“Would you like to make a statement, Pete?” The Captain spoke the old familiar question softly, almost pleadingly.
“Yes,” Pete responded, under-scoring each word, “I didn’t shoot him, but I can’t explain the slug matching my gun.”
“Take him down and book him,” the Captain commanded Dranow. “Suspicion of murder.”
It took the combined efforts and resources of Sam Tolliver and Pete’s publisher to convince Friendly Frankovitch, a wary bail bondsman who had known Merrick for several years, that he should post the necessary bond. But by noon the following day Pete was temporarily a free man and as Sam drove him back to his apartment they half-heartedly attacked the problem which appeared to have no solution. Ballistics simply did not make mistakes — still, Pete was calling their expert a liar.
Sam braked to a halt at a red light and Pete’s half-closed eyes, raking the street with little interest, suddenly riveted on a shop front: “Look, Sam,” he ordered, “there’s the little gun shop where I saw Conway and the old white-haired man together. And did I tell you I saw him again near the corner where Punchy stood me up the night of the murder?”
“No, you didn’t,” Sam began to move on a green light, then he faced his passenger with excitement beginning to build up in his eyes, “but now I know who your old mystery man is. The old white-haired dude who runs that hole-in-the-wall is an ex-con, Whitey De Jong, has a record long as a police blotter.
“He’s an odd looking old guy with one long ear and he has spent more time in than out — forgery, tampering with gun serial numbers, counterfeiting, you name it and he’s done it if it’s illegal. I’ve heard he’s one of the top three phony money engravers in the country. They say his plates will turn out the queer green that make the ‘T’ boys see red.”
“My old white-hair has one big ear all right but how come he’s out now and running a gun shop?” Pete broke in.
“Well, I think he’s on parole and gun repair is the only legal trade he knows. They go to any lengths to get an ex-con earning a living outside the walls.”
“Sam, something is bothering me about this old fellow and seeing Conway at his shop just doesn’t make sense. Gould Conway be ripping off guns from the old storage room down at the lab and selling them to Whitey De Jong?”
“Could be,” the detective replied cautiously. “Anything’s possible and I’ve heard Conway likes the ponies.”
Without another word passing between them Sam wheeled the car into a cross street and began to drive back toward the gun shop of Whitey De Jong.
As the two entered the dingy little shop and leaned against a sway-backed counter, the hunched old man with a jeweler’s loupe jutting crazily over one eye socket, looked up and squinted. He had been peering into the inner mechanism of a tiny automatic handgun and, as he turned toward the counter, a nervous tic began to twitch a corner of his mouth.
Sam Tolliver engaged the gunsmith in a round of small talk while Pete’s eyes swept over every visible object in the room. A work bench flanked by several racks of tools occupied the cramped space behind the counter while an assortment of hand-guns hung suspended from a peg board on the side wall.
A door at the end of the counter revealed a small inner room meagerly curtained by an old, tattered blanket. Through a slit in this covering Pete could barely distinguish a cot piled with jumbled clothing and assorted bedding. Hanging on the wall behind the cot was a series of what appeared to be photo blowups of some sort.
As Tolliver continued their conversation Whitey grew progressively more tense and edgy. When Pete nudged the detective and suggested they leave, Tolliver half-turned toward the door, his eyes roving across the gun display on the wall. A revolver near the top attracted his attention and he swung back toward the gunsmith. “There’s a nice weapon, Whitey,” he nodded toward the rack.
“Let’s see the .357 Mag up there, just for a minute.”
“What do you want to see it for?” Whitey blurted, as he passed the gun to Tolliver. “You’ve already got a .357.”
The detective took the gun and, turning it over and over several times, examined the serial number and sniffed the cylinder noisily. “Whitey, you shouldn’t put a gun for sale without cleaning it up first. This gun has been fired since it was cleaned last.”
“It couldn’t have,” the man gasped “I cleaned it up good after I traded for it and it hasn’t been out of the shop since.”
“If you say so,” Tolliver answered mildly, returning the gun into a hand that shook. The two men turned to leave and the ex-con’s voice stopped them at the door.
“Don’t try to hang anything on me now, fellows, please. I’ve been clean ever since my last stretch. I can’t go back, it would kill me.” The words faded out on a note of utter hopelessness.
“We’ll see you around,” Tolliver flung at the Old man and closed the door gently.
“You couldn’t really smell anything on the gun, could you?” Pete asked as they approached their car.
“No, just fishing,” Tolliver replied, “but something bugs me about Old Whitey and I can’t say what.”
As the car pulled to a halt before Merrick’s door/ Tolliver placed a firm hand on the other’s shoulder and spoke rapidly and with vehemence. “Pete, somebody has a frame around you big enough to hold the Mona Lisa and I’m certain that the tag on it reads, ‘With best wishes from Big Augie.’ ”
“Thanks for your confidence,” Pete replied as he slammed the door.
“I can’t explain any of it, but I’m trying.” The detective essayed a grin as he slipped the car into gear. “Go up there and lock your door and get some sleep.”
Merrick raised a hand in salute and then turned toward those hateful four flights of stairs and the bitter loneliness of an empty apartment. A thought wormed into his mind, unbidden, as he trudged upward. What would Anne say if she were still alive? Would she believe his story?
Merrick entered the cold apartment and headed for the stagnant coffee pot and prepared for a long night of pacing the floor. A gray dawn was seeping under the window shade before he finally flopped down on the couch, pulled up a blanket and surrendered to utter exhaustion.
But a grim smile crinkled at the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes. He had the thing whipped at last. He knew exactly how it could have been done. All he lacked was proof, any shred of proof. He must wait on Sam Tolliver to produce that.
The next three days crawled by on leaden feet, minute by minute, tedious hour by hour. When Tolliver finally arrived about dusk of the third day, Pete could read both excitement and satisfaction in his old friend’s face. The detective straddled a chair and grinned up at Pete.
“Well, buddy, a helluva lot’s happened since I dropped you off the other day but the Captain kept me mum.” Sam held out a hand for a coffee mug. “Before I begin I’d like to hear your version of the caper. You must have one.”
“Yeah, I have,” Pete answered thoughtfully, “and this is the way it figures.” He slid into a chair across the table from the detective. “Big Augie had to get me off his back but if he had me gunned down suspicion would point directly to him, so he doped out a scheme that would put me behind bars instead.” Pete caused to light a cigarette.
“So far, so good,” Sam prompted, “go on.”
“Well, the mob spread the word that I was to be hit. Then Punchy lured me to the right spot with that phone call. He’s been known to work for Augie before and I’ll bet my last dollar that Punchy is the D.A.’s witness that puts me at the murder scene at nine thirty P.M.”
“True, Punchy is your pigeon,” Sam grunted.
“As to Dan Deaver,” Pete continued, “somebody shot this slob with a .357 Mag at some other location after forcing him to stand up against two garbage cans. Then they brought the body along with the two cans and set them up in the alley in the proper position to make it look like he was shot on the spot. After they got the props all set up they fired a shot into the air from a heavy gun and split.”