“You mean the CCG asked this guy to kill you?” demanded Ron.
“No. They left it to him to get the stuff any way he could. This was the only way.”
“Who is this guy?” demanded Mike Casale.
“Hold on,” I told him. “I’ll get to it. I don’t want to toss a name at you, I want to give you the facts, until you can see it for yourselves. Start with the first murder. A hired gunman from New York. Now, who among the people out at that plant now would have the contacts and the knowledge necessary to go to New York and find a professional killer? Could any of you do it?”
“Reed could,” said Sal Casale.
“Don’t rush it,” I told him. “Remember what happened after the gunman missed. The police were called, arrived in a prowl car, and a few minutes later the gunman was shot down. Now, put yourself in the killer’s place. You hire somebody to do your killing for you, right? Do you then hang around where he’s going to do the job? The hell you do. You stay far, far away from the scene of the crime.”
“How come he was there?” Ron asked me.
“How come he knew to get there?” I countered. “All right, move on to attempts number three and four. Both times he used explosives.”
“Reed can get his hands on explosives,” said Sal Casale. “He runs a chemical plant.”
“He doesn’t make hand grenades in that plant,” I told him. “That most likely came out of the police armory at City Hall. Now, who could most easily get a hand grenade from the police armory?”
“Any of us,” said Myron Stoneman.
“Who would most likely,” I went on, “have sometime in his career picked up the knowledge for putting together a homemade bomb? Who could most readily have cut me out of the burglar-alarm system? Who would be most likely to have a police radio in his home, and hear the call to the prowl car that came to the diner, and know his hired gunman had missed? And who would gain possession of my files if I were killed and they were impounded as evidence?”
“Harcum,” said Sal Casale softly.
“Some of you may have noticed the blonde Harcum’s been squiring around the last few days,” I said. “Her name is Sherri London. She was murdered this afternoon, and the new CCG man was trying to get in touch with her tonight, not knowing she was dead. She was the contact between Harcum and the CCG. When it was clear that Harcum couldn’t deliver, the CCG switched over and made a deal with Reed. Sherri was on her way to him, and Harcum saw himself on the outside again. He tried to stop her from going to Reed, not knowing that Reed had already made the deal in Albany. She wouldn’t stop. He had to kill her, hoping he could pin it on Marvin Reed, hoping it would give him time to get back with the CCG.”
“Okay, Tim,” said Mike Casale. “You’ve convinced me. We’ll take care of him. You and your friends go on now.”
“What? What is this?”
He shook his head. “I know what you were counting on, Tim,” he said. “You expected us to go tearing in and clean everything up for you. But we’re not going to get ourselves killed off for you or anybody else. It’s strictly a personal matter, Harcum and us.”
“You won’t get to Harcum,” I warned him, “without fighting the others.”
“From what you say,” he said, “they make a habit of selling each other out. If we make the request strong enough, I think they’ll give him to us.”
Art spoke up, suddenly. “I doubt it,” he said.
Mike turned and studied Art. “Is that so?”
“Jack Wycza’s thrown in with the rest of them,” Art said. “And you don’t force Jack to do anything. If you try to take Harcum, Jack will fight you.”
Mike looked from Art to me, as though wondering what Art’s credentials were, and I said, “Art knows what he’s talking about. And if you don’t show force, the others won’t have any reason to give him up.”
Sal Casale came forward to stand beside his brother and glare at us. “If we have to fight,” he said, “we’ll fight. But it’ll be our fight. You reach for your own chestnuts, Smith.”
If that was the way they wanted it — “All right,” I said. “It’s your show.”
“Tim,” said Cathy.
“Come on,” I said to her. “Come on. Let Mike and the others decide what to do.”
Cathy wanted to stay and argue, and so did Ron, but Myron and Art and I herded them out and down the stairs and out of the building, where I shut off their jabbering and said, “Ron, you take Cathy home. Myron, you get lost too.”
“I can help, Tim,” said Ron.
“You’re right, you can. Here’s my car keys. Take Cathy home.” I turned away, saying to Art, “You still with me?”
“All the way, Mr. Smith,” he said. He was grinning again.
Now Cathy started jabbering, but I ignored her and headed down the street toward the Reed & King plant, three blocks away.
At the corner, Art said, “Where now, Mr. Smith?”
“A phone.”
“This way.”
We turned off Front Street, to the right, walked a block, and found a bar. At the phone booth in back, I said, “I’m going to dial Reed’s private number at the plant. You do the talking. Ask for Jack, tell him who and where you are, but don’t mention I’m with you. Tell him you worked your way into my confidence, and I’m now leading the Casale family. Tell him the family knows Harcum killed its patriarch, and is about to march on the plant.”
Art’s grin broadened, and he said, “Making sure there’s a war, huh?”
“Right.”
He studied me for a second, grinning, and then shook his head in admiration. “Give me a dime,” he said.
Thirty-One
The Reed & King plant, like Casale Brothers, took up a square block of Front Street. Unlike Casale Brothers, three blocks away, this square was neat and pretty as an architect’s model. The building was shaped like a plus sign, a long main building with wings jutting out on each side. It was five stories tall, sand-blasted a near-white, and surrounded by black-top parking lots and neatly mowed bits of lawn. The whole block was encircled by hedges four feet tall, except for the broad sidewalk leading up to the main entrance, and the entrances to the two parking lots.
Across the street from the plant was a row of old tenement buildings, most of them empty, a couple used as warehouses, one down at the corner containing a luncheonette, closed at this time of night. Art and I were waiting in the ground-floor living room of one of the empty ones, sitting by the broken-glassed front windows and watching the street and the plant building across the way.
We’d been waiting fifteen minutes when Art whispered, “Here they come!”
I shifted position, and looked out the paneless window. Three people were coming down this side of the street. Mike Casale and his brother Sal and his son Bill. They were the only ones in sight.
I knew what Mike had in mind. They planned to go in there themselves, just the three of them, to give Jack Wycza no fears about their trying to force entry. Then they would try to convince Reed and the others that it would be safer and easier to turn Harcum over, without causing any trouble or any war.
A fine idea, but it wouldn’t work. I’d made sure of that.
The three of them passed the building I was hiding in and walked on. They were going to die. I held the splintery window sill and watched, and waited.