Read Online The Body Looks Familiar by Richard Wormser - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Wormser
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precinct house. Martin, a man with brains and reasoning power, wanted a job where he could use them; and such jobs are not found in a precinct commander’s routine.
The DeLisle case had not particularly interested him at first. A quick glance at the dead girl’s apartment had told him this was not a robbery case; jewelry well worth a heist-man’s time was left in plain view.
Not robbery and not, the clothing told him, rape; therefore blackmail or any one of the motives lumped together as passion; one of those killings that happen when one partner in an affair moves out or wants to move out to more stimulating activities.
Routine.
The arrest of Ralph Guild had surprised him; in the sense that a man picking up a sugar jar in a cafeteria is surprised when he finds it empty. Captain Martin’s quick, unruffled mind said at once, “Sure. He stole the cheap beads, she found out, he was going to lose his job. So, bang.”
The “bang” had now become “bang (?).” The good mind was now beginning to reject the obvious.
That the News-Journal would try and get Guild off was nothing. The News-Journal was backing Frederick Van Lear—who was their attorney and one of their directors—for a political office, that was what that meant. But that Van Lear would pick this particular case, with a dozen easier looking ones on the docket—that had significance.
Yeah.
Cap Martin leaned back, put his feet on the desk. A buzzer was at his hand; it would take him only a moment to get the file on Guild… But he knew enough. It was just a matter of putting things together a little differently.
So: The hour of the killing would indicate that she had been at a nightclub or at a private home. Which, and with whom?…
He let that go for a moment. She had come home, opened her door, walked in and been shot, at once… Yeah. Lights were not on in the bedroom or bathroom, and that kind of dame would head at once for a good place to repair her face or—
He picked up the phone, asked for the medical examiner. “Two questions, Doc, both easy. Did DeLisle’s shoes fit her, and what was the state of her lipstick?”
The M.E. chuckled. “Marty, you’re something. We just got the bullets out and checked her stomach for food. She’d eaten about two hours before. Want to know what?”
“Chicken sandwich?”
Another chuckle. “Close enough. Club sandwich—bacon, tomato, and either chicken or turkey.”
“Can you tell which?”
Captain Martin permitted himself a slow smile. He was about to unveil one of those little bits of knowledge that so astounded his colleagues and even, after all these years, his wife. The sputtering on the other end of the telephone was his reward. Doc was asking what possible business of the Homicide Squad it could be if the dead girl ate chicken or turkey in her sandwich.
“Easy,” Cap Martin said. “Restaurants always make a club sandwich out of turkey. Private homes almost always use chicken. Could tell you why, but you don’t deserve it. Want to know where she was.”
“Call you back,” the M.E. said.
Cap Martin said, “And if her feet were tight in her shoes, and had she fixed her lipstick after she came home.”
“I get you,” the M.E. said. “Put ’em together, you’ll know whether she was alone.”
“Right.” He hung up the phone, and gave the ceiling of his office a hard stare. He had been a fool. Never judge a case an easy one. There’s a rule that ought to be hung in every squad room in the country.
He’d take a run out to Guild’s house, take a News-Journal man with him since they were obviously in with this Van Lear who now thought he could clear Guild.
Cap Martin called headquarters press room, asked for the News-Journal, and got Harry Weber. He said, “Come on up here. Something for you.”
Then he used his memory. Koch and Lyons had made the pinch. He told Jake, his patrolman-secretary, to get them out to Guild’s house, to wait for him.
By which time, the M.E. had
The DeLisle case had not particularly interested him at first. A quick glance at the dead girl’s apartment had told him this was not a robbery case; jewelry well worth a heist-man’s time was left in plain view.
Not robbery and not, the clothing told him, rape; therefore blackmail or any one of the motives lumped together as passion; one of those killings that happen when one partner in an affair moves out or wants to move out to more stimulating activities.
Routine.
The arrest of Ralph Guild had surprised him; in the sense that a man picking up a sugar jar in a cafeteria is surprised when he finds it empty. Captain Martin’s quick, unruffled mind said at once, “Sure. He stole the cheap beads, she found out, he was going to lose his job. So, bang.”
The “bang” had now become “bang (?).” The good mind was now beginning to reject the obvious.
That the News-Journal would try and get Guild off was nothing. The News-Journal was backing Frederick Van Lear—who was their attorney and one of their directors—for a political office, that was what that meant. But that Van Lear would pick this particular case, with a dozen easier looking ones on the docket—that had significance.
Yeah.
Cap Martin leaned back, put his feet on the desk. A buzzer was at his hand; it would take him only a moment to get the file on Guild… But he knew enough. It was just a matter of putting things together a little differently.
So: The hour of the killing would indicate that she had been at a nightclub or at a private home. Which, and with whom?…
He let that go for a moment. She had come home, opened her door, walked in and been shot, at once… Yeah. Lights were not on in the bedroom or bathroom, and that kind of dame would head at once for a good place to repair her face or—
He picked up the phone, asked for the medical examiner. “Two questions, Doc, both easy. Did DeLisle’s shoes fit her, and what was the state of her lipstick?”
The M.E. chuckled. “Marty, you’re something. We just got the bullets out and checked her stomach for food. She’d eaten about two hours before. Want to know what?”
“Chicken sandwich?”
Another chuckle. “Close enough. Club sandwich—bacon, tomato, and either chicken or turkey.”
“Can you tell which?”
Captain Martin permitted himself a slow smile. He was about to unveil one of those little bits of knowledge that so astounded his colleagues and even, after all these years, his wife. The sputtering on the other end of the telephone was his reward. Doc was asking what possible business of the Homicide Squad it could be if the dead girl ate chicken or turkey in her sandwich.
“Easy,” Cap Martin said. “Restaurants always make a club sandwich out of turkey. Private homes almost always use chicken. Could tell you why, but you don’t deserve it. Want to know where she was.”
“Call you back,” the M.E. said.
Cap Martin said, “And if her feet were tight in her shoes, and had she fixed her lipstick after she came home.”
“I get you,” the M.E. said. “Put ’em together, you’ll know whether she was alone.”
“Right.” He hung up the phone, and gave the ceiling of his office a hard stare. He had been a fool. Never judge a case an easy one. There’s a rule that ought to be hung in every squad room in the country.
He’d take a run out to Guild’s house, take a News-Journal man with him since they were obviously in with this Van Lear who now thought he could clear Guild.
Cap Martin called headquarters press room, asked for the News-Journal, and got Harry Weber. He said, “Come on up here. Something for you.”
Then he used his memory. Koch and Lyons had made the pinch. He told Jake, his patrolman-secretary, to get them out to Guild’s house, to wait for him.
By which time, the M.E. had
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