Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41 Read Online Free PDF Page B

pretty
sneaky method. It doesn't make sense for you to run out and call a cop right
after using poison. It isn't the same kind of mentality."
                   "He used the poison," said Crawley , "because it was handy. Gruber bought
it, probably had it sitting on his dresser or something, and Perkins just
picked it up on impulse and poured it into the beer."
                   "That's another thing," said Levine.
"Do you drink much beer out of cans?"
                   Crawley grinned. "You know I do."
                   "I saw some empty beer cans sitting
around the apartment, so that's where Gruber got his last beer from."
                   "Yeah. So what?"
                   "When you drink a can of beer, do you
pour the beer out of the can into a glass, or do you just drink it straight
from the can?"
                   "I drink it out of the can. But not
everybody does."
                   "I know, I know. Okay, what about the
library books? If you're going to kill somebody, are you going to bring library
books along?"
                   "It was an impulse killing. He didn't
know he was going to do it until he got there."
                   Levine got his feet. "That's the hell of
it," he said. "You can explain away every single question in this
business. But it's such a simple case. Why should there be so many questions
that need explaining away?"
                   Crawley shrugged. "Beats me," he said. "All I know is, we've got a
confession, and that's enough to satisfy me."
                   "Not me," said Levine. "I think
I'll go poke around and see what happens. Want to come along?"
                   "Somebody's going to have to hand the pen
to Perkins when he signs his confession," said Crawley .
                   "Mind if I take off for a while?"
                   "Go ahead. Have a big time," said Crawley , grinning at him. "Play detective."
                  Levine's first stop was back at Gruber's
address. Gruber's apartment was empty now, having been sifted completely
through normal routine procedure. Levine went down to the basement door under
the stoop, but he didn't go back to Gruber's door. He stopped at the front
apartment instead, where a ragged-edged strip of paper attached with peeling
scotch tape to the door read, in awkward and childish lettering,
superintendent. Levine rapped and waited. After a minute, the door opened a
couple of inches, held by a chain, A round face peered
out at him from a height of a little over five feet. The face said, "Who
you looking for?"
                   "Police," Levine told him. He opened
his wallet and held it up for the face to look at.
                   "Oh," said the face. "Sure thing." The door shut, and Levine waited
while the chain was clinked free, and then the door opened wide.
                   The super was a short and round man, dressed
in corduroy trousers and a grease-spotted undershirt. He wheezed, "Come
in, come in," and stood back for Levine to come into his crowded and
musty-smelling living room.
                   Levine said, "I want to talk to you about
Al Gruber."
                   The super shut the door and waddled into the
middle of the room, shaking his head. "Wasn't that a shame?" he
asked. "Al was a nice boy. No money, but a nice boy. Sit down somewhere,
anywhere."
                   Levine looked around. The room was full of
low-slung, heavy, sagging, over-stuffed furniture, armchairs and sofas. He
picked the least battered armchair of the lot, and sat on the very edge.
Although he was a short man, his knees seemed to be almost up to his chin, and
he had the feeling that if he relaxed he'd fall over backwards.
                   The super trundled across the room and dropped
into one of the other armchairs, sinking into it as