Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories Read Free Page B
Author: Bill Pronzini
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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its cradle.
It was almost five o'clock. I locked up the office, drove home to my flat in Pacific Heights, drank a beer and ate a pastrami sandwich, and then lit a cigarette and dialed Eberhardt's home number. It was his gruff voice that answered.
"Did you stop by Robbery before you left the Hall?" I asked.
"Yeah. I don't know why."
"We're friends, that's why."
"That doesn't stop you from being a pain in the ass sometimes."
"Can I come over, Eb?'
"You can if you get here before eight o'clock," he said. "I'm going to bed then, and Dana has orders to bar all the doors and windows and take the telephone off the hook. I plan to get a good night's sleep for a change."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said.
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E berhardt lived in Noe Valley, up at the back end near Twin Peaks. The house was big and painted white, a two-storied frame job with a trimmed lawn and lots of flowers in front. If you knew Eberhardt, the house was sort of symbolic; it typified everything the honest, hardworking cop was dedicated to protecting. I had a hunch he knew it, too; and if he did, he got a certain amount of satisfaction from the knowledge. That was the way he was.
I parked in his sloping driveway and went up and rang the bell. His wife Dana, a slender and very attractive brunette with a lot of patience, let me in, asked how I was and showed me into the kitchen, closing the door behind her as she left.
Eberhardt was sitting at the table having a pipe and a cup of coffee. The bruise over his eye had been smeared with some kind of pinkish ointment; it made him look a little silly, but I knew better than to tell him so.
"Have a seat," he said, and I had one. "You want some coffee?"
"Thanks."
He got me a cup, then indicated a manila envelope lying on the table. Without saying anything, sucking at his pipe, he made an elaborate effort to ignore me as I picked up the envelope and opened it.
Inside was the report made by the two patrolmen, Avinisi and Carstairs, who had shot and killed Colly Babcock in the act of robbing the Budget Liquor Store. I read it over carefully â and my eye caught on one part, a couple of sentences, under "Effects." When I was through I put the report back in the envelope and returned it to the table.
Eberhardt looked at me then. "Well?"
"One item," I said, "that wasn't in the papers."
"What's that?"
"They found a pint of Kesslers in a paper bag in Colly's coat pocket."
He shrugged. "It was a liquor store, wasn't it? Maybe he slipped it into his pocket on the way out?"
"And put it into a paper bag first?"
"People do funny things," he said.
"Yeah," I said. I drank some of the coffee and then got on my feet. "I'll let you get to bed, Eb. Thanks again."
He grunted. "You owe me a favor. Just remember that."
"I won't forget."
"You and the elephants," he said.
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I t was still raining the next morning - another dismal day. I drove over to Chenery Street and wedged my car into a downhill parking slot a half-block from the three-room apartment Lucille and Colly Babcock had called home for the past year. I hurried through the rain, feeling the chill of it on my face, and mounted sagging wooden steps to the door.
Lucille answered immediately. She wore the same black dress she'd had on yesterday, and the same controlled mask of grief; it would be a long time before that grief faded and she was able to get on with her life. Maybe never, unless somebody proved her right about Colly's innocence.
I sat in the old, stuffed leather chair by the window: Colly's chair. Lucille said, "Can I get you something?"
I shook my head. "What about you? Have you eaten anything today? Or yesterday?"
"No," she answered.
"You have to eat, Lucille."
"Maybe later. Don't worry, I'm not suicidal. I won't starve myself to death."
I managed a small smile. "All right," I said.
"Why are you here?" she asked. "Do you have any news?"
"No, not yet." I had an idea, but it was only that, and too early. I did not want to instill
It was almost five o'clock. I locked up the office, drove home to my flat in Pacific Heights, drank a beer and ate a pastrami sandwich, and then lit a cigarette and dialed Eberhardt's home number. It was his gruff voice that answered.
"Did you stop by Robbery before you left the Hall?" I asked.
"Yeah. I don't know why."
"We're friends, that's why."
"That doesn't stop you from being a pain in the ass sometimes."
"Can I come over, Eb?'
"You can if you get here before eight o'clock," he said. "I'm going to bed then, and Dana has orders to bar all the doors and windows and take the telephone off the hook. I plan to get a good night's sleep for a change."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said.
Â
E berhardt lived in Noe Valley, up at the back end near Twin Peaks. The house was big and painted white, a two-storied frame job with a trimmed lawn and lots of flowers in front. If you knew Eberhardt, the house was sort of symbolic; it typified everything the honest, hardworking cop was dedicated to protecting. I had a hunch he knew it, too; and if he did, he got a certain amount of satisfaction from the knowledge. That was the way he was.
I parked in his sloping driveway and went up and rang the bell. His wife Dana, a slender and very attractive brunette with a lot of patience, let me in, asked how I was and showed me into the kitchen, closing the door behind her as she left.
Eberhardt was sitting at the table having a pipe and a cup of coffee. The bruise over his eye had been smeared with some kind of pinkish ointment; it made him look a little silly, but I knew better than to tell him so.
"Have a seat," he said, and I had one. "You want some coffee?"
"Thanks."
He got me a cup, then indicated a manila envelope lying on the table. Without saying anything, sucking at his pipe, he made an elaborate effort to ignore me as I picked up the envelope and opened it.
Inside was the report made by the two patrolmen, Avinisi and Carstairs, who had shot and killed Colly Babcock in the act of robbing the Budget Liquor Store. I read it over carefully â and my eye caught on one part, a couple of sentences, under "Effects." When I was through I put the report back in the envelope and returned it to the table.
Eberhardt looked at me then. "Well?"
"One item," I said, "that wasn't in the papers."
"What's that?"
"They found a pint of Kesslers in a paper bag in Colly's coat pocket."
He shrugged. "It was a liquor store, wasn't it? Maybe he slipped it into his pocket on the way out?"
"And put it into a paper bag first?"
"People do funny things," he said.
"Yeah," I said. I drank some of the coffee and then got on my feet. "I'll let you get to bed, Eb. Thanks again."
He grunted. "You owe me a favor. Just remember that."
"I won't forget."
"You and the elephants," he said.
Â
I t was still raining the next morning - another dismal day. I drove over to Chenery Street and wedged my car into a downhill parking slot a half-block from the three-room apartment Lucille and Colly Babcock had called home for the past year. I hurried through the rain, feeling the chill of it on my face, and mounted sagging wooden steps to the door.
Lucille answered immediately. She wore the same black dress she'd had on yesterday, and the same controlled mask of grief; it would be a long time before that grief faded and she was able to get on with her life. Maybe never, unless somebody proved her right about Colly's innocence.
I sat in the old, stuffed leather chair by the window: Colly's chair. Lucille said, "Can I get you something?"
I shook my head. "What about you? Have you eaten anything today? Or yesterday?"
"No," she answered.
"You have to eat, Lucille."
"Maybe later. Don't worry, I'm not suicidal. I won't starve myself to death."
I managed a small smile. "All right," I said.
"Why are you here?" she asked. "Do you have any news?"
"No, not yet." I had an idea, but it was only that, and too early. I did not want to instill