“All right, so you don’t know them,” Fiala went on. “But what about your wife?”
“You think I killed her?”
“Perhaps. What happened between Martinez and your wife?”
“There was nothing between them,” Valdez snapped.
“Ah, so you did know Martinez?”
Valdez glared at Fiala and finally nodded. “I knew him,” he admitted. “I worked with him for Escobedo, but no blood of his is on my hands.”
“Then who killed him, and who killed your wife?”
Valdez stared back, silent, too frightened to talk. Make him. Fiala leaned forward. “We’re going to headquarters for a little test,” he said.
“A test? What test?”
“Don’t be impatient. Come along.”
Five minutes later at headquarters Fiala handed Valdez a piece of rope. “What’s this for?” the bellhop asked.
“You’ll tie the wrists of this policeman.”
Valdez shrugged, as if he didn’t comprehend, then proceeded as ordered. When he finished, Fiala examined the knots and lifted his eyes. “As I thought,” he said. “Senor Valdez, I charge you with the murder of Pedro Martinez and your wife.”
The next morning Fiala dropped into the Blue Moon for coffee. There was time enough for a second cup, a second cigarette and conversation with a man who joined him at the table. At eleven-thirty Fiala went to headquarters.
“Has the Chief arrived?” he asked Captain Meza.
Meza nodded and said, “So you cracked the double-murder. Well, I thought Valdez was the killer, you know.”
“Valdez, the killer? Who told you that?”
“But last night you charged him, didn’t you?”
“That was last night. I’ll tell you about it later,” Fiala answered, grinning, and he started for Lopez’ office.
“Congratulations, Victor,” the Chief said when Fiala stood before him. “A cigar? Better take a handful. Good. Now tell me how you pinned Valdez down.”
“Valdez?” Fiala shook his head. “You mean Escobedo.”
“Escobedo? I don’t understand. You’ve got Valdez in the lock-up.”
“As an accomplice. Escobedo arranged the murders.”
“Arranged them?”
“He gave the order, and one of his gun-men did the dirty work.”
“You can prove that?”
“My witness is Senor Valdez.”
“His word alone against Escobedo’s?” Lopez snorted. “That’s not enough to put the big fellow away.”
“The gun-man will also testify against Escobedo,” Fiala stated.
Lopez’ brows arched, and Fiala explained: “I had coffee with him in the Blue Moon. He’ll talk in exchange for a light sentence.”
“It looks like you’ve covered everything, but why did Escobedo want Senora Valdez murdered?”
“Unfortunately the senora discovered what her husband was doing and threatened to expose the whole business if he didn’t pull out.”
“And he wouldn’t?”
“He wanted to. And like a fool he went to Escobedo and told him of his wife’s threat, thinking that would get him off the hook. It didn’t. Escobedo told him to get rid of his wife, but he couldn’t kill her, so the gun-man stepped into the picture.”
“And Martinez? Where does his murder fit in?”
“It seems that he objected to the murder of Senora Valdez, and Escobedo didn’t like that, so the gun-man took care of him also.”
Lopez shook his head. “Bizarre. Martinez objected, and the husband didn’t.”
“Not only that, but Valdez drove the car and helped carry the victims after they were dispatched.”
“Sickening. How could he do that?”
“A gun at his head persuaded him.”
“He should have taken the bullet himself.” Lopez grunted with disgust.
Fiala shrugged. “Cowards look to their own skin first.”
“Yes. Anyway, you did a job on him. How did you manage it?”
“With this,” Fiala answered, drawing a piece of rope from his pocket. “I had Valdez tie up one of our men, and he fell for the trick.”
“What trick?”
“Well, he knew what I had in mind, or thought he did. Anyway, he applied a different knot than that used in the murders, but I expected that and bluffed. I told him it was the same knot used on the victims and he cracked wide open.”
Lopez nodded and smiled. “And what if the bluff hadn’t worked?” he asked.
“It worked,” Fiala answered, turning to the door. “Many thanks for the cigars.”
Down below, Captain Meza sat at his desk. Fiala paused there, dropped the piece of rope on the blotter and said, “Here’s a souvenir for you, my friend. If anyone wants me, I’ll be at the Blue Moon having my coffee and sweet cakes.”
Escape!
by Max Van Derveer
The cop, the burglar, and the lady of loose virtue: they made a lousy team, but played a great game. A game where the burglar normally ended up dead.
Some cops like to put fear in you. If you’re smart, you’ll cringe. Toughs gets lumps.
Keever was a cop. He said, “Let’s take a walk, Garcia.”
I kept my eyes down and shook my head.
“Just down the hall.”
I’d never been down the hall with Keever. This was my first bust in his precinct. But I had a hunch what was down the hall. A small room, no air, just a single light, a table, a chair, soundproof.
And nobody else around.
Just you and Keever. No cop in his right mind hands out lumps in public.
I said, “So you got me prowlin’ a place. So get me a defender.”
Keever gave me the fish-eyed stare some cops like to put on a guy when they’re not sure if the guy has savvy or has seen too many movies. Then he dropped his foot from the seat of the straight backed chair and walked out of the squad room, leaving me all by myself at the desk.
I felt as if I could get up and walk out of the precinct station. I looked around. There were other cops at other desks, there were other guys answering questions. But no one seemed to be paying any particular attention to me.
I eased around in the chair. The open squad room door was beyond a low railing and about twenty-five feet away. There was a corridor outside and a wide stairway at the end of the corridor, maybe thirty yards down the hall. At the bottom of that stairway was the street door.
And outside there was a warm, black night with a threat of rain in the air. A guy could disappear fast in the dark.
Keever returned. He looked satisfied and I figured he’d checked my pedigree with Central Headquarters downtown. He went behind his desk and sat. He was a lumpy guy of maybe forty years. But he looked hard. And he had a rep.
Keever liked to break ribs and wrist bones. He’d been hauled up in front of his captain a few times, so the stories went, but he’d never had the rug jerked out from under him.
It was silently speculated the captain liked to hear the crack of rib bones, too, but sometimes was forced to put on a performance for the commissioner and the mayor. So Keever was hauled up — occasionally.
Keever said, “Garcia, your sheet shows eighteen suspicions and only two busts. That gives you a pretty good feeling, huh? Most of the time you’ve been too smart for us.”
I remained meek. I said nothing.
“But you ain’t gonna sit there and deny we got you cold tonight, are you?”
He’d been riding with a couple of car patrol boys in a hot spot. And they’d been sliding quietly through the black alley as I’d scrambled down the fire escape. I’d been trapped halfway down the ladder.
It had been a hairy few seconds. I wasn’t sure what they were going to do to me. But they hadn’t pinned me against the wall with slugs and I hadn’t snapped any foot or leg bones when they’d made me drop from the second floor level into the alley.