The Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 15 Classic Crime & Mystery Stories
- Автор: Деминг Ричард
- Год: 2015
- Язык: английский
- Год: Wildside Press
- ISBN: 9781479406159
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 15 Classic Crime & Mystery Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
There was another period of silence before the DA. said slowly, “It’s also going to present me with a choice of the frying pan or the fire. If I don’t try Singer for murder, my opponent in the next election can charge me with coddling a psychopathic killer. If I do, he can hit me for persecuting an innocent man whose only crime was defending himself against criminals who never should have been on the street in the first place if I had properly done my job of prosecuting them for previous crimes.”
“What do you suggest?” Ireland asked.
“I want to talk to this Singer man. When can you get him to my office? On second thought, too many reporters drop in here at unexpected times, and one just might get curious about who he is. When can you get him to your office?”
“He made it at five of six last time. I can phone him at his beauty salon and ask him to drop by again this evening.”
“All right. Inspector Fitzer and I will be there a few minutes before six, unless you call me back that you can’t arrange it.”
Ireland didn’t have to call back, because Rollin Singer readily agreed to make the meeting.
Inspector Horace Fitzer, a burly man of sixty, arrived at the precinct house at a quarter to six. District Attorney Lyle Corrigan came in five minutes later. He was a tall, slightly stooped man who wore horn-rimmed glasses and somewhat resembled Henry Kissinger. Rollin Singer showed up five minutes after the Bronx D.A.
After introductions, and after everyone was seated, Lyle Corrigan said, “I’m not going to beat about the bush, Mr. Singer. I’m familiar enough with the original art of jujitsu as you practice it to know you wouldn’t have had to kill any of your attackers in order to subdue them. Or at least not three of them. I’m convinced you are deliberately killing.”
Singer examined him quizzically and quite calmly. “I think you would have considerable difficulty establishing that in court, Mr. Corrigan. I will go on record right now, under oath if you desire, that my sole intent was to protect myself against attack in all three instances. I assure you all three deaths were quite accidental.”
Burly Horace Fitzer said in a surly voice, “You’re wasting your time, Lyle. This guy is obviously a psychopathic killer who thinks he has cleverly figured out a legal way to get his kicks. You ought to disabuse him of that notion fast by dragging him before a grand jury.”
The little man gazed at the Bronx police commander without resentment. In a pleasant tone he said, “Mr. Corrigan knows he could never get an indictment, let alone a conviction, Inspector.”
The district attorney said, “Let’s try a little reason in place of name-calling. If you do not enjoy killing, Mr. Singer, may I assume you prefer to avoid any more of it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, as long as you continue to reside in Hunts Point, it is probably inevitable that you will be subject to further attacks. It would solve the whole problem if you simply moved elsewhere.”
Rollin Singer gave him a disapproving look. “I understand that in Moscow you have to live where you are told. I wasn’t aware that as yet we had such police-state restrictions in the United States.”
“I’m not telling you where to live,” the district attorney said with patience. “I am merely asking your cooperation.”
“Don’t you think a fairer solution would be for the police to make the streets of Hunts Point safe to walk upon, at least during daylight hours? A couple of years back, one of your medical examiners issued a report with which you may be familiar, based on an evaluation of the nearly forty deaths that had occurred in my immediate neighborhood over a ten-month period. Only two of the deaths were from natural causes, which means the residents of that section have only a one-in-twenty chance of dying a natural death. I consider that a disgrace to the police department.”
“They weren’t all violent deaths,” Inspector Ireland growled. “I read that report. Over half were from alcoholism and drug overdoses.”
“True,” the little man agreed. “But fifteen were violent deaths, which amounts to one-out-of-four. That compares to a figure of ninety-three percent of all deaths throughout New York City being from natural causes. There is no way you can make Hunts Point sound as though it were adequately policed, Inspector.”
With a touch of exasperation the D.A. said, “Then why do you persist in living here, Mr. Singer? You know you are going to continue to be attacked.”
“Quite possibly.”
“You also must know that eventually some reporter is going to stumble on the story and blow it wide open.”
“The thought has occurred to me,” Singer admitted.
“What do you think will happen then?” the D.A. asked sharply.
“Two things,” the little man said promptly. “First, I imagine the publicity will bring an abrupt end to attacks on me, because word will circulate among the local addicts that I am not very safe prey.”
Corrigan grunted. “What’s the second thing?”
The little man smiled at him. “Why, I think my beauty salon will become the most popular in Manhattan. Women will fall all over themselves to have their hair dressed by a genuine, certified killer.”
Silence in the room grew to a crescendo. The dapper little man rose to his feet.
“Is that all you wanted with me, gentlemen?” he asked politely.
Neither police officer made any answer, merely continuing to gaze at the man in silence. District Attorney Corrigan didn’t say anything either, but he finally gave a bare nod.
Singer walked out of the room. Silence continued for a considerable time. Presently, Corrigan emitted a deep sigh and got out of his chair and strode to the door.
“I’ve been considering retiring to private practice for some time anyway,” he commented, and walked out also.
The assistant chief inspector and the deputy inspector looked at each other. Horace Fitzer stood up.
“I could have retired six months ago if I had wanted to,” he remarked en route to the door.
Ireland sat at his desk for a while before rising heavily and plodding over to look out at the complaint desk. Sergeant Block was no longer on duty, of course, having been relieved by the night-duty man some time ago.
The man on duty, a Sergeant Smithers, was a recent transferee about whom the inspector knew very little. Ireland knew he wouldn’t really be able to put his heart into blasting out an inferior he knew so casually. To bring about a real emotional catharsis it had to be an underling of long and close association.
He decided he would just have to wait until morning to vent his feelings.
A Putting Away of Toys
Originally published Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, April 1974.
My friends at Columbia University always thought it a little weird that my mother was a nightclub entertainer while my father was a psychiatrist, but actually she would never have developed her act if he hadn’t been a psychiatrist. He taught her hypnotism before they broke up, you see. I doubt that he would have if he had suspected the eventual use she would make of it, because even after the divorce it must have been an embarrassment for a shrink with his exclusive clientele, who routinely used hypnosis on his own celebrity-patients, to have an ex-wife whose nightclub act involved putting people under hypnosis to make them quack like ducks and hop like frogs.
He never mentioned being embarrassed, at least to me. I never heard him say anything critical about Mother except the rather mild objection that she tried to keep me tied too close to her apron strings.