A Hammer in His Hand

First Case

THE

HAMMER

WOLF

IT WAS LATER DESCRIBED as a quiet night. By this, the residents of the neighborhood meant that they heard only the customary noises, since no moment of the day or night in a large city can be described as without sound. From the mist-shrouded harbor came the mournful bleat of foghorns. Automobile traffic slithered along the moist streets and an occasional plane thundered overhead, groping hopefully on instruments for the nearby airport. At a distant aircraft factory, a wind tunnel stirred fitfully to life, like a giant snoring, and from a dozen houses and apartment dwellings emerged the muted cacophony of late evening television programs. Now and then a dog barked nervously and prowling cats alternately cajoled and threatened their fellows.

A quiet night, nothing out of the ordinary … except for the moaning of the woman who lay dying in the areaway between two of the dark houses.

She didn’t know that she was dying. The beating and rape had been so savage as to leave her with only a shred of consciousness and this shred was concerned with but one thought, to summon help. Inside the house was a telephone and she must reach it. She dragged herself through a scarlet haze of pain toward the front porch, and though she moaned she did not hear herself.

At the curb she saw, as in a weird dream, the shape of the automobile and on the small plot of lawn the figure of a man. She knew vaguely that this was her husband and that he was dead, and that this was part of what she must tell them when she reached the telephone. She continued to haul her shattered body across the hard concrete, impelled by instinct rather than reason.

But when she reached the edge of the porch, the two shallow steps loomed as high in her vision as mountain peaks and beyond them the front door was as far away as heaven itself. They represented a barrier that she could never hope to surmount; her efforts had been in vain. She would never reach the precious telephone, never dial the familiar number and hear the welcome tone of authority that would relieve her, at last, of her responsibility. For the first time, she realized that she was dying. From her mangled lips came a mumble of words that only she could understand. Please, God — help me!

It seemed to her quite natural that her prayer should be answered. She was not surprised when she heard the footsteps, the hard thud of leather heels against the sidewalk, coming nearer. As she began to drift away into a welcome nothingness, she forced herself fully alive again. She crawled across the lawn toward the sidewalk.

Her salvation loomed out of the fog. She recognized him and was glad. It was the Zomparelli boy, young Amadeo, from across the street. She even knew where he’d been, the roller skating rink that was the neighborhood kids’ favorite rendezvous, the despair of their parents. He was whistling, walking quickly with youthful bravado as his armor against the terrors of the night.

He did not see her among the shadows, or her husband lying by the curb. In another moment, he would pass them by, cross the street and lose himself in the security of his home. With an immense effort, she raised herself to her knees and called to him.

She thought she spoke his name but the sound that emerged was only a husky croak, as meaningless as a death rattle. And as frightening. The boy stopped in his tracks, a dozen paces away, peering at her with his head hunched on his shoulders. She spoke again, beckoned him closer.

His answer was a terrified shriek. Galvanized by fear, he turned and leaped the curb, running off across the street, away from her. She heard the clatter of his feet on the stairs, the slam of a front door … and then silence. She was alone again to meet what was to come.

She sank into a sitting position, head bowed, and from there slipped slowly sideways to the grass. It was wet with fog but she did not notice. She moaned once more, a long reluctant dispelling of breath that was not replaced. The night, again, was quiet.

With a sigh, Clover French kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the stool in front of the locker that bore her name and rank. At the far end of the bank of lockers, the woman brushing her hair gave her a curious glance. You sound tired. Rough shift?

Nothing special. Chaperoning the kids at the ballroom — they’re a pretty well-behaved bunch. But I went shopping today instead of sleeping and I guess I’m getting too old to take it.

Old? The other woman snorted humorously. You’re nothing but a kid yourself. Now when you get to be my age …

Clover hung her uniform jacket next to her street clothes and slipped out of the slim tailored skirt. I’d like to sleep for a week but my vacation isn’t until October and that’s three months away. I think maybe I’ll put in for decoy duty like Evelyn just to get the extra time off.

Well, that’s your business but I think your friend Duncan is crazy. When you’ve been on the force as long as I have you’ll learn that it never pays to volunteer. She spoke with the authority of middle age. And especially not for hazard duty like that.

Oh, I don’t think it’s so dangerous, Clover demurred, searching the depths of the locker for her toilet articles. I mean, there must be nearly half a million women in the city and there’s only twenty-six of us. Not much chance the Werewolf’s going to pick on one of us.

That’s probably what the other women thought. You’re not going to catch me prowling around dark corners just asking to be hit with a hammer. We take enough chances as it is, it seems to me, without asking for more.

Which was true enough, Clover admitted; the life of a policewoman could scarcely be considered sedentary. Most of their duties might be classified as routine, even humdrum, but present always was the possibility of danger. Go looking for crime and criminals, and violence is never very far away. The job attracted the more adventurous type of woman and, since competition for the few vacancies was strong, the standards of the division were high. The policewoman was required to possess a wide range of skills, from a knowledge of criminal law to judo and marksmanship — and here, on the Mexican border, a command of Spanish as well. Most of the women had subsidiary experience of a sort; the group was studded with former nurses, ex-servicewomen, teachers, secretaries … all of whom found in police work a challenge, an excitement, that their previous occupations lacked. However, the division was hardly a group of reckless Amazons; two-thirds of them were married and the median age was somewhere between thirty and forty. At twenty-five, Clover French was one of the youngest. Her previous career consisted of a brief stint as airline stewardess.

In the department’s table of organization, they were termed Officers just as the male cops were, but they were seldom referred to as such, usually being called FP’s (for Female Police) or WD’s (for Women’s Division) — and most often, by the men, as Elsies (from LC — Lady Cop). Their mission as stated in the manual was to assist in the prevention and detection of crime among juveniles and women. In practice, their scope was considerably broader, and they were often used in cases involving pickpockets, shoplifters, swindlers and burglars of either sex, and in narcotics investigations of which the city had a great number. Their skill at exacting testimony, their knowledge of personalities and motives and their womanly power of persuasion had made the Elsies valuable additions to the department and long ago dispelled any anti-feminist resentment the male officers might have harbored. Budget difficulties rather than lack of ability kept their numbers small.

Generally speaking, the policewomen shared the facilities of the department with the men, from cafeteria to pistol range, but there were certain sections set apart for their use exclusively, among them the small locker room and showers in the basement, with attached lounge. The Elsies had added curtains, indirect lighting, wall decorations and other intimate touches to create for themselves an island of femininity in a rough masculine sea.

The older policewoman, leaving the locker room for the lounge, paused in the doorway to caution Clover, Be sure to turn out the lights when you leave. Lieutenant Luftig read us down for that last week.

Okay. Clover paused to listen to the sudden outburst of sound from above. It emanated from the police garage on the other side of the patio around which the Moorish style headquarters building was constructed. A number of engines were roaring to life, departing quickly, and she heard sirens begin to wail as the vehicles turned out onto the boulevard.

The other woman listened too, head cocked. Code three, she announced. Urgent, proceed with red lights and siren. Motorcycles and a squad car. The last one was the ambulance. Probably a big traffic accident somewhere.

This darn fog, Clover agreed. I hate to drive in it.

You’d think people would learn to slow down, the other woman said. Good night. Clover could hear her footsteps echoing on the concrete stairs as she ascended to street level. The sirens had died away in the distance also, and the big headquarters was quiet. It was past midnight; most of the city’s troubles would keep until tomorrow.

Clover finished undressing and went barefoot into the shower room, a towel around her neck. She was a long-legged angular girl with a very defined face which, in moods of doubt, she considered to be all cheekbones and chin. Chance had also blessed her with a quite full lower lip that gave her a pouting expression wholly foreign to her nature. She had dark brown eyes, almost black, and short brown hair with natural swirls that gave off coppery glints. Her wrists and ankles were exceptionally delicate but had never broken yet. She enjoyed sports and was good at many of them, yet she was secretly glad that she had enough hip and bust measurements to keep her from looking too athletic. Not that it was likely she would ever have been called mannish, despite her job. Clover was not the sort of woman who had ever envied men or wished to be one.

She lingered in the shower for a long time and quitted the warm spray reluctantly. Despite what she had told the other policewoman concerning fatigue, she was in no hurry to return to her empty apartment. Nor had she been serious about volunteering for extra shifts in return for additional time off; Clover generally found that she had too much free time to suit her. She wasn’t Evelyn Duncan, happily married and snatching every opportunity to be with her Glenn, even to pulling decoy duty in what the newspapers were calling the Werewolf case — duty which amounted to riding late buses and walking dark streets in hopes that the hammer wielder who preyed on lone women might attack her. It was risky work, even though the decoys were armed and police prowl cars lurked nearby, but Evelyn had welcomed the opportunity because of its reward, time off with pay. For her part, Clover wanted none of it.

While she was dressing into street clothes, she heard crisp footsteps. Before she could peer out into the lounge to identify the newcomer, a woman’s deep voice called, French — you still in there? and Clover recognized her superior officer, Lieutenant Hilma Luftig.

Yes, ma’am. Clover jumped up, smoothing down her dress. I’m just leaving. I’ll turn out the lights. Like all of the Elsies, save one or two veterans, she stood in awe of the lieutenant.

Lieutenant Luftig appeared in the doorway, scowling. I was hoping to catch you before you changed. I want you to take a ride with me.

It’ll only take me a minute to change back.

I don’t have the time to waste. You can come as you are. Lieutenant Luftig was already turning away. I know you’re off-duty but I thought you’d like to be in on this, considering. As an afterthought, she added, Bring your gun.

Clover seized her purse and slammed her locker door shut. She caught up with her superior at the stairs. Lieutenant Luftig was squat but quick, like a vigorous mushroom, and her weight was a closely guarded secret. Certainly, she was no advertisement for the uniform manufacturer. She had skimpy faded hair pulled tightly back as if to torture her vast powdery face and a grunting voice that sounded as if it pained her to speak. Her hands looked as soft as dough but she had once been a prison guard and those soft hands had knocked many a troublemaker the length of the corridor. Despite her bruskness and devotion to duty she was, nevertheless, one of the kindest persons Clover had ever known.

Clover asked, Can you tell me what’s happened?

How well do you know Evelyn Duncan?

I guess you’d call her my best friend. We joined the force at the same time and —

That’s what I thought. Lieutenant Luftig hesitated, then ground out the words as if they tasted bad. They found her about thirty minutes ago. Her and her husband both. Out in front of their own house. Looks like they were beaten to death — with a hammer.

The fog had gotten thicker. But on one particular block an island of light had been created in the midst of the grayness, like a stage on which actors moved about in a seemingly formless play. Floodlamps and automobile headlights burned away at the swirling mist and flashing red lights atop official vehicles tinged the fog the color of blood.

Drooping palms cast macabre shadows across the backdrop to this stage, the small California bungalow with its white stucco walls and red tile roof and the faintly woebegone expression of middle age. Men hastened in and out of its open front door and all its windows were illuminated but without promise of hospitality.

The air smelled, not of violence, but of fish. Every droplet of fog seemed to carry the odor. It wafted up from the harbor where the tuna clippers rode at anchor, and from the canning plant, and perhaps even from the surrounding houses. Across the street, along the curb, lay the long heavy seining nets, spread out to dry and to be mended, each a half-block in length like the web of some gigantic spider. Evelyn and Glenn Duncan had lived — and died — in the heart of the city’s Italian fishing colony.

Sergeant John Monte made a note about the fish smell, as he noted down everything. It was his nature to be methodical; perspiration, rather than inspiration, solved ninety-five per cent of all major crimes, and Monte believed firmly in riding with the odds. Not that anyone would have mistaken him for a gambler; he looked what he was, a hunter of men, practical and weathered beyond his thirty years. Inquiry was written all over his blunt features, plus a faintly pleased expression that had no more meaning than the perpetual angry dent left across his high forehead by his panama hat. His hat removed, exposing cropped hair the color of hay stubble, he sometimes appeared to be an accommodating young man who would put up with anything. The only physical contradiction was the white bullet scar in the palm of his right hand — the scar and his eyes, rustbrown but gleaming, like the tips of old weapons. There were times when nothing about him seemed to move except his eyes, times of stress and anger and intense concentration.

They were moving now around the floodlit scene, ascertaining what remained undone. To his right, ropes held back the curious, men and women and children drawn forth from the nearby houses by the sirens. Two detectives were questioning the bystanders, seeking witnesses, and struggling with the language barrier. To his left, the police ambulance waited, its rear door invitingly open, while the white-jacketed attendants smoked nervously beside it. Nearby was a camera panel truck from one of the local television stations, and newspaper reporters and photographers hovered about awaiting permission to play their parts in the grim show.

The greatest activity lay in front of him. There men walked slowly about, peering at the grass or poking into the shrubbery with flashlights, measuring distances with tapes, and making rough pencil sketches. Almost ignored now, pending the arrival of the deputy coroner, were the two bodies, the man crumpled by the curb, the woman a few yards away near the sidewalk. It was concern for proper procedure that prompted the disregard, not callousness; one of the detectives had gently pulled Evelyn Duncan’s ripped skirt together to hide the lacerated knees. It was the least — and, at the same time, the most — that anyone could do for her now.

As Monte stood there, one of the Physical Evidence detail emerged from the alleyway between the two houses, glanced around and saw him. John, I think we got the picture. You want to hear it or shall I save it for Old Ironhead?

Better give it to me, Monte told him. Captain Blossom’s inside talking to the Chief.

Oh? The other man raised his eyebrows, seeking the significance of this. Monte didn’t appear disposed to explain, so he continued, The man was killed first, right where he’s lying. Probably came around to open the car door for her. But the woman —

Officer Duncan, Monte contradicted with a shade of irritation.

Yeah. Well, she didn’t die right away, though it’s hard to understand why not, the way she was beaten. She was dragged back there between the two houses. You can spot her heel tracks on the grass.

Was she raped?

Seems likely but I’ll leave that up to the coroner. Anyway, afterward, she crawled out to where she is now — where the kid spotted her. The detective shook his head. It took guts. She spilled a lot of blood along the way.

Monte nodded. You get all the pictures you need?

I guess so. Haven’t found the hammer, though, if that’s what it was.

You won’t. He always takes it with him. That’s — Monte broke off as he saw two men come out of the lighted bungalow and pause on the porch. He hurried over to join them, but waited to be spoken to. Neither of the other men did for the moment.

The greatest danger lies not in the fact that we have a double murder but in the fact that one of the victims was a police officer, said the younger of the two. He was a bronzed and handsome man with almost-phony touches of gray at his temples. With his open-throat sport shirt and lounging slacks, he looked as if he would be more at home aboard a yacht than behind the desk of the Chief of Police. Every killing of this sort shakes public confidence in the department to some degree, subconsciously at least. If it could happen to him, it could happen to me — that philosophy. But when the victim is one of our own, it’s much worse — no one feels secure. It’s the ultimate flouting of authority, destruction of the father image and all that sort of thing.

I know what a cop killing means, all right, the other man said.

I know you do, Marlo. I also know you’ll get this Werewolf. All I want to emphasize is the necessity of speed, even more so now than before.

Marlo Blossom nodded and glanced at Monte. Well, Sergeant? He was chief of detectives, a veteran police officer, referred to by his subordinates — with mingled dread and respect — as Old Ironhead. His hair and eyes were gray and there was a gray tinge to his seamed cheeks, but his nickname sprang from his implacable manner, the natural bruskness that had been hammered into metallic hardness by his job. There was a girder-like rigidity to his big body, too, indicative of a personality that neither bent nor broke under pressure.

Monte said, The P.E. squad has about wrapped things up.

The coroner show up yet?

Monte indicated an official car that was just arriving, red light gleaming. I think that’s him now, Captain.

About time, Blossom growled. Maybe he’s in no hurry, but I am.

The newspaper boys are getting jumpy, too. The morning paper’s holding its front page and they want to know —

They already know. They stay behind the rope till we’re through.

The Chief of Police said, Maybe I’d better talk to them myself. We can use all the good public relations we can get right now.

Monte, watching him stride off toward the waiting reporters, lowered his voice. Trouble, Captain?

He seems to think so. I’ve been getting the full lecture on how we’ve got to catch the Werewolf. As if we wouldn’t break our necks doing it, anyhow. Blossom’s voice held a tinge of contempt as he referred to the Chief, who was a political appointee and hadn’t come up from the ranks, through service and competitive exams, the way the rest of them had. But he dismissed his resentment with a small shrug. Guess I’d be saying the same thing if I were in his shoes, though. Anything new turn up?

Monte filled him in on what the Physical Evidence detail had learned, and Blossom grimaced. Not much doubt it’s the same fellow, all right. The m.o. fits the other cases, except this time he finally went off the deep end. It wasn’t enough just to beat her up like he did the rest, he had to kill her too. I hoped we were going to get him before he reached that point.

Well, we’ve been trying hard enough.

Not hard enough, Blossom contradicted. Not as hard as we’ll try now. He made a big mistake tonight, a big mistake.

Monte stared at the body of Evelyn Duncan, huddled by the sidewalk, and agreed. All citizens were entitled to protection under the law and they received it, impersonally and efficiently. But when the victim was a cop, it couldn’t help but become a personal matter to everyone who wore a badge, in which vengeance as well as justice played a part.

Blossom glanced at his wristwatch. I guess you can handle things now, John. I’m going to go home and get some sleep. Something tells me tomorrow’s going to be a long day.

He went quickly off to his car, detouring around the area where the Chief was talking to the newsmen. Monte, left in charge, made a methodical check of his subordinates. The detectives had completed their questioning of the onlookers without learning anything of value. He talked again to