“His kind often attract women,” said D’Aquin, who considered himself something of an expert on female psychology. “They get bored with their rich husbands and nice, safe routine at home. They go looking for adventure. A guy on the shady side, an outlaw, excites them.”
“Well, if Giampietro took her to that French Quarter apartment last night, he either got himself killed or killed somebody else up there.”
They parked as close as possible to the Quarter and got out and walked. The Vieux Carré was sealed off to automobiles during Mardi Gras. By now darkness had fallen, a cold, drizzling darkness, making the filigree ironwork on the balconies gleam and imparting a soft patina to the ancient, crumbling buildings, but the weather did not dampen the Mardi Gras spirit. The narrow streets — Bourbon, Chartres, St. Louis, Royal — were crowded from curb to curb with boisterous merrymakers, many of them carrying huge, drink-filled glasses. Jazz poured from every doorway, loud and brassy, and not too much melody.
Basous and D’Aquin questioned the manager of Ron Giampietro’s strip bar, The Blue Spot. No, he had not seen Mr. Giampietro since yesterday. No, he would not allow Mr. Giampietro’s apartment to be searched without a warrant.
The two detectives went off in search of a judge who would issue a search warrant. It was nearly midnight when they returned with the warrant. Giampietro’s apartment was across a walled courtyard behind the strip joint. His quarters were expensively furnished. Basous and D’Aquin spent an hour searching the premises with meticulous skill and patience. At last Basous found an item that was helpful. It was a notebook. He studied the names and figures entered in ledger-like style and uttered an exclamation when his eye fell on a particular entry.
“What is it?”
“Unless I am badly mistaken, I now know what happened. Ron Giampietro was indeed murdered last night and I know who had the motive and opportunity. Come on.”
Basous hustled D’Aquin out into the streets again. The homely detective’s long, lanky legs carried him plowing through the throngs. They had but a few blocks to walk to the artist shop of Benjamin Wyle, situated directly across the street from the courtyard apartments which had been visited last night by Linda Turner, alias Helen Davis, and Ron Giampietro.
“Ah, Mr. Wyle,” said Basous. “Still open, I see.”
“Just trying to pick up a few bucks from the tourists, Lieutenant.” He smiled, fingering his bushy red beard. “Did you find out who the woman was you were looking for?”
“Indeed we did. We also found out who the man was.”
“Hey, that’s good detective work. Who was he?”
“Ron Giampietro. You know him, Mr. Wyle?”
“Let me see... I think he owns a joint over on Bourbon Street.”
“Come, you can do better than that, Mr. Wyle. In fact you placed a lot of bets with him. From the amount of money you owed him, I would say gambling is quite a passion with you.”
The artist’s face turned pale. “How did you know—”
“Mr. Giampietro kept a very good set of books. They show how much you’d lost and owed him. He has a reputation for leaning on people quite heavily when they can’t pay their I.O.U.s. What did he threaten to do, Mr. Wyle? Break both your arms? Put out a contract on you? And was that why you went over there, knowing you could catch him off guard when he was having a romantic interlude with Mrs. Turner? You killed him and carried his body out and dumped it, probably in the river. You knew, of course, that Mrs. Turner wouldn’t dare turn you in without compromising herself and her sordid affair.”
The artist’s face was now the color of a dirty gray bed sheet. “Now wait a minute—”
“Read him his rights, D’Aquin.”
D’Aquin recited, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney—”
“Wait a minute!” Wyle half-screamed. “You’re not pinning this on me.” He wiped his sweating face with a handkerchief. “You’re right about I.O.U.s. You’re right about the threats Giampietro was making to me. He really had me scared. But I didn’t kill him. Arthur Turner did that.”
“What?”
“I recognized Mrs. Turner even with that brunette wig. I’ve seen her before. In fact, she and her husband bought a painting from me for that mansion they live in. So, when I saw her go up to that room with Giampietro, I put in a telephone call to Arthur Turner. I told him if he’d come to the address I gave him, he would find his wife in bed with Ron Giampietro. I told him the west gate would be unlocked. The street on that side is not closed to automobiles. I have a key to the courtyard gates since I have an apartment there myself.
“This morning when you questioned me, I drew the sketch of Mrs. Turner, hoping you’d trace her and eventually charge her husband with the murder. Of course I had to draw her with the brunette wig in case another witness turned up. Still, anyone would recognize her if they really knew her.”
Arthur Turner’s car was searched the next morning. The trunk had been washed but careful inspection by the police laboratory turned up traces of type B negative blood. That evidence, along with the testimony of Benjamin Wyle — who had to be granted immunity from prosecution-plus others who knew of the affair between Mrs. Turner and Giampietro would have been sufficient corpus delicti, even if Giampietro’s body had not been eventually found floating in a bayou where Turner had dumped him. There was enough circumstantial evidence to convict Arthur Turner.
Apparently Mrs. Turner had been contrite, begged forgiveness, and Turner, a man passionately in love with his beautiful young wife, had forgiven her after he dispatched Giampietro.
Basous should have been happy with a case successfully solved but his homely face wore an expression even more dour than usual. “You know what really bugs me?” he said to D’Aquin.
“What?”
“The real murderer is going scot-free. When Wyle picked up the phone that night and called Arthur Turner, he killed Ron Giampietro as surely as if he’d stuck the knife in him, and there isn’t anything we can do to him. Do you realize Benjamin Wyle got away with murder?”
Colloquies in Quad
by Frank Sisk
Some birds seem to need the security of their cages.
“Welcome aboard. What’s your name?”
“Call me Alec. What’s yours?”
“Alec what?”
“Alec Smith. Alec Jones. Alec Brown. White. Black. Gray. I got a wide choice.”
“Have you been here before, Alec?”
“Nohow. I make a steady habit of staying out of these places. What are you, man — some kind of jailhouse quiz kid?”
“Not at all. I’m an involuntary guest just like you. The name’s Cornelius Fitzhugh, but don’t call me Connie or anything like that. Fitz is all right.”
“Fitz it is, then. Is the upper bunk yours, Fitz?”
“Well, not by preference. This cell already had an occupant when I arrived here a week ago. Hippie character. Hair growing out of everything, ears and nose included. He slept a hell of a lot. Probably full of skag. Didn’t talk much and mumbled at best. The grapevine said the fuzz had caught him with a van full of color television, wide-band radio and quadrasonic stereo. They took him out of here two days ago, probably to be drawn and quartered. Anyway, when I arrived a week ago this cat was pretty well tucked into the lower bunk, so I took the upper. I’m kind of used to it now. Any objections?”
“No sweat, man. The lower suits me fine.”
“You’re sure?”