Read Online The Union Club Mysteries by Isaac Asimov - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Isaac Asimov
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head. Anything. Look, Eighty-eight, it could help me out on my job and I won't let on you did anything."
Eighty-eight seemed faintly amused. "You want help? All right, how's this?" His fingers moved as though they were tapping on invisible piano keys and he hummed a few notes of music.
"What's that?" asked the policeman.
"Your hint, cop. I can't talk no more."
Eighty-eight closed his eyes and died en route to the hospital.
They called me in the next day. It was getting to be a habit with them and I didn't like it. I had work of my own to do and helping them brought me thanks, but nothing tangible. I couldn't even get a traffic ticket fixed out of it.
I said, "A gangland killing? Who cares? What's the difference if you solve it or not?" The natural reaction, in other words.
I was talking to Carmody, a lieutenant in the homicide division.
He said, with a growl, "Do I have to get that from you? Isn't it enough we get it from idiots in general. For one thing, the guy who got it was a poor bastard who harmed no one but himself and who deserved better of life—but let's not be sentimental. Look at it this way—
"If we can pin this on someone, we shake up the organization he belongs to. That might amount to nothing. We might not get a conviction, or, if we do, the gang carries on without him. But there's a chance—just a chance— that the shake-up will work cracks in the organization. We might be able to take advantage of those cracks and bust it wide open and pick up the pieces as far as Newark. We've got to play for that, Griswold, and you've got to try to help us."
"But how?" I asked.
"We've got a lead to the killer. I want you to talk to Officer Rodney, who was with Eighty-eight Jinks—he's the dead man—before he died."
Officer Rodney did not look happy. Having a lead he could neither understand nor communicate was no road to advancement.
Painstakingly, he told us of the conversation with Eighty-eight, the same conversation I myself have just described. I don't know how accurate his account was, but, of course, it was the tune that counted.
I said to him, "What kind of tune?"
"I don't know, sir. Just a few notes."
"Did you recognize it? Ever hear it before? Can you name it?"
"No, sir. I never heard it before. It didn't sound like it was part of a popular song or anything like that. Just a few notes that didn't sound like anything."
"Can you remember it? Can you hum it or sing it?"
Rodney looked at me rather horrified. "I'm not much of a singer."
"We're not holding auditions. Just do your best."
He tried several times and then gave up in complete misery. "I'm sorry, sir. He only sang it once and it was like nothing I ever heard. I can't come up with anything."
So we let him go, and he looked relieved at the chance of getting away from questioning that made him seem helpless.
Carmody looked at me anxiously. "What do we do? Do you suppose we could have him put under hypnosis? He might remember then."
I said, "Suppose we did, and he remembered the tune and we recognized it and saw the relationship to a suspect. Could we introduce it all as evidence? Would Rodney survive cross-examination? Would it be convincing to a jury?"
"No, to all three. But if we were satisfied we knew who it was, we could try to break him down—find motive, means and opportunity."
"Do you have any suspects at all?"
"There's a neighborhood gang, of course, and they include three men we have good reason to think have been involved in past killings."
"Get after all three, then."
"Not convincing. If you're after all three, none are scared, since we're clearly in the dark. And it might be someone else altogether, too. If we knew one man and zeroed in on him and him alone—"
"Well," I said, "what are the names of the three suspects you just mentioned."
He said, "Moose Matty, Ace Begad and Gent Diamond."
"In that case," I said, "we may not have a problem. Get Officer Rodney and get us both to the nearest piano."
We located a
Eighty-eight seemed faintly amused. "You want help? All right, how's this?" His fingers moved as though they were tapping on invisible piano keys and he hummed a few notes of music.
"What's that?" asked the policeman.
"Your hint, cop. I can't talk no more."
Eighty-eight closed his eyes and died en route to the hospital.
They called me in the next day. It was getting to be a habit with them and I didn't like it. I had work of my own to do and helping them brought me thanks, but nothing tangible. I couldn't even get a traffic ticket fixed out of it.
I said, "A gangland killing? Who cares? What's the difference if you solve it or not?" The natural reaction, in other words.
I was talking to Carmody, a lieutenant in the homicide division.
He said, with a growl, "Do I have to get that from you? Isn't it enough we get it from idiots in general. For one thing, the guy who got it was a poor bastard who harmed no one but himself and who deserved better of life—but let's not be sentimental. Look at it this way—
"If we can pin this on someone, we shake up the organization he belongs to. That might amount to nothing. We might not get a conviction, or, if we do, the gang carries on without him. But there's a chance—just a chance— that the shake-up will work cracks in the organization. We might be able to take advantage of those cracks and bust it wide open and pick up the pieces as far as Newark. We've got to play for that, Griswold, and you've got to try to help us."
"But how?" I asked.
"We've got a lead to the killer. I want you to talk to Officer Rodney, who was with Eighty-eight Jinks—he's the dead man—before he died."
Officer Rodney did not look happy. Having a lead he could neither understand nor communicate was no road to advancement.
Painstakingly, he told us of the conversation with Eighty-eight, the same conversation I myself have just described. I don't know how accurate his account was, but, of course, it was the tune that counted.
I said to him, "What kind of tune?"
"I don't know, sir. Just a few notes."
"Did you recognize it? Ever hear it before? Can you name it?"
"No, sir. I never heard it before. It didn't sound like it was part of a popular song or anything like that. Just a few notes that didn't sound like anything."
"Can you remember it? Can you hum it or sing it?"
Rodney looked at me rather horrified. "I'm not much of a singer."
"We're not holding auditions. Just do your best."
He tried several times and then gave up in complete misery. "I'm sorry, sir. He only sang it once and it was like nothing I ever heard. I can't come up with anything."
So we let him go, and he looked relieved at the chance of getting away from questioning that made him seem helpless.
Carmody looked at me anxiously. "What do we do? Do you suppose we could have him put under hypnosis? He might remember then."
I said, "Suppose we did, and he remembered the tune and we recognized it and saw the relationship to a suspect. Could we introduce it all as evidence? Would Rodney survive cross-examination? Would it be convincing to a jury?"
"No, to all three. But if we were satisfied we knew who it was, we could try to break him down—find motive, means and opportunity."
"Do you have any suspects at all?"
"There's a neighborhood gang, of course, and they include three men we have good reason to think have been involved in past killings."
"Get after all three, then."
"Not convincing. If you're after all three, none are scared, since we're clearly in the dark. And it might be someone else altogether, too. If we knew one man and zeroed in on him and him alone—"
"Well," I said, "what are the names of the three suspects you just mentioned."
He said, "Moose Matty, Ace Begad and Gent Diamond."
"In that case," I said, "we may not have a problem. Get Officer Rodney and get us both to the nearest piano."
We located a
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