“Well,” Jasper said, taking his handkerchief from his forehead, examining it, and then refolding it to a clean spot. “That went d-differently than I expected.”
Law chuckled, leaning back in the chair beside the desk that he’d claimed as his own. “We should have sold tickets. People would pay good money for that sort of theater, sir.”
Jasper smiled; the other man might be speaking in jest, but the interlude had certainly been … lively.
It had taken Law, Jasper, and two guards to subdue Powell and get him out of the room.
“Has it st-st-stopped bleeding?” he asked Law, lifting the ridiculous lock of hair off his forehead.
Law squinted at the cut. “Yeah, pretty much. How’s the back of your bonce doin’? You took a goodly knock.”
Jasper’s head was bloody pounding. Thankfully, he’d been quick enough to lift it just as the chair went down, saving himself the brunt of the blow. Still, he really needed to quit knocking his skull about. Or allowing others to knock it about, to be more precise.
The guard appeared in the open doorway of their office. “I’m sorry, sir, but Powell won’t stop beggin’. He said he’s sorry and wants to cooperate and answer more questions. He promises to be calm.”
Jasper and Law exchanged looks. “I do have a few other questions.”
When they entered the interrogation room a few minutes later, Powell was sitting upright with his hands clasped on the table, his expression contrite. He was also looking a bit worse for wear, one eye swelling and his lip split and oozing blood.
“I apologize,” he said, looking at his hands rather than at Jasper.
Jasper sat and opened his notebook. “What time did you leave the hotel?”
Powell swallowed. “Er, I don’t know exactly. Maybe nine thirty or so.”
That fit with what the hotel employees said.
“Where d-did you go when you left?”
Powell gave what sounded like a genuine laugh. “I guess you need an alibi?” When neither of them answered, he said, “Well, I have a pretty darn good one—I was in the Ninth Precinct drunk tank. I wandered around for a while and finally stopped at a saloon near Clarkson and Greenwich and had a few too many. I don’t exactly know when the coppers took me in, but I doubt I was at the saloon more than a few hours.” His battered face flushed. “I was knocking them back rather, er, rashly. I got into an argument, I’m ashamed to say. Surely you can check on that?” He shrugged. “Anyhow, they didn’t let me out until the next morning.”
Jasper could practically feel Law’s disappointment vibrating off the bigger man.
If what Powell said were true, Jasper had to admit to a certain amount of disappointment, himself.
He took a photograph from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Do you know this m-man?”
Powell leaned closer, studied the picture, and then nodded. “Yes—that’s the man who came blustering into the house just as we were going out on the Fourth.”
Jasper blinked in surprise. “The fourth of what?”
“July.”
He exchanged glances with Law; the big policeman shrugged, his expression one of bewilderment.
“Explain,” he said to Powell.
“There’s not much to tell. I saw him just before me, Harold, and Mrs. Stampler went out—it was later in the afternoon. That guy came in as if he owned the place, pushed past us, and went right upstairs. Mrs. Stampler had seen him before because she said, ‘Oh, it’s you again.’ Apparently, he’d been there a few months earlier. He’d gotten ugly when Mrs. Stampler asked him what he was doing there. I asked her if she wanted to wait until he left, but she said he had a key to the rooms on the top floor because he’d been involved in something with Beauchamp.” Powell looked from Jasper’s stunned face to Law’s. “Why? Who is he? Is this something important?”
Jasper ignored the question and took out the same bundle as earlier, this time unrolling the other side.
“That looks like my saw,” Powell said.
Jasper—not above a bit of showmanship—flipped back the last of the cloth to expose a second, identical saw. “Which one is y-yours?” he asked.
Powell stared at him, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
Jasper pointed to tiny scrolling on the saw handle. “What does that say?”
Powell stared and leaned over, his chest moving faster. When he sat up, he was pale. “Those are my initials, because that is my saw.”
Her turned over the other saw, which had identical scrolling.
Powell goggled. “That’s the saw that Beauchamp—er, Frumkin—took.
Lightner frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Ask him.” Powell pointed to Law.
Jasper saw that his detective’s face was beet red. “Er, he’s right, sir. I’m sorry, but Powell did tell me that Frumkin took a saw from him when he started extorting money.” The younger man looked miserable. “Sorry, sir,” he repeated.
Jasper didn’t blame the younger man—there were so many maddening details and suspects in this case it was perfectly understandable to forget things.
“Tell us about the Fourth of J-July?” he asked Powell.
Powell appeared genuinely confused. “Why are you asking me about the Fourth? I thought Anita died on the night of the third.”
“Answer the question, p-please.”
“What time on the Fourth? After the coppers let me out of the tank I went home, cleaned up, and got some sleep. Later on I was out a good part of the day and night. I drank, I ate, I watched the fireworks with Harold and Mrs. Stampler. I worked in my shop—on that cat the detective saw me cleaning.” He scratched his head and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Look, I drank a lot, all right? I don’t remember specific times. It was a holiday and I celebrated. Ask Harold. He’d have seen me out there—hell, he might even have joined me and I just don’t remember. Oh, wait—” Powell snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. Harold heard me yelling at my lock because I couldn’t see well enough to get the key into it. He’d know what time I came home. He always watches me like a hawk when I’m at home. So does the old lady. But why do you care? Wasn’t Anita already dead by then?” His voice broke when he said the woman’s name.
“Do you know a woman named Jessica Martello?”
Powell frowned. “Know her? No. I heard about her—like everyone else in the city, when I read the paper on the Fourth. Why?” He sat up straighter, his eyes flickering back and forth. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Are you sure you d-don’t know her?”
“Yeah, Inspector, I’m sure.”
Jasper pointed to the older of the two saws. “Where do you think I f-found your saw?”
“I don’t know.”
Jasper reached into his pocket and extracted a handkerchief, which he opened on the table.
Powell leaned close to scrutinize it without being asked. He looked up shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Your saw was found in Miss Martello’s apartment with blood, bits of bone, and Mr. Albert Frumkin’s hair on the blade.
This time when Powell got up, Law was beside his chair in a heartbeat. He set a massive hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Sit down, Doctor,” he said, his expression hard and menacing.
“This is madness,” Powell said, looking from one of them to the other, his blue eyes flickering frantically between them.
Law pushed on Powell’s shoulder, and he dropped bonelessly down in his chair. Rather than appear wild, as he’d done earlier, he looked defeated.
Jasper unrolled the last of the cloth, exposing several far more delicate implements.
Powell stared at the intaglio tools, and then at Jasper. “What?” he demanded.
“Where did you g-get these?”
“Those aren’t mine.”
“I know that,” Jasper admitted.
“So why are you asking me?”
“I found them in your shop.”
Powell’s eyes bulged. “That’s a bloody lie!”
Jasper turned over one of the tools and pointed to the initials carved into the wooden handle: J.M. “These tools belonged to Jessica Martello,” he said.
Powell’s face spasmed: disbelief, shock, horror, and fury among the myriad emotions. “I’ve never seen those in my life. I swear to God.”
“They were in your shop,” Jasper repeated.
Powell stared. “Why is this happening to me?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “What the hell does any of this mean?”
Jasper didn’t tell him that he was asking himself the very same question.