EXIT, DYING

By Charles Schaeffer

The Super's face was a blank mask when we met at the door of ground Floor Apt. 107 . "I heard the shot from the lobby," he blurted. "I was filling in on the switch board. I ran up here, tried to open the door, but look, the inside chain lock is fastened. I didn't want to bust it down--the only thing I touched was the knob... Then I phoned you guys."

"Hey," I said, raising a calm-down hand. "You did okay."

I huddled with Sgt. McGeady, who'd joined us red-faced and panting, and asked him, "Know any trick for undoing a safety chain from the outside?"

"The old fashioned way, Lieutenant--shoulder to the wood There's a sliding door leading out on the other side of the living room. A concrete walkway ends in the parking lot. I looked through the door, but the lock bar is down, so we'd have to break glass to get in."

"Yeah," the Super, John Spivey, volunteered, "he never used that door -- scared of intruders."

I signaled McGeady to take out the chained door the way he once flattened linemen in his high school football days. "Who'll cover the damage? Lt. DeVane?" the Super whined.

I shrugged and stepped out of McGeady's way. The chain broke like five-day-old bread.

"Only McGeady and me are allowed in here," I told Spivey, shooing back a knot of apartment denizens, who had formed a rubbernecking delegation.

Inside, a man, fiftyish, lay sprawled next to a chair. Blood trickled from his right temple onto the threadbare carpet. He was no bigger than a minute. I touched the skin for temperature and took his pulse on the left wrist, careful not to move his right hand, which was palm up next to a .38.

Downtown investigators from the Coroner's office arrived half an hour later and began mining the room for prints, powder burns or residue, the stiff's death position and other bits of business.

"Dead--probably within the hour," Doc Morris said, announcing the fact like the routine arrival of the 8:10. "We'll get the results to you as soon as possible. Dead bodies piling up all over town. Weekend, you know."

When they exited, I nosed around the scene, scribbling a few notes . An odor of cheap whisky drifted up from the kitchen sink. I checked windows, all locked, and moved on to the sliding door, which was missing a doorjamb knob, making the lock useless. A hinged, steel window bar inside substituted for the lock. Wrapping a handkerchief around the bar, I moved it up and down , then dropped it in its cradle, the locked position. That was the way I found it. The view outside was not much, a walkway, scraggly grass, and a construction site. I noticed a thin faint arc in the outside dust on the glass.

"Suicide, huh," the Super said, sticking his head in the doorway and smirking.

"You know that for certain?" I snapped, ratcheting up my dislike for the runty guy.

"Well I...." he stammered, fumbling with a package of Wings.

"Don't smoke in here," I ordered. "I don't want this scene contaminated. And don't buy the obvious for the obvious. What's the deceased's name?" (I'd already noted it on the lobby mailbox).

" Anderson . Curtis Anderson. Lived here about a year. Alone."

"Yeah, how's he pay the rent?

'Works--worked-- over to the Casino, for the owner, Jenson McMasters."

I sent the Super back to his duties with a reminder that we might need to talk later. His smirk was gone, replaced by a worried look. McGeady closed the door, pushing the broken chain lock aside as he did. He stood with his back to the door.

I glanced around the room, furnished with hand-me-downs from a dozen trips through church bazaars. A single empty glass and a bottle of King's Treasure scotch about two inches shy of empty stood on a card table next to an in-progress game of solitaire. The arrangement of cards suggested the late Curtis Anderson was having trouble competing with himself. A king of diamonds was out of synch with the lineup of cards. A safety pin lay next to the king.

McGeady spoke up: "It is suicide, isn't it? ' Anderson was swilling scotch for false courage to pull the trigger."

"Maybe" I said. "But there's no note."

I watched McGeady swat at a bothersome fly, buzzing around his nose. A few seconds later I was doing the swatting.

There was nothing new about cases without notes that had ended up on record as suicides. But something bothered me about this one. I couldn't ignore two doors being locked from the inside, as well as the windows. Then there was the gun next to his hand. I wouldn't be surprised, either, if the reports turned up powder residue. Still....

A downtown officer relieved McGeady on guard. I phoned headquarters and asked for anything the files had on Anderson . Minor stuff, as the search turned out: Arrest and acquittal for roughing up a four-flushing roulette customer. A jockey in his younger days, Anderson had been booked once on suspicion of throwing a race at Highland Park , where McMasters had been track manager. Taking the rap for fellow-jock, Juan Prado, Anderson was hit with a simple ten-day suspension. The record showed no recorded scrapes involving alcohol . Surprising, I thought, recalling the near empty scotch bottle and a discarded paper sack nearby, which indicated that the booze had been opened the same evening and never even been stored in a cabinet.

With the sun dropping fast, I found a bar, The Fort, not far from the spot where Anderson died, and a good place for some mental gymnastics. The bartender, true to his profession, opened up a conversation. "Heard that ex-jock Anderson bumped himself off, earlier today," he said, polishing a glass you couldn't get clean with a jackhammer.

"That's what they say," I said, knocking back a shot of Jim Beam, followed by a chaser-size swallow of my draught beer.

"Yeah, he dropped in here every now and then. One beer. That was it. No hard stuff. He'd been through rough patches on the sauce. But told me he gave it up last week." He paused to serve another customer, then came back. "Quiet, little gink, though once I did notice him having words with his boss, the guy who runs the Casino. Couldn't hear what they said.. They were sitting right over there at that table."

I don't know why but I turned around. At the table a guy with a Clark Gable mustache was hitting on a blonde looker, maybe the local banker's wife.

Next morning, I watched a feather float up from my pillow, drift down and hit the floor with a bang that made me wince. Showered, and razor in hand, working around wrinkles deeper than ruts in a country road, and staring at hair thin as a wet dog's, I made a deal with myself: close the case as suicide--or get off my butt and come up with the goods to prove it wasn't.

The phone rang--along with my head-- and Doc Morris from the Coroner's office said, "Thought you ought to know. Autopsy found some light bruising around the mouth of the deceased. Funny thing. He may have been dead before the shot. Some alcohol in his blood, but not that much. ‘

"The bruises? What are you saying?"

"Maybe asphyxiation, you know-- smothered-- maybe with a pillow. There were a couple of bruises on his arms, too."

"He didn't pull the trigger?"

"Didn't say that. It's possible. But you saw what a squirt he was. If he'd knocked back all the booze missing from that bottle, he'd be out like a light before he could ever pick up a gun."

The thought was hard to put down. Somebody else had been in the room. I sent McGeady out for a look at Anderson 's phone records.

I called on the nosey Super during the lunch hour, the time he usually relieved the regular operator, a gal named Velma.

My first question was whether Anderson ever had visitors. The Super frowned. "Well, you know it's not my job to keep track....People come and go. There's a back entrance, too"

"Try to recall."

"Well, a couple of weeks ago Anderson had a caller--I think it was his boss, a guy named McMasters. I don't know why Anderson took the trouble to tell me he was coming. Anyway, I recognized him from pictures in the paper. He'd been testifying about some gambling problems--what did the picture caption call him? Oh yeah, 'gambling kingpin'."

"That switchboard," I said. "It's the kind when the call comes in or out you make the actual connection. " The operator can listen in –if she--or he--chooses. Right?

"Lookee here, Lieutenant, if you think I'd deliberately---'

"Save it. A couple of tenants already confirmed you've got a big ear. Anderson always made his phone calls when you were on the switchboard. Any idea why? And what about a couple of overheard arguments you had with him."

"That was just telling him to turn his radio down at night. Listened too loud to those programs, 'I Love a Mystery,' 'Suspense,' 'The Shadow'--stuff like that."

"I've got to tell you we may have real murder on our hands here. Withholding important evidence is not a good idea."

By now the Super was skilled at impromptu expressions of dread. And this one was Oscar caliber. He hemmed then hawed. "Okay, last week I did catch a snatch of conversation. I wasn't eavesdropping, but I did hear a few words. I didn't hear any names. Sounded like Anderson was talking to his boss on the other end."

"What did he say?"

"I can't remember exactly. But something like Anderson saying if he didn't get a bigger cut he was going public. Something about Anderson having a copy of instructions on how to control roulette and other games if a customer gets too lucky."

One of the phone calls Anderson had made wasn't during the Super's stint. The call was to Anderson 's old pal, Juan Prado.

I figured if Anderson had confided in anybody it had to be Prado--and my hunch turned out to be right. The jock was grateful for Anderson taking the long-ago race-fixing rap. Prado was on top then and a black mark could have knocked him out of racing. Anderson was just an apprentice.

The scam had been set up by the track manager, McMasters, and Prado was still sour about that.

"Yeah," Prado conceded, " Curt Anderson did tell me he had a copy of the Casino's tricks to turn winners on a streak into losers. Told me he kept it in the Apartment building's safe."

Good so far, but not enough. McMasters could always claim Anderson was framing him. As for Prado, it was his word against a big-money Casino boss. The other catch: the locked room when the shot was fired. I told Juan Prado I'd be in touch and took a break at a quickie lunch joint, trying to unravel the puzzle. Coffee was 20/30 weight engine oil, but the tongue sandwich was okay. At a table across from my booth, a five-year old kid shoved his hot dog away to play with a toy, a cutout cardboard background with a funny face on it. Shaking the toy created different beards and hair on the funny face.

The mother took the toy away and ordered the boy to eat. I asked if I could look at the thing. No problem. I rattled the device and formed a new beard and hair. Of course, iron filings yanked around at random by a hidden magnet. I handed it back with thanks, paid up and left, a new idea nudging my prefrontal lobe.

McGeady meanwhile had lucked out on an angle. I was in the office when he burst in with the news. "You'll like this, Logan ," he said.

"The scotch, an el-cheapo brand, came from a liquor store a couple of blocks from Anderson 's apartment. I asked the owner if he recalled who bought it and flashed McMaster's picture at him. He didn't know him as McMasters, but I guess we're living right, because he recognized the photo as the face of the buyer. Turned out it was the last bottle of King's Treasure on the shelf, so the sale made a special dent in his mind."

I sent McGready out on a second quest, this time to a specialty store. He came back in short order with several bar magnets, powerful for their size, and stuck ferociously together. Inside the late Curt Anderson's apartment, I pulled up the steel bar that kept outside intruders from entering, "Now watch this," I explained, sliding open the door and stepping outside, instructing McGeady still inside to lift the metal bar into its open position.

The thin little curve I had seen before was obscured now by the dust. I held a magnet on the outside glass near the upraised bar. It jiggled slightly, so I added the other two. Presto chango! As I dragged the magnetic sandwich down the window in an arcing motion, the bar followed, the magnet edge leaving a barely-visible trace in the dust before the bar nestled into its cradle.

McGeady took off his hat and scratched his head. "Damn, damn, damn," he shouted.

"Took a kid's toy to put me straight," I confessed.

"And the stench in the sink from that rotgut?"

" McMasters came here that afternoon with two things in mind.Wringing something from Anderson . Or killing him when he couldn't get his way. He poured most of it from the bottle, probably after discovering a reformed Anderson was off hard stuff and couldn't be conned into a drunken stupor. Earlier, you guessed it was supposed to look like false courage. McMasters was stuck with the setup anyway, hoping we'd figure Anderson had fallen off the wagon.

"But McMasters had to think fast when he couldn't get Anderson blotto.

That's where the little bruises around the mouth come in. Smothering a tiny ex-jock was no problem for a hulk like McMasters. Probably did it with one of those ratty couch pillows. Then, quick, out the sliding door, pulling down the bar lock through the glass with the magnet, overlooking the mark in the dust. But on the way out he let a fly in."

"That's right, the one pestering me."

"Yeah, McMasters planned well ahead all right, checking out the lock system when he was here before. He already knew Anderson kept the gun on the premises. No problem for the plotter with gloves to stick it in the hand of the dead--or at least unconscious--ex jock, force some scotch down him, then position the gun at the temple and pull the trigger himself."

Okay, McMasters was so eager to get the casino dope sheet back that he came to Anderson 's place that afternoon prepared to kill and make it look like suicide. I guessed he still was when I paid a second call on Juan Prado and found him gung-ho for cooperating.

The meeting place was set for 9 p.m. at the statue of Lincoln in a seldom-used park. The figure with the raincoat collar pulled up tight around his face was wearing horn rims and a gray fedora. He arrived on the button. Prado dangled the brown envelope containing the casino dope sheet subpoenaed from the apartment safe. He jumped up with a jockey's agility from the bench he'd been lolling on. "Show me the dinero," Prado snickered.

The button-upped reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelop.

"Five grand may make you feel good for a while. But you better not hang around town long," the figure growled.

I eased out from behind a large spruce, gun drawn. "Hold it right there!" I shouted. McGeady leaped out from behind he statue. "Make that double," he shouted.

At Headquarter's interrogation room, McMasters sneered: "Both the little twerps' game was blackmail. Prado was selling me my own property. .Anderson was into me for big loans. I warned him he'd have to pay up. He couldn't, even with a lucky streak a mile long. No wonder he took the coward's way out."

"No, Mr. McMasters, you took the coward's way out after killing him with his own gun. What odds do you think you'll get from a jury when they hear your alibi, swearing you were over in Lutherville that day-- where no one knows you-- playing baccarat? And the lame excuse for trying to pay off Juan Prado for the casino's bag of crooked tricks?

McGeady chimed in: "But what about Anderson always making his calls at lunchtime?"

"Insurance. He wanted Spivey listening in. If something happened to Anderson , he could at least leave a hint behind for the reason."

Oh, the thing that first started me thinking murder, not suicide, was the king card and the safety pin on the table. I figure the poor slob guessed something bad was coming when McMasters pushed the booze on him. While he was pouring most of it down the drain, Anderson must have worked the king card and the pin in place as a clue. Later, when I put two and two together, the answer came out 'King Pin'. Don't know how McMasters made out in Lutherville, but looks like he lost that game of solitaire big time."