Later that evening an imposing array of officialdom gathered before the red brick fireplace at one end of Dr. Stevenson’s spacious living room. Stern and Chief Holcomb were there, of course, seated side by side in large armchairs like royalty granting an audience, with a slightly fidgety Nicholson on one side of them and a scowling McArthur on the other. Sheriff Christy, after escorting his prisoner, Tommy Burke, to the couch on one side of the room, had removed the handcuffs from Tommy and retired to a vantage point on the deep sill of the front window.
Between the sheriff on the window ledge and the husky trooper in the doorway, it was going to be difficult for anyone to get out of the room in a hurry.
Mayme Burke was on the couch beside Tommy, defiantly redhaired and attractive, her long-lashed, heavy-lidded eyes flicking from face to face with a hint of sheathed claws in every glance. In the corner of the room beyond the couch Powers sat stiff and uncomfortable on a straight-backed chair, his eyes straight ahead and an expression of bored snobbery on his heavy-jowled face. Across the room four of the five longshoremen who completed the gathering had arranged themselves in a row like a union delegation, while the fifth, Melius, sat stolidly apart, his hands clasped across his fat stomach and his hat on the floor beside him. Painter and Gordon looked calm and at ease, but Sangster was obviously apprehensive, and Colletti was downright scared.
From where he sat Stern could see the outer hall and a portion of the stairway curving up to the second floor of the house. His eyes, moving slowly about the circle of faces, met the gaze of the murderer for a brief moment and passed on. Neither his expression nor that of the other changed, yet, in the instant their glance had met, both knew. There was a desperation and mocking challenge in the other’s eyes, and Stern shifted slightly in his chair, no longer in doubt as to what would happen once this man had been dragged into the open.
The assistant D. A. leaned back deep in his chair and began speaking in a quiet voice.
“The first thing to be done tonight is to demonstrate a logical connection between the shooting of Jackson and the murders of Nellie Cosimo, Murdock, and the longshoreman, Riorden.”
At the mention of Nellie Cosimo’s name Nicholson had blurted a startled, “What?” but Stern completed his sentence before he paused and looked at him.
“This business is a mess,” he said, “and we’ll never get it cleared up if the rest of you start interrupting. Give me a chance, and I’ll hand it to you double-wrapped in cellophane.”
His gaze shifted to McArthur briefly, then he blinked once or twice and continued:
“This case is a mess for a lot of reasons. First, the psychology of the killer—hot and cold by turns, reckless one minute and overcautious the next, scared stiff all the time and yet committing his crimes under the very noses of the police and getting away scot free. Second, the separate police jurisdictions under which the crimes were committed, each interested only in cleaning up the mess in his own district and jealous as hell of any interference from outside. Third, the red herrings dragged across the scene by two or three opportunists who thought they saw a chance to profit by the events surrounding the murders.
“Still, in spite of all this, there should have been no trouble linking up these crimes and spotting the killer, because the crimes all had one obvious common denominator: Motive. Motive made them a simple succession of cause and effect from Riorden’s murder right down to the shooting of Jackson.
“I’m not going to be long-winded about this. There was plenty of evidence in the Riorden murder pointing to a stool pigeon in the Eastcoast union, planted there by Murdock in an effort to discredit the union leaders and pave the way for the return of the labor racketeers who had formerly dominated the water front. There were indications that Riorden’s murder was part of this scheme, yet there was only one possible reason for resort to so drastic an act as murder, and that was the threat of exposure. Of course, exposure would have been fatal to the stool pigeon’s plans—if not to the stool pigeon himself.” Stern paused and grinned at his audience. “I don’t have to tell you what happens to stool pigeons on the water front.
“So this fellow killed Riorden, and while he was about it he planted a frame on the union leader who was likely to be most troublesome in the threatened strike.
“This theory of a spy in the union not only determined the motive for the murder, but it automatically limited the number of suspects, since in order to operate effectively the stool pigeon had to be high in the councils of the union and probably was a member of the committee negotiating for a new contract. Seven men remained on that committee, and it was a hundred-to-one shot that one of those seven had killed Riorden. However, every one of the men on that committee, excepting Jackson, had an alibi.
“The preliminary investigation of the Riorden slaying was interrupted by the murder of Murdock. Here, on the face of it, was an entirely separate killing with an acceptable motive in the robbery of the safe. The presence of Jackson and Gordon in the neighborhood seemed to be purely coincidental, and there were three logical suspects placed at the scene of the crime. But when it was discovered that the description of one of these suspects fitted a member of the union committee—Burke—it looked as though a connection between the two killings was established and we had our man. Burke was arrested.” Here Stern paused and bowed politely to Nicholson, who grunted and scowled in response.
“But the city police failed to break his alibi for the first murder. However, he admitted being on the scene of the second killing and was charged with that crime. As a matter of fact, Burke could have killed both Riorden and Murdock. Riorden was killed sometime between twelve and twelve forty-five. Burke could have slipped out of the back door of the saloon shortly before twelve o’clock, committed the murder, and been back in ten or fifteen minutes. The bartender broke down when I questioned him this afternoon and admitted he couldn’t swear that Burke had been in the booth during that time. And Burke could certainly have killed Murdock. He had motive and opportunity for both murders——”
“Why you”—Mayme Burke started out of her seat—“you crumby little runt.”
“Please, Miss Burke. Save your vocabulary until I’ve finished. I told you once and I’ll tell you again—I don’t believe your brother killed either of these men. Why? Because he was in jail when Nellie Cosimo died, and Nellie Cosimo was killed by the same person who killed the other two. Motive, the common denominator in all these crimes-”
“Common denominator, poppycock,” burst out McArthur. “This is the biggest damn nonsense I ever heard. I came here to get facts, not common denominators.”
Stern’s bland face and owlish eyes turned slowly in the direction of the county attorney. “Mr. McArthur,” he said in a voice that fairly dripped honey, “will you please be patient for a few more minutes? When I have finished you may have the floor.”
McArthur spluttered and subsided, and Stern went on in his quiet, droning tone.
“I was about to say that Nellie Cosimo was murdered by the same person who killed both Murdock and Riorden and for the same reason—fear of exposure. If you’ll all just be patient I’ll demonstrate that in a few minutes.
“These were smart murders. They were crudely planned and hastily committed under the compulsion of terror that amounted almost to hysteria. Yet the killer left surprisingly few clues, and, as Mr. McArthur and Captain Nicholson know so well, it is facts not theories that stand up in court. As long as the killer stuck to direct action dictated practically on the spur of the moment by a cowardly brutal nature he was lucky and amazingly successful but as soon as he tried cleverness he was sunk. His first mistake of this nature was his planting the spy report on the body of Riorden. That identified him as one of the seven men on the committee, since no one else knew that Riorden had that report. His second mistake was his carefully planned alibis that, in themselves, would have drawn attention to him immediately, had there not been so many suspects with alibis. But his third and fatal mistake was the manner in which he killed Nellie Cosimo. Killing Nellie was dangerous enough in itself, since it clinched the theory that these crimes were not unrelated but grew one out of the other, but the time and manner of that killing did much more than that—it eliminated the only other suspect that could be seriously considered and pointed directly to the guilty man. The moment I heard the news of Nellie’s death I knew who the murderer was.
“Powers!”
The former butler started as Stern suddenly snapped his name. Then he rallied and said, “Yes sir,” in his usual wooden tone. “Why did you go to Cosimo’s house last night?”
“Well, sir, I fancied I’d do a little amateur detecting of my own.” Powers’ voice was calm and admirably controlled. “Miss Cosimo had taken the money from Mr. Murdock’s safe——”
“How did you know she had taken the money?”
“Why, the keys, sir. They weren’t on the desk when I first came into the room. I reasoned that only Miss Cosimo would think to look in—in Mr. Murdock’s pocket”—Powers shuddered slightly—“for them.”
Nicholson said heavily, “We found the money—in a safe-deposit box registered under the name of Nellie——”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Stern interrupted hurriedly. “All right, Powers, what were you after—your cut?”
Powers mustered all the dignity of which he was capable. “I should think not. Certainly not. I wanted to recover the money for Mrs. Murdock. I had reason to believe that Miss Cosimo was in danger and that she was very frightened and I thought ——”
“Why did you think she was in danger or frightened?”
“Because it seemed probable that she and I were the only two persons left who knew the murderer, sir.”
Under the tempest of surprised exclamations that followed Powers’ statement Stern heard a softly expelled sigh like a small wind in the room. He did not look in the direction of the sound but he shifted slightly in his chair, and his right hand disappeared in the cushions at his side. When the commotion had quieted Stern asked:
“So you know who the murderer is, Powers?”
“Perhaps I should not have said murderer, sir. But I did know that Mr. Murdock had employed an—er—confidential agent, shall we say, to keep him informed of what took place in the union.”
“How did you know that?”
“Mr. Murdock mentioned it to Miss Cosimo once in my presence—and on one occasion I saw the man talking to Mr. Murdock in the library.”
“Did you know the man’s name?”
Powers shook his head.
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Only in a very general way, sir. If you will remember, sir, I have already stated that I did not see his face.”
McArthur snapped, “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“I did tell you part of it,” said Powers simply. “At that time I did not understand the nature or extent of this man’s activities and felt that I was acting in my employer’s best interests in not mentioning them.”
Sheriff Christy, from his seat on the window ledge, said, “Holy cats,” and gave Powers a look of astonishment mingled with respect.
Stern continued his questioning: “Have you seen this man since?”
“I believe so, sir. I believe he was the man I saw looking in the basement window of Miss Cosimo’s house last night.”
“Wait a minute.” Captain Nicholson sat up tensely. “You said you saw this man squatting down on the sidewalk in front of the house?”
“That’s right, sir,” said Powers. “He was bending over with his back to me, and I naturally assumed that he was trying to see into the lighted basement windows.”
“How long was he there?” The questioner was still Nicholson. “About five minutes, to the best of my judgment. Then he rose and walked away in the opposite direction from where I was standing.”
Nicholson frowned and passed his hand over his face. Then he nodded slowly. “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered, half to himself. “I’m a hell of a cop.”
Stern’s eyes twinkled. “Exactly,” he said, “and I’m a hell of a detective. I gave the murderer his opportunity and practically watched him taking advantage of it. But for all his cleverness, the fact that Powers saw him squatting there on the sidewalk and was able to describe him later gave him dead away. Powers said he was tall and——”
A sudden commotion caused Stern to pause and look up. Loud shouts and bangings came from the floor above, and an apparition came rushing down the stairs and into the room, neatly eluded the astonished trooper at the door, and shook a hairy fist six inches from Stern’s nose. “You dirty, double-crossing rat,” it shouted. “Try to put one over on me, will you?”
“Jackson,” said Stern. “How the hell did you get out?”
Jackson, a terrifying figure in pants and a bathrobe that gaped open to reveal his hairy chest and an array of bandages, threw back his head and laughed. “I locked the flatfoot in. What the hell are you trying to do, sidetrack me so you can find an out for this murdering stool?”
He swung around toward the seated longshoremen. Whitey Gordon and Sangster started forward, but Stern snapped sharply, “Sit still, all of you. Trooper, get this damn fool out of here and take him back to bed before he murders somebody.”
“Keep your hands off me, copper,” warned Jackson as the trooper advanced.
“Jack, you idiot,” began Stern and then cried, too late, “Look out behind you. He’s got your gun.”
The trooper clapped his hand to the leather holster at his side and whirled, but the tall man was already standing in the doorway, the heavy automatic in his hand.
Jackson said in a bewildered voice. “What the hell——”
“Stay still, all of you,” the tall man snarled, “or there’ll be a mess on the carpet. I’ve taken all I can stand. I’m going out of here and I’ll keep going, and you won’t catch me, you dumb coppers, but there’s one little item I gotta attend to first.” His beady eyes centered on Stern, and his lips drew back in a grin of pure hate. “You’ve played your last cat-and-mouse game, you dirty little kike,” he said, raising the gun.
Stern pulled the trigger of the gun he had been nursing in the cushions of the big chair next his hip. The bullet caught the murderer just above the belt buckle, and the gun in his hand exploded with a terrific crash, the heavy slug knocking plaster off the ceiling. His face contorted into a mask of agony, and he slumped slowly forward to writhe on the living-room rug, shot through the stomach. In the moment of comparative silence that followed the thunder of the shots Stern said, “All through this case I’ve been waiting for somebody to call me that.”
“Good God!” said Jackson. “You shot the wrong man.”