Read Online Dead Man's Tale by Ellery Queen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellery Queen
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flagstone walk, moving briskly, and she waved and shut the door. The man passed by the light that stood on a post at the beginning of the flagstone walk. Steve had seen his face very clearly. The manâs name was Joey Imparato and he had been fingered for Steve in Ninoâs Restaurant in Westbury after the trotters at Roosevelt Raceway.
Joey Imparato ran a small garbage-trucking firm in two Oyster Bay towns in the days before garbage collection had gone municipal. He had been asked politely to amalgamate with the big boys. He had refused just as politely. He had been asked again, not so politely. He had refused not so politely. One of his haulers was mauled after leaving the dump in Syosset. Then Joey had made a lot of noise about organizing the half-dozen or so independent garbage firms that were left and along with the noise went unexpected progress. So the word was passed: Joey Imparato had to be hit.
âThat the bum?â Chicken Little repeated.
Steveâs throat had felt funny; he could only nod. Chicken smiled expectantly. They had been standing in the cold rain for almost three-quarters of an hour waiting for Joey Imparato to come out after walking his girl friend home from the movies.
âHe must of laid the broad,â Chicken had said. âHeâll die happy.â
Chicken Little had fired, twice. Joey Imparato spun around and started to fall. In the dream there was a surprised look on Joeyâs face, but that couldnât have been, for by then he was out on the sidewalk and they wouldnât have been able to see his face in the dark.
Steve had fired, too. His hand was shaking, so he probably missed, but that didnât matter. He was just as guilty as Chicken.
After Steve fired, Chicken had run over, stood over Joey, and shot him point-blank four times more. Then the revolver clicked on an empty chamber.
Things had happened fast after that. The front door of the clapboard house opened and the girl started to yell. A car, the getaway car, roared up the block and came to a stop.
The car had been stolen in Hicksville and Lou Goody, who could make your hair stand on end with the tricks he could pull behind a wheel, was driving.
But another car was behind him. It was a blue-and-orange county patrol car. The siren started its scream. Steve ran to the car Lou Goody was driving. Chicken Little, running across the wet street, wasnât so lucky. He slipped on the slick asphalt and fell down in the path of the police car.
âClose the freakinâ door!â Lou Goody shouted.
Steve had slammed it and they shot away from the kerb.
By the time one of the cops could jump out and collar Chicken, Lou had had a fair head start. They careened out of Hempstead and along the Bethpage Turnpike. They could hear the siren wailing behind them.
Goody swung the car, tyres screeching, north on Post Avenue. This made very good sense, for the crowds from the old Roosevelt Raceway, slowed by the rain, were still funnelling out of the raceway exit. But then, Lou Goody was a very good getaway man.
They joined the raceway traffic heading north. The cop lost them there. They abandoned the stolen car in Westbury and went into Feliceâs Restaurant, where Lou Goody ordered a seafood supper for both of them. The sight and the smell of the food made Steve sick. He rushed to the menâs room and vomited.
Later, Goody phoned a friend who drove them home to Mineola, where they spent the night at Louâs apartment.
That was where the dream ended, but there was more than the dream involved.
Two days later Steve was arrested and booked on suspicion of murder. The grand jury was unable to present a prima-facie case against him, and he was released. The fact that Chicken Littleâwho drew a life sentenceâimplicated him didnât matter legally.
Section 399 of the Criminal Code of the State of New York states: âA conviction cannot be had upon the testimony of an accomplice, unless he
Joey Imparato ran a small garbage-trucking firm in two Oyster Bay towns in the days before garbage collection had gone municipal. He had been asked politely to amalgamate with the big boys. He had refused just as politely. He had been asked again, not so politely. He had refused not so politely. One of his haulers was mauled after leaving the dump in Syosset. Then Joey had made a lot of noise about organizing the half-dozen or so independent garbage firms that were left and along with the noise went unexpected progress. So the word was passed: Joey Imparato had to be hit.
âThat the bum?â Chicken Little repeated.
Steveâs throat had felt funny; he could only nod. Chicken smiled expectantly. They had been standing in the cold rain for almost three-quarters of an hour waiting for Joey Imparato to come out after walking his girl friend home from the movies.
âHe must of laid the broad,â Chicken had said. âHeâll die happy.â
Chicken Little had fired, twice. Joey Imparato spun around and started to fall. In the dream there was a surprised look on Joeyâs face, but that couldnât have been, for by then he was out on the sidewalk and they wouldnât have been able to see his face in the dark.
Steve had fired, too. His hand was shaking, so he probably missed, but that didnât matter. He was just as guilty as Chicken.
After Steve fired, Chicken had run over, stood over Joey, and shot him point-blank four times more. Then the revolver clicked on an empty chamber.
Things had happened fast after that. The front door of the clapboard house opened and the girl started to yell. A car, the getaway car, roared up the block and came to a stop.
The car had been stolen in Hicksville and Lou Goody, who could make your hair stand on end with the tricks he could pull behind a wheel, was driving.
But another car was behind him. It was a blue-and-orange county patrol car. The siren started its scream. Steve ran to the car Lou Goody was driving. Chicken Little, running across the wet street, wasnât so lucky. He slipped on the slick asphalt and fell down in the path of the police car.
âClose the freakinâ door!â Lou Goody shouted.
Steve had slammed it and they shot away from the kerb.
By the time one of the cops could jump out and collar Chicken, Lou had had a fair head start. They careened out of Hempstead and along the Bethpage Turnpike. They could hear the siren wailing behind them.
Goody swung the car, tyres screeching, north on Post Avenue. This made very good sense, for the crowds from the old Roosevelt Raceway, slowed by the rain, were still funnelling out of the raceway exit. But then, Lou Goody was a very good getaway man.
They joined the raceway traffic heading north. The cop lost them there. They abandoned the stolen car in Westbury and went into Feliceâs Restaurant, where Lou Goody ordered a seafood supper for both of them. The sight and the smell of the food made Steve sick. He rushed to the menâs room and vomited.
Later, Goody phoned a friend who drove them home to Mineola, where they spent the night at Louâs apartment.
That was where the dream ended, but there was more than the dream involved.
Two days later Steve was arrested and booked on suspicion of murder. The grand jury was unable to present a prima-facie case against him, and he was released. The fact that Chicken Littleâwho drew a life sentenceâimplicated him didnât matter legally.
Section 399 of the Criminal Code of the State of New York states: âA conviction cannot be had upon the testimony of an accomplice, unless he
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