“Can’t be done without charging him,” Sands said dryly. “He may have reformed and we’d hate like hell to persecute a reformed man since it’s against the law. What’s Smithson’s number?”
Klausen told him, added a few remarks about the law and hung up.
It required thirteen rings to rouse Smithson, but there was no difficulty persuading him. He announced in a high tenor that he would be simply thrilled to help the police again, that he just adored reconstructing pictures, it was the most divine fun.
“I’ll have them sent over immediately,” Sands said. “What’s the address?”
Sands rang off and wrote the address on the cover of the phone book.
Stevie said, grimacing, “I bet he lives in a frightfully ducky apartment in the Village.”
“Right. Gerrard Street.”
“What can he do?”
“Miracles,” Sands said. “He used to travel around from city to city doing chalk portraits in poolrooms and restaurants and the like, until Klausen saw some of his work.” He called headquarters and asked for a patrol car. Then he wrote his instructions on a piece of paper, aided by Stevie’s description of Murillo as he looked now.
“Add about forty pounds,” Stevie said.
“Forty pounds,” Sands wrote. “Height?”
“He’s about as tall as I am, five eleven.”
“Hair?”
“I never saw it,” Stevie said. “He always kept his hat on. But I like to think he’s getting bald.”
“Tell me everything you know about his personal habits.”
“I thought I had. What’s that got to do with it?”
“In Galvison’s case it was one of the determining factors that he had a habit of picking up gonorrhea. So when Smithson did his picture he treated Galvison to g.c. eyes, the sort of thing you can’t easily get rid of or disguise. As a matter of fact Galvison turned up at the venereal clinic at the Royal Vic in Montreal and was picked up at the door.”
In half an hour the instructions were ready. A patrolman took the paper and pictures, stiffly refused a drink, turned smartly on his heel, tripped over the rug and vanished.
“I hope,” Stevie said dryly, “that Mr. Smithson does his job very, very well.”
“Still scared?”
“I don’t like knives.”
“Another drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Help yourself.”
Over the rim of the glass Stevie looked thoughtful. “So why didn’t Murillo take the jewel box?”
“Funk. It’s pretty likely that he heard Mr. Heath come in and all Murillo wanted to do was get out. He must have been pretty nervy by that time because he’d already bungled once. He tried to hold up a beer dive.”
“My God,” Stevie said.
“He sat around the place first, drinking and leaving his fingerprints all over the table, glasses and bottles. Not our brightest light of crime, Murillo.”
“Did he get away?”
“Of course he got away,” Sands said, smiling. “Empty-handed, as later.”
“This is beginning to smell.” Stevie put the glass back on the table. He made his voice casual. “Know anyone who’d pay Murillo to do just what he did? It has been done, hasn’t it? You pay a man to murder. Maybe you even pay him to make a murder look like an outside job and not to do the murdering.”
“Maybe you do,” Sands said.
“But I don’t think he would.”
“Who would?”
“He. My first murderer, the smooth one. He wouldn’t pay anyone to do it, he’d do it himself. He’d make it look like an accident. He’s good at that. You didn’t catch on to him the first time.”
“So I missed a murder?” Sands said quietly.
“Sure. You must miss lots of them.”
“Probably.”
“When you’re not on the lookout for them.”
“I’m still agreeing. I’d like to hear about it.”
Stevie glanced at him sharply. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“No. At least, no more than the rest of us.”
“Thanks,” Stevie said with a dry laugh. “Well, I’ve talked to a couple of people about this and they gave me the razzberry, so I didn’t go to the police. The police now come to me and I’m going to go on record as saying that two years ago Johnny Heath murdered a girl called Geraldine Smith...”
Sands said nothing.
“A perfect murder,” Stevie added softly, “and it was perfect because it was perfectly timed and the stage was all set.
“You are sitting in a rumbleseat with a girl. It’s a fine night and you have the girl’s head on your shoulder. Her hair is blowing in your face. If it was some other girl’s hair you’d think it was fine. But you’ve tired of this girl. She’s not in your class and she’s lived with another guy, at least one other, and she wants to marry you. So the hair makes you sick.
“ ‘My arm is tired,’ you say, and you push her away, maybe.
“ ‘Johnny, what’s the matter?’ she says.
“Then later on you hit something and the girl with the hair goes flying out of the rumbleseat. The two people in the front are hurt. The man is bleeding, the girl, your sister is unconscious. You’re shaken up a little but you’re big, you’re tough, you feel well enough to go over and cut Geraldine’s throat. This is the only chance you’ll ever get. Take it. You cut her throat with a piece of glass, you mess her up. Geraldine Smith has now been killed in an automobile accident. But you forgot something. Six months later another guy is going to remember, but you don’t know that.
“You stagger around and get a cop. The cop doesn’t ask many questions. Just another accident. There’s an inquest but nobody does anything to you, they’ve got nothing on you, you weren’t even driving the car. Perfect set-up, perfect timing, perfect murder.
“That’s what you think. Six months later the other guy remembers something...
“So I went down to a pawnshop,” Stevie said, “and bought a magnifying glass. Tie that for a laugh, me with a magnifying glass playing Sherlock Holmes. I got out a copy of the Globe and Mail I’d saved, and I looked at pictures with my magnifying glass. The pictures weren’t very clearly printed in the newspaper.”
“We keep a file of accident pictures,” Sands said, “if you want to look at them any time.”
“Any time such as now?”
“That’s right.”
Stevie laughed. “Sorry, I haven’t my magnifying glass with me. And maybe I dreamed up the whole thing, eh?”
“I don’t think so. I think I know what you were looking for, and didn’t see. You want to come now?”
“No, thanks,” Stevie said. “Maybe after you’ve squared Higgins and Murillo is caught...”
“... and Jordan quits shaking in his shoes. You’re straddling a fence, Jordan. Jump on our side, or jump on theirs. You may think you’re playing safe but where you’re sitting you’re a good target.” He got up and picked up his hat from the table. “Can I drop you anywhere?”
“Don’t bother,” Stevie said. “I’ll just flush myself down the toilet.”
“I’m sorry you’re acting childish,” Sands said, walking to the door. “You’re not cute enough to get away with it.”
“Maybe not.” Stevie followed him to the door, yawning. “I used to be cute as hell, though. In my prime I recited Kipling at Sunday School and rumor has it that I laid them in the pews.”
Sands locked the door and led the way down the steps.
His car was parked in front of the apartment house, and he held the door open and motioned Stevie to get in.
“You want to hear about the rest of my life? After all, Kipling was only a phase, a mere facet of my many facets.”
Sands let in the clutch and the car shot ahead in swift jerks.
“After Kipling and the Sunday School I was ready, come what may. And here’s what came. My old man, having become justifiably sick of my old lady, jumped out of an airplane — without benefit of parachute. I personally think he showed good common sense.”