Where the Dark Streets Go by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

They wouldn’t give him the ground to shore up his walls. The city condemned. The building’s going but he still won’t sell the land. It’s in the courts and it’s been in the papers, but he never heard of Gustave Muller.”
    “But the abandoned building could have been what attracted Muller to the neighborhood,” McMahon said. “What did you find in this room?”
    “An old army cot and three more doorknobs.”
    “Nothing else?”
    “A few spatters of paint. He could have decorated the kid’s doorknobs up here.”
    “He’d have needed a brush and paint,” McMahon said.
    “It wasn’t here.”
    “And nothing like that where he lived?”
    Brogan shook his head. “No Phelan yet either.”
    “And no weapon,” McMahon said after a moment.
    “It was a square-edged blade. Maybe a narrow chisel.”
    Or a palette knife, McMahon thought, but he did not say so.
    “He cleaned up a few store fronts on Ninth Avenue,” Brogan said. “A real eccentric, like they say.”
    McMahon felt relieved of having to tell him of his conversation with Rosenberg. But to compensate—his own conscience, he thought afterward—he reminded the detective of Muller’s last words.
    “I was going over your statement again, Father. That’s some pretty fancy talk between you and him. What do you think he meant when he said he’d taken the knife from his killer?”
    “I suppose I took it to mean that the man was not dangerous to anyone else.”
    “That’s the way I read it, and that’s pure crap, Father. Unless he killed himself and got somebody to get rid of the weapon for him.”
    “Who?”
    Brogan shrugged. “And why? Nobody who had any sense would touch it. That leaves the kid.”
    “Carlos? I’m sure he ran all the way from here to the rectory.”
    “So am I. I think he told it the way it was.”
    McMahon could hardly read the dial hand on his watch. “I’ve got to get home.”
    “We’ve canvassed all the big art galleries, Father, on the chance he painted something besides balls and walls. But maybe they wouldn’t know him under that name. His Social Security number’s fake. He was on the run from something. We’ll find out.”
    McMahon remembered his earlier mission that evening. “How long will you keep the body?”
    “We’ve got the facilities. Till somebody claims it.”
    “The tenants of 987 would like a funeral service.”
    “A wake?”
    “I suppose you could call it that. I’ve inquired about the costs at Ferguson and Kelly.”
    “So you need the mortal remains. I’ll speak to Traynor. It’s something the newspapers would pick up. The publicity might help us.”
    “I want to think about it first,” McMahon said. “Hold off speaking to Traynor.” The whole idea now became repugnant to him.
    At the top of the stairs Brogan said, “You’re right, Father. Somebody would be on our necks for it, some organization for the rights of corpses.” A few steps down, he paused. “Hah! I remember a song my grandfather used to sing when he’d get a few drinks in him…‘If this wake goes on a minute, sure the corpse he must be in it. You’ll have to get me drunk to keep me dead.’ That’s the end of it. I forget the beginning.”
    How fortunate, McMahon thought.
    On the Street Brogan asked: “Are you off duty now, Father?”
    “No. I’ve taken French leave.”
    “What does that mean?”
    McMahon rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess it means AWOL. It’s Irish. I don’t remember ever saying it before myself.”
    “I check out in a half hour. I was going to suggest, if you’re free, have a meal and a couple of drinks with me.”
    “Where?”
    “Downtown. The Village maybe.”
    “He wasn’t the Village type,” the priest said, although God knew, he said it on shallow grounds.
    “Maybe he wasn’t, Father, but I was thinking about his killer. And I could use a good excuse for a few hours on the town. What do you say?”
    “If you don’t mind starting with Benediction and rosary. I’ll be