“I have 20–20 vision, Lieutenant. They oughta bring back capital punishment. Prison is too good for—”
Nola cut her off. “See that the lady gets home, Sergeant.”
Wienick took her arm and firmly nudged her through the door. Nola sat back and shook his head sadly.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. Something happened to Floyd Oster.”
“It did, indeed.”
“The works?”
“Enough to put him in cold storage down at the old morgue.”
“I can’t say I’m grief-stricken, Lieutenant. Society will survive the loss. When did it happen?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“While I was up in the hills, fishing.”
“Proof?”
“If necessary.”
“Routine, Counselor. I insist.”
“Then you’ll have it. Fill me in, please. Who found the body?”
“Mrs. Scrimshaw.”
“Who?”
“The old lady. Holly Scrimshaw.”
“You’re kidding.”
“That’s her name, Counselor.” A smile flickered, meager and brief. “She thought she heard a shot and went down to investigate. Oster’s door was open. He was slumped in a chair, one bullet in his left temple; about 2:00 p.m. Mrs. Scrimshaw ran back to her room and phoned. We caught the squeal and were there in minutes. She told us about that fracas you had with Oster on Friday. She said you got into your car and she remembered the registration.”
“Remarkable.”
“She is, indeed. We couldn’t reach you and figured you were away for the weekend. Enough. Let’s bring it home. What happened between you and Oster?”
“It’s a long story, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll make time for it. Talk.”
I sighed and sat back and told him about Oster’s attempt to extort money from the widow Bolt. He listened, eyes narrowed.
“Would that be the fifty thousand dollars allegedly paid to Judge Bolt for favorable rulings in the Madden embezzlement case?”
“The same.”
“You’re certain it was Oster?”
“Everything points to him.”
“Why you? Why didn’t she come to the police?”
“Because he warned her to stay away from the law, and the lady was terrified.”
“So you saw Oster on Friday for the last time.”
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t budge him and you decided to use a little muscle.”
“You know better, Lieutenant. Violence is not my style. Oster ignored my first visit, and when I asked Ed Colson to intervene, Oster continued intractable. So on Friday I decided to give him one last chance.”
“And then?”
“I intended to turn it over to the law.”
“You’re a big man, Counselor. Are you telling me that Oster tackled you with one arm in a sling?”
“Lieutenant, Floyd Oster was a savage little fiend. If his dropkick had landed I would have been out of business for weeks. Dumping him was purely defensive. He seldom lost an argument. Look what happened in that accident. It killed Madden and only fractured Oster’s wrist.”
Nola studied me for a long moment. Finally he reached a decision and said, “The accident did not kill Ira Madden.”
I sat erect. “What?”
“Madden was dead when his car hit the abutment. As a DOA, he was taken to the morgue. An attendant found medication in his pocket. Nitroglycerin tablets. You know what they’re for?”
“Hardening of the arteries. Generally prescribed for arteriosclerosis.”
“Correct. They also found an anticoagulant. Obviously Ira Madden had been a candidate for a heart attack. He was autopsied and the M.E. found a massive clot blocking one of the major heart arteries. The M.E. says it finished him off in the blink of an eyelash and that’s why he lost control of the car.”
“And Madden kept his condition a secret.”
“Naturally. He didn’t want his enemies at the union to know.”
“Those vials containing his medication, was there a doctor’s name on them?”
“A Dr. Lewis Bukantz.”
“You questioned him?”
“He was reluctant to talk, but we got enough out of him to clear the picture. Madden had a history of hypertension, high blood pressure. He suffered his first attack a year ago. He refused hospitalization. Bukantz advised him to ask the government for a delay in bringing him to trial, claiming that stress and anxiety might exacerbate his condition.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Exacerbate?”
“Nice word, no? I learned it from the doctor. It means to exaggerate or intensify the disease. Madden turned thumbs down.”
“Of course. It would have required a motion by Madden’s attorney, stating a reason for the application.”
“So the doctor washed his hands of responsibility. What else could he do?”
I shook my head. “Seems the law is a little screwy on this. Cardiac failure is presumably a private matter, not affecting the public. Except they ought to revoke the patient’s license to drive a car. Because if a seizure hits the man on a crowded street, he might start mowing down innocent pedestrians.”
“You got a point, Counselor. And it’s happened in the past.” He regarded me narrowly. “How are you on history?”
“Now, there’s a staggering non sequitur, if I ever heard one. What history are you talking about? Modern? Medieval? Ancient?”
“Ancient.”
“How far back?”
“896 B.C.”
“Nine centuries before the birth of Christ. Not my specialty. I’m a Civil War buff. Why do you ask?”
“Here. Take a look.” He handed me a small square of paper with fold creases. “We found this in Oster’s wallet.”
I saw, written in penciclass="underline" #1 — 896 BC. It rang no bell. It stirred no recollection. I looked up. “Why don’t you check with some historian who specializes in the era?”
“I did. Professor Bernard Buchwald at Columbia. He tried to come up with something.” Nola made a helpless gesture. “But who kept records in those days? A few hieroglyphics in caves, maybe. Nothing we could use.”
“You think the date is significant?”
“Counselor, that paper was in Oster’s wallet. The man was murdered. Can we afford to ignore it? All right. Now, let me test you again. Here’s another.” He produced a second slip of paper. “Also from Oster’s wallet. The name of a man. Ever heard of him?”
I studied it intently, like one of Dr. Hermann Rorschach’s inkblots. It read: C H George, NAS. No periods between the initials. I dug deep, but the name triggered no response.
“He’s a stranger to me,” I said. “I see the handwriting on this slip of paper is different from the other.”
“Correct. The date is in Oster’s hand; the name was written by Ira Madden. We compared them both with known specimens.”
“C. H. George. Have you checked him out?”
“He’s not listed in the telephone directory, all five boroughs. Query, Counselor: Do you know of any degree or title or government agency carrying the initials NAS?”
“None I can recall. But the pension fund of Amalgamated Mechanics, the alleged source of Ira Madden’s loot, was heavily invested in the stock market. Some of those securities are probably unlisted and traded over the counter. Madden was in charge. So NAS could be an abbreviation for National Association of Security Dealers.”
“If C. H. George was in business, wouldn’t he list his name in the telephone book?”
“Of course. But which one? Suppose he has an office in Newark or Passaic or Jersey City or Hoboken or — take it from there.”
Nola looked sour. “Or maybe one of a thousand other cities. Madden would have dealt with any clown who’d kick back a piece of the commissions.”