the telephone. Nudger wondered if Alexander
Nudger watched two white-uniformed morgue attendants saunter through the apartment and go down the hall toward the bathroom. Conversation and laughter drifted out, then the harsh ripping sound of the rubber body bag being zipped. A few minutes later they carried out the wrapped thing that had been Grace Valpone. Residual rigor mortis kept the limbs bent in the slumped position the body had assumed in the bathtub, giving the grotesque impression that the corpse was attempting to push its way out of the black bag. She’ll suffocate in there! Nudger thought inanely.
“Always a cheering sight,” Hammersmith said. “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything that connects Grace Valpone with Jenine Boyington, Nudge. In the meantime, is there anything you’ve found out that we should know?”
“I haven’t learned anything that would be of much help,” Nudger said. He told Hammersmith about Wallace Everest’s being Jeanette’s lover, and about the abortion under a false identity.
“That totally evaporates Wally Everest’s motive to kill Jenine,” Hammersmith observed, “and still leaves him in Cincinnati at the time of the murder.”
“I told you it wouldn’t help.”
Hammersmith stood up. He did fire up a cigar now, concentrating entirely on that task for a few minutes while greenish billows fouled the room. For once Nudger didn’t mind the cigar; its pungent odor overpowered the faint but unmistakable scent of death.
“I wanted to talk to you about this Valpone murder, Nudge,” Hammersmith said, “but there’s another reason I asked you to come down here. You haven’t been a cop for a long time, and I know the kinds of cases you’ve worked as a private investigator. Divorces, dips into the till, missing library books. Weren’t you even working on a dognapping?”
“I cracked that one,” Nudger said.
Hammersmith regarded him with calm appraisal through a greenish haze. “The police are taking the possibility of a series killer quite seriously now, Nudge. We’re very, very interested. And I wanted you to see Grace Valpone so you’d realized what you might be up against, so you’d be careful and remember not to exclude us entirely from your plans. Your police department cares.”
A pale vision of Grace Valpone in her claw-footed bathtub flashed like a Kodak slide on Nudger’s mind. “Your psychology is sound.”
“I hope it’s effective.” Hammersmith crossed his arms over his protruding stomach. Ashes from his cigar dropped onto the floor. “We won’t start to toss this place for another hour, Nudge. Want to go out for some supper? I’ll buy.”
Nudger’s stomach was doing gymnastics. Not perfect ten scores, too herky-jerky. “I think I’ll diet until tomorrow,” he said.
Hammersmith smiled. That was the answer he’d been seeking.
As he left the apartment building, Nudger passed the same dreary graffiti, the same hard-faced cop, the same striped cat staring at him smugly, as if it knew that the way out was always the same as the way in and was enjoying the joke.
When Nudger got back to his office, he checked the answering machine and heard Claudia’s voice tell him she was tired of trying to reach him and they could talk tonight in the usual way at the usual time. She sounded somewhat bemused that she would want to talk with him, maybe even slightly irritated. It was as if the recorder’s tone had sounded before she could hang up, signaling go, and she’d had little choice but to be polite and postpone the conversation rather than cancel it. One of life’s little electronic traps.
Quite an invention, the telephone. Nudger wondered if Alexander
Similar Books
