The prostitute had managed to squirm over on her side. The matting beside her head was a blotch of scarlet. The bullet had torn through her throat and out at the back, of her neck. The fur scarf was sodden.
There wasn’t a prayer of saving her. If she lived long enough to make an in extremis statement, it would be more than Koski expected.
He knelt down. “Who was it, kid? Who shot you?”
Her fingers tried to press against the wound under her jaw. She made a desperate effort to speak.
All Koski heard was the death rattle.
XVI
Mulcahey slushed down the fore-deck in his bare feet, coveralls rolled up to the knees. He waved his mop as Koski called across the Gowanus wharf. “Shove off, Sarge. On our way.”
“You look like you lost your best friend, Steve. Or is it the rib which is floating too free?”
“I lost a good witness.” Koski let himself down carefully to the cockpit, set a bundle on the transom locker. “Claire Purdo got a one-way ticket about ten minutes ago.”
“Who punched it for her?”
“Same party who’s responsible for most of the manslaughter. Person or persons unknown. I’m as guilty as anybody, Irish.”
The Sergeant raced the motor, cast off. “In what way, now?” The Vigilant rumbled out into the canal.
“I was taking her to her room for this,” Koski unwrapped the bundle. “I let her go in first. When she unlocked the door, someone hiding inside put a bullet through her throat.”
“This Bandage Face, was it?”
“No see, Irish.” Koski held the clock up with its towel wrapping protecting the prints. “The killer got away up the fire escape. I should have searched her room before she went in. I must be slipping.”
“You still have a ways to go,” Mulcahey held the wheel with one hand, dried his feet on an old shirt with the other, “before you are down to average. Did the poor kid recognize who bumped her?”
“I wish to God I knew. But she didn’t make any in extremis statement; she took the slug in the throat; died in a couple of minutes.”
“Rest her soul. How did the scut get inside her room?”
“Picked the lock, unless he had a key.”
“He seems to be handy at odd jobs. What in the name of Bulova is that monstrosity?”
“Astrological clock.” Koski weighed the clock on his palm. “Runs by electricity. Supposed to tell you the star influences of the moment. Gjersten gave it to the Purdo babe to hock. He probably stole it from that hotcha on the yacht.”
Mulcahey made a notation in the police-boat log. “We are rolling at exactly,” he eyed the clock, “half past scorpion. Speed, ten knots. Weather, but lousy. Destination...?”
“Drop the timepiece off at the Basin. Then run up to the Fourteenth Street docks.”
“Ah, now, me lad! You will not be telling me off for some chore which will cut into my accustomed period of relaxation! Because at eight this eve I have an arrangement to bask in the wiles of a certain toothsome frill. And you put a dent in my favorite recreation last night, making me labor over-hours.”
“Recreate after we get this cleaned up. You know your way around the longshoremen’s hiring hall, up at Fourteenth?”
“ ’Tis my old parish, sure.”
“Kayo. Hop over there. Collar on to a mugg by the name of Tim Joslin. If he’s in. Works for the union. Age about thirty-five. Five ten. Weighs around hundred and eighty. Thin, sandy hair. Watch your footwork. If I gauge him right, he’d be a mean hand with a cargo hook.”
“Would he be the lad with his jaw in a sling?”
“How do I know!” Koski gritted his teeth as he straightened up. “His name was on Dommy’s hotel register. He knows Merrill Ovett. He sees a lot of guys who go down to the sea in ships. Maybe he knows a thing or two about sailing dates. I’d crave to hold converse with him.”
“If he’s there, I’ll have him for you. Hot or cold.”
“Wait until I check off at the Basin. Maybe I’ll have him first; if the boys at the precinct have located his hangout.”
He put one foot up on the gunwale, gazed through the gray screen of rain at the downtown skyline. Up to about the tenth story, all the massive buildings on Manhattan’s tip were visible; above that they were veiled in smoky cloud. There was, he reflected sardonically, a certain parallel between this hazy view across the bay and what he knew about the killer he was hunting.
Part of it was plain enough; the murderer was cold-blooded enough to dissect a man he’d just slaughtered; ruthless enough to blast the life out of a poor prostitute who at best could only have been a witness against him. And quite possibly he was treacherous enough to be an agent for the funneling of ship-information to the slinking pig-boats that lurked off the twenty-fathom line...
When they touched at the headquarters pier, Koski hustled through the dark tunnel under the building, stepped into his office. Johnny O’Malley was hammering out a report on the Remington.
“Run this over to Ident, Johnny.” He laid the clock on his desk. “What’d you get on Joslin?”
“Guy is a shifter, Lieutenant. Now you see him, now you don’t. Dozen addresses in a year. Present habitat, Nineteen Swamp Street. Kind of guy everybody knows... and either hates or goes for in a big way. A positive personality, according to hearsay.”
“Old Pathé O’Malley. Sees all, knows all. Anything come in on young Ovett?”
“Miscues, is all. He doesn’t show up at the South Street sail-loft. But he’s reported picked up in Union City while applying for a job as a ferry gateman. Slight mistake. It was two other guys from Buffalo. Then he’s positively identified as a passenger on an airliner from LaGuardia Field to Washington. Turns out the gent is an attaché of the Brazilian consulate.”
“We better run something besides rumors to ground, I’m telling you. Time is fugiting too damned fast.”
He hurried back to the patrol-boat; Mulcahey was gassing up at the Department pump. “Shoot me up to Washington Market, Sarge. I might get my hands on that hunk of beef we’re looking for. He has a domicile on Swamp Street.”
The Vigilant avoided a car-float, shaved the ends of the piers, northward, to keep out of the strength of the tide. Mulcahey grazed her up against the market dock just long enough for Koski to step off. The police-boat had disappeared behind the curtain of rain before Koski reached the pier shed.
He strode east through the warehouse district. The smells of onions, spices, coffee were as tangible as the steam from the tugs bustling about on the river.
There didn’t seem to be any Number Nineteen. Seventeen was the Haven Pool Parlor; Twenty-three was a secondhand machinery salesroom, deserted. There was nothing in between. A narrow flight of stairs climbed steeply beside the poolroom door. He tried the stairs.
On the floor above the Haven were four doors with scabrous paint, an iron sink and faucet. No names, no numbers. Two of the doors were unlocked; he peered into rooms gray with dust lighted by windows crusted with gray grime. At one of the other doors he listened, heard nothing but the click of balls and an argumentative voice from the poolroom below. When he put his ear to the last door, the knob began to turn slowly and noiselessly. He put his palm along the jamb, threw his weight against it, suddenly.
The man Koski had seen at Ellen Wyatt’s studio stumbled back into the room, nearly upsetting a table piled high with books, papers, a portable typewriter, a bottle of milk.