Cassidy agreed. “I see what you mean. I’ll contact OPA and find out just what they’ve got. See what else you can dig up.”
He returned to Captain Lauterback’s office. The Captain hadn’t been able to break Schirmer down, but there was too much against him to turn him loose. He was being held as a material witness. They wanted a confession before making any formal charge.
“I got the laboratory reports, too,” said Lauterback. “They looked over his clothes for bloodstains. There weren’t any.”
“There was no struggle,” said Cassidy. “Warner was shot down in cold blood. You can’t expect stains.”
“I didn’t expect them. I was just hoping.”
There was another knock on the door and Detective Redfern called in excitedly, “Captain — we’ve got the gun!” He shoved in a short squat man in the drab uniform of a street cleaner.
Cassidy’s face lit up. The street cleaner was carrying a cardboard file box under one arm.
In broken English he told how he had been on a Department of Sanitation truck that was picking up refuse from the rubbish bins along Broadway. He always put his hand in first and felt around. He’d heard of somebody who once had found a gold watch that way and he’d always thought it might happen to him, too. So when he’d seen the file box he had picked it out and opened it, and here it was.
Cassidy lifted off the cover. There was a gun inside. A .45 Colt revolver. He exchanged a look with Lauterback and then he noticed a few tiny slivers of glass.
“What else was in there?” asked Cassidy.
“A drinking glass, but it was no good. Broken. I throw away.”
“Well,” Cassidy said philosophically, “we’re not exactly getting the breaks this trip. Unless the fingerprints that were probably on that glass are also on this.”
He took a pencil from his pocket, pushed it through the trigger guard of the gun and lifted it from the box. Captain Lauterback went upstairs with him and watched as he dusted it with fingerprint powder. It was a discouraging process. Not a sign of a print showed.
“Wiped clean,” the Captain said disgustedly. He reached for the revolver and examined the chambers of the cylinder. One cartridge was missing. Then, squinting and holding the gun at an angle, he read off the numbers. It was the weapon for which Clyde Warner’s permit had been issued.
Lauterback wrote out a tag for identification and tied it through the trigger guard.
“I’ll send it downtown to Ballistics,” he said. “There’s not much doubt that this is the murder gun, but they’ll confirm it. I think, too, that I’ll have another session with Schirmer.
“We know now pretty much how it happened. Warner got there first. Maybe he really called Schirmer so that the latter wouldn’t come, or maybe not. That’s something we don’t know — yet. Anyhow, this is the way it was.
“Clyde Warner takes out his gun, like always. Then this other person comes. They have a couple of drinks and then they get into an argument. The gun is there, staring them both in the face. Maybe this other person grabs it and that’s why Clyde runs all the way to the back room before he gets shot.
“The murderer is pretty cool. He’s lucky so far because nobody noticed the shot. Maybe a truck went by, maybe people thought it was a backfire. That’s happened plenty of times. So the murderer picks up the glass and the gun and looks around for something to put ’em in. That file box is just the thing. He empties it. Then he sneaks downstairs without being seen, drops the box in the nearest rubbish basket and goes home.”
Cassidy nodded. “Sure,” he said. “But I wouldn’t use a file box. Would you?”
Lauterback stared at him, and Cassidy went on.
The following morning a brain trust gathered in the detectives’ room at the precinct station. Present were Captain Lauterback, Inspector Kennedy, in charge of the division, Assistant District Attorney Charles H. Burns, Cassidy and two other detectives.
Cassidy arrived late and had to be told the latest developments. Schirmer hadn’t broken yet. He had been questioned most of the night and had stuck obstinately to his story of the phone call. His landlady, Mrs. Ruth Kaminov, had corroborated the fact of the phone call and said it was a man’s voice, but more than that she couldn’t say.
Some of Clyde’s actions on the night of the murder had been painstakingly traced. He had left his house shortly after eleven and stopped at a bar just off Broadway. The bartender remembered him and said he’d had a Scotch and water. The bartender was vague as to the time he’d left, but was fairly certain he had not made a phone call. It was obviously possible that he had phoned elsewhere, although none of the shopkeepers remembered him.
Both Bertha and Harold Warner were brought in and questioned again. Each stuck to his original story and hinted again that the other might be responsible. Clyde Warner’s papers shed no additional light on the case, nor could any of his acquaintances add anything relevant. The case, therefore, had to rest on the evidence already at hand.
Cassidy coughed nervously. “I think I can swing it,” he said. “I’ve got an idea, and if it works we may get a confession. I need somebody to fake an identification. Redfern can do that. All he has to do is pretend he isn’t a cop and pick up the cue from me. And I need this.” He reached for the murder gun, pressed his finger on the trigger guard and dusted it with powder so that even an amateur could see the clearness of the print. “That’s why I had Ballistics return the gun,” he added.
“This is kind of screwy,” said Burns, from the District Attorney’s office, “but I might go along if you tell what’s behind this idea of yours.”
Cassidy looked miserable. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But we’re up against a stone wall and we’ve got nothing to lose. I just want to question Schirmer and Harold and Bertha Warner together, and show them the print on the gun.”
Lauterback looked at the faces gathered around the table. “All right,” he said. “Go ahead.” He raised his voice and called out, “Bring ’em in!” Harold and Bertha Warner entered, followed by Schirmer. They all looked tired, but defiant. Cassidy knew that what he planned wasn’t going to be easy. He pointed to the empty chair at the large table.
“Sit there, Mr. Warner. We’ve turned up a lot more evidence since the last time anybody talked to you. For one thing, we have the gun.”
Harold Warner sat down, scowling. “I wasn’t anywhere near that air-raid headquarters last night and you know it. I was in Brooklyn. You talked to Poletti. He told you that, didn’t he?”
Cassidy nodded. “Yes, I saw him. He corroborated your alibi. He said you were together until about three-thirty in the morning. But there’s one little difficulty. Poletti may not be on hand to tell that story for you in court.”
Warner jumped to his feet. “What? Why not?”
“He’s not at home this morning. He packed up last night and took it on the lam. He skipped.”
“But... but you’ve got his statement.”
Cassidy nodded. “Yeah. But the OPA is after him on a gas coupon counterfeiting charge. When that comes out, the jury may not want to pay much attention to his statement.”
Warner looked at Cassidy and said nothing.
“And,” the detective continued, “when the OPA agents went through Poletti’s rooms they found evidence that gives them a charge against you, too.” Then Cassidy added ominously, “But you may not have to worry about that after I get through with you.” He shoved the file box forward and opened it so that Warner and the others could see the gun that lay inside. “This is the murder weapon,” he added, lifting the revolver out and turning it so that Warner could see the smudge of fingerprint powder on the trigger guard.