The McBain Brief Read Free Page A

rattled him a little at the end there, but on the whole he’d done a good job. So the guy was lugging a gun around, so what? He was right, wasn’t he? He didn’t shoot nobody, so what was all the fuss about? Cops! They had nothing else to do, they went around hauling in guys who were carrying guns. Poor bastard was a veteran, too, that was really rubbing it in. But he did a good job up there, even though he was nervous, you could see he was very nervous.
    A man and a woman walked past him and onto the stage. The man was very tall, topping the six-foot marker. The woman was shorter, a bleached blonde turning to fat.
    â€œThey picked them up together,” Skinner whispered. “So they show them together. They figure a pair’ll always work as a pair, usually.”
    â€œHow’d you like that Assisi?” Stevie whispered back. “He really had them bulls on the run, didn’t he?”
    Skinner didn’t answer. The Chief of Detectives cleared his throat.
    â€œMacGregor, Peter, aged forty-five, and Anderson, Marcia, aged forty-two, Bronx one. Got them in a packed car on the GrandConcourse. Back seat of the car was loaded with goods including luggage, a typewriter, a portable sewing machine, and a fur coat. No statements. What about all that stuff, Pete?”
    â€œIt’s mine.”
    â€œThe fur coat, too.”
    â€œNo, that’s Marcia’s.”
    â€œYou’re not married, are you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œLiving together?”
    â€œWell, you know,” Pete said.
    â€œWhat about the stuff?” the Chief of Detectives said again.
    â€œI told you,” Pete said. “It’s ours.”
    â€œWhat was it doing in the car?”
    â€œOh. Well, we were . . . uh . . .” The man paused for a long time. “We were going on a trip.”
    â€œWhere to?”
    â€œWhere? Oh. To . . . uh . . .” Again he paused, frowning, and Stevie smiled, thinking what a clown this guy was. This guy was better than a sideshow at Coney. This guy couldn’t tell a lie without having to think about it for an hour. And the dumpy broad with him was a hot sketch, too. This act alone was worth the price of admission.
    â€œUh . . .” Pete said, still fumbling for words. “Uh . . . we were going to . . . uh . . . Denver.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œOh, just a little pleasure trip, you know,” he said, attempting a smile.
    â€œHow much money were you carrying when we picked you up?”
    â€œForty dollars.”
    â€œYou were going to Denver on forty dollars?”
    â€œWell, it was fifty dollars. Yeah, it was more like fifty dollars.”
    â€œCome on, Pete, what were you doing with all that stuff in the car?”
    â€œI told you. We were taking a trip.”
    â€œWith a sewing machine, huh? You do a lot of sewing, Pete?”
    â€œMarcia does.”
    â€œThat right, Marcia?”
    The blonde spoke in a high reedy voice. “Yeah, I do a lot of sewing.”
    â€œThat fur coat, Marcia. Is it yours?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œIt has the initials G.D. on the lining. Those aren’t your initials, are they, Marcia?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhose are they?”
    â€œSearch me. We bought that coat in a hock shop.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œMyrtle Avenue, Brooklyn. You know where that is?”
    â€œYes, I know where it is. What about that luggage? It had initials on it, too. And they weren’t yours or Pete’s. How about it?”
    â€œWe got that in a hock shop, too.”
    â€œAnd the typewriter?”
    â€œThat’s Pete’s.”
    â€œAre you a typist, Pete?”
    â€œWell, I fool around a little, you know.”
    â€œWe’re going to check all this stuff against our Stolen Goods list, you know that, don’t you?”
    â€œWe got all that stuff in hock shops,” Pete said. “If it’s stolen, we don’t know nothing about it.”
    â€œWere you