Ed Lacy - Strip For Violence

“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.

He tried to push the newspaper clipping off the picture, but I caught his heavy hand. “Leave it—the clipping has hidden the tip of her nose. With blonde hair—who is this?”

“Looks like somebody I've seen in the movies or...”

“It's Margrita! I'd better enroll in that mail-order badge school Anita was attending, get the rust out of my brains. She bobbed her nose, dyed her hair, changed her name— to get away from her call-gal past. Damn, should have figured that from the start This is going to be my lucky day.”

“Don't overplay yourself. You've found the gal, but you still got nothing that will convict Franklin, Go to court with that bullet business and they'll stick you in a padded cell.”

“I haven't even got the diamond sliver any more, but at least I know what I'm looking for, and that's half the case.”

Bobo waved a strong hand, as though clearing the air. “Hal, that beating you got last night must of kayoed your common sense. All you need now is a motive. And if you find that, then all you got to do is hang a conviction on one of the most powerful monkeys in the country—'Cat' Franklin.”

“I got... something else waiting for the 'Cat',” I said, getting the telegraph office on the phone, wiring Guy Moore in St. Louis that I'd found Marion Lodge.

7

The newspaper stories on the killings carried the home addresses of Shelton and Brody—they both lived in Will's neighborhood, within walking distance of the bank.

Brody's was a modest brownstone, the kind of a house he picked up cheap in 1931-32, when the banks were foreclosing and trying to sell houses for the balance due on the mortgage. He could have managed it on the sixty a week the bank probably paid him, even made a few bucks if he took in roomers. They had roomers: there were three bells in the doorway—Mrs. Ralph Brody had the basement. A plain, faded woman of about fifty-five, answered my ring. “Mrs. Ralph Brody?”

She said yes and I had a sinking feeling I was on the wrong track, Franklin would only kill for money, big money, and she looked like she'd never seen anything larger than a ten-buck bill in her life. I showed her my badge, identification card, told her, “In handling a matter for a client, I've stumbled across something that may throw some light on your husband's death. Can I talk to you?”

She fumbled in her old print dress for her glasses, gave me the once-over. For once in my life I was grateful for my half-pint size, harmless-looking baby-puss.

“Why, yes. Come in.” She had a mild, dull voice that went with her personality. Bobo was sitting in the car, just in case I never came out of the house, and I nodded to him with my noggin, followed her inside.

It was a neat little apartment, everything old and spotless. There was an ancient, bulky radio, but no TV set, and there wasn't a piece of furniture newer than ten years. It was obviously the home of a couple just getting by on a weekly salary. She motioned toward a cane chair, sat down opposite me.

Choosing my words with care, I said, “Mrs. Brody, I may be off on a wild-goose chase, so until I'm... a... positive of my suspicions, I can't give you the name of my client, tell you much. But if you'll answer a few questions, I might be able to find your husband's killer.”

“I don't mind talking. Don't have much chance any more. I'm sure Ralph was killed by a youngster. Children are so wild these days, no security, and all this violence in the world tempts them to try anything. Even rob and kill for a few dollars.”

“You have any children?”

“Mr. Brody and I were never blessed with any.”

“Know this is personal, but did Mr. Brody bet the horses, gamble... play around?”

She gave me a flat, timid smile. “For the last twenty-three years Mr. Brody left this house at exactly 8:25 every morning to go to the bank, returned at noon for lunch, returned again at a quarter to five in the afternoon to putter around our back yard, have supper. In the evening he either read, played cards with me, or worked at his hobby —soap sculpturing. Sometimes on a Friday night we went out to a movie, or on Sundays we might visit an art museum. Does that answer your question, young man?”

Completely. One thing more, shortly before his death, did your husband mention anything about coming into any money? Perhaps a stock market deal, or a relation leaving him an estate?”

Every Friday Mr. Brody handed me his pay envelope and I gave him an allowance of eight dollars. That's all the money he ever had, ever needed.”

I looked at this dull woman, thought of her mild uneventful life, wondered if she'd ever been young and passionate looking, if she'd been happy. Yet in her dull way, she'd probably been happier than a Louise, or an Anita, or even Margrita. I wondered if a marriage like that was boring, or was this contentment, the real thing?

Standing up, I said, “Well, thank you, Mrs. Brody. I'll let you know when I have something definite about the shootings. By the by, was Mr. Brody friendly with Mr. Shelton?”

“Indeed he was. Mr. Shelton and his daughter often came here for Christmas and Thanksgiving.”

“Aha. Did Mr. Brody have any brothers or sisters who might have been involved in gambling or...?”

“We were both only children.” She got to her feet with an effortless motion that somehow seemed to reflect the whole pattern of her life. “Would you care to see his statues? Ralph was really very talented, always meant to give more time and effort to his hobby. But the bank took up most of his time, became a rut for us—a comfortable rut. Here, let me show you. Would you care for some lemonade?”

“Have anything stronger?”

“I'm sorry, but we never touched liquor.”

“Lemonade will be fine.”

She smiled at me, showing even white teeth. “That last question was a trap, wasn't it? Wanted to know if we drank, didn't you?”

“Yeah, I'm a clumsy detective.”

“We never drank anything except some wine at Christmas,” she said as I followed her into a short hallway, through a large, scrubbed kitchen, then into a glass-enclosed porch that opened on a back yard full of flowers. The porch held a showcase that had a number of small models of ships and dogs, a few heads of famous people—I recognized FDR as one—all carved out of cakes of soap. There was an old-fashioned icebox, with a pan under it to catch the dripping, near the door, and Mrs. Brody took a pitcher of lemonade out of the box, poured out two glasses.

It wasn't bad, either.

Pointing to the statues she said, “These mean so much to me. And those certificates on the wall—prizes Ralph won in contests. He once won a toaster, too. Yes, these little figures are all I have left of him. When two people live close lives and one of them suddenly... departs... at first the loneliness is unbearable. The bank had given Ralph, all its employees, a small insurance policy. I thought I'd sell the house, move to California. But somehow, I'm as busy as ever every day, doing the same things I've always done. Time passes and I'm still here. Probably never move, this house is my world.”

“How big was that policy?” I asked, bending to get a closer look at the soap figures. I'm not the artistic kind— soap was ringing a different kind of bell in my mind.