Bribe Money
by Frank B. Long
He was a little boy, facing a man’s deadly problem. For he’d seen a gangdom chief — giving hush money to his dad!
Inspector Peter McGowan looked up quickly from his desk when Lieutenant Detective Dillard walked into his office and shut the door firmly behind him.
“He made a complete statement, sir — with two gold shields present,” Dillard said. “You said you preferred not to be there when we went through the usual routine. About the only thing we didn’t do was take his fingerprints. That can wait. It all seemed so unnecessary—”
“It had to be that way,” Inspector McGowan said. “I’m sure you can understand why.”
“I think I can, sir. But at the same time—”
“It was homicide, justifiable or not,” McGowan said. “Under the circumstances — very personal ones in this case, Lieutenant — I had to insist on the strictest adherence to routine.”
“I can’t see how he had the strength to kill a man weighing a hundred and ninety pounds with an andiron,” Dillard said. “Gierson’s skull was practically crushed. But his story stands up. If he’d changed it in any way—”
Inspector McGowan cut him short with an impatient wave of his hand. He was a handsome man in the prime of life, with keen gray eyes and only slightly graying hair. But now there was a weariness in his every look and gesture, as if most of his customary energy had drained away overnight.
“Where is he now?” he asked.
“He’s just outside, sir. He wanted me to talk to you first.”
“Why?” Inspector McGowan asked.
Dillard shook his head. He was half McGowan’s age, but he seemed suddenly almost paternal in his solicitude. “I’m afraid he’s taking it pretty hard, sir. He feels guilty, somehow, as if he’d committed a crime he’s convinced he’ll have to atone for.”
He paused an instant, then blurted out: “If you want my honest opinion, sir, he should have a medal pinned on him. He hates to face you, but I can’t understand why—”
Before Dillard could go on the door opened again, and a small boy walked into the room. Although Jimmy McGowan had just passed his thirteenth birthday, he did not look a day over eleven. It was hard to imagine, as Dillard had pointed out, how so frail a youngster could have killed a robustly built man by bringing an andiron into bone-fracturing contact with his skull.
But Tony Gierson was in the morgue now, and there was still a confirmatory stain on the rug in Inspector McGowan’s living room where the homicide had taken place.
“Sit down, son,” Inspector McGowan said. “I’m mighty proud of you. I want you to know that. We’ll be going home in half an hour or so. But first there are one or two questions I’d like to ask you and we can talk here just as well as at home.”
He nodded at Dillard. “You can go now, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m more grateful than I can say.”
Dillard gave Jimmy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, swung about and strode to the door.
As soon as it had closed behind him Jimmy McGowan seated himself in the chair directly in front of his father’s desk, and drew up his legs straddle-fashion, as if aware that otherwise they would not have quite reached the floor.
“What is it you want to ask me about, Dad?” he said. “I killed him because I had to. If I hadn’t he’d have kidnaped me and to get me back you’d have been forced to drop all of the charges against him. I couldn’t see you doing that, Dad. He’s a vicious racketeer, and if your hands were tied there’d be no way the new administration could rid the city of him.”
Inspector McGowan tightened his lips and stared at his son incredulously for a moment, as if the lad’s adult way of coming straight to the point had taken him by surprise.
But before he could say a word in reply the phone at his elbow started ringing.
He uncradled the receiver and raised it to his ear.
Jimmy McGowan stirred restlessly as his father listened to what the voice at the other end of the line was saying. The inspector listened for a full minute in complete silence.
But his face registered at first startlement, then momentary uncertainty and finally, unmistakable relief.
“I might have known,” he said at last. “If we got more breaks like that the papers wouldn’t be riding us so hard. I hardly dared hope— All right, Cross. I’ll check with you again later. My son’s here now, and I’m about to have a talk with him.”
The eyes that he trained on his son when he hung up were curiously noncommittal.
“Jimmy,” he said, after a pause. “I want you to tell me again exactly what happened. Take your time. You’re not talking to Captain Henderson now, or Lieutenant Dillard. No stenographer is taking down your — well, I suppose we might as well call it a confession. That’s over and done with. Just go ahead now and tell me in your own words.”
“There isn’t much to tell, Dad,” Jimmy said, wetting his lips and slightly averting his eyes. “Nothing that you don’t already know. Gierson just rang the bell and when I opened the door he walked in and said that I would have to come with him. He said there was a car outside, with two other men in it. But he was hoping he wouldn’t have to go to the window, and signal them to come upstairs and — rough me up. He said: ‘Don’t make any trouble for me. If you do, your father may not get you back alive.’ ”
“What happened then, son?” Inspector McGowan asked.
Jimmy appeared to be having difficulty in meeting his father’s gaze. But McGowan had seemingly no intention of calling his son’s attention to the fact, for the look that had come into his eyes was not lacking in warmth.
“He turned away for a moment, toward the door, as if he wanted to make sure he hadn’t forgotten to close it. Or maybe he thought he heard a noise outside in the hallway, or something. I made a dash for the fireplace, picked up the andiron and hit him as hard as I could on the back of the head. I hit him three times. He... he just dropped to the floor and rolled over on his face. It was pretty awful, Dad. The blood—”
“I know, son,” Inspector McGowan said. “But kidnaping is a capital crime and to defend yourself as you say you did took great courage and presence of mind. The awfulness of it you couldn’t help.”
The inspector arose from his desk and walked to a shadowed corner of the office. When he returned to the desk he was holding the andiron in his hand.
Jimmy’s eyes widened when he saw it, and he forgot to sit straddle-fashion in the chair. His legs dangled a half-inch from the floor, but he seemed no longer to care.
His eyes were riveted in dismay on his father’s face.
“Jimmy,” McGowan said. “I want you to show me exactly how you did it. I’ll be Gierson, understand? I’ll just look toward the door, and while my head is turned you raise the andiron and hit me where you hit him.”
A faint smile flickered for an instant across Inspector McGowan’s lips, but there was no real humor in it.
“Not as hard, of course,” he said. “Just a slight tap on the back of my head.”
“Dad, I couldn’t—” Jimmy started to protest. “It would be—”
“As a favor to me, son? There’s just one small thing I’m not absolutely clear about. You want to be a policeman, don’t you, ten years from now? The best way to start is to be the kind of policeman’s son an inspector who earned his badge the hard way can be proud of.”
“Well, all right, Dad,” Jimmy said, descending from the chair, and taking the andiron from his father’s hand.
Inspector McGowan turned without a word, walked a few paces toward the door and came to an abrupt halt, keeping his head turned.
“All right, son,” he said. “I’m waiting.”