Murder Points a Finger. David Alexander

now, had gone together fairly steadily during the war and they continued to see much of each other while Abner was attending law school. Abner had erased himself more and more in those years, although his love for Pat and his fevered desire for her had not abated in the least. Pat had accused him of drawing back into his shell like a turtle. Why shouldn’t he? She was the daughter and the grand-daughter of a cop and he was a murderer’s son. He had been maimed in war, not only by losing a finger but by the shock and bitterness war leaves on the mind. Her other suitor was whole and handsome and had a ringing laugh. He was a schoolboy and her other suitor was a cop who had a gun and a badge and authority and a monthly paycheck.

      There was much bitterness in him during those years of loneliness and study. Bitterest of all was the thought of Pat in Allan’s arms, straining her body against him, whispering “Let’s pretend we’re married.” He tried to reject such a thought. Deep down he didn’t believe it. But it recurred and it was torture. Even worse was the feeling that the old relationship between Pat and him had vanished, that he was no longer her protector. No longer would she skip along beside him, her small hot hand, clutching his.

      Then he’d graduated and had a job and it seemed that Pat and he were back together again when Phil Linton heard the charge that Abner was an errand boy for mobsters. He wondered if Pat had heard, too.

      He was fully awake now. No longer could the fragile shield of his eyelids shut out the clamorous present or obscure his desperate situation. He must awaken to the fact of murder and even greater horrors. It was the second time in his life that murder had been waiting there beside his bed when his eyes came open. On the other occasion he had been in a children’s shelter, a small boy with moist eyes and tremulous lips, when they came to tell him that his father had been arrested for a crime so fearful they would not name it.

      Abner pulled himself to a sitting posture and shuddered. His host had lit the small oil stove, but the room was clammy with damp cold. Plaster peeled from the walls, the few furnishings were old and dark and scarred, the window glass was filmed with dirt and admitted a murky shaft of light into the chamber’s gloom. It was a fitting place to awaken after murder had been done. The room was almost as small as a cell at Dannemora.

      Abner heard a door open and shut, footsteps in another room. He jumped and glanced about him for a hiding place. The ex-convict came into the room. He was a small, chubby man. His arms were full of bundles and newspapers.

      “Take it easy,” said Abner’s host. “It’s only me. I went out and got food for breakfast. I bought the papers, too. They’re full of the murder and the kidnapping. The police have found the shot was from a forty-five, fired from about ten feet away. They haven’t found the girl, of course. Linton lived a little while. Long enough to put some cards down on the floor. They’ve got fingerprint symbols on them. The cops think they’re a clue, that Linton wanted your friend Ashton to see them.”

      “But he couldn’t have lived long enough to put any clues on the floor!” Abner exclaimed. “A forty-five fired at that short distance knocks you off your feet, kills you instantly!”

      “Maybe Linton was extra-tough. It was a belly wound and belly wounds are tricky sometimes. Anyway he lived to put those cards down on the floor.”

      “They must have been the little cards he uses in his lectures,” Abner said. “They were piled on the table last night, I remember. But they couldn’t mean a thing. They’re simply symbols for different types of fingerprint patterns. You can’t point out any individual set of prints with them.” Abner suddenly raised his right hand, looked at it. “Unless . . .”

      Abner stood staring at the hand, like an infant that is fascinated by the sight of its fingers.

      “Unless,” he said, “he meant to point out a man with a missing finger.”

      “You think he did?” the small man asked.

      Abner didn’t answer. He began to don his clothes hastily.

      “What’s the rush?” the chubby man asked. “You’re not going anywhere, my boy.”

      “I’ve got to. I’ve got to go to Pat. I dreamed about her. There were hands, horrible hands reaching for her.”

      “Take it easy, son. You can’t leave here. Not now. There’s a town full of cops, with their hands on their guns, waiting out there for you.”

      “Listen, I’ve got to go, I tell you. She’s my girl, can’t you understand? I’ve got to get to her. She’s locked up and those muggs of Fassio’s must know where she is, along with——well, along with whoever put her there. You’ve seen those mobsters, dealt with ’em. So have I. You ever see the way they look at a woman? I’ve seen them there in Burke and Holmquist’s office, sitting, waiting, not saying a word, with those hard, dark eyes of theirs undressing the women in the place, right down to the skin. I don’t want their dirty hands on Pat.”

      “You listen,” said the little man more sternly. “You listen to me. I’m an ex-con. I know about cops and muggs and murder. You can’t leave here, I tell you. You’ve got your orders. Maybe you got ’em straight from Fassio. You don’t leave here, not if I’ve got to put a gun on you to keep you.”

      “Damn it, man, I can’t just sit here doing nothing! Christ knows what they’re doing to Pat right now!”

      The small man spilled liquor into a glass, handed it to Abner. “Take this,” he said. “You need it. You’re forgetting something. We don’t know which way to jump until this old man you know joins those other three old men tonight.”

      Abner gulped the liquor, gagged, shook his head. “I’ve got to get to Pat,” he said.

      “Just how far do you think you’ll get?” the small man asked. “How far do you think you’ll get with a cop like Sansone and a killer like Fassio both gunning for you, kid?”