He told them about Detective Parnell's report-that Dr. Simon Ellerbee's will had specifically canceled all his patients' outstanding bills.
"Now what the hell do you suppose that means?" he asked the two officers.
They both shook their heads.
"Beats me," Boone said.
"Probably nothing," Jason said.
"Probably," Delaney said, sighing.
"We've sure got a lot of probabilities in this case and damned little we can sink our teeth in. Well, what can I tell you except to keep plugging and Pray for a break."
After they left, he returned to the study to paw through the scattered reports again. He was in a sour, dispirited mood.
"Keep plugging." That was stupid, unnecessary advice to give his aides.
They were experienced police officers and knew that plugging was the name of the game.
What always bemused Delaney in cases like this was the contrast between the grand passion that incited the murder of a human being and the pedestrian efforts of the police to solve it.
In a crazy kind of way, it was like solving the mystery of a Rembrandt by analyzing pigments, brush strokes, and the quality of the canvas, and then saying, "There! Your mystery's explained." It wasn't, of course.
Mystery was mystery. It defied rational explication.
Even if the Ellerbee homicide was closed, Delaney suspected the solution would merely be a resolution of the facts.
The enigma of human behavior would remain hidden.
Two weeks before Christmas, and the city had never been more enchanting.
The "city" being Manhattan, and more particularly midtown Manhattan, with streets glowing with lights and tinsel. Amplified carols rang out everywhere, along with the jingle of bells and cash registers. The annual shopping frenzy was in full swing, stores mobbed, the spending fever an epidemic.
"Take my money, miss-please!"
But downtown, on Seventh Avenue South, there were no lights, no tinsel, no carols. Just some foul remains of the last snowfall, clotted with garbage and dog droppings. Harold Gerber's tenement showed no festive trappings. Paint peeled, plaster fell away, the bare, lathed walls oozed a glutinous slime that smelled of suppuration.
"Oh little town of Bethlehem," Detective Robert Keisman sang.
"How about "Come, All Ye Faithful'?" Jason suggested.
The two detectives were lounging around Gerber's ruinous pad, working on a six-pack of Schaefer. The two black officers were wearing drifter duds, and all three men were bundled in down jackets, with caps and gloves. It was damp, and cold enough to see their breath.
"Let's go through it once more," Jason Two said.
"Oh, Jesus," Gerber said, "do we have to?"
"Sure we have to," Keisman said lazily.
"You're aching to get your ass locked up, aren't you? Spend a nice warm holiday in durance vile-right?
You say you snuffed Doc Ellerbee. Well, yeah, that may be so, but on the other hand you may just be jerking us around." I "See, Harold," Jason said, "we run you in, and it turns out you're just a bullshit artist wasting everyone's time-well, that don't look so good on our records."
"Shit," Gerber said, "you write out any kind of a confession you like-put anything in it you want-and I'll sign it."
"Nah," the Spoiler said, "that's not how it's done, Harold.
You got to tell us in your own words. You say you took a cab over to Ellerbee's townhouse on that night?"
Gerber: "That's right."
Jason: "What kind of cab? Yellow, Checker, gypsy?"
Gerber: "I don't remember."
Keisman: "How long did it take you to get there?"
Gerber: "Maybe twenty minutes."
Jason: "Where did the cabby drop you?"
Gerber: "Right in front of Ellerbee's office."
Keisman: "How did you get in?"
Gerber: "Rang the bell. When he answered, I told him I was in a bad way and had to see him. He let me in."
Jason: "You were carrying the hammer?"
Gerber: "Sure. I carried it with me for the express purpose of killing Ellerbee. It was a premeditated murder."
Keisman: "Uh-huh. Now tell us again where you got the hammer."
Gerber: "I boosted it from that hardware store near Sheridan Square."
Jason: "Just put it under your jacket and walked out?"
Gerber: "That's right."
Keisman: "We checked with them. They lose a lot to shoplifters, but no ball peen hammers."
Gerber: "They don't know their ass from their elbow."
Jason: "All right, now you're inside Ellerbee's townhouse, carrying a hammer. What did you do next?"
Gerber: "Walked upstairs."
Keisman: "You were wearing your boots?"
Gerber: "Sure, I was wearing boots. It was a fucking wet night."
Jason: "You see anyone else in the townhouse?"
Gerber: "No. Just Ellerbee. He let me into his office."
Keisman: "He was alone?"
Gerber: "Yeah, he was alone."
Jason: "Did you talk to him?" Gerber: "I said hello. He started to say,
"What are you doing-' and then I hit him."
Keisman: "He was facing you when you hit him?"
Gerber: "That's right."
Jason: "How many times did you hit him?"
Gerber: "Two or three. I forget."
Keisman: "Where did you hit him? His brow, top of his head, temples-where?"
Gerber: "Like on the hairline. Not on top of his head. High up on the forehead."
Jason: "He went down?"
Gerber: "That's right."
Keisman: "On his back?"
Gerber: "Yeah, on his back."
Jason: "Then what did you do?"
Gerber: "I saw he was dead, so 1-2' Keisman: "You didn't hit him again when he was down?"
Gerber: "What the hell for? The guy was fucking dead.
I've seen enough stiffs to know that. So I got out of there, walked over to York, and got a cab going south."
Jason: "And what did you do with the hammer?"
Gerber: "Like I told you-I pushed it in a trash can on Eighth Street."
Keisman: "Why did you kill him, Harold?"
Gerber: "Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? He was a nosy fucker. After a while he knew too much about me.
Hey, let's have another brew; I'm thirsty."
The three sat there in silence, the two officers staring at the other man's wild, flan-dng eyes. As usual, Gerber needed a shave, and uncombed hair still spiked out from under his black beret.
"You going to take me in?" he asked finally.
"We'll think about it," Jason Two said.
"I did it. That's God's own truth. I'm guilty as hell."
They didn't reply.
"Hey, you guys?" Gerber said brightly, straightening. up.
"I'm moving. A city marshal showed up with an eviction notice. I've got to vacate the premises, as they say."
"Yeah?" the Spoiler said.
"Where you moving to?"
"Who the hell knows? I've got to look around. I want another place as swell as this one.".
"Need any help moving?" Jason offered.
"Moving what?" Harold Gerber said with a ferocious grin.
"I can carry all my stuff in a shopping bag. I'm going to leave a lot of shit right here. You guys want any books? I've got a pile of paperbacks over there under the sink. Some hot stuff.
Yore welcome to any or all." Yeah?" Jason said.
"Let's take a look. Maybe there's something my wife would like. She's always got her nose in a book." He squatted down at the sink, began to inspect the jumble of books. He pulled out a thick one.
"What's this?" he said.
"A Bible?"
"Oh, that…" Gerber said casually.
"I fished it out of a garbage can.
I flipped through it. A million laughs."
Jason inspected the book.
"Douay Version," he read aloud.
"That's a Catholic Bible, isn't it? You a Catholic, Harold?"
"I was. Once. What are you?"
"Baptist. Mind if I take this along?" Jason Two asked, holding up the Bible.
"Be my guest," Gerber said.
"Read the whole thing. I won't tell you how it comes out."
They sat around awhile longer before the two officers left, promising Gerber they'd tell him the next day whether or not they would arrest him.