“The little eye. What's up, Sherlock?”
For once I was glad to hear his corny humor. “Nothing. Called to learn if you had anything new.”
“We're still digging, expect the break any day.”
I wanted to laugh into the phone: Saltz must have thought he was talking to the press. “Look, Lieutenant, has there been a diamond cutter, or anybody in the diamond business, reported missing in the last three or four months?”
“What the hell has that got to...?”
“Case I'm on. Missing husband, think he worked in the diamond trade under a false name. Thought you might be able to give me a hand.”
“I got enough cases to work on without helping you. For a little guy you got more nerve than...”
“Okay, don't go up in the air,” I said, thinking it didn't make much difference if I located the diamond cutter or not—he would certainly be dead by now—if my brainstorm was correct.
“I'll boot your little can up in the air! Up to my neck in work and you pester me with looking for call-girls, for diamond cutters—what the hell you think this is, a quiz program?”
“Sorry,” I said. “By the by, happened to pick up an old paper on the subway—those two bank men who were shot about a month ago—wasn't it rather odd that 'Cat' Franklin was mixed up in it, the only witness?”
“What are you, mother's little helper today?” Saltz growled.
“I'm merely trying to learn how to be a detective,” I said sweetly, not laying the sarcasm on too heavy.
“You're nuts and I'm even crazier to bother talking to you! I was in on that bank case. Franklin had a permit for the gun. We made a thorough ballistics check of his cannon, wasn't the same one that killed the bank men.”
“Was it the same caliber?”
“Yes, but the ballistic markings were entirely different What you driving at?”
“Just wondering.”
“Stick to guarding dance halls and stop wasting my time!” Saltz said, hanging up.
4
I read the news stories again. Both men had been shot with one bullet apiece, clean through the heart. No matter what anybody says, a pistol isn't a very accurate weapon, especially for a punk firing during the heat of a stick-up on a rainy day. I read through a couple more editions till I came upon another item I was looking for—Franklin had emptied his gun at the “killer.” The fantastic idea was still pounding at the door of my brain, and crazy or not, it fitted in with everything else. I glanced at Shirley. “Take the day off. I got talk for Bobo.”
A hurt look swiftly crossed her brown face, then turned to anger.
“Look, Shirley,” I added, “it isn't that I don't trust you. Only there's a reward for what I know—a bullet or a slit throat. Don't want you collecting that kind of payoff, so less you know...”
“But I got off early yesterday. And only worked an hour or so today and...”
“Tell you what, come back about three. Meantime, go to the Paramount and...”
“I don't like movies, too stupid these days.”
I grinned. “Shirley, will you please blow.”
She hesitated, finally got her hat and left. I locked the door, told Bobo, “Don't you go blabbing what I'm going to tell you. Wouldn't tell you except I have to try this on somebody for size.”
“Did I ever have a big mouth, Hal?”
“Here's something you didn't know, that rock we had, it was a sliver off an industrial diamond about a half inch long, worth ten grand. It...”
“A diamond?”
“Yeah. Diamonds that have flaws, poor color, are used in industry for drills, polishing, stuff like that. This was made special.... I think it was a diamond bullet!”
5
Bobo looked at the cold stub of a cigar he was chewing, said, “Hal, I know what I'm smoking, so it must be you. You puffing tea? A diamond bullet!”
“Listen to this—all of it—before you sound off. Our client, the postman, is sitting in his living-room, five stories up and no roofs around him, when this slug comes tear-assing through the window and metal blinds, breaks apart on a copper vase. What else but a gun would send a diamond slug, or any slug, that high and with that amount of force?
“Now, Willie don't know what it is, takes it to a jeweler on his mail route, learns it's an industrial diamond, worth ten grand. He wants that dough but isn't sure the stone is his, wants to play it safe. He hires us with a bunko story, to find out who owns the rock, whether he can sell it. Assuming it is a diamond bullet, why should anybody spend at least ten thousand bucks having such a bullet made?”
“That's why it don't make sense,” Bobo said. “In cowboy stories I read about silver slugs, but never a diamond bullet. If a guy wants to wear it on a chain, wouldn't spend...”
“Wear it? This guy used it for shooting! I think I have the answer, though it may sound wild as hell. You know what ballistics is—same as fingerprinting for bullets. The nose of a bullet is made of lead and the gun barrel has grooves to keep the slug spinning straight. As the bullet comes out of the barrel, these grooves cut into the lead, leave markings that...”
“I know that, but...?”
“Willya listen? Being harder than lead, the steel grooves of the pistol barrel cut the bullet slug. Now, suppose a guy makes a diamond nose for a bullet, the diamond being harder than steel will work in reverse—instead of the grooves cutting the bullet, the bullet will cut the grooves!”
Bobo shook his head. “I still don't get it. Why should Franklin spend all that dough when he could hire a couple guns for peanuts and...”
“I don't know the motive—yet—but for some reason the 'Cat' can't trust anybody to knock these jokers off, he has to do it himself. He had this diamond bullet made by a guy who probably is wearing cement slippers at the bottom of the ocean this minute. Let's say the diamond slug is the fourth bullet in the gun. The 'Cat' can take careful aim, kill the two men with a shot apiece, then empties his gun at the supposed killer—being very careful to shoot at a high angle—which is how the diamond went into Will's apartment. That was the one thing the 'Cat' couldn't figure on, the luck factor that always screws up these perfect crime deals.”
Bobo, toying with the scissors, said, “I must be dumb as hell, but what has the diamond got to do with all this? Why couldn't he shoot the two of them and throw the gun...?”
“Diamonds are harder than steel.”
“And also a girl's best friend,” Bobo said, grinning. “You mean he wanted a slug that would cut through both guys at once?”
“No, no. Look, he kills the men with two carefully aimed shots, could have used two more—if necessary. Then he empties his gun in the air. When the cops check his gun against the slugs in the men, Franklin is in the clear because the ballistics markings are different—even though only one gun was used. Don't you see, any bullet fired after the diamond slug will show different markings than those fired before because the diamond has changed the barrel groovings!”
Bobo stared at the scissors for a moment. “Could be a sharp idea. Would it really work?”
“Why not? If it was made wrong might bust the gun, but we can assume for the bundle Franklin invested, he got a perfect job. This has to be the answer. How else can we account for a diamond hitting Will's window at about the same time two men are being shot nearby?”
“Sounds okay, except why would the 'Cat' kill?”
“That's the next thing we have to get on top of. We're going to make a call on the Brody and Shelton houses,” I said, standing up, reaching for my hat. Bobo handed me a newspaper clipping he had cut out, and it slipped from my fingers, traced lazy circles in the air as it gently landed on the desk... across Marion Lodge's picture.
6
I stood there, my hand still up in the air, near the hat-rack, my eyes glued to the desk. If I had a hunch I was on the right track with my diamond-bullet theory, I knew my luck was riding now for sure... for at that very moment I located Marion Lodge. “Bobo! Who is this?” I pointed to the snapshot on my desk.