A police precinct in a large city is a filter bed, a giant sieve straining the sewage of crime that flows endlessly through its dingy corridors and across its leaving stains of grief and horror, fear and disappointment, terror, hopelessness, and too often pain and blood.
In New York�s 52nd Precinct, Lt. Clancy�s blotter was soiled by the debris of a big city�s crime. From the IRT at 86th Street there was a report on a �subway jumper.� On Riverside Drive, an old man who lived in a large house littered with newspapers, tin cans, rags, and cigar-boxes had been murdered. A worn-out old shoeshine man reported sixteen dollars � his days earnings � stolen from his box. And at the other end of the scale, a UN delegate had been threatened with a short life. This was an ordinary day for Lt. Clancy, and as the reader follows him through the sordid, often dangerous, world of petty and major crime, the never-ending tension and drama of the stories on the police blotter explode with dynamic force.
Scene: New York
A police precinct in a large city is a filter bed, a giant sieve straining the sewage of crime that flows endlessly through its dingy corridors and across its police blotter, leaving behind the tragic stains of grief and horror, of fear and disappointment, of terror, hopelessness and helplessness, and too often of pain and blood. Occasionally humor is registered on the scrawled pages that receive and delineate the daily naughtiness of the neighborhood, but very seldom. In general there is little to induce a smile in the brutally cold facts of the record; little to amuse in the words burglary, rape, switch-blade, gunshot-wound, assault, or suicide...
The sluices that feed this mammoth disposal plant are kept at high flow by the constant influx of monitored information, furnished through the modern miracle of present day communication.
From a radio car, voice distorted by the mechanical apparatus:
Or from a call-box:
Or from individuals, sometimes identified; usually not:
Occasionally from the telephone company:
Or sometimes a visit in person, a man staggering grotesquely up the worn stone steps of the precinct itself, holding his stomach tightly with bloody fingers, trying to push through the heavy doors with his shoulder, saying in a surprised tone of voice to no one in particular,
Sirens have their own particular wail, and here you note it. Cars race from the precinct garage; men hurry down the stairs from the squad-room, shrugging themselves into topcoats, patting their chests hurriedly to assure the presence of service revolvers � and notebooks and pencils. Typewriters clatter with the uneven rattle of untrained fingers, banging out endless reports on multiple colored forms; telephones ring and are answered, or ring and keep on ringing; cell doors clang shut or swing open � the hinges couldn�t care less which way they turn. People sit sullen and nervous, or fearful, or angry, or bored, on the plain wooden benches to the side of the sergeant�s desk. A precinct is a monstrous ant-hill of activity, of restless movement, all directed at the interminable and seemingly senseless task of clearing enough space from the blotter to allow room for new crimes to clog it once again.
Day and night, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, year after year after year. Unceasing. Endless... Crime may be organized, but one thing it never demanded was the eight-hour day...
Lieutenant Clancy of New York�s Fifty-second Precinct leaned back from the thick stack of reports on his desk, lit a cigarette, and flipped the burnt match in the general direction of the waste-basket in one corner of the tiny room. He swiveled his chair to stare out of the window of the shabby office. In the bright sunlight of the fine autumn day the clothing strung across the heights of the canyon formed by the walls of the old tenements, and even the rows of dented galvanized garbage cans, took on a slightly less objectionable air; but only slightly. One of these days, Clancy thought, more than half-seriously, I�ve got to buck for a promotion, if only to rate an office with a better view. This one, in addition to being slightly larger than a bread-box, is depressing, even on a lovely day.
A lovely day... The words and the thought touched his memory; he came to his feet and went to stand by the window, staring out at the accumulated rubbish and debris that served in place of a lawn for the narrow areaway. A woman leaned out of a window overhead, shaking out a rug. Clancy�s thoughts went back to the previous day...
Lieutenant Clancy was a slender man, a bit taller than medium-height, with dark gray eyes, neatly chiseled features, and a very firm chin. His clothing, which was so standard as to be almost a uniform with him, consisted of a drab blue suit, usually sprinkled with cigarette ash, a cheap white shirt, and a plain blue necktie which he seldom bothered to unknot to remove, and which demonstrated this fact by having a tendency to curl. It may only have been trying to hide. Streaks of gray were beginning to mark his temples, but his hair, which was light in color to begin with, successfully masked this admission of middle age.
Some people � like Policewoman Mary Kelly � thought the graying temples made Clancy look distinguished. Clancy didn�t think about it at all, except to feel more ancient every time he faced himself in a mirror. As a general rule, Clancy�s thoughts were confined to his job at the Fifty-second Precinct to the exclusion of everything else; it was the one fault Mary Kelly found in him. It seemed to her that Clancy should be thinking of settling down � with a wife, of course. Someone who understood him, who understood his work, who appreciated not only his problems, but who appreciated him as a person, as well. Someone like Mary Kelly, to be exact. Not a young girl, but not all that old, either. Nor that poorly built, nor that bad-looking; someone who had been waiting for a man like Clancy for a long while.
It was not that Clancy was unaware of her interest. It was the thought of the lovely day that had brought his memory back to the previous day, when he and Mary Kelly had had dinner together in her small but neat flat, and afterwards had gone down to sit on the grooved steps of the old brownstone, watching the children play in the street, listening to the muted screams of delight, the muffled sounds of distant traffic, the even beat of strolling footsteps in the growing darkness.
�It�s been a lovely day,� Mary Kelly had said softly, placing her hand as if by accident on Clancy�s arm. �It�s been a lovely day, and now it�s a lovely night.�
Clancy hadn�t answered. A lovely night, he had thought analytically; warm and clear. A good night for mugging strolling lovers in the park, for pushing dope without looking out of place standing alone on a street corner waiting for customers, for breaking into apartments of people who had taken advantage of the beautiful fall weather for one last week-end in the country before being incapsulated in their burrows for the winter. A lovely night for crime.
�Nice,� Mary Kelly had murmured.
�Yeah,� he had answered almost harshly, and then felt ashamed of himself. It certainly wasn�t Mary Kelly�s fault that some people took advantage of the good weather to rob and steal and kill, the same as others took advantage of it to play golf, or walk in the park, or go for a drive in the country and watch the trees take on the rich warm tones of autumn. He had pulled away from her hand, coming to his feet rather abruptly, stepping down to the sidewalk.
�I�m sorry,� he had said, his voice curt and cold despite his thoughts, despite his good intentions. �I guess I�m just not good company for anyone tonight...�
Clancy stared through the window and sighed. Yes, it had been a lovely week-end � perfect weather with bright sun and cloudless skies, with cool evenings and gentle breezes; and the pile of reports on his desk clearly demonstrated it. A gang rumble in a school playground, with a fifteen-year-old stabbed and a thirteen-year-old beaten half to death with a bicycle chain; twelve cases of breaking and entering; a wild midnight chase by a patrol car after a speeding stolen pick-up truck, resulting in a crash that killed the driver and put his two passengers, both teen-agers, female, in the hospital. One was in fair condition, but they wouldn�t be able to tell about the other until they saw how she responded to the transfusions; by the time they had managed to extricate her from the wreckage and had performed the emergency amputation of her leg, she had lost an estimated two quarts of blood.
One man had spent the lovely Saturday afternoon soaking rags and old newspapers in kerosene and placing them in neat bundles beneath the stair-well of an old cold water walk-up on Eighty-eighth Street, and had then dropped a burning match into the pile and walked calmly outside. There were two tenants dead, one of them a six-months-old infant, male, and four firemen in the hospital suffering from smoke inhalation; it was a miracle the Fire Department had managed to prevent the entire block from going up in flames.
The arsonist had been apprehended in front of the burning building, watching the towering flames and the clouds of acrid choking smoke with open-mouthed joy, crooning softly to himself and quietly clapping his hands together. He was well known to the Arson Squad and one week out of Mattewan, certified as completely cured. So that case, at least, was one that would not clog the blotter, if that fact could bring satisfaction to the occupants of the two shelves in the morgue, and the four men cruelly gasping their lungs out at Bellevue.
Clancy dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out almost savagely. He swung back to his desk and reseated himself, reaching again for the pile of reports. Beyond the cold listing of crimes, and the assignment of personnel for their investigation, the size of the pile clearly indicated one fact even more important: they were damned short of men. The precinct was strained beyond its resources, and in addition to the excessive workload brought on by the unusually fine fall weather, there was another factor. The United Nations was in special session and most of the foreign heads of government had personally come to New York for the meeting. And some of these heads of government were considered both legitimate and worthy targets by some of their countrymen. As a result, each precinct had had to donate men to strengthen the UN detail, which left them even shorter than usual. Plus the fact that the fine weather, for reasons only a doctor could possibly explain, had also laid up a larger number than usual of the precinct complement with colds, viruses, and assorted forms of grippe.
Clancy shook his head. Let it snow, he thought; let it rain and hail and even tornado, if there is such a verb � let it do anything to cut down the burden of crime. Let it get so cold and nasty that the bad boys all pack their suitcases and fly out to Las Vegas, or down to Miami Beach. Or let more recruits get smart and pass the Civil Service examinations. Or � even better � let crime take a holiday. He smiled sardonically to himself. His other wishes were possible, even if not probable; the last one was really a dream.
The telephone at his elbow rang stridently, interrupting his thoughts. He pushed the pile of reports to one side � not so much because he needed the room, but because he was weary of looking at them � and lifted the receiver. His other hand automatically pulled a pad into place and picked up a sharpened pencil.
�Yes?�
�Lieutenant? This is the desk. They�ve got a subway jumper over at the Eighty-sixth Street IRT. Jennings called it in. He was on traffic duty on the corner there and the guy who makes change come up and told him. He�s down there now.�
Clancy nodded and scratched a mark on the pad that had nothing to do with the information he had just received. �Do they have any make on him?�
�You mean the jumper? Not that I know of; Jennings didn�t say. All he said was a guy jumped in front of a train there.�
Clancy made two more marks on his pad, neither of which was significant. �Who do you have to send out?�
�Nobody.� The sergeant amended his statement. �Kaproski�s here, up in the squad-room. He come in awhile ago. He�s typing up a report on them park muggings. All the other boys are out.�
�Gomez, too?�
�He reported sick this morning, Lieutenant. Flu or something.�
�How about Stanton?�
The desk sergeant took a deep breath. �They was an old man found dead in a house over on the Drive this morning; it happened before you come in, Lieutenant. Stanton�s over there with Keller.� He paused. �You want I should send Kaproski?�
Clancy thought a moment. �No; let Kap finish what he�s doing. I�ll take it myself. I�m sick and tired of looking at these reports, anyway.� He dropped the phone back on its hook and pulled himself to his feet; from force of habit he tore the top two sheets from the pad, wadded them, and tossed them into the waste-basket. He took his worn topcoat from a hook back of the door, his battered hat from its accustomed place on top of one of the filing cabinets, and walked down the corridor to the desk.
�I shouldn�t be over there very long,� he said to the sergeant, slipping one arm into his coat. �If I�m held up I�ll call in.�
The sergeant nodded. �You want a car, Lieutenant?�
�I�ll take my own,� Clancy said. He slid the other arm into his coat and shrugged it into place. �It�s right outside and you can usually find a place to park over there.� The phone on the desk rang as he turned to the heavy doors of the precinct; the sergeant�s voice stopped him as he was pushing them open.
�Hold it, Lieutenant. It�s Captain Wise. He wants to talk to you.�
Clancy paused with a frown, shrugged, and then walked back to the desk, taking the phone from the sergeant�s outstretched hand. �Sam? What is it? I was just on my way out. There was a subway jumper over at the Eighty-sixth Street IRT.�
The voice of his superior came to him over the instrument. Captain Sam Wise sounded exactly the way he looked and the way he was � stolid, strong, dependable, and very, very Brooklyn. �Are we that short of men you got to go yourself, Clancy?�
�Shorter,� Clancy said curtly. �Do you have to see me right away, or can it wait? I want to get going; these subway things tie traffic up for hours.�
�What I had to say, it�s waited this long it can wait a little longer,� Captain Wise said philosophically. �It wasn�t all that important. Just see me when you get back.�
�Right.�
�And better wear boots,� the captain added, in a sad attempt to lighten what he felt was an unhappy mood in his subordinate. �Those jumpers are pretty messy sometimes.�
�I know,� Clancy said with no emotion at all in his voice. He hung up, straightened his hat, pushed through the doors, and trotted down the steps to the curb.
A uniformed policeman was stationed at the uptown side of the Eighty-sixth Street IRT station, shunting people away from the entrance. He recognized Clancy and gave him a half-salute, even while his other hand reached out restrainingly to stop a potential customer of the subway.
�Hi, Lieutenant.�
Clancy grunted wordlessly and pushed past. He trotted down the empty stairway, fumbling in his pocket for change. The changer, standing wide-eyed outside of his booth, walked back inside and shoved a token over the sill. Clancy dropped it in the turnstile and rammed his way through. One hidden part of his brain automatically marked the expenditure for inclusion on his next expense account; he dismissed the thought and walked across the platform.
The train had braked to a stop about three-quarters of the way into the station; the lead car was beyond the visible portion of the platform, hidden from Clancy�s view by the corner of a newspaper kiosk, now folded and locked into a box-shape that looked like a packaged piano. The lights of the subway cars were in bright contrast to the normal gloom of the dingy station; the doors of those cars that were alongside the platform had been opened, and those passengers who had not left the scene for more assured transportation were being held back from the front end of the paralyzed train by a second uniformed policeman.
Clancy walked quickly around the shuttered newspaper stand and towards the front of the train; a third uniformed policeman was seated on one of the benches there, his arm supporting the motorman solicitously. The trainman had his head buried in his hands. Across the multiple tracks passengers on the downtown platform were staring curiously through the gloom of the dim station, attempting to determine what was taking place.
The policeman on the bench looked up at Clancy�s arrival; it was Jennings of the Traffic Detail. He began to get to his feet; his movement caused the motorman to raise tortured eyes. He saw the tall thin detective standing over him and scrambled hastily to his feet, unconsciously recognizing authority. His hand went out hesitatingly as if to touch Clancy; he swallowed.
�I couldn�t help it,� he said in a high voice, bordering on hysteria. �Honest to Christ I couldn�t help it! Like I told the officer here, I was coming into the station like I always do, following the lights, just starting to slow down, when he jumped off right in front of me! Right in my face! I swear to God I couldn�t do anything about it. I slammed on the brakes but I couldn�t stop in time...�
�All right, all right!� Clancy said irritably. He hated hysterics. �Nobody figures you ran your train up on the platform after him.� His eyes studied the shocked face of the man before him and his voice softened. �It was an accident. Take it easy. You�ll be all right.�
He walked to the edge of the platform and peered downwards. The jumper, a man, had been struck while still in the air; it had prevented him from falling beneath the wheels of the swiftly braked train, but it had not saved him. The impetus of those rushing tons of steel had flung him violently against one of the gaunt columns supporting the street above; the force of the brutal impact had nearly torn the body in two. It now lay wedged between the third rail and the rigid column, a widening pool of dark blood cushioning the crushed head; the monster train had ground to a screaming halt less than a yard from the ripped body. Clancy shut his eyes a moment, blotting out the fearful sight, swallowed convulsively, and then opened his eyes again. He turned back to the group on the platform, and walked over to Jennings.
�Where�s the other trainman? The one that opens the doors?�
Jennings jerked a thumb. �He�s back there with the others. He didn�t see anything. He�s stationed halfway back in the train, and anyway he says he was talking to a pal of his when it happened.�
Clancy nodded and turned back to the motorman. The man was swaying on his feet, his face white, his eyes wide, remembering. Clancy studied him. �Are you going to be able to handle this train once this business is cleared up?�
The motorman wet his lips, started to speak, and then looked down at his feet instead. He seemed to feel his inability to bring himself back under control was something to be ashamed of. Clancy nodded understandingly and spoke to Jennings.
�Better get him home and see that his doctor is called. And see that the IRT send another man down here to take his place. In a hurry.� He turned away and walked over to the policeman standing between the curious passengers and the gruesome sight below on the tracks. �Did anyone else see this thing happen?�
�I did, I did!� It was a thin, pimply youngster in his teens, bursting with the importance of his news. He shifted the stack of books under his arm to a more comfortable position. �I was standing right up front in the first car, right next to the trainman�s booth, catching the breeze. I seen the whole thing.�
Clancy stared at him. �Was anyone near him when he jumped?�
�Naw. He...�
�Are you sure?� Clancy�s stern tone was meant to impress the boy with the seriousness of accurate reporting. �Was there any chance that he might have been pushed?�
�Naw.� The boy discounted this repetition with a derisive tone born more of nervousness than disagreement. He shook his head violently to demonstrate the degree of his knowledge. �He jumped. He was all alone, standing like he was waiting for the train to stop for him to hop on. And then, all of a sudden, just before we come up to him �
Clancy disregarded the dramatics. �Did you notice anyone else on the platform at the time he jumped?�
The boy hesitated, torn between the obvious heroics of embellishment and the less colorful, but more accurate facts. He looked at Clancy and decided he�d be a hero another day; today he would tell the man what he had seen and no more.
�I think they was a guy over by the washroom door reading a newspaper,� he said doubtfully. �I think. I ain�t sure.� He paused, trying to repicture the scene of their arrival in the station, and then shook his head. �I ain�t sure. It happened awful fast.�
Clancy looked at him with a frown. �Do you mean there was only one person on the platform when the train came in?�
The boy shifted the books under his arm again, and shook his head. �Naw. I mean near him. They was people over in the middle, and maybe some on the other end, but he was down at the other end � I mean, at the front end, like. Down where he was, I think only the guy reading the newspaper was there.� He lifted a grubby finger, wanting to make his position as an honest witness crystal clear. �I think. I ain�t sure.�
�All right, son. Stick around.� Clancy turned to the group of curious passengers owlishly watching both him and the young boy. He raised his voice slightly, his eyes moving from one frozen face to another. �Were any of you people on the platform when this train came in?� There was silence; he tried again. �Did any of you see any of this?�
There was a hesitant cough, and one man thrust himself forward slightly.
�I didn�t see it,� he said, �but I�ve been waiting for someone in authority to show up we could speak to. When that motorman stopped the train, a lot of us were thrown forward, and I hit my arm on one of those vertical poles. I wouldn�t be surprised if I sustained an injury. Who do I see about that? It�s certainly the responsibility of the city...�
�See your lawyer,� Clancy said coldly, and turned to the patrolman standing quietly to one side. He was a tall young man, still looking as if he had not as yet become fully accustomed to the new uniform. �What about the guy in the change-booth?�
The young patrolman shook his head. �Wrong angle, Lieutenant. The corner of the platform cut him off. He didn�t see a thing; we already asked him. All he heard was the train when the motorman hit the brake � it scraped along...� His voice trailed off.
�Well, that�s that, then,� Clancy said. He raised his voice again slightly. �All right, folks; we�ll need some of your names and addresses. Please don�t leave until we get them.� He forestalled any objection by turning back to the young uniformed figure at his side. �Do you have any make on the jumper yet?�
�We ain�t touched him, Lieutenant.�
�So let�s touch him,� Clancy said, almost testily. He hated suicides more than almost any other part of his work. He steered the young patrolman to the edge of the platform at the front of the train and looked at his badge. �All right, 1973. Down there and toss up his papers.�
�Hadn�t we ought to wait for the medics, Lieutenant? We called them, you know...�
�Wait for them for what?� Clancy asked sourly. �Let�s get on with it. Let�s get down there, son.�
The young patrolman looked over the edge and gulped. �How about the third rail, Lieutenant?�
�So don�t be a butterfingers.� Clancy knew very well that the current had been cut between Seventy-second and Ninety-sixth on the uptown side as soon as the accident had been reported, but he did not believe in coddling newcomers to the force. The young cop hesitated a moment and then lowered himself gingerly over the edge, eyeing the third rail suspiciously, as if it might suddenly slip out of position and lunge at him. He averted his eyes from the smashed skull, reached out and snaked a wallet from the inside pocket of the mangled jacket, turned, and scrambled hastily back to the platform. He handed the wallet to Clancy and then wiped his hands on his sides.
�Medal of Honor,� Clancy muttered ambiguously. He looked around for some decent light and then walked forward to the first car of the train, leaning toward one of the windows, opening the wallet. A thin folder had been placed between the two sides of the wallet, free; it dropped to the platform as Clancy opened the billfold. For a moment Clancy was afraid it had slipped between the train and the platform, and then he saw it had lodged against his foot. He bent down and retrieved it, opening it to stare at the typed document and the attached photograph. A surprised frown crossed his face.
�Well, well, well!� he said softly. �What do you know?�
The young patrolman had followed him to the side of the car. �You know him, Lieutenant?�
Clancy disregarded the question. He studied the papers a few more moments, his forehead puckered in thought, and then tucked the document in his pocket, turning his attention to the wallet. He riffled through the bills, slipped some cards from a small pocket, studied them and returned them, and then stuffed the wallet into his topcoat pocket. There was a commotion at the steps and two white-jacketed youngsters came bounding down the stairs, dragging a stretcher behind them. They disregarded the turnstiles and walked to one side, pulling the exit door open. Clancy watched them, remembering his fifteen cents and the token, bitter at his own sheer stupidity.
The youngsters came up. �Where is he?� one asked cheerfully.
�Where you�d expect him to be,� Clancy said, still angry with himself at the thought of the token. He jerked a thumb towards the tracks. �Down there. And try to make it quick. There must be a line-up of trains piled up all the way to the Battery.�
�Roger,� said the other. He flipped a large hand up in a travesty of a salute. �Your word is our command. We�ll have him out of here and comfortable in a jiffy.�
�Thank you.� Clancy watched them as they paused at the edge of the platform, and then jumped down, dragging their stretcher behind them. If he expected them to cringe at the sight that faced them, he was disappointed. Other than an admiring whistle from one, they got to work silently. Clancy shrugged and turned to the young patrolman still waiting patiently at his side.
�Get the names and addresses of any in that mob that make sense,� he said. �The kid, and the other trainman. And see to it that the information gets to the precinct soon, in case we need it.� He paused as another thought came to him. �That guy screaming about his busted arm � do me a favor and forget him.�
�Yes, sir.�
�And stick around here until the relief motorman comes,� Clancy said. �Which I hope is soon. Stay here and see that the train gets going. There must be a jam back of this thing that will give us grief someplace else, like traffic, or fainting women...� He cut off the thought.
�Yes, sir.�
Clancy hesitated a moment, weighing his next words. �And you handled yourself all right on this,� he said quietly. �Suicides are rough, especially at the beginning.�
He turned from the embarrassed flush of gratitude that spread across the young face, pushed his way through the exit gate, trying not to remember the manner or the expense of his entrance, and trotted up the steps.
At eleven o�clock that lovely day, a little boy, age eight, playing hookey from school on a day too warm and pleasant to be incarcerated in a classroom, fell into the East River on the Brooklyn side, and was swept away in the strong, oily currents. His frightened classmates, after staring at the spot where he went in, silently drifted away, each taking his share of guilt with him. A winchman loading a freighter on a nearby dock saw the incident, but he was too far away to attempt rescue. He did, however, notify the police at once, and they had the river dragged for many hours without success.
The water of the East River, into which the little body had disappeared, was ten degrees warmer than normal for the date, according to the Coast Guard Bureau of Statistics. It was just another example of the fine weather that fall.
Clancy stopped in his office long enough to divest himself of his topcoat and hat, distributing them as usual. He retrieved the wallet and the documents of the subway jumper and, still holding them in his hand, went back to the corridor and up the worn steps to Captain Wise�s office on the second floor. He swung the door open without knocking; Captain Wise, his telephone receiver almost buried in his huge hand, tilted his massive head in the general direction of a chair and returned to his conversation.
�Yes, sir, Inspector,� he was saying into the instrument. �Yes, sir. I know. I�ll have to check the duty roster and let you know. The only thing is, we�re busier than hell, and strapped to our ears...� He looked up at Clancy, shrugged helplessly but expressively, and returned his attention to the telephone. �Yes, sir. I understand. I know.� His big hand dwarfed the pencil with which he was doodling; he scribbled something and nodded at the receiver. �I realize how serious it is, sir. I understand. I�ll call you back.�
He hung up and reached for his pipe. �That UN thing again,� he said with a scowl. �Threats and more threats. Rumors and more rumors. Why in the hell didn�t they put the damned thing on a desert island out in the middle of the ocean? Or in the Kremlin and let them worry about it?� He sucked on his empty pipe a moment and then replaced it in the ash tray; Captain Wise was in the process of stopping smoking. He withdrew his hand from the pipe as if he were releasing an old friend who would probably not understand his lack of attention. His eyes came up, studying Clancy. �Well? How did it go over at Eighty-sixth Street?�
Clancy leaned forward impressively, placed the wallet and documents on the desk, and slid them over in front of his superior. �If these papers belong to the guy who jumped in front of that subway train � and that�s being checked out downtown right now � then,� he said quietly, �I have the pleasure of informing you that Mister Caper Connelly is no longer among us.�
Captain Wise�s hand froze momentarily in the act of reaching; his bushy gray eyebrows went up. For a moment he stared at Clancy and then he picked up the document on top and opened it, studying it carefully.
�Caper Connelly, huh? That�s the hackie we�ve had so much trouble with over the years, isn�t it?�
�That�s the one,� Clancy said, nodding. He leaned back, his eyes steady on his superior�s face. �We�ve had him in here a dozen times, on suspicion of everything from pushing dope to using his cab as a ten-minute bordello, to using it to deliver hi-jacked booze to a couple of unlicensed bars. Unfortunately, we were never able to stick him with time, but the fact is he was a bad boy.�
�I remember him.� Captain Wise frowned. �How does a guy like that keep getting his license renewed?�
Clancy shrugged. �Like I said, we never could get a conviction. And the license board can�t knock a man down on suspicion only. After all, those medallions on the hood are worth upwards of twenty-seven grand...�
�Yeah.� Captain Wise picked up the wallet but made no attempt to open it. �Anything of interest in this?�
�About five hundred bucks,� Clancy said. �Which is about four hundred and ninety more than you�d find in mine. Plus cards for membership in a couple of places I also can�t afford.� His eyes went from the wallet to the captain�s face. �You might also note that it isn�t made of cheap plastic. Real alligator. Mark Cross, and expensive.�
�Yeah.� Captain Wise pushed the documents and wallet back at Clancy, started to reach for his pipe again, and changed his mind. �So what do you think?�
�Sam, I think it stinks.� Clancy frowned and slid the two items back into his pocket. He leaned back again. �It takes some pretty strong reasons for a man to jump off a subway platform in front of a train, and Caper Connelly is one guy I just can�t picture doing it. One thing is sure, he certainly didn�t do it because his conscience was bothering him, because that guy didn�t have a conscience.� He fell silent and sighed. �Still, he did do it... Well, it�s just one more thing we have to follow; one more thing to take up our time.� He reached into his shirt pocket, extracted a cigarette and lit it. Captain Wise�s eyes followed every move hungrily. �What did you want to see me about before?�
Captain Wise dragged his eyes from the aromatic cigarette and looked away, a bit embarrassed. �Actually, Clancy, it wasn�t anything of any great importance.�
�Come on, Sam,� Clancy said patiently. He blew cigarette smoke across the desk as if by accident. �We�ve known each other since we were kids. You used to wipe my nose for me when I was a shrimp in school; I know you like a book. And I know when you�ve got something on your mind. Come on; what�s bothering you?�
�Me? Nothing.� The captain�s expression was the purest of innocence. He reached for his pipe once again, but it was only for something to do with his hands. Captain Wise was a man of will-power. He pulled his hand back as if he had inadvertently found himself reaching for a bomb with a lit fuse. �I was only going to ask you about your date last night, is all...�
�My date?� Clancy stared at the other for several moments and then shook his head in mock disgust. �Sam, Sam! When are you going to give up, and stop trying to marry me off?�
�Mary Kelly�s a nice girl, Clancy. And a good policewoman. And she comes from a nice Irish family...�
�As if you care.� Clancy grinned and blew some more smoke across the desk. �Sam, you don�t know Mary Kelly�s family from Gamal Nasser�s family. And I know it, and you know I know it. As a matter of fact, I don�t know them myself. They live out in Kansas or Iowa or someplace, and for all I know they�ve never even been to New York.�
�A girl like that has to come from a good family,� Captain Wise argued stubbornly. He forced himself to disregard the tempting aroma of the smoke drifting across the desk at him. �Anyway, what difference does it make, her family? Were our families so much we should criticize? Your father was the only Irish pants-presser in the shop my father was a cutter. Anyway, you don�t marry a family, you marry a girl...�
�Hold it,� Clancy said firmly. �Now I�m getting married, am I? I have one dinner with a woman and before dessert you�ve got me coming down the aisle.�
�And just what�s wrong with that?� Captain Wise demanded, as if insulted. �What�s wrong?� For a moment he tried to seethe without staring at Clancy�s cigarette, and then gave it up. He shook his head, this time sincerely. �Look, Clancy � what kind of a life is it you lead? Work, work, work! And then go home to a crummy apartment...�
�Crummy?�
�You know what I mean. Is this the life for a grown man your age? My Sarah says...�
�Whoa!� Clancy held up a hand to stop the flow of words. �You�ll pardon me, Sam, but your Sarah would rather be a successful matchmaker than a good cook, and that�s saying something. Why don�t you and Sarah let me run my own love life?�
�Just so long as it is a love life,� Captain Wise said, and shook his grizzly head disconsolately. �
Clancy crushed out his cigarette, got to his feet, and moved to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. �Some day, Sam,� he said, �I�ll get married and have fourteen children. Plus eighteen grandchildren, a dog, a cat and a canary. Just for you and Sarah. In the meantime, I�ve got a desk full of work, so if you�ll pardon me...�
Captain Wise sighed deeply. �Stubborn,� he said in a hopeless tone of voice.
�That�s what they pay me for,� Clancy said with a grin, and went out of the door.
Second-grade Detective Kaproski poked his head in at the open doorway of Lieutenant Clancy�s office, saw the lieutenant at his desk, and came into the room. Kaproski was a large bulky man with a wild shock of unruly blond hair and a good-natured square face marked with a flattened nose and very bright blue eyes, set deep in sockets cut at an angle in his wide forehead. When he smiled, which was frequently, he exhibited even glistening white blocks of teeth; when he frowned, someone once said he looked like a ten-ton garbage truck coming around a sharp corner at eighty miles an hour. At the moment he was holding a folder in one huge hand; he laid it on the corner of Clancy�s desk a bit diffidently, and then stepped back several steps.
�Hi, Lieutenant.� He pointed. �There�s the report on them muggings in the park.�
Clancy picked up the folder and hefted it slowly in his hand, as if attempting to gather its import from its weight. He looked up. �Does it say anything worth reading?�
Kaproski shrugged nonchalantly. �It says that two guys were mugged last night over in Central Park, is about all. About an hour apart. One of the guys got banged up a little; they shoved him around. I saw him over at St. Joseph�s Hospital a while ago. He�ll be all right � a couple of scratches is all. He ought to be out tomorrow. The other guy got shoved around, too, but no damage. He was scared more than anything else. They�ll both live.�
�Any description of the muggers?�
�Just that they was three of them in a gang, young and tough � and big, naturally. Nobody wants to admit they was taken by three little guys. But it sounds like it was the same three kids both times, and damn near in the same place, too. Maybe half a block apart at the most. The guy I saw at his apartment is going downtown this afternoon to look at the file of mug-shots; the other guy says he�ll go down as soon as they let him loose from the hospital, which I figure is tomorrow afternoon at the latest. They just pushed him around a little, is all.�
�And what were they doing in the park?�
Kaproski raised his shoulders. �Getting mugged, I guess. You know, Lieutenant, you�d think people would have more brains than to wander around the park after dark, especially up in that neighborhood, but they don�t. I guess everybody figures it won�t happen to them.�
�Yeah.� Clancy looked at him. �Did they lose much?�
�One guy about twenty bucks and a wristwatch. And all of his papers, of course; driver�s license, social security card and that stuff. The other guy � the one in the hospital � claims he lost a hundred and eighty bucks, but to me he don�t look like the kind ever saw that much dough at one time in his life. And he also says he lost a wristwatch, a fountain pen set, and all his papers, too.�
�O.K.,� Clancy said. He tossed the folder on top of the pile of reports and nodded. �Follow it up after the two men see the mug-shots. In the meantime I�ve got another job for you. Sit down.�
Kaproski nodded pleasantly and pulled a chair over next to the file cabinets. �Sure, Lieutenant. What�s up?�
Clancy�s eyes were steady on the other�s face, as if trying to judge the effect of his next words. �For your information,� he said slowly, �Caper Connelly took a dive off the uptown platform of the Eighty-sixth Street IRT about an hour or so ago.�
�Caper Connelly?� Kaproski had been in the act of tilting his chair back on two legs; it came down to the floor again with a thump. His blue eyes were wide in disbelief. �The hackie? I don�t believe it! The day Caper Connelly does the dutch, my guess is it�ll be against somebody else. It don�t make sense!�
�If the papers in his pocket mean anything,� Clancy said, �it was Caper Connelly in the flesh...� For an instant his mind went back to the battered body lying in the trough of the subway tracks, and he shuddered slightly. �... and I do mean in the flesh. They�re checking him out at the morgue, but so far I think it was him.�
�I don�t get it, Lieutenant,� Kaproski said slowly. He tilted his chair back against the wall again and stared at his superior somberly. �Why would a guy like Caper kill himself? I can think of a dozen guys would probably want to kill him, but he wasn�t one of them himself.� He thought a moment and frowned. �And what was he doing in the subway in the first place? He was a hackie; they don�t use the subway.�
�That�s a good question,� Clancy said. �One of a dozen good questions I could ask.�
�Yeah,� Kaproski said. �Like even if he was in the subway, what was he doing on the
�True...�
�Although,� Kaproski was forced to admit, in a tone that clearly indicated his dislike of his own theory, �if a guy, any guy � even Caper � wants out and decides to take it by diving under a train, he�s got to go where the trains are, hackie or no.�
Clancy could not refrain from snorting. �A dive under a train? Why? Even supposing a hackie wants to commit suicide, he�s got a motor full of sweet carbon dioxide. Why would he pick a messy way of killing himself like the subway?� He shook his head. �Out of all the ways, it�s about the worst. For my money the whole thing stinks.�
�That it does,� Kaproski agreed equably. He looked at Clancy steadily. �What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?�
Clancy�s fingers were drumming on the desk; he seemed to be making up his mind. �He didn�t get off the train there; he was waiting on the platform. So his cab ought to be parked within a block or two of the Eighty-sixth Street station...�
�And?�
�And I want it,� Clancy said firmly. �In the precinct garage as soon as possible.� He shuffled through the papers on his desk and extracted the license, studied it a moment, and then passed it over. �It�s an owner-Yellow, plates 277�566.�
Kaproski took the paper and shoved it in his pocket. �O.K., Lieutenant. You got the keys?�
�No. They�ll have them down at the morgue, but you shouldn�t need them. Take a master, or a spider � or get hold of a truck and tow the damned thing for all I care. Just get it here.�
�Right, Lieutenant.� Kaproski got to his feet, pushed his chair out of the way, and then paused uncertainly. �Stanton�s over on the Drive where that old man got himself knocked off this morning.� Stanton was the second-grade who was his usual partner. �I don�t know who else is around. Who do you want I should take with me?�
�You can take yourself with you,� Clancy said curtly. �We�re so short-handed we can barely afford that.�
�O.K., Lieutenant,� Kaproski said philosophically, and walked out of the room. Clancy sat and stared at the papers on his desk for several moments in deep thought; the sudden ringing of the telephone brought his mind back to the small room. He reached out, lifting the instrument from its hook.
�Yes?�
�Lieutenant Clancy?� The voice was high and a bit unctuous; it clearly indicated authority. �On that man who jumped in front of that subway train, you took all of his identification with you...�
Clancy scowled. �Who�s this?�
�Sergeant McClure, at Bellevue. You took his papers...�
�I know I took his papers,� Clancy said shortly. �Stop repeating yourself. Did you do a check of his fingerprints? And compare them with the file at the taxi-licensing bureau? Or with our own files?� He glowered at the instrument. �Or with anything?�
�Yes, sir.� Sergeant McClure certainly didn�t sound put down by Clancy�s tone. �It was a man named Oswald Connelly, sometimes called Caper, picked up many times for questioning but never charged.� He returned to his original query, refusing to be side-tracked. �Regarding those papers, Lieutenant, we like to keep all of the effects together. Sometimes relatives ask for them. And basically, we are responsible...�
Clancy cut him off. �Save it, Sergeant,� he said wearily. �I�m not in the mood. You�ll get his papers when I�m through with them, and not before. Put a slip in the folder and say I�ve got them.�
�But when do you think...?�
Clancy hung up. His hand remained on the instrument a moment; there was another call he wanted to make. He withdrew his hand; this was a call that had to be made from outside the precinct. He pulled himself to his feet and took his hat from its usual place on top of the filing cabinet; the day had warmed up and a topcoat was not necessary. He placed the hat squarely on his head and walked out to the desk.
�Sergeant, I�m going out for some lunch.�
The sergeant looked up from his papers. �I could send out for some sandwiches for you, Lieutenant.�
�No, that�s all right,� Clancy said, and pushed through the doors.
The weather was still fine; the sun was high in the cloudless sky and the air was still, but it now contained a slight tang that wakened the blood and brought hope that winter would eventually arrive. Clancy turned down the street, walked the short block that separated the precinct house from the corner, and entered a cigar store there. A row of telephone booths stood against one wall; he edged himself into one, dropped a coin in the slot, and dialed a familiar number. There was a brief pause while the telephone at the other end rang; then the receiver was finally lifted and a cautious voice answered.
�Hello?�
Clancy shut the door of the booth more firmly. �Porky?�
�Yes...?�
�Porky, how would you like me to buy you lunch?�
The tone at the other end warmed up immediately. �Ah, Mr. C.! I recognize those smooth official tones. Lunch? With you? It�s a very pleasant thought; I hate to eat alone.�
�Good,� Clancy said. �So do I. I�ll meet you at Angelo�s at...� He twisted in the restricted space of the narrow booth and managed to bring his wristwatch into view. He stared at it, calculating. �...at twelve-thirty. In fifteen minutes.�
�Angelo�s? The bar and grill?� Porky sounded put upon. �I thought when you offered to buy me lunch you meant something a bit more substantial � not to mention elegant � than hard-boiled eggs and yesterday�s bread.� Porky�s tone became slightly accusing. �I�m afraid your ideas of food in general, Mr. C., stem from your being a bachelor...�
�My God!� Clancy said, only half-pretending to sound horrified. �Not you too! In fifteen minutes. At Angelo�s.�
He hung up and jockeyed the door of the booth back to allow egress, stopped at the counter to pick up two packs of cigarettes, and went back to the beautiful weather outside. His car was still parked down the street in front of the precinct house, but after a moment�s thought he decided to take a cab instead. It was doubtful if anybody over on Second Avenue would recognize his old battered Chevy, but on the other hand there was little point in taking any needless chances.
He walked out into the street and flagged down a cab.
Angelo�s Bar & Grill might well have been purchased intact from the same assembly line that had produced the hundreds of exact duplicates that catered to the neighborhood drinking habits of the denizens of New York City. The mahogany bar, the scuffed foot-rail, the stools with the plastic upholstery worn in places to the cloth base, the chalk-marked mirror � all had apparently been designed with the thought in mind of making any stranger feel he was back in his own familiar bar. Even the heavy aroma that lay like a yeasty fog in the place seemed to have a standard quality about it. They must spray these places with old beer dregs after they close each night, Clancy thought sourly, and walked past the noisy crowded bar towards the high-backed booths in the rear.
Porky Frank was seated in the last booth to the left in the narrow passageway that led to the kitchen and the restroom beyond. He was a handsome young man in his early thirties, well-built and nattily dressed, with a pleasant smile that showed even white teeth, and an outgoing ebullient pseudo-brashness that made him popular with many people on both sides of the law. His major occupation was running a small but honest book; his alter avocation was being a stool pigeon. His appearance, personality, and approach were all diametrically opposite to the popular and prejudiced views on how a stool pigeon should look and act; Porky Frank found all this to be a distinct advantage in pursuing his sideline.
He looked up with a pleased smile as Clancy slid into the booth across from him; one neatly manicured hand gestured languidly but politely toward the glass before him.
�I�m sorry that I didn�t wait, Mr. C.,� he said in a half-apologetic tone, �but if one is going to have lunch, normal custom dictates that one should first have breakfast.� He nodded toward his drink. �This is breakfast.�
Clancy took off his hat and placed it carelessly on the bench beside him. He turned back to his companion with a grin. �A whiskey sour?�
�Well,� Porky said airily, explaining the evident, �I�d scarcely trust the champagne in a place like this. Even assuming your department budget could afford it.� He shook his head reproachfully at Clancy. �Which reminds me, Mr. C.�� I don�t mind meeting in bars, but it does strike me that for lunch you ought to be able to tap the expense account for something a bit classier than Angelo�s.�
Clancy waved down a waiter coming from the kitchen and ordered a bottle of beer. He waited until the waiter had padded toward the bar in front before answering. �I doubt if it would do your reputation any good, Porky, being seen with me in a place like Twenty-one, or Sardi�s...�
�True,� Porky agreed, and grinned. �Especially in view of the way you dress.� The waiter was returning; Porky waited until Clancy had been served and then raised his glass in a small gesture of a toast. �Well, Mr. C., this time I�m forced to believe, contrary to past experience, that you invited me for purely social reasons. At least this morning�s New York
Clancy drank, set his glass down, wiped his lips, and then shook his head admiringly. �Porky, with your command of the English language, you should have been a professor.�
�I considered it,� Porky said with a twinkle in his eye. �I seriously considered it. In fact, I�d say at one time the odds were maybe five to eight on it. Then one day I saw the wage scale. That decided me.� His smile faded; his eyes caught those of the smaller man across the table and held them for several seconds. He sighed. �Well, Mr. C., enough of memories. To business. What�s on your mind?�
Clancy nodded. He pushed his glass to one side and leaned over the table. His voice lowered; his gray eyes were steady on his companion�s face. �Caper Connelly,� he said quietly.
Porky Frank�s eyebrows climbed only a fraction of an inch; he prided himself on the rigid control of his emotions when circumstances demanded. �My Lord,� he said, unable to keep all of his surprise at the subject out of his voice. �Don�t tell me he�s still giving you headaches.�
Clancy�s eyes narrowed suddenly; he leaned forward. �What do you mean by that?�
Porky looked across the table with a curious frown. �Did I say something? Did I touch a nerve?� He shrugged. �I meant just what I said, and nothing more. The word I hear around and about is that Caper Connelly is sufficiently well financed at the moment to be able to forego his usual small-time antics.�
Clancy continued to stare at him. �Well financed how? Or by whom?�
Porky shook his head. �That I don�t know, mainly because I never made it my business to find out, mainly because I couldn�t have cared less.� He lifted one well-kept hand. �Not, of course, that I couldn�t find out if you�re interested. Or not that I couldn�t try.�
�Fine,� Clancy said evenly. �Then try.�
Porky frowned at the table a moment; he reached out and idly pushed his empty glass in small circles, staring at the trails of dampness it left, as if searching for some answer there. When he looked up again after several moments his voice was light, but beneath the surface tone there was a serious note.
�May a poor but honest bookie ask a poor but honest question? Just why are the boys in blue interested in a punk cab driver like Caper Connelly? Especially since, if what I hear is true, he has apparently seen the error of his past ways?�
�Has he?� Clancy asked.
�Hasn�t he? I hear he hasn�t been up before you people in lo, these many months.�
�Sometimes,� Clancy said quietly, �we worry more about certain people in their absence than in their presence.�
Porky shook his head sadly. �You are trying to confuse me, Mr. C.,� he said reproachfully. �You obviously have something on your mind. What is it?�
Clancy took a deep breath. �Well,� he said, �since it�ll be in all the afternoon papers anyway, not to mention radio and television probably, you might as well get a preview. This morning Mr. Caper Connelly stepped off a subway platform up at Eighty-sixth Street. Right in front of a train.�
For once Porky�s control came close to deserting him.
Clancy nodded. �That�s right. And the train didn�t miss.�
�You mean he�s dead?� Porky was incredulous.
�He�s dead,� Clancy said flatly. �Believe me.�
Porky smothered an involuntary whistle, shaking his head. �Man! Will money change hands tonight! The book on that
Clancy shook his head regretfully. �No. The witnesses � there were two of them, the motorman and some young kid riding up front next to him � both say there wasn�t a soul near him at the time. No; he jumped.�
Porky frowned, puzzled. �But then exactly what do you want of my talents? Unless you want me to organize a celebration, since of course it would be most unseemly for the police to do so...�
Clancy was not amused; his eyes held those of the other man. �I want to know why he jumped. Call it stubbornness, or call it curiosity, but I knew Caper and you knew Caper and we both know he wasn�t the type to do something like that without a damned strong reason. And I want to know what it was.� He took a deep breath. �Especially since you say he was in the dough. I want to know what this new-found wealth consisted of, where it came from, and who was involved in it. I want to know everything about Caper I don�t already know.�
�I see.� Porky sounded as if he really did. �In other words, you want to know because you want to know. Which for me is reason enough.� He slid back a neatly cuff-linked sleeve and consulted the thin gold watch that lay exposed; he looked back at Clancy. �I assume you weren�t actually serious in suggesting that we lunch together in this crumb-joint.�
�Not necessarily,� Clancy said.
�In that case I�ll take a rain-check on your hospitality and get to work.� Porky pushed himself to his feet, brushed an invisible bit of lint from the sleeve of his jacket, edged out into the aisle, and stood looking down at the still seated man. �I�ll be in touch. When I�ve got something to be in touch about.�
�Do that,� Clancy said politely.
Porky�s face broke into a smile. �And if you�re going to stay and eat here,� he said, �at least let me talk to the bartender and explain to him that you�re a friend of mine. Otherwise I should hate to warrant the condition of your stomach tomorrow. Strangers in this place automatically get served left-overs.�
Clancy sounded surprised. �You mean they have something else?�
�Of course,� Porky said, amazed at such ignorance. �Even left-overs have to have an origin.�
He winked and walked easily toward the front. Clancy leaned back; he had to eat someplace, and since he was already here he might as well get it over with. I wonder, he suddenly thought, how it would be to come home at noon for a hot lunch, pleasantly served on a clean tablecloth and with silver that didn�t look as if it had been used on off-hours to pry open beer bottles? And by someone with a pleasant smile, and nice curves, and a soft smile...?
He wiped the thought almost angrily from his mind and raised an arm for the slow waiter.
At two o�clock that afternoon, in the stiff breeze that had suddenly sprung up from the north, a policeman on his beat in the Bronx noticed a flower pot teetering dangerously from a window ledge on the third floor of a tenement. He entered the building and started to climb the steps. On the second-floor landing, as he prepared to make the turn, he ran into Charles Campbell, a fugitive from justice who had been hiding out in the building for several weeks, and who had been about to take some air on the roof. Campbell understandably thought the officer was after him; he drew a gun and shot the officer twice before making a dash for the stairway. The patrolman, from his position on the floor of the landing, thrust his service revolver through the railing and shot Campbell when he was about halfway down. The momentum carried the criminal to the bottom in a shuddering crash, his neck broken. The policeman�s wounds were relatively superficial, but in a Bronx precinct the duty roster was short the services of still another man for a period of over a month.
The flower pot later fell, shattering itself on the sidewalk. It did not strike anyone, but it frightened two bystanders half to death.
Stanton was sitting in Clancy�s office, his hat thrust back on his head, his collar unbuttoned, his notebook spread open in his big hands. Like everyone else who reported to Lieutenant Clancy, he seemed to find the task easier if he tilted his chair back on two legs, angling it against the wall. Clancy had often thought that if he ever nailed the four legs of that chair to the floor, ninety per cent of his staff would merely sit in his office, tongue-tied.
Stanton was a tall man, as tall as Kaproski, but there the resemblance between the two men ended. Stanton�s hair was coal-black, dropping sharply to a pointed widow�s peak; his face was a series of wedged interposed planes, with a hatchet nose that separated wide-spread sharp black eyes. His voice was deep and slightly harsh. At the moment there was a frown upon his face that marked his forehead with deep V-shaped furrows.
�The damnedest thing you ever saw, Lieutenant,� he said wonderingly. �You�d have to see it yourself to believe it. Newspapers piled up in stacks all through the place, even in the bathroom. You can�t hardly walk through the halls. Junk? My good God! Telephone directories from the year one, from a dozen cities, plus tin cans, barrels, magazines, old stacks of flattened-out cartons he must get from the corner grocer, plus rags, cigar boxes... You name it, he had it. Even the rooms that used to be bedrooms, upstairs. Jammed solid. One of them was even filled with empty orange crates � you know, them slat things they use for shipping oranges. It�s the truth. I�m telling you, you�d have to see it to believe it.� A faint smile crossed his thin lips. �I�ve seen it, and I still don�t believe it.�
Clancy was taking notes. �What was his name?�
�Willie McFadden.�
�How old?�
Stanton shrugged. �Hard to say. My guess, offhand, is middle or late fifties. Maybe older.�
Clancy glanced down at his notes. �You say even the bedrooms were crammed with junk. So the old man didn�t live there?�
�Oh, he lived there,� Stanton said. �Slept in the kitchen. He had an old couch there with the ends ripped off, and half a mattress with the stuffing sticking out all over. And a couple of blankets I bet ain�t been washed since he got them.� He thought about the kitchen a moment, repicturing it in his mind. �And he probably had to climb over a pile of junk to get to sleep every night, too.�
Clancy nodded and leaned back, twiddling his pencil idly. �Whereabouts on the Drive is it?�
Stanton named a cross street. �I didn�t even know they had any of them old houses left anymore,� he said. �Place looks like something out of a horror movie. I must have passed the place a hundred times since I�ve been in the precinct � hell, I drive by there every day � and I�d have sworn all them old houses had been torn down for apartments. But this one�s still there.�
Clancy marked something else down and then got down to the main business. �How was he killed?�
Stanton didn�t refer to the notebook in his hand; he closed his eyes a moment and then reopened them. �He was lying on the floor with his arms wrapped around his stomach, like he had a bad gut-ache, and his legs all pulled up. If he didn�t have that bloody nose � busted � we�d of probably figured he�d had himself a heart attack or something. But like I said, his nose was broken, smashed; blood all over his chin. Doc Freeman said he�d call you when he comes up with something.�
�Any chance he may have broken his nose falling? If he had had a heart attack, say?�
Stanton shook his head. �Not a chance. His nose was really smashed. Anyway, Doc will get the story.�
Clancy nodded. �So he was killed. Was there anything to show how the killer might have gained access to the house?�
�He could have broke in,� Stanton said. �The back door looked like it might have been pried open. Or it may have been like that since the place was built, for all we know. The windows weren�t touched; anyways, they�re all boarded up with planks that�ve been there a long, long time. All nailed shut. And not a sliver of glass in any one of them. But nobody came in that way.� He thought a moment. �Some tramp might have figured the place was deserted and bust in through the back. The old man could have started a fuss and the tramp could have popped him to shut him up. And popped him too hard.�
�A tramp?� Clancy�s eyebrows raised. �In that neighborhood?�
Stanton shrugged; the movement nearly unseated him. He caught his balance, leaning back again against the wall. �Hell, Lieutenant; after dark there ain�t any decent neighborhoods in this town anymore. You know that.�
�I guess you�re right,� Clancy said. He referred to the notes he had been scribbling. �Did he have any family?�
�We don�t know yet,� Stanton said. �But we will.�
�And was anything missing?�
Stanton�s shoulders went higher this time, his shrug more impressive. �To tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I don�t see how you could even tell in that joint. It�s a real junk heap; you�d have to see it to know what I mean. I went over next door and talked to the janitor of the apartment there, and he told me the old man was screwy. Harmless, but a real nut. He used to pick up any piece of junk he saw and cart it home. The janitor didn�t know the old man too well � I guess nobody did � but he said one day the old man was over there picking some empty tin cans out of the garbage, and I guess he was feeling friendly that day because he started to brag about a coin and stamp collection he had...�
�A coin and stamp collection?� Clancy sounded interested.
�Yeah,� Stanton said, �but so far we haven�t found a sign of either one.� He stared at his superior evenly. �Which doesn�t mean too much � they could be hidden in a million places in a joint like that. Plus which, we haven�t really looked yet.�
�Nobody�s looked around?�
�Not really,� Stanton said. �At least not yet. Timmons � he�s the beat patrolman � found the old man. The front door was open, first time since Timmons has been on the beat, so he figured he�d better check.� He thought a moment, his dark eyes half-closed. �Of course, the front door being open, maybe the old man let his killer in himself. Which means it could be a friend, except it sounds like he never had a friend. Or maybe the killer walked out that way afterwards...�
�Maybe,� Clancy conceded, and waited.
�Anyway,� Stanton went on, �the boys from downtown are all through; I left Keller there until I get back. I figure to catch something to eat, because I haven�t had time up to now, and then bring back a sandwich for Keller and start hitting up some more of the neighbors while Keller goes through the place.� He shrugged. �For whatever good talking to the neighbors will do � they�re all pretty swanky apartments up that way. Probably don�t even know who lives in the flat next to them.� He glanced at his wristwatch and let the chair ease to the floor; he stood up, straightening his hat. �Anything special you want us to do up there, Lieutenant?�
Clancy laid down his pencil and swiveled his chair to face the drab canyon of the areaway. The afternoon sun, peeking over the parapet of the furthest roof, glanced in through the tall old-fashioned window of the small office, reflecting itself from the enamel of the worn filing cabinet; it gave the crowded room an almost cheerful look.
�Keep Keller there with you,� Clancy said. �I wouldn�t waste too much time on the neighbors � I�d be more interested in the house itself. Go over everything there. The old man had to live somehow � he didn�t eat out of the tin cans he picked up in the garbage. And see if you can find any trace of that stamp or coin collection.� A sudden thought struck him; he swung his chair back again, staring up at the tall man waiting beside his desk. �How about dust?�
�Dust?� Stanton frowned at him. �What about it? There�s plenty there, if that�s what you mean.�
�So if somebody knocked off the old man in order to go through the place looking for anything,� Clancy said patiently, �you may be able to see it in the dust. Or rather, in any marks he left in the dust.�
�It�s a thought,� Stanton said. He didn�t sound too enthusiastic. �The place is such a mess, I don�t know. Anyways, we�ll keep our eyes open.� He moved to the door, closing his notebook. �I�m catching a bite to eat at the Greek joint across the street, Lieutenant. Can I bring you something?�
�Yeah,� Clancy said evenly. �Bring me the guy who killed that old man. Toasted. On rye.�
�Huh?�
�You might bring me a cup of black coffee,� Clancy said wearily, remembering his lunch. �No cream, but plenty of sugar.�
�Oh. Right, Lieutenant.� Stanton raised one hand in a half-salute, tucked his notebook in his pocket, and walked from the room.
Kaproski stuck his head in the doorway. �I got that cab out here in the garage, Lieutenant. I had a little trouble getting her started without the key � I had to jump the ignition, and on these new jobs that ain�t as easy as it used to be. Plus the fact that I had to keep proving to the loafers that come up that I carry a badge and that I wasn�t trying to swipe the damned thing...�
�Good,� Clancy said, interrupting the explanation a bit brusquely. �Let�s go out and take a look at it.� He started to push his chair back from his desk, preparatory to rising, when the telephone rang. He settled back; one hand went up to hold Kaproski in place while the other picked up the instrument.
�Yes?�
�Lieutenant? This is the desk. I�m sorry to bother you, but I got a customer here won�t talk to anybody but the chief salesman. I don�t think Captain Wise would want to see him, and anyway,� the sergeant continued, in no way conscious of being illogical, �he ain�t here. He�s downtown at a meeting. What do I do?�
Clancy stared at the telephone and sighed. �Send him in.� He put the telephone back on the hook and motioned Kaproski to a chair. �Sit down and wait a moment, Kap. Somebody wants to see me.�
An old man appeared in the doorway, carrying a battered homemade shoe-shine box. There was great dignity to the deep-lined brown face; his clothes were old and worn, with leather knee-patches, but the attempt at neatness could be discerned in the clean shirt buttoned to the throat, and the highly polished wrinkled shoes. A mass of snow-white hair was combed evenly back from the broad forehead, framing large sorrowful eyes. He hesitated uncertainly in the doorway as if he were suddenly sorry he had come, but the weight of his problem drew him further into the room despite himself. His soft eyes went from Clancy to Kaproski and then returned to settle gravely on the man behind the desk.
�You boss?�
�Yes,� Clancy said, equally grave. �What�s the trouble?�
The old man looked about the small room carefully before returning his eyes to Clancy�s. He seemed to be subtly judging the chances of receiving help in this place.
�I been stole,� he said simply.
Clancy nodded his head, sliding his pad into position and picking up a pencil. �How much?�
The old man hesitated once more, as if fearful that the sum he was about to mention might not be believed, might even invoke jeering laughter. He swallowed nervously. �Seesteen dollar,� he said at last. The honesty of his black eyes staring straight at the man before him challenged anyone to doubt him.
Clancy merely nodded again. �Where did you keep it?�
This time the hesitation clearly showed the fear of revealing his hiding place to complete strangers, but memory that this hiding place could never again serve broke down his reserve. He lifted his shoe-shine box a trifle higher, his hand steady.
�Here. Ol� empty can polish.�
�When did you miss it?�
�Now. I look. I don� know why. Money gone.�
�I see.� Clancy glanced down at his pad and then back up again. �Do you have any idea who might have taken it? Or when it might have been taken?� This was received with a steady metronome-like shaking of the head. Clancy frowned. �Has the box been out of your hands at any time?�
�No. I sit on her when I work. Else I hold her.� The brown hand lifted the box again as if to demonstrate.
�Do you live alone?�
�Wit� gran�son.� A shadow of alarm crept across the old man�s face as he foresaw the possible direction the interview might take. He shook his head violently. �But he�s no take it. He�s good boy, never in trouble...�
�How old is he?�
�I tell you he�s no take it! Somebody else he�s take it.� He swung his head away as if by breaking the common glance with Clancy he might also somehow break the ugly fabric of suspicion that was being woven. He swallowed. �He�s go school, study hard. Someday he�s grow up be big man. He�s no take it.�
�Yeah.� Clancy sighed. �Sure. Your name?�
�Martinez. Ra�l Martinez.�
�And where do you live, Mr. Martinez?�
�Hunnerd and two Street. Twel�hunnerd seesty, wes� side. Nom�er B.�
Clancy marked it down. His eyes came up to those of the old man standing rigidly in front of him, his hands locked on the handle of his shoe-shine box. Clancy hesitated a moment. �All right, Mr. Martinez. We�ll look into it. We�ll try and find your sixteen dollars. Try not to worry about it.�
The old man shrugged with a fatalism that had been ingrained for years. He hadn�t really expected any help from these strangers; it was only his sudden panic at discovering his colossal loss that had brought him in a rush to the precinct house. He stood for a moment, seeing nothing of the room or its occupants, seeing only the size of his loss and the things he needed the money so desperately for; then he turned and walked from the room almost blindly.
Stanton, coming in, pulled his bulk to one side to let the old man pass, stared after him a moment in frowning thought, and then came in, carrying a damp paper bag. He set the bag gingerly on one corner of the desk and jerked his head curiously toward the door. �What�s old Martinez doing here?�
Clancy slit the stained bag up one side and removed a sodden cardboard container with a loose cover. He looked at the container dubiously and then wiggled the cover loose, dropping it into the waste-basket at his feet and wiping his fingers.
�Martinez?�
�The old man with the shoe-shine box. What�s his trouble?�
Without the support of the cover, the container almost collapsed in Clancy�s hand. �You know him?�
�Sure. He shines shoes in front of Haley�s Cigar Store over on Amsterdam. He�s okay � a good joe.�
The coffee was barely warm and had a faintly oily taste. It also tasted more than a little of cardboard. Clancy shuddered, wrinkling his nose. �Know his grandson?�
�Also. Unfortunately. What�s the beef?�
Clancy shoved the coffee to one side as being patently impossible and returned his attention to Stanton. �The old man claims he�s missing sixteen dollars he had hidden in his shoe-shine box. In an old empty can of polish. And he wasn�t rolled or anything like that. And the box wasn�t out of his sight.� Stanton snorted; Clancy looked at him curiously. �What�s the matter? Don�t you believe it?�
�Sure I believe it,� Stanton said in disgust. �If old man Martinez said it, of course I believe it. I never knew him to lie. But this is a mystery? Hell! His punk grandson took it when the old man was sacked in one night. Who else?�
�The old man doesn�t think so.�
Stanton looked at Clancy with deep pity. �The old man wouldn�t think so if he caught the kid with his grubby paws in the box. The old man wouldn�t think so if the kid told him so himself. The old man thinks the sun rises and sets on that punk grandson of his.� He sighed in disgust, shaking his head, and then brought his mind back to the business in hand. �Well, anyway, I�m on my way. Keller caught me before I went out � he managed to get something to eat, so I don�t have to bring him nothing. He�s waiting for me at the house. We�ll give it a real shakedown this time. Anything else, Lieutenant?�
�Yeah.� Clancy frowned a moment in thought and then glanced at his wristwatch. �It�s a bit late today, but tomorrow afternoon I want you to stop by the school when it lets out and bring in young Martinez.� He looked up at Stanton. �Do you know where he goes to school?�
�He goes to Wilson High,� Stanton said in a stunned voice, �but my God! We�ve got a hundred important things on the fire, Lieutenant, and what with the UN and the guys out sick we�re short-handed as hell right now!�
�So now we�ve got a hundred and one things on the fire,� Clancy said evenly. �Tomorrow. Bring him in. After school.�
�But, Lieutenant! For sixteen lousy bucks...!�
Kaproski had been listening quietly from one corner of the room. Clancy allowed his glance to flicker between the two men; he swiveled his chair, staring out of the darkening window at the shadows formed by the dirty tenements, and the dim outline of clothes waving above like ghostly birds tethered to the invisible line.
�Where do you draw the line?� he asked quietly, as if he were really asking himself, as if he would really like to have an honest answer to his question. �And when do you draw it? When they graduate from stealing from grandparents and start on strangers? When they move up from petty pilfering to grand larceny? When they give up using rocks and fists and start on guns and knives? When they finally get around to killing somebody?�
�But look, Lieutenant...�
�If the National Bank over on Columbus was robbed of sixteen thousand dollars, or sixteen hundred dollars,� Clancy asked stonily, �would it make a case?�
�Well, sure, of course, but...�
�If Haley�s Cigar Store over on Amsterdam was knocked off for a hundred and sixty bucks, or a hundred and sixty cartons of cigarettes � would we be right to send a man around to check into it?�
�Sure, but look, Lieutenant...�
Clancy swung his chair around suddenly, savagely. His voice was bitter, biting; his eyes were gray chips of flint. �So I ask you � where do you draw the line?�
Kaproski always felt nervous when people around him, people that he liked and respected, got too serious. He cleared his throat a bit self-consciously.
�Look, Lieutenant,� he said helpfully, �we could raise the sixteen bucks for the old man just around the precinct house here. Most of the guys know old Martinez and like him; they�d all be willing to chip in.� He paused and then added, as if in explanation, �If the kid took it, it�s probably gone into the pool tables by now, anyways.�
Clancy looked at him with mounting irritation. �This is a police station,� he said coldly. �If that kid swiped sixteen bucks or sixteen cents, I want to see him.� He turned back to Stanton; one finger came up for emphasis. �I said
�What I�m trying to get at,� Stanton said patiently, �the old man won�t prosecute anyways, so why bother?�
�Look, Stanton,� Clancy said in a tone of utter finality. �That old recluse that got killed this morning over on the Drive � that Willie what�s-his-name � he won�t prosecute, either.� He picked up the container of cold coffee and dropped it into the waste-basket in a sudden burst of anger. �God damn it! I said I want to see that Martinez kid tomorrow afternoon, and I mean I want to see him!�
Stanton still attempted one more evasion. �All right, Lieutenant, but there�s no school on Saturday. How�s about waiting...?� One look at Clancy�s face and he hastily swallowed the balance of the words. �Yes, sir. Tomorrow afternoon, Lieutenant.�
�Anyway,� Clancy said tightly, �I�d like to see the kind of kid � face to face � that an old man like Martinez breaks his back for.�
�Sure, Lieutenant.�
�Sure, Lieutenant!� Clancy mimicked bitingly, and pushed himself abruptly to his feet, turning to Kaproski. �All right, Kap. Let�s take a look at that cab of yours...�
The two men walked side by side down the dingy corridor of the precinct, turned at the end, stepped down one step, and pushed through a swinging door that led to the precinct garage. There was the always-present odor of gasoline and oil in the almost-deserted space; a pair of feet were angled out from beneath a jacked-up patrol car that had the hood raised as well. The owner-Yellow taxi was angled in towards a cluttered workbench that ran alongside the far wall of the garage. Clancy walked over to it, his heels echoing on the bare concrete. He surveyed it a moment and then swung open the door at the driver�s side, sticking in his head. He withdrew it at once, turning to Kaproski with a frown.
�It�s got a glass partition between the front and the back,� he said. �That�s not standard.�
�Some of the boys have been having them added,� Kaproski said. �It�s bullet-proof glass. Ever since they been knocking off hackies lately.�
�Oh.� Clancy stared at the sliding glass. �I�ve never seen one before.� He shrugged and moved his attention to the complicated dashboard, automatically comparing the battery of shining instruments with the ones that graced � or rather, didn�t grace � his own ancient Chevy. He shook his head. �They�re making these things more like jet airplanes every day. Next they�ll put kitchens in them. How did she run?�
�Like a dream,� Kaproski said enthusiastically. He enclosed a circle of air between his thick forefinger and thumb. �Which, after all, she should. She�s brand new, practically.�
Clancy nodded, studying the speedometer. �Not many miles on her, even for a new cab � if that�s the speedometer and not the altimeter. We can check her actual age with the agency, but I�d say it�s at least a few months old.� He frowned speculatively. �It seems to me that a cab that was worked normally for even a few months in this town should run up more miles than this one shows.�
Kaproski looked at his superior a moment and then nodded slowly in understanding. �I get what you�re driving at, Lieutenant. You don�t think that Caper Connelly ate off what he earned hacking this job.� He shrugged. �Well, we more or less knew that before...�
�I don�t know what I mean myself,� Clancy said shortly. �Maybe he was just lazy. Or maybe he was subject to car-sickness. It just seems odd, that�s all.� He studied the other instruments a few minutes longer and started to swing the door shut; then he paused. �Anything in the glove compartment?�
�Registration and a city map. And a book that lists all the restaurants and fancy night clubs. And a flashlight and a screwdriver. Oh, and some gook to clean the windshield. The usual junk.� Kaproski reached over to take the door handle from Clancy. �You want I should get it?�
�Leave it for now,� Clancy said.
He moved to the rear door and opened it, looking in at the new plastic upholstery of the interior. There was even a new smell to the car. His eyes took in the floor-mat and the clean deck back of the tufted seat. There was nothing unusual. He was about to close the door again when a sudden throught struck him. The dome lights hadn�t lit when he opened the door. He reached up inside the padded frame and found the light switch, flicking it up and down several times. He frowned.
�Yeah,� Kaproski said, noticing the action. �I saw that, too. The inside lights don�t work. And somebody swiped the ash tray, too, it looks like � the one on the back of the front seat.� He leaned over, pointing. �The arm ash trays are here.�
Clancy continued to flip the unresponsive light switch up and down. �Queer that the lights don�t work on a new cab...�
�They don�t build them to last nowadays,� Kaproski said with profound disgust. �They build them to sell and after that to hell with you! Same thing with appliances. My mother went out and bought herself a new refrigerator a month ago, and already...�
�Yeah,� Clancy said, and stepped back, swinging the heavy door shut behind him. He continued to stare at the empty interior of the car through the clear glass window, and then made up his mind. �Kap, take her downtown. I want the lab boys to go over her.�
�For what, Lieutenant?�
�For luck,� Clancy said shortly. He looked at his wristwatch. �And give me a ring when you�re ready to leave downtown, in case something comes up and I need you.�
�Sure, Lieutenant,� Kaproski said equably. He climbed into the driver�s seat, then suddenly remembered he had no ignition key and climbed out again. He raised the hood, clipped two already prepared wires together, slammed the hood down again hastily, and hopped back inside in time to press down urgently on the accelerator and catch the weakly gasping motor. The engine caught and roared enthusiastically. Clancy backed away. Kaproski rolled down the window and leaned out.
�How�s that for a hot motor, Lieutenant? Hey, is it all right if I pick up some fares on the way downtown?� He grinned. �Christmas is coming and every little bit helps...�
Clancy grinned back and shook an admonitory finger; Kaproski raised a shoulder in supplication to the powers in whose hands the benefits of moonlighting rest, smiled, and backed up. He shifted gears expertly, swung the wheels, and drove out of the garage with a burst of power. Clancy stood staring at the empty garage doors a moment in deep thought, and then turned in the direction of his office. He noted, as he passed, that the feet sticking out from beneath the disabled patrol car had not seemed to move since he and Kaproski had first entered the garage.
If I hang around much longer, he thought, I�m just apt to hear a snore, and not wanting to hear a snore, I�d better not hang around much longer. He pushed through the door that led back to the precinct corridor, his ears blissfully deaf.
At four o�clock that afternoon, a householder in the borough of Richmond decided to burn the stack of colorful crisp autumn leaves which he had laboriously assembled in the road in front of his house, before the growing cold wind could redistribute them. The fire caught beautifully; a billowing cloud of pungent white smoke rolled across the street, obscuring the vision of a laundry-truck driver � who, in any event, was traveling too fast for that speed zone. The driver attempted to slow down, to peer through the sudden wall of smoke, but by that time it was too late. He plowed into one parked car, caromed off, swerved blindly in panic, and crashed into a station wagon driven by a nervous mother bringing her youngest child home from nursery school. All three were injured, the mother seriously.
The homeowner eventually received a summons for burning leaves in the street without a permit. Had he been found guilty, the fine would have been ten dollars, but fortunately he had a brother-in-law who was acquainted with the Mayor�s secretary, so he got off with only a lecture.
The telephone rang with startling suddenness. Clancy looked at it blankly a moment, shook his head to clear it of the previous thoughts that had been swirling in it, and pushed aside the report he had been studying. He reached across the battered desk and scooped the receiver to his ear.
�Yes?�
�Clancy?�
He recognized the voice and leaned back, relaxing. �Yeah.�
�Doc Freeman here. About that old man that was found dead in that house over on the Drive this morning...�
�Yeah.� Clancy reached for his pencil, inching a pad closer. For a moment he wondered what the stationery business would be without police lieutenants to consume their products, and then put the thought aside to pay attention to the thin voice coming to him over the wire.
�Well, it looks as if he received a sharp blow � a very sharp blow, I should judge � in the general area of � in your language � the stomach. Rather high, I should say; right under the rib cage separation. We opened him up and he had a chest cavity full of blood from a ruptured pulmonary artery.� Doc Freeman had sounded as if he had been reading from a report; now his voice assumed human proportions, and sad ones at that. �That old man was in sad shape, Clancy. I�d judge it didn�t take too much force to rupture that artery.�
Clancy was scribbling hastily, trying to keep up. He finished and leaned forward, twiddling his pencil as he spoke. �What about the bloody nose Stanton said he had? From a busted nose?�
�It was busted, all right. Smashed.� The doctor�s voice became almost pontifical. �About the nose, I�d judge that in all probability they were both caused by the same thing...�
�No, no!� Doc Freeman sounded testy. �Damn it, Clancy � if you�d only let a person finish what they started to say! I mean, in all probability both were caused by the same weapon. At the very least I�d say they both occurred at the same time.� He couldn�t help but hedge. �Or at least, at quite approximately the same time.� He hesitated, trying to put his next words in a form that would be useful to the branch of service charged with the apprehension of those responsible for these things. �It looks as if he were jabbed with something � in the face, breaking the cartilage of the nose, and also in the stomach, rupturing the pulmonary artery and causing death.�
�I see,� Clancy said slowly. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placed it in the corner of his mouth, reaching for a match. His eyes were thoughtful. He lit the cigarette and tossed the match into a corner. �Do you have any idea of what that something might have been, Doc? The weapon, I mean?�
Doc Freeman hesitated; he hated to make a positive statement about something he wasn�t one hundred per cent sure of. �It�s a bit hard to say, Clancy. Something like an umbrella, maybe � or in all probability, something a bit thicker. The bruise area on the chest was very restricted and quite regular. Something as big around as a broom handle would be more likely, I�d say offhand. It�s hard to be more definite, Clancy.�
Clancy drew smoke deep into his lungs, leaned forward, and scraped ash into an ash tray. He leaned back, still thinking. �Could it have been a crowbar, Doc? The report says that the back door looked as if it might have been pried open. By a tramp, possibly.�
�It would depend upon what kind of a crowbar, Clancy. If he were poked with the sharp end of a standard crowbar � the kind used to open cases or boxes, for example � you could expect a more linear bruise. Or possibly even a lesion of the skin.� Doc Freeman sounded like an anatomy professor lecturing to a class, and not a particularly bright class at that. �And, of course, if the same tool were used to strike the face, an instrument like a crowbar should have done more damage...�
�The way I heard it,� Clancy said, �there was plenty of damage done to his nose.�
�Quite. But still, scarcely the damage one would expect from a metal instrument of the nature of a crowbar. Personally, I should be inclined to doubt that a crowbar was used.�
There was silence for several seconds. Clancy tried to think of other questions that might prove helpful, but just couldn�t. He sighed and shook his head. �Well, I guess that�s that, then. Thanks just the same, Doc. When will I get it in writing?�
�It�s being typed up by my secretary right now. Your precinct copy should be out there the first thing in the morning.� There was the briefest of pauses and then Doc Freeman added ingenuously, �In more technical language, of course. We have to maintain, protect, and advance the interests of our profession, you know.�
Clancy grinned at the telephone. �Too well I know. I only wish we could also maintain and protect our profession that easily.� An additional thought came to him. �Say, Doc � what about the clothes this guy was wearing?�
�I would judge they�re downstairs,� Doc Freeman said, never a man to make an unqualified statement. �When they come to me for examination, they�re baby-naked. And not particularly pretty. Do you want me to switch you down to Jimmy?�
�Please.�
Clancy waited while strange voices mingled unintelligibly on the line; it seemed to be a contest between the Bellevue operator and the AT&T. One finally dominated and the others, defeated, disappeared into the limbo of the ether. Clancy immediately recognized the high, inane voice. �Hello? Yes? Who�s this?�
�Jimmy? This is Lieutenant Clancy at the Fifty-second Precinct. That old man that Doc Freeman just finished doing a post on � what did you find in his clothes?�
Jimmy neighed. To the simple mind of the morgue attendant, something about the question seemed to strike him as comical. �That�s a rich one, Lieutenant. Did you see him?�
�No.�
The morgue attendant�s neigh drifted down to a giggle and then sloughed off into minor sniggers. It was obvious he had milked the joke for all it was worth. �Well, you should of had. This character has on long underwear, them old-fashioned kind with the buttoned trap-door in the seat; bedroom slippers each one a different kind and a different color; a pair of old patched Levi�s I don�t even know how he even got in them they was so small; one of them fancy-dan printed vests like them Mississippi card sharks used to wear in the movies; and then on top of everything else he has on one of them turtle-neck sweaters! I ain�t kidding. Like a college kid. And on a day as warm as this one, yet! Man; I wonder what he wears when it really gets cold! What a farce!�
�Hilarious,� Clancy said drily, and made a mark on his pad. �What did you find in his pockets?�
�Not much,� Jimmy said sadly. He sounded disappointed that the subject of the conversation did not lend itself to a continuation of the humorous vein. �In his pants pocket he had a rag I guess maybe he used sometimes for wiping his nose, and he had a key, maybe fits the front door. And in his fancy vest pocket he had a couple of coins.� His voice was somber. �That was the works, Lieutenant.�
Clancy leaned forward in sudden interest, crushing out his cigarette in the ash tray. �Coins? What kind of coins?�
�Foreign, I guess,� Jimmy said doubtfully. �Anyhow, not good old U.S.A. One of the boys on the stretcher gang down here knows something about them things, and he said these don�t have no special value. One of them was an English penny, I remember he said. Size of a lollipop.� The giggle came again, happy that the subject permitted it, and then faded dubiously. �I don�t remember what the other one was. Middle-size, I think. I can dig them out if you want, though.�
Clancy made a note on his pad and turned back to the telephone, making up his mind. �Jimmy, listen. Put those coins in an envelope and make out a receipt to the Fifty-second. In my name. I�ll have them picked up this afternoon or first thing in the morning.�
�Sure, Lieutenant. You want his other things, too?�
Clancy thought about it, twiddling his pencil. He came to a decision. �Yeah, all right; some of them. Send the sweater and the vest along, too. The rest of the things you can hold.�
�Right.�
�And thanks, Jimmy.�
�Any old time, Lieutenant,� Jimmy said airily, and hung up.
Clancy eased the receiver back on the bar; it responded to this unusually gentle treatment by ringing again, angrily. He picked it up with a look bordering on the desire to strangle it.
�Yes?�
�Lieutenant? This is Kaproski. I finally got that cab downtown here, and I should of picked up fares for all the good the rush did. The lab guys won�t get a chance to go over it until tomorrow. I been waiting around in the hope they�d get busy on it, but two of them just got called out on a job, and the rest are all tied up. Plus it�s just about quitting time for the day crew � these guys work strictly union hours � and the night crew swears on a stack of bibles they�re loaded.�
Clancy shrugged at the phone. �Forget about it, Kap � tomorrow will do.� A thought came to him. �And listen, since you�re downtown, go over and see Jimmy at the morgue...� He hesitated. �Do you know which one he is?�
�Sure,� Kaproski said with confidence. �The goop.�
Clancy didn�t discuss it. �He has a package for me. Pick it up and bring it back.�
�Sure, Lieutenant. You going to be there when I get back?�
�Probably,� Clancy said. He looked at the papers piled on his desk. �With my luck, probably. But just in case I�m not, put the package in one of the drawers of my desk and I�ll get to it tomorrow. And then you can knock off for the day if you can manage to get by the front desk without getting tagged for somebody�s assignment who�s out with the flu...�
Kaproski chose to take the advice seriously. �Sure I can, Lieutenant. I can always go out through the garage.�
Clancy grinned. �You know,� he said slowly, �that�s what I like about the men of the famous Fifty-second Precinct. They�re intelligent.� He hung up, happy; the phone buzzed madly again. Clancy�s happiness faded as quickly as it had come. �For Christ�s sweet sake!� he muttered angrily and almost jerked the phone from his desk in his irritation; his voice showed his feelings as he barked into it.
�Now what!�
�Clancy? What�s got you all
�Hello, Sam.�
�So hello!� Captain Wise was still irked; he forced himself to simmer down. �So how�s it going?�
�How does it usually go around the Fifty-second?� Clancy asked, and immediately answered his own question. �Hectic; that�s how it goes around the Fifty-second.� He grinned at the receiver. �And where have you been all afternoon? At the movies?�
Captain Wise�s tone indignantly denied the allegation. �Movies? It should happen! I been in Inspector Clayton�s office, that�s where I�ve been. With half the precinct captains in town, plus a couple of wheels from the State Department, and about two-thirds of the local FBI. Or maybe nine-tenths. They�re really worried about this UN thing.� Captain Wise sounded equally worried. �The rumors are really flying...�
�Rumors about what?�
�Maybe rumors isn�t the right word,� the captain conceded, as if happy to oblige. His voice became serious again immediately. �Only thing is, everyone is scared to death one of these foreign big-shots might get bumped off. There are about eight of them here in town now it could happen to � that we know of, I mean � and God alone knows how many more it could happen to that we don�t know of. And the eggheads from the State Department made quite a deal about how it was our responsibility to see to it nobody gets hurt.� Captain Wise sounded understandably aggrieved. There was a pause as a sudden memory returned. �Hell, Clancy; you know about it. I told you myself this morning.�
�I know you did, Sam,� Clancy agreed. He tilted his chair back and stared at the telephone. �My question is: what do all those brains expect us to do about it?�
�That they don�t say. All they say is, just see to it that nobody gets killed.�
�Great!� Clancy said in disgust. He brought his chair forward, leaning on the desk, tightening his grip on the receiver. �Sam, they�re crazy. They�re scared about the possible death of one out of eight or ten men. And I appreciate their feelings. The only thing is, we�re busy as hell worrying about a couple of men I
�Look, Clancy,� Captain Wise said patiently. �Don�t argue with me; I�m on your side. Tell it to Inspector Clayton, or the State Department, or even the FBI. They�re the ones screaming, not me. Anyway, that�s not why I called.� There was a dead pause for several seconds and then the heavy voice changed, attempting subtlety. �We just finished with this meeting, Clancy, and Sarah�s coming downtown to meet me for dinner. I figured, maybe if you were free tonight, with nothing to do, you could meet me and Sarah at the restaurant and eat with us. You haven�t seen Sarah for ages. And also we could even talk a little, maybe...�
Clancy stared at the telephone with a suspicion that slowly became a certainty. �Sarah�s meeting you? And you want me to join you for dinner?� He nodded in sudden sure knowledge. �And I don�t suppose that you � or Sarah � would like me to bring along a date so the whole affair won�t be too lopsided?�
There was a brief pause while Captain Wise cleared his throat self-consciously. �Actually, Clancy, I don�t think that�ll be necessary. I think Sarah already arranged for somebody...�
�And I suppose that somebody just happens to be named Mary Kelly?�
�As a matter of fact,� Captain Wise said, trapped, �I think Sarah did mention something about Mary Kelly...�
Clancy opened his mouth to let loose a blast calculated to teach Captain Wise a lesson in minding his own business, and then shut it slowly. And just what was wrong with the invitation? What was wrong with eating a pleasant meal across a table from friends instead of trying to choke down another soggy sandwich at his desk at the precinct, or trying to eke out companionship from the sport pages of the evening newspaper in the terrible restaurants he normally frequented? Just what was wrong with spending the evening with human beings, old friends, rather than spending it switching endlessly from TV to radio to staring blankly out of the window of his small apartment and eventually giving it all up to toss and turn in a lonely bed? What was wrong with it? Actually, nothing.
�Sam, Sam,� Clancy said slowly. �Hold on to something. Get ready for a big surprise. I accept.�
�Clancy, you�re nothing but a stubborn Irisher! So what did I do so wrong asking you to eat dinner with me and Sarah? That�s a crime now? So what if Mary Kelly...?� There was a sudden silence on the telephone. �You
�Right,� Clancy said. �And I�ll even go so far as to thank you � and Sarah � for it. After today I�m ready for a decent meal with some friendly faces. Where do we meet?�
He could almost see the look of amazed disbelief on Captain Wise�s face; he could also well imagine Sarah�s reaction had the good captain been unsuccessful in his sales pitch. �At Luchow�s, Clancy � on Fourteenth Street. At seven o�clock.�
�I�ll be there,� Clancy said, and glanced at his wristwatch. �I�ll put my stuff away and still have time to go home and clean up and shave. And change my shirt.�
�And change your tie, too, Clancy.� Success had gone to Captain Wise�s head; he sounded almost dictatorial. �Put something on with a little
�Right. I�ll...� Clancy paused and a very odd look crossed his face. He dragged his pad toward him, picked up a pencil, and made a note. He nodded at the pad in satisfaction. �That was a very good idea, Sam, about shining my shoes. I�ll remember that.�
Captain Wise stared at the telephone in his hand a moment in puzzlement, and then shrugged elaborately. �Of course, remember it,� he said. �And also don�t forget Luchow�s. At seven.�
�At seven,� Clancy agreed, and hung the telephone back on its hook. He stared at it a moment, waiting for it to ring again, but it remained obediently silent. �Good boy,� he said approvingly, and patted it nicely on its thin body. When even this inducement failed to cause it to shrill, he winked at it genially and started to pack his papers into his desk.
The change in weather by Tuesday morning was something disheartening to the weather announcer, an avid weekday golfer, but it did hold some hope for the Police Department that the invitation to mayhem in the streets, brought on by the unseasonably warm days, might soon end. Approaching banks of shadowed slate-gray tumbled wildly in the sky to the north of the city; to the south the last vestiges of clear skies and wispy clouds fled fearfully before the threat contained in the boiling darkness behind them. The temperature had dropped twelve degrees in the past ten hours and promised to continue its downward path unaffected by wishes or needs � of golfers or policemen. Rain was a certainty within a brief period; the weather announcers admitted the fact with leaden voices. They seemed unable to understand how such a thing could have happened to nice people like them.
Crime also seemed to recognize the approaching end to suitable weather. In the previous twelve hours there had been four attempted and two successful cases of rape � if rape can ever be successful � three cases of wife-beating, and nine barroom fights. In Queens a man had appeared at a police precinct and complained that he had been rolled by a girl, although he seemed very hesitant about detailing the full circumstances of his loss. Hubcaps had disappeared from all parts of the city, and a body had washed up from the Hudson at Forty-fifth Street with a suicide note in one pocket � protected by a plastic folder, a bit of consideration for the police which was, to say the least, unusual.
In the Fifty-second Precinct, among other things, there was a report of a large quantity of narcotics missing from the Uptown Hospital. An orderly, employed there less than two weeks, was also missing. Nobody at the hospital had the faintest idea that the man was an addict and seemed shocked when it was suggested.
A desk sergeant in any precinct in any big city is normally trained to be inured to surprise, but this time the sergeant who surveyed Lieutenant Clancy when he entered might be forgiven for allowing his mouth to drop open. Lieutenant Clancy was dressed in a new dark-blue raincoat, and beneath the neat folds could be seen an apparently new tweed suit with freshly pressed creases in the trousers. The necktie was also something of a shock, being neither blue, old, wrinkled, nor plain. And even more amazing, the lieutenant was whistling a rollicking tune with a fair degree of recognizability.
Lieutenant Clancy nodded happily at the astounded sergeant, without breaking either his stride or the thread of melody flowing liquidly from his pursed lips, and turned in the direction of the corridor leading to his office. It was only as the trim figure was about to disappear beyond the turn in the hall that the startled desk sergeant suddenly came to life, remembering.
�Hey, Lieutenant!�
Clancy paused politely, allowing the whistle to trail into silence; it was obvious from his manner that he intended to resume it as soon as possible. He looked back at the sergeant pleasantly. �Yes?�
�A couple of messages, Lieutenant.� The sergeant brought his glasses into position and fumbled among the loose papers in front of him. �First, Kap went downtown a couple of minutes ago. One of those guys that got mugged in the park on Sunday picked a face out of the gallery, and the other guy checked him out. Kap went down to go over it with them.�
Clancy nodded. The sergeant picked up another slip of paper. �And that old man found dead over on the Drive � some woman called and said she�s his sister; she read about it in the papers. She�s going to arrange the funeral this morning, but she�ll be down to see you this afternoon. Around three o�clock, she said.�
�Three,� Clancy repeated. �I�ll try to be here. Anything else?�
�One more,� the sergeant said, and frowned, scratching his head in puzzlement as he contemplated the final note before him. He shook his head. �Another one of them nut-calls.�
�Nut-calls?�
�Yeah. Some character named Angelo says to be sure and tell you that six and six are twelve.�
Clancy managed to keep his face straight. The code between him and Porky Frank had long ceased to be a necessity; now it had become a game which each man played with increasing attempts at originality. The desk sergeant stared at him.
�You know who it was, Lieutenant?�
�My math teacher,� Clancy said calmly, but behind the light fa�ade his mind was working rapidly. So lunch would be taken with Porky. Possibly the bookie � for even to himself Clancy could never think of Porky as a stool pigeon � had important information. A second thought came to him and remained; maybe they could meet at Angelo�s and then go across the street and have a decent meal at the French restaurant there. Good food seems to perk me up, Clancy thought, and looked at the sergeant. �Anything else?�
Papers were shuffled. �No; I guess that�s it.�
Clancy nodded and went down the corridor to his office, the whistle returning to his lips, but more softly this time, tempered by the change in his thoughts from the warmth of the previous evening to Porky�s call and the stack of work lying in wait for him in the drawer of his desk. He stripped off his raincoat, gazed at it admiringly, and then hung it with care on a hanger which he placed on the hook back of the door. He started to flip his hat to the top of the filing cabinet in normal fashion, thought better of it, and hung it neatly over the raincoat. It was his Sunday best and deserved no less. He seated himself at his desk and pulled open the top drawer, dragging out the multiplicity of reports he had buried there the night before. He picked a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and then started to work, humming softly to himself.
The telephone rang sharply; Clancy looked up, checked his wristwatch in surprise, and wondered where the time had gone. The telephone, uninterested in his thoughts and impatient with his dawdling, rang again, trying to make up for the delay by assuming a louder tone. Clancy winked at it and picked it up.
�Yes?�
�Lieutenant? This is Stanton.� There was great satisfaction in the deep voice. �Guess what? Whoever bopped that old man over here on the Drive should have stuck around. Keller and me, we been going through the junk here, and when we got around to some of those stacks of telephone books we hit pay-dirt. The first stack, in the kitchen where the old man was found, was clean and we almost gave them the brush, but then I figured we ought to tackle some of the others out in the hall...�
�Let�s not break it down too fine,� Clancy said. �Get on with it.�
�Yeah. Well anyway, when we hit the stacks in the hall, we found they�re loaded. One, two, and five dollar bills stashed between the pages all over the place. Some of them are even them old horse-blanket size � you remember them?�
�I remember them,� Clancy said. His fingers, idly scribbling doodles on his pad, had formed the profile of a woman�s body; the breasts were full and desirable. He rasped his pencil through the doodle and brought his attention back to Stanton. �How much did you find?�
�So far we�ve come up with over four hundred bucks, and there�s lots more phone books to go through. Christ knows what we�ll end up with. And if he stuck money away in those newspapers or magazines � man, we�ll be here for a month of Sundays.� His voice had been enthusiastic; now it dropped into something more nearly resembling nostalgia. �It�s like in them dreams, Lieutenant � you know, where you start by finding a penny in the street and when you go to pick it up you see a dime alongside of it, and then a quarter, and then...�
�Yeah,� Clancy said. He scratched out another doodle and laid aside his pencil; it was apparently determined to betray him. �How about coins? Or stamps?�
�Oh, yeah,� Stanton said. �We found some stamps � three cigar boxes full. Down in the cellar on a shelf full of nails and screws and other junk. And empty paint cans.� His voice became dubious. �I don�t know anything about stamps, Lieutenant, but my guess is that these ain�t worth anything. They�re just regular stamps torn off regular envelopes. If stamps are supposed to be worth something they keep them in special books, don�t they? Protected by plastic or something? These are just ripped off envelopes and stuffed into cigar boxes.�
Clancy made a note and laid the pencil down again, pushing it a bit away. �Were all the stamps U.S.?�
�No; all sorts of countries. I�ll bring them back with me when I come in. Maybe some of the brains downtown can go through them and figure out if they�re worth anything. My guess is they ain�t.�
�How about coins?�
Stanton�s failure in this regard reflected itself in his tone of voice. �Not a sign so far, Lieutenant, but we got lots of places to look yet. We haven�t touched the upstairs.�
�All right,� Clancy said. �Stay with it.�
�Right. Oh � and Lieutenant, we found a letter. On top of the stove, of all places � I guess he used it for a writing desk. Anyway, Willie has � had � has is right, I guess � a sister. A Mrs. Henry Jorrens. She lives over on West End Avenue.�
�I know,� Clancy said. �I didn�t know her name, but she called in when she saw the story in the papers. I�m seeing her this afternoon. Anything else?�
�No, that�s about it, I guess.� Stanton hesitated. �You want me there when you talk to this Mrs. Jorrens?�
Clancy thought about it a moment, doodling on the desk-top with his fingernail instead of a pencil; the results were no better. He rubbed his fingers over the desk as if to wipe away the invisible marks. �It might not be a bad idea. Be here about three this afternoon. That�ll still give you plenty of time to pick up that Martinez kid afterwards.�
Stanton�s voice dropped a notch. It was apparent he had been hoping that Clancy would have forgotten. �Okay, Lieutenant, if you insist.�
�I insist,� Clancy said politely, and hung up. The telephone rang again at once. Now let�s not start that business again, Clancy admonished the instrument, and picked it up. It was Kaproski.
�Lieutenant? We got a make on one of them park muggers. Both of the guys who got rolled picked him out. It�s a young character named Warnicki.� It was evident from Kaproski�s tone that he was furious that the suspect carried a Polish-sounding name. �I checked with the desk and they�re sending Parker to meet me over at Ninety-second, about a block from this character�s last-known.�
Clancy nodded in satisfaction. �How about the other two who were supposed to be with him?�
�These two guys didn�t see any shots they could identify. They must be virgin. But when and if I get my hands on this Warnicki kid, he�ll tell me who was with him on it.� Kaproski�s voice was icy in his anger. �He�ll tell me in English � or he�ll tell me in Polish!�
�O.K.,� Clancy said. �Pick him up and bring him in.� He stared at the receiver thoughtfully. �And Kap � bring him in in one piece. That�s an order.�
�I�ll bring him in!� Kaproski said darkly. His tone of voice clearly indicated that he had purposely not heard the last part of his superior�s instructions. The phone clicked ominously.
Clancy pushed through the door of Angelo�s Bar & Grill, paused briefly to tap a waiter on the arm and order a bottle of beer, and then walked jauntily towards the back. Porky Frank was seated in the usual booth, his well-kept hands idly turning a beaded glass of amber-colored liquid, watching the tiny bubbles rise slowly to the surface. He looked up at Clancy�s arrival. The slim lieutenant nodded pleasantly, slid onto the opposite bench, and wiped it carefully before placing his hat down beside him.
�Good noon, Porky.�
Porky surveyed him a moment speculatively. �You know, Mr. C.,� he said slowly, �there�s something a bit different about you today � an aura, a glint � a
Clancy laughed; the waiter came up with his bottle of beer, opened it with a flourish, set it on the table together with a glass, and withdrew. Clancy poured a glass full and smiled at Porky over the rim. �I�m just feeling good today; that�s all.�
�And also,� Porky added thoughtfully, studying the man across from him, �there�s the matter of your attire. Is that a new suit? And a new tie? And a relatively new shirt? Not to mention the hat and coat... Either you have today mixed up with Sunday, or...� He held up a hand for silence, closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. �Don�t tell me � let me guess. We�re going to eat lunch at a decent restaurant today for a change.� He snapped his fingers in certainty. �The French restaurant across the street!�
Clancy�s smile faded slightly. �You know, Porky,� he said slowly, �sometimes you frighten me.�
�Good,� Porky said with a grin. �I like to frighten people. It�s good for their digestive juices � which is more than can be said for Angelo�s food.� He picked up his drink. �Well, if we are having a purely social lunch, let�s get our business out of the way first, shall we?�
Clancy drank his beer and refilled his glass. �Fine.�
�Which I�m afraid won�t take very long...�
Clancy frowned across the table. �Do you mean you set up a meeting just to tell me you don�t have anything?�
�I�ve got something,� Porky said, �but it�s all negative. I mean, I can give you a broad hint as to where Caper Connelly
�So where didn�t he get it?� Clancy asked a bit impatiently.
Porky lifted one hand and began methodically ticking off points on his fingers. �One, he didn�t get it from narcotics; two, he didn�t get it from the booze rackets; three, he didn�t get it from the girls...� He hesitated a moment and then folded down a fourth finger. �And I will book good odds he sure as hell didn�t get it from pushing that hack of his around the sidewalks of New York.�
Clancy stared at him. He didn�t for one moment doubt the truth of Porky�s statements, nor did he for one moment consider asking Porky for the sources of his information. Past experience had taught him that the one was infallible and the other inviolate.
�That�s great,� he said at last, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. �Then where did he get it?�
�Well,� Porky said philosophically, �if we can eliminate all the other possible crimes in the book except one, we�ll have it. That leaves arson-for-money, burglary, assault, counterfeiting and embezzlement, not to mention forgery, of course...�
�You forgot barratry and purse-snatching,� Clancy said sarcastically. He finished his beer and shoved the empty glass aside with irritation, looking up at his companion with an unsatisfied frown. �So, to be serious, that�s all you found out?�
�Well,� Porky said, his smile gone, �I found out another thing, but I can�t see where it�s of any use. However, you can have it for whatever it�s worth.� He looked up. �Of late, Caper Connelly has been inordinately interested in photography...�
�Photography?�
�That�s right. I hear he even joined some sort of club dedicated to the gentle art of extracting positives from negatives. And that he really took it seriously.�
�Wait a minute,� Clancy said slowly. He frowned, remembering. �We did find a membership card to a photographic club among the other papers in his wallet, but I didn�t think anything of it at the time.� He shrugged. �I forget the name of the club, but I remember it sounded sort of arty. I figured Caper joined it because maybe they had nude models, or something of that order.�
�Possibly,� Porky said. He didn�t sound at all convinced. �Or maybe he was planning on making and selling dirty pictures on the side.� He looked across the table at his companion evenly. �I ran into the information so I�m passing it on to you. The person who gave it to me sort of threw it away, and I�m doing the same.� He finished his drink and put his glass to one side. �For whatever it�s worth.�
�Which probably isn�t very much,� Clancy said with a sigh.
�No,� Porky agreed equably. �Which probably isn�t very much. However, we shall continue to delve into Mr. Connelly�s past. And a good meal might also jiggle our brains.� He suddenly smiled; his eyes twinkled. �I was not mistaken? I was reading you rodger-dodger on that restaurant bit, Mr. C.?�
Clancy smiled back. �You were reading me perfectly,� he said, and got to his feet.
The desk sergeant looked up as Clancy came breezily through the precinct doors. �Kaproski, Lieutenant,� he said succinctly, and jerked a large thumb in the general direction of the corridor. �He�s got some character with him in the interrogation room.�
�Right,� Clancy said, and walked down the hall, past his office, to the first door on the left. He entered, closed the door firmly behind him, and surveyed the room. Kaproski and a blond youth of about twenty years of age were seated across from each other on two of the hard chairs that, together with the plain scarred table, comprised the only furniture in the small room. The one window, barred, fronted on the driveway leading to the precinct garage; beyond it the solid brick wall of the adjoining warehouse could be seen. It did nothing to brighten up the cheerless room. Kaproski looked up at Clancy�s entrance and nodded.
�Hello, Lieutenant,� he said. �Meet Genius, here.�
Clancy looked at the youth. Young Warnicki was dressed in faded Levi�s and a tattered sweater that was patched at one elbow and would soon need a patch at the other; his feet were shod in dirty tennis shoes and were curled about the legs of the chair as if to anchor himself to some sort of security, tenuous though it might be. His hands were locked on the edge of the chair-seat between his legs, the big knuckles white with the force of his grip. Clancy walked over and stared down at the sullen face; blue eyes watched him calculatingly, trying to estimate the potential of this new threat.
�What�s the story, son?�
The blue eyes remained watchful; the boy remained silent.
�He don�t know nothing,� Kaproski said disdainfully. He amended his statement. �Except to swear. I talked words like that at his age, I got my mouth washed out with Fels-Naptha.�
�Where did you find him?� Clancy asked.
�In a crummy pool hall halfway down the block from where he lives.� Kaproski shook his head in disgust. �Genius here ain�t even got the brains to get out of the neighborhood after he pulls a job.�
Clancy turned back to the youth; the boy bent his head, staring at the floor. Clancy bent lower. �Who were the other two who were with you in those muggings?�
The boy�s jaw tightened but he remained silent. His hands shifted a bit on the chair-seat and then clamped down again, hard. Kaproski�s chair scraped as he came to his feet; the boy looked up instantly.
�Answer the man,� Kaproski said tightly.
The youth wet his lips. �I never had nothing to do with no muggings...�
�Genius here can�t even lie straight,� Kaproski said with heartfelt disgust. He reached into one jacket pocket and laid a wristwatch and a wallet on the bare table. �I took these off him. The watch has the initials K.M. on the back � the same as one of the guys who got mugged. And the billfold�s got a hundred and forty bucks in it. Which I bet Genius, here, never earned peddling papers.� He twisted, reaching into his other pocket. �And Genius had these here knucks on him, too.� He leaned over and placed the brass-knuckles on the table beside the other items.
Clancy nodded somberly. He pulled a chair around, swung it backwards, and seated himself so that he was staring at the youth over the back. Their faces were on a level. Clancy pushed his hat further back on his head and leaned forward a bit.
�All right, son. You�re going to tell us, so you might as well do it now. Where did you get that watch?�
The boy turned his head away from the cold gray eyes fixed on him; the thick lips locked themselves stubbornly. Kaproski walked over, bending down. �Are you going to answer the man, or do I make you?� The very evenness of his tone was more threatening than anger would have been. �Where did you get that watch?�
Young Warnicki wet his lips again. �I... I found it...�
Clancy continued to stare at him. �Where did you find it?�
�I found it...� The boy turned his head, searching for inspiration. He found nothing.
�Well, where did you find it?�
�I... I found it in � in an ashcan.�
�Did you find the money in the ashcan, too? And the brass-knucks?�
The youth clamped his jaw, determined to say no more. Kaproski bent down and grasped the sullen head by the long yellow hair, pulling it back with a sharp jerk. It was evident from his tone that he was beginning to lose his patience. �Answer the lieutenant when he talks to you!�
The thick lips turned back with a snarl. �Get your Goddam hands off me!�
Kaproski shook the head back and forth a few times; now he was really getting angry. �I ain�t going to tell you again, Genius � answer the lieutenant when he asks you a question!�
The blue eyes flamed with hatred. �Yeah,� Warnicki said with a sneer. �Yeah, I found both of them in the ashcan, too!�
�I see,� Clancy said evenly. �And who helped you find them?� He leaned closer, his face almost touching the other�s. �Who were the other two who were in on those muggings with you?�
The youth jerked his head suddenly, attempting to free it from Kaproski�s grip. It was a mistake; despite himself tears of pain welled up in his blue eyes. �I don�t know nothing,� he said dully. �You can�t make me talk. I don�t know nothing...�
Kaproski flung the head from him with deep disgust, and wiped his hands on his jacket as if to clean them. �You ain�t kidding when you say you don�t know nothing!�
�Book him and lock him up,� Clancy said wearily. He got to his feet. �We�ll send him downtown for the line-up tomorrow. He ought to pick up a minimum of five-to-ten for this little job. He probably doesn�t know it, but brass-knucks are considered a deadly weapon in this town.� His eyes came down to the hard young face staring up at him. �Unless you want to tell us the names of the other two who were in this with you. I can�t promise anything, but that might help you with the judge.�
For a split second the curtain behind those deep-set blue eyes seemed to raise; then it came down with finality. The thick lips twisted as if to spit; the boy sneered. �Screw you, copper!�
Kaproski jerked the young man viciously to his feet; the boy�s chair went over backwards.
�You�ll have to eat a lot more vitamins before you try it!� he said harshly. He twisted one arm tightly behind the stocky figure, locking the wrist, and walked it almost tiptoed to the door. He swung the door open with his other hand and shoved the boy through roughly. Warnicki stumbled. Kaproski curled a lip at him. �Come on, Genius! Don�t fall over your own feet!�
�Take it easy,� Clancy said. �Just book him and lock him up.�
�Take it easy?� Kaproski sounded honestly surprised. �I am taking it easy. What I ought to do with Genius here is take him home to my old lady. She�s sixty-eight and don�t come up to his shoulder, but she�d sure show him how to handle young Polish kids who think they�re tough.� He tightened his grip on the arm, twisting the boy about. �All right, Genius � this way.�
Mrs. Henry Jorrens was sitting opposite Clancy; Kaproski and Stanton were pressed tightly against the wall of the small office, trying not to make it look too crowded. Their efforts were completely futile. The woman was dressed in drab, dark colors, and had a worried motherly air that almost appeared studied. Clancy judged her to be well into her fifties, a stocky woman of about five-foot-four in height and weighing in the neighborhood of one hundred and sixty pounds. The fur-piece about her neck had obviously seen better days; it suddenly reminded him of her brother�s penchant for sweaters. The whole family, he thought, likes to dress warmly.
�...not for over thirty years,� she was saying. Her voice was low and had a pseudo-refinement to it that irritated Clancy. She hugged her purse to her ample bosom as though it represented some assurance in the non-maternal world in which she found herself. �It was a terrible shock when Henry and I read about it in the papers. Willie was � well, he was odd, you know. Papa always felt that Willie needed some sort of � well, protection � but Willie never would let us...�
Her voice faded as she smiled at Clancy doubtfully, twitching her fur-piece to a new position where it once again assumed an obedient, shapeless slump. It had obviously been well trained.
�I see,� Clancy said. He glanced down at the notes he had taken, and then looked up again to the woman waiting with poorly concealed tenseness across from him. �The estate was evenly divided between you and your brother? When your father died?�
The woman leaned forward, opened her mouth to speak, and then paused. A slight flush came to her full cheeks; a definite edge crept into her motherliness.
�I�m quite sure you are familiar with the terms of my father�s will, Lieutenant,� she said sharply. Despite herself her tone was accusing. Clancy was not at all familiar with the terms of her father�s will, but no sign of affirmation or denial crossed his graven face. The woman studied him a moment and then continued almost disdainfully.
�Fortunately, Henry and I never lacked for anything, so Papa�s will made no difference to us. When Papa left everything to Willie, we were quite pleased.� She examined her words in retrospect and found them subject to possible misinterpretation; she revised them slightly. �At least we weren�t displeased, and nobody can say we were. After all, Willie was incapable of taking care of himself, and that has never been my husband�s problem.�
Clancy�s eyebrows went up a shade. �You say that your brother Willie wasn�t able to take care of himself? Who took care of him?�
She shook her head impatiently at Clancy�s obtuseness. �I didn�t mean that he couldn�t button himself, or take care of himself in that way. I meant he was incapable of supporting himself; of earning a living. And, as I say, that was never Henry�s problem.�
Clancy�s eyes tried to avoid the bedraggled fur-piece, the worn and faded blouse, the gray hair in need of a permanent, the patent-leather purse with its surface exhibiting a myriad of tiny cracks, like the age wrinkles on the face of a crone. He could imagine that beneath the chair, scuffed shoes were tucked out of sight. �I see. And your brother never tried to contact you in all those years?�
�My brother...� She looked about and somehow seemed to find sympathy in the frozen faces of Kaproski and Stanton; she turned back to Clancy with a shrug that was almost girlish, inviting him into her confidence. �You would have had to know Willie, Lieutenant. He always felt that we didn�t understand him � that nobody understood him. When Henry and I were first married we offered Willie a room � a home with us � but he always preferred to live alone.�
It wasn�t exactly an answer to Clancy�s question but he let it pass. �I understand, Mrs. Jorrens. And you haven�t tried to contact him either, in all those years?�
Her eyes sharpened momentarily and then opened wide in complete ingenuousness. She shifted a bit in her chair and then forced herself to relax. �I told you, Lieutenant,� she said slowly. �I haven�t seen my brother Willie in over thirty years.�
�I�m sorry, Mrs. Jorrens, but that�s not what I asked you.� Clancy reached into his top drawer and brought out a letter. He laid it on the desk before her and placed a finger on it. He looked at her with a glance that was patient but no less sharp for that. �This letter was found in his house. It is a letter you wrote to your brother less than three weeks ago. In which you ask for money.�
Her cheeks turned scarlet; she looked at Clancy as if he had been guilty of the worst possible breach of manners. Her voice attempted archness, but there was barely restrained fury beneath. �Do you always go around prying into other people�s mail?�
�When we find it necessary,� Clancy said with no expression. His finger tapped the letter. �Please answer my question. Did you write this letter, Mrs. Jorrens?�
She took a deep breath. �I wasn�t asking for money, not in the way you make it sound. I meant it for a loan, and Willie would have understood what I meant even if I didn�t say so in so many words. Henry � some of his investments � well, a good bit of our money is tied up, and it seemed foolish to me to liquidate perfectly sound investments when a small loan for a short period...�
Clancy didn�t press the point. To her obvious surprise and relief he opened the drawer again and disposed of the letter within. He shut the drawer and returned his attention to her. �Did Willie ever answer your letter?�
�No.� Her lips tightened in memory. �No, he didn�t.�
Clancy twiddled his pencil a moment, thinking. �Your husband � he always got along well with your brother?�
�My husband? Henry?� She laughed nervously, as if secretly pleased that the subject had been changed, but a bit uncertain as to whether or not the change was something to warrant pleasure. �Actually, they hadn�t seen each other in years, but when we were all young, they were quite good friends. We did many things together. We...� She leaned forward, taking them all into her confidence. �It wasn�t all Willie�s fault, I want you to know. Nowadays my husband is a bit of a recluse himself, you see. He was wounded in the war and always felt that if younger men had assumed their proper responsibilities...�
Her voice trailed off, aware that she was introducing a separate problem, and one that could hold little interest to the three men in the room. Clancy marked something on his pad; she glanced over as if to try and read it and then looked away in sudden embarrassment as Clancy looked up.
�Tell me, Mrs. Jorrens, do you remember your brother being particularly interested in stamps? Or coins?�
�Oh, yes!� She sat straighter in the hard chair, as if happy that at last she could be helpful. �He collected stamps and coins ever since I can remember � ever since we were little children. Papa started him off, you know. Papa used to travel quite a bit when he was younger and he would bring back these foreign stamps and coins and always gave them to Willie.� She could hardly keep the spite from her voice; it was evident that the years had not reduced the hurt of this. She changed her tone forcibly, looking at Clancy.
�Tell me, Lieutenant � do you think my brother Willie was killed for his stamp and coin collection?�
�It�s happened,� Clancy said noncommittally. �People have been killed for far less.� He looked down at the scrawled notes before him and then back to the plump taut face. He sighed. �Well, I think that�s all. Thank you very much, Mrs. Jorrens. If there should be anything else, we�ll know where to get in touch with you.�
The woman rose hesitantly. �Lieutenant,� she said slowly, �I spoke to an undertaker this morning. He said as soon as the police release the body we can go ahead with the funeral. Is there any reason for the police to hold Willie�s body any longer?�
�That�s not my department,� Clancy said, looking up. �However, I shouldn�t think so. If you like, I can check on the matter for you. And advise you. Or the undertaker, if you give me his name.�
She named a well-known firm; Clancy nodded and marked it down. The woman continued to stand before his desk, frowning, as she attempted to put her thoughts into words. �There�s one other thing, Lieutenant. I�d like to offer a reward. For anyone who brings in any information that might lead to finding the person who...� Her voice trailed off.
�Of course,� Clancy said in an understanding tone. His eyes studied her impersonally. �How much were you thinking of offering?�
She looked at the three silent faces in the room in turn. �I don�t know,� she said at last, vaguely. �I don�t know too much about these things. Would five hundred dollars be all right?�
�You can offer as much as you want,� Clancy said. He stared at her evenly, almost speculatively. �If you wish I can handle it for you. I can advise the people downtown and they�ll arrange the necessary publicity and tell the newspapers.�
�That will be fine,� she said, relieved, as if the hardest part of her mission at the precinct had been accomplished. �It�s very kind of you, Lieutenant.�
Clancy came to his feet with a self-deprecating shrug; the woman swept out, her pocketbook wincing from the tightness of her grip, her fur-piece sliding from her neck as if it had been caught unaware by her sudden move and was hurrying to catch up. There was a pause of several seconds after she left; Kaproski took a chair, sat in it, and tilted it back. Stanton walked over, reversed the chair beside the desk, and seated himself on it with his legs straddling its back. He shoved back his hat.
�I don�t get it,� he said. �Willie didn�t strike me as the kind anyone would go to to borrow money. Even his sister. Or especially his sister.�
�I don�t know,� Clancy said. �You found that four hundred some-odd dollars in those phone books. And there�s probably more. She probably wasn�t trying to borrow a lot. And then there�s the house � that should be worth money.�
�If it was his,� Stanton said.
Kaproski, from his position against the wall, stared at them. �I think maybe Papa had a funny idea of how to go about protecting his son Willie,� he said softly. �Leaving his dough to only one kid.�
�Maybe,� Clancy said. He stared at the empty doorway a moment in thought. �And then again, maybe not. At least it gives us something to work on.� He sat down again and pulled his pad toward him, tore off the top sheet and started to write. Stanton leaned over. �Now here�s what I want you two to do tomorrow...�
He paused suddenly, checked his wristwatch, and looked over at Stanton. �It�s almost four o�clock.�
For a moment the hatchet-faced detective attempted to portray innocence, but it was a failure before he started. He rose to his feet with a sigh and shook his head.
�I know,� he said hopelessly. �Don�t remind me. Young Martinez.�
In Long Island City a man, preparing for his annual week�s deer hunting, went into his closet to bring his guns down for cleaning. They were stacked neatly on the shelf over a row of his wife�s frocks, and the smart thing would have been to get the kitchen stool, but the man was tall � and a bit lazy � so he reached up on tiptoe and began to bring them down. One was a bit further back than the others, and as he was bringing it down, insecurely held, he stepped on one of his wife�s shoes and allowed it to slip. The jar as it struck the floor somehow discharged the weapon, and the charge struck him squarely in the throat. According to the hospital report, his recovery was doubtful.
His wife, horrified at the accident, later took his guns and threw them on the dump, where they were quickly rescued by a group of fifteen-year-olds from the neighborhood. They took them to their club, amazed at their good fortune. They had expected to wait years before they could afford anything better than bicycle chains as weapons.
Young Martinez was about seventeen years old, short but quite well-built, tightly packed into his clean, faded Levi�s, with a loose-flowing black rayon shirt open at the throat and buttoned tightly at the wrists with neat rows of white buttons. His hair glistened in a curling duck-tail; his soft black eyes with sweeping lashes were expressionless in the mahogany face. He stood facing Clancy at complete ease, one hand on his hip, a slightly contemptuous smile on his full lips.
�You wanted to see me?� he asked. He jerked his head slightly in Stanton�s direction. �It must have been pretty important, sending a real live detective out for me.�
�It was,� Clancy said quietly. �Sit down.�
�If you don�t mind, I�ll stand.� The boy�s smile widened sardonically. �I got things to do when I leave here.�
Clancy�s voice hardened without increasing in volume. �I said, sit down!�
Kaproski moved closer; the boy�s smile faded a bit. He saved his face, at least to some extent, by shrugging lightly before slumping indolently in a chair across from Clancy. �All right, so I�m sitting down. So what�s the big idea?�
Clancy just stared at him. The kid�s eyes tightened a bit at the corners; he turned his head to the two large detectives standing behind him. He began to work up a frown of indignation, of innocence unjustly accused. �I haven�t done anything,� he said, his smile now gone. �Not a thing. You can�t hold me. What�s the big idea?�
�Sixteen dollars is the big idea,� Clancy said evenly.
�What sixteen dollars?�
Stanton leaned over him; his tone was surprised. �You don�t know what sixteen dollars?�
The boy looked up, scowling now. �I said I don�t know!�
�Of course you know what sixteen dollars,� Kaproski said. His face looked slightly pained at the denial; his tone indicated that everyone in the whole wide world knew what sixteen dollars.
�I tell you I don�t know anything about any sixteen dollars,� the boy insisted. His face had become molded into a rigid brown mask; his shoulders had hunched up a bit.
Clancy leaned forward, his tone and attitude professing amazement at this statement. �You mean you don�t know about the sixteen dollars your grandfather is missing?�
The boy clenched his jaw and stared at his feet. Stanton bent over him again, a hard expression now on his hatchet-face. �That�s the sixteen dollars we�re talking about!�
�He must of lost it,� the kid said stubbornly. �Keeping it in a stupid old tin can!�
�You see?� Clancy said almost brightly. �You did know about it, didn�t you? You probably just forgot.� He leaned over the desk, staring fixedly at the boy. �When did you find out about it?�
The kid was silent, biting his lip, his brain working at lightning speed. �I think I heard some kids at school talking about it this morning,� he said. He nodded firmly, trying his best to appear convincing. �Yeah, that was it. I heard them talking about it at school. This morning.�
�What kids? What were their names?� Clancy became efficient, reaching for his pad and pencil, eyeing the worried face sharply.
Stanton bent closer; his harsh voice beat in the kid�s ear. �Exactly what time did you hear it? And where? Think hard. You want to remember that if those kids you heard knew about it, they�re probably the ones that swiped the dough. Think hard � what class were you in? Who were they? What did they look like? How many were there? Think! Two? Three? Four? What did they say? Come on, think!�
The boy stared at his feet; fear had begun to creep into his eyes.
Kaproski moved over, getting into the act. �What�s the matter you can�t remember? What�s the matter you�re keeping your mouth shut? It�s your own grandfather, your own flesh and blood! He supports you with that dough. Don�t you want to help your own grandfather? I thought you people all stuck together in your family beefs! It�s your own grandfather!�
The boy seemed to have shrunk on the edge of his chair; his shoulders hunched higher, as if avoiding blows. He wet his lips and swallowed convulsively.
�All right,� Clancy said quietly. �Why did you take it?�
The boy looked up, completely beaten. �I was only borrowing it,� he said sullenly. He looked at least five years younger at the moment. �I was going to pay it back...�
�When?� Stanton asked witheringly. He pushed his hat further back on his forehead. �In 1975? When you got out of reform school?�
The kid looked at him blankly. Clancy raised a conciliatory hand.
�Well, now,� he said in a reasonable tone of voice. �If you were only borrowing it, that�s a different matter. There�s no law against borrowing money.� The boy watched him with eyes narrowed in suspicion. �Of course,� Clancy continued, �there�s a law that says you have to pay it back. Just how do you plan on doing that?�
The boy looked at Clancy bitterly. �I said I�ll pay it back and I will. Don�t worry.�
Clancy shook his head. �I�m not worried. I know you�ll pay it back. And a lot sooner than you think.� He stared at the boy coldly for a moment and then rose to his feet. He motioned Stanton and Kaproski to follow him into the corridor, looking back over his shoulder. �And you, stick around. I�ll be right back.�
He closed the door behind him, took out his billfold and extracted a bill. There was a faint smile on his face. �Kap � is the Woolworth�s on the corner still open?�
Kaproski shrugged, puzzled. �I don�t know, Lieutenant. I think they close at five or thereabouts. There�s a neighborhood hardware store down there stays open until ten, and a drug store stays open pretty late, if that�s any use. Why? What do you want?�
Clancy handed him the bill. �The hardware store ought to do it. I want you to go out and buy the complete fixings for shining shoes � polish, rags, brushes, the works. And don�t forget to bring back a receipt. And the change.�
A grin of understanding began to split Kaproski�s broad face. He took the bill. �I gotcha, Lieutenant.� He winked and went down the corridor toward the front. Clancy turned to Stanton.
�How many men do we have in the precinct, Stan?�
Stanton stared at him in surprise. �Full complement ninety-four. You know that, Lieutenant.�
�Now that you mention it, I do indeed.� The faint smile on Clancy�s face broadened a bit; he brought it under control. �Well, tell the desk sergeant to advise each man as he comes in that I�m not satisfied with the appearance of this precinct. Shoe-wise. From now on, Stanton, this is going to be the shiniest precinct in the city of New York.�
Stanton looked at him as if he had suddenly gone mad. �I know what you have in mind, Lieutenant, but personally I think a good boot in the pants would do the kid a lot more good.�
�Personally, I think I told you to relay a message to the desk sergeant,� Clancy said equably, and opened the door to the office again. He walked around his desk, sank into his chair, and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and flipped the match away, facing the sulky boy.
�Tell me, son, what�s your name?�
�Paulo.�
�Paulo Martinez?�
The dark eyes flashed for a second. �Paulo Ign�cio Mar�a de Martinez y Bertrand.�
Clancy nodded his head pleasantly and wiped ash into the ash tray. �That�s quite a name.� The sullen face across from him remained granite-like. �Well, Paulo, tell me: have you ever shined shoes?�
�Who, me?� The young voice was hesitant. �No.�
Clancy took a deep puff on his cigarette and allowed the smoke to trickle from his lips. �Well,� he said philosophically, �it�s never too late to learn.�
�What do you mean?� The suspicion in the young voice owed everything to fear of being made fun of. Clancy disabused him of this notion at once; both his words and tone cleared the matter up decisively.
�I mean what I say,� he said coldly, and crushed his cigarette out in the ash tray as if to add to the finality of his statement. �I mean you�re going to earn back the money you swiped from your grandfather. By shining shoes. All the shoes in this precinct.�
The boy stared at him wordlessly, his black liquid eyes pools with endless depths. Clancy pulled the folder of reports toward him, opened the top one and reached for a pencil. The eyes of the boy followed every move.
�Sit back and relax,� Clancy said, �while I do some work. One of the men went out to get you some equipment and he�ll be a while getting back.� He bent to his papers.
The boy wet his lips, stared about the small room for several moments, and then concentrated on his feet. Ten minutes ticked slowly by before Kaproski came in with a bundle; the kid looked at it as if it might contain dynamite. Kaproski placed the package on the desk, handed Clancy the receipt, and stepped back. Clancy studied the receipt a moment and then tucked it into his shirt pocket. He shoved aside his pile of folders and unwrapped the bundle; a moment�s verification to make sure it was complete and he pushed the contents across the desk towards the boy.
�You�re in business.� He glanced up at Kaproski. �Our young friend here is going to earn back the dough he borrowed from his grandfather by shining coppers� shoes. I think you�d better be the cashier. I�m not so sure he has a good head on him for financial matters.�
�How much do we charge?� Kaproski asked, interested.
�Twenty cents,� Clancy said.
The boy started to say something and then had to stop and clear his throat. His black eyes were steady in his glance at Clancy. �The old � I mean, my grandfather gets twenty-five cents for a shine. And tips.�
Clancy looked at him coldly. �Your grandfather knows how to shine shoes.� He thought about it a moment and then came to a conclusion. �On the other hand, if you don�t do them right the first time, you�ll just have to do them over. We�ve got some pretty fussy men in this precinct, and I�m the fussiest.� He glanced up at Kaproski and nodded. �All right. I�ll go along with the twenty-five cents. But no tips.�
The boy got to his feet slowly, pulling the open bundle closer to him. His liquid black eyes came up, expressionless, fathomless. �What do I do about school?�
�You�ll go to school the same as always,� Clancy said. �This job is going to be moonlighting. You�ll come here right after school each day until you�ve made up the dough you swiped.�
�How about today?�
�Well,� Clancy said with a faint shrug, �since you�re already here, you might as well get started. Detective Kaproski, here, will introduce you to the squad-room.�
The kid picked up the cans of polish and the two brushes wrapped in a clean cloth. He looked about for a waste-basket and then dropped the crumpled wrapping into it as Clancy watched. Without another word he turned toward the door. Clancy�s voice caught him.
�By the way, is there anywhere we can get in touch with your grandfather and let him know you�ll be getting in late tonight?�
The boy looked at him blankly. �He never expects me before midnight, anyway.� He paused uncertainly, as if wondering how to bring up the next subject. �He usually leaves me something on the table to eat when I get back from school. Can I go home to eat?�
�I�ll send out for a sandwich for you,� Clancy said. �And milk. That�ll be another fifty, sixty cents.� He sighed deeply, shaking his head, his gray eyes sad. �You keep borrowing at this rate and you�ll never get out of debt.�
�I�ll see to it he gets something to eat, Lieutenant,� Kaproski said. �You want me to get you a sandwich, too?�
Clancy looked up at him with a smile. �Not tonight, Josephine. I�ve got a date tonight.� He sounded pleased with himself. �My fourth decent meal in a week. And my second today.�
The boy stood like a rock watching the two men; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Kaproski looked at his superior wisely. �A date? With Mary Kelly, Lieutenant?�
Clancy nodded. �With Mary Kelly.�
�You better watch out, Lieutenant...�
�Why?� Clancy asked. Only a part of his querying tone was in banter.
�Because you�ll get fat, all them meals, Lieutenant,� Kaproski said with a grin, and herded his charge out of the door.
The rain finally came Tuesday night. It came like an avenging army, brutal and ruthless, attempting to sweep all before it in a seething explosion of blind power. Sheets of churning water, forged on the black anvils of the angry sky, battered the ramparts of the city, determined on victory, slashing at the traffic lights swinging wildly in a vain attempt at escape, roaring down on the canyons of the city, drumming in mad frustration at the locked windows of the buildings. It stormed down in wave after wave, whipping its own froth from the cringing streets, clattering through gutters and bubbling violently as it fought the twisting tunnels leading to the river. The river took it all in stride, remaining calm. It had seen worse storms before and would again.
However, for the time of the storm, at least, tragedy left the streets, but only the streets. In a borrowed tenement flat, two fifteen-year-olds � opposed by their parents in their love affair � lay fully clad upon a bed, their hands clasped tightly, their eyes locked one with the other. The steady hiss of gas was lost in the noise of the storm.
When they were found in the morning, the rain had settled down to a steady drizzle, and the temperature had fallen almost twenty degrees in less than twelve hours. It was necessary to break their fingers in order to separate the two thin bodies.
Stanton came into Clancy�s office, shaking water from his raincoat. He took off his hat and swung it in a violent arc; Kaproski, from his tilted stance on a chair against the wall, nearly lost his balance in attempting to avoid the spattering drops. He glared at Stanton balefully; Stanton merely grinned and replaced his hat on his head.
�A beautiful day,� he said. �For scuba divers.�
�A beautiful day for policemen,� Clancy said. �If this rain keeps up maybe we can get caught up a bit.� He spoke in the tone of one who had been indoors that morning long enough to get dried out. �What�s new at the house over on the Drive?�
Stanton stripped off his raincoat and hung it from the top edge of the open door. He drew up a chair and straddled it, brought out his notebook but made no attempt to open it.
�I haven�t been out there this morning,� he said. �I was downtown like you said. But I talked to Keller. He�s finished with the telephone books. Nine hundred and some-odd bucks, not counting the four hundred and twenty I brought in yesterday. Keller�s starting on the magazines, but so far they look clean. My guess is the newspapers are a waste of time; I can�t picture even a nut like Willie ducking money in newspapers.�
�How about stamps and coins?� Clancy asked.
�I asked him. He hadn�t run into any more stamps, but when he gets through with the magazines he�ll start hitting the rest of the junk. On the coins he says no dice. At least so far.�
Clancy frowned. �What about the stamps you found yesterday?�
Stanton opened his notebook, flipping through a few pages. �Junk. Pretty paper. The boys downtown haven�t had a chance to go through them in detail, but the first run-through sure didn�t impress them.� He looked up, his finger tucked into his place in the notebook. �You want the rest of the stuff I dug up downtown?�
Clancy nodded and leaned back. Stanton started to shove his hat further back on his head from force of habit, grimaced at the damp feel, and returned his attention to his notebook. He flipped another page and found what he wanted.
�Well, to begin with, Records says the house was in Willie�s name, free and clear. Taxes are paid every year from the estate by a law firm downtown � Ryder, Blasius, and Gordon. His father set up the deal in his will, way back in 1918.� He looked at the other two with attempted innocence, anticipating their reaction to his next announcement. �Remember yesterday when I said I couldn�t figure Willie for a guy anybody would try to borrow from?� He waited for their answer, his eyes bright.
�We remember,� Clancy said at last, weary of waiting.
�Well,� Stanton said, �it just goes to show how wrong a guy can be. For your information, Willie had a slight bank account � of a little better than six hundred thousand bucks.� Kaproski whistled in disbelief. Stanton nodded, pleased with the anticipated result. �Yeah. Six hundred grand. He was a real nut, living like a bum with all that scratch in the bank...�
Clancy frowned. �Did he leave a will?�
Stanton returned to his notes. �The law firm says that Willie never bothered to make a will. They were trustees for the old man, Willie�s father. Willie got one hundred dollars on the first of every month. I guess when his old man set that up it looked like a lot of money; anyway, it was never changed. The lawyers say that Willie never asked for any more.�
�The economical type,� Clancy said dryly. �What else?�
Stanton flipped a page, studied his scribbling and then looked up. �A little more on Willie, for whatever good it does. He�s been a pack rat all his life, ever since he was a kid. If Henry and him ever did a lot of things together when they were young, it must have been scavenging. The lawyers say he was a typical recluse. They can�t figure out what started him � they say he came from a good home, orphaned early, but his old man always had dough.� He looked down. �Let�s see � what else? Oh � he never went with women that they know of; never went with anyone, as a matter of fact. A lone wolf.�
He turned another page; a note caught his eye. �Oh; and this in interesting. The lawyers happened to mention that his brother-in-law Henry was down there a couple of weeks ago asking them if there was a statute of limitations on contesting a will...�
Clancy sat up straight. �And?�
Stanton shook his head. �They told him to forget about it. He was trying to claim that Willie didn�t deserve it, that he was a slacker in the war, and a lot more crap like that. Actually, the lawyers said that the draft board had turned Willie down for being too old, in bum health, and also because he was slightly nuts. They didn�t use those words, but that was the gist of it.�
�Henry should talk,� Kaproski said derisively. He brought his chair down and leaned forward. �I been checking on him. A phony. He managed to get a soft desk job in the war with some pretty fancy wire-pulling, hitting up pals of Willie�s old man through his wife. And that famous war wound of his, his old lady was talking about? That�s a real laugh.� Kaproski didn�t sound amused; he sounded disgusted. �He got that in London. He was run down by a bread truck during a blackout. They did a bum job on his leg and it left him crippled.�
Stanton suddenly stared at him. �Crippled? Does he use a cane? Or a crutch?�
�A cane. He...� Kaproski suddenly saw the light. He swung to Clancy. �A cane could have done it, Lieutenant.�
�Sure,� Clancy said, agreeing. �Sure a cane could have done it. Also a pool cue. Or a drum-major�s baton, or a hoe handle.� He sat thinking deeply, his fingers drumming nervously on the desk. Beyond the streaked window the rain matched his rhythm, splattering from the garbage can tops in the dim areaway. �If it was Henry, why did he wait thirty years before he did anything?�
Stanton shrugged. �Maybe he didn�t need the dough until now.�
�His old lady,� Kaproski said thoughtfully. �Did you take a good look at her? That dyed rabbit she had around her neck from the year one, and the fact her hair ain�t seen a beauty parlor in a long time...� Clancy stared at him, amazed as always at the things that Kaproski saw and mentally noted. �She sure didn�t look like they�ve been in the chips for a long, long time.�
�And not only that,� Stanton said. �She comes into the dough. He died intestate, and his estate will have to be probated, but when it�s finally cleaned up, she gets the whole ball of wax. Less what Uncle Sam knocks off for commission, of course. I checked that out with the lawyers.�
Clancy frowned. �It makes a nice story, but you can�t hang a man on suspicion only.� He shook his head. �If we could even place him in the neighborhood anywhere around the time of the killing...� His eyes came up, staring at Stanton intensely. �Are you sure that none of the neighbors saw anything? Nobody? Nothing?�
�We can check them out again,� Stanton said. �Maybe that reward will goose some of them, but up in that neighborhood, most people would rather give five hundred bucks the go-by rather than get involved with the police. Especially in a murder case. We can try them again, though.� He grinned suddenly, almost savagely. �I�d laugh like hell if the old lady put her dear husband Henry on the spot with that reward gimmick.�
�Yeah,� Clancy said absently. He had been trying to put the pieces together. He looked up. �Well, you�ll have to go over the neighbors again, Stan. And also anybody that works around there � maids, delivery boys, janitors... And Kap, while Stanton�s busy with that, I want you to try and find out about Henry�s bank account. Maybe Willie�s lawyers can give you an idea of where to start. Henry may have developed a taste for blondes late in life. Or horses. Or dice.�
�Sure, Lieutenant.� Kaproski started to come to his feet and then paused. �By the way, what did you find in that bundle I brought in the other day, Lieutenant?�
�Bundle? What bundle?�
�The one Jimmy at the morgue said you were in such a rush about.� Kaproski held his hands about two feet apart to demonstrate, and then dropped them. �I put it in your drawer like you said.�
�Christ!� Clancy struck his forehead. �I forgot all about it! There are just too many damn things to try and keep track of at the same time!� He bent down and pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk, withdrawing the hastily wrapped package Jimmy had prepared for him. He pushed the papers on his desk to one side and placed the bundle in the center of the cleared space, ripping open the top and folding back the torn paper. There was an envelope neatly placed on top of a folded sweater and colorful vest. Clancy slid the envelope to one side for the time being, removed the clothing, and crumpled the wrapping paper, tossing it into the waste-basket. He picked up the sweater first, spreading it open, and then looked at the other two men.
�These are the things that Willie McFadden was wearing, up on top, when he was killed. I had them sent up from the morgue.�
Stanton nodded in recognition. �I remember them. There�s the blood up on top around the front of the turtle-neck sweater, from his busted nose.� He looked at his superior curiously. �What did you want them for, Lieutenant?�
Clancy frowned. �Doc Freeman doesn�t think he could have been hit by a crowbar, because the type of bruise on his chest doesn�t check out. But I figured if he was wearing both a sweater and a vest � and thick winter underwear, according to Jimmy � the clothes could have softened the blow. But maybe still show something...� He leaned forward suddenly, his eyes bright, his finger poking at the fluffy surface. �And this sweater�s been torn...�
Kaproski bent over to look; his tone of voice denied the lieutenant�s contention. �That ain�t been torn, Lieutenant. Not recently, anyways. You can see where he passed a crochet needle through the knit-rows above and below to catch the ends and bring them around. That was yarn-sewn. He sure didn�t do that after he was hit.�
�Crochet needle?� Clancy looked at Kaproski in astonishment.
�Knit-row? Yarn-sewn?� Stanton asked, smiling wickedly. �Well, well! Old Mother Kaproski!�
�Well, sure I know about knitting,� Kaproski said defensively. �I had over eight months in a Naval Hospital, and you don�t do that physical therapy junk, they beat your brains out.� He bent back to the sweater, abandoning his explanation. �Anyways, that�s an old tear.�
Clancy sighed, accepting the truth of Kaproski�s statement. He turned the sweater around for a last look, and then put it almost reluctantly to one side, to pick up the vest. It was, as Jimmy had described it, an old-fashioned type, with a brocaded design woven into the fabric, with button-down pockets, patched under one armhole with a neat square of non-matching cloth, but otherwise intact and clean. Clancy studied the front carefully and then, with a sigh, tossed it to one side to join the sweater.
�Well,� he said slowly, almost hopelessly, �for all the use that was, that bundle could have stayed in my drawer for another month.� He shook his head unhappily. �I�d certainly like to know what Willie was killed with. I�ve a strong feeling it would help.� He rolled the sweater and vest into a crumpled bunch and stuffed them back into the bottom drawer, closing it upon his disappointment. He reached for the small envelope and opened it, upending it. Two coins rolled out; he neatly trapped them and slid them to the center of his desk for inspection.
�An English penny. And what�s this? One cruzeiro? That�s Brazil.� He lifted it. �Feels like tin.� He spun it with his fingers, watched it come to a teetering halt, and then pushed the two coins together. He looked up at the other two men. �So? What do we know?�
�Not much,� Stanton admitted. �We know he was a nut. We also know he�s dead. And that�s about all we really do know...�
�He may have been a nut,� Kaproski said warmly, as if in defense of the dead man, �but he was a rich nut.�
�Yeah,� Clancy said. �He was a rich nut and that may still be the answer. Only we have to have a little more to go into court.� He glanced at his wristwatch. �Anyway, it�s time for lunch. And afterwards, Stan, you go over and start on those neighbors again.�
�I�ll grab a bite first,� Stanton said, and came to his feet. �You want a sandwich or anything from across the street, Lieutenant?�
�Artists and writers,� Clancy said a bit grandly, sweeping the two coins into his pocket. �Maybe they need to starve to do a good job, but I never heard it said of police lieutenants. I�m getting a decent meal again today.� He grinned and stood up. �I�m getting into the habit, and I like it.�
Clancy had just finished giving Kaproski his instructions and was walking with him up to the desk, when Patrolman Martin pushed his way through the heavy precinct doors dragging a small man behind him. The patrolman�s raincoat was in shreds; beneath it his jacket could be seen to be ripped. His face was bleeding from a bad gash that had torn open one cheek. He unlocked the handcuffs that held him to the smaller man and flung the other viciously onto a bench beside the desk. Kaproski automatically moved over between the prisoner and the door, but the small man made no effort to move.
�Tried to mug me!� Martin growled. �The bastards! In broad daylight the little bastards tried to mug me!�
Clancy stared at him. �What happened?�
�They was three of the little bastards! They jumped me over by the park. In broad daylight!� Martin was fuming. He put his hand to his face and stared at the blood that came away, but his mind was elsewhere, back on the assault. �The rain had just let up. I was on the other side of the street when I seen them. They looked like they was arguing about something, getting ready for a fight, and then they started really swinging at each other so I crossed over in a hurry to break it up. And then all three of the little bastards ganged up on me!�
�Nobody around?�
�They was a dozen people around!� Martin said hotly. �More! But do you think any of them bastards would come and help me? Me, a cop? Don�t make me laugh!� He certainly didn�t look like anything could make him laugh; he looked down at his ripped raincoat and wiped his bloody hand against it. �Bastards!�
Clancy turned to the silent figure hunched on the bench.
�What�s the idea, buster?� The little man looked up and through the police lieutenant above him; his manner exhibited nothing except complete disdain, as if the proceedings had nothing to do with him.
Kaproski moved closer. �Lieutenant,� he said darkly, �you want I should open him up?�
�No,� Clancy said. A sudden frightening thought came to him and he swung sharply back to Martin. �Did they take anything from you?�
�Yeah. My gun.� Martin flicked back the shreds of his raincoat and lifted the torn skirt of his jacket to show his empty holster. The reason for his delay in the announcement was evident in the shamefaced bitterness of his voice; for a policeman to lose his service revolver was a bad mark on his record. His voice tightened a bit as he tried to explain.
�The three little bastards slugged me and when I went down they dragged my coat open and snaked my gun out. I thought they was going to plug me, but they run off into the park.� He looked at the indifferent figure on the bench and his voice hardened. �All except Little Orphan Annie here. I kept ahold of him!� He drew out a handkerchief and held it against his bleeding cheek.
Clancy frowned; his eyes were sharp. �What did the other characters with him look like?�
Martin grimaced, remembering. �They was all little guys, like this monkey here. They didn�t have on raincoats or any coats at all � just jackets. Dark ones, like his. And they didn�t have on neckties; they had the shirt collars on the outside. And no hats. None of them was wearing hats.� He thought a moment and his eyes ranged over the little man on the bench. The object of his inspection didn�t even bother to look away. �As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, the whole three of them looked the same. And they was all dressed the same.�
�Did you see where they came from?�
Martin shook his head. �They was all just standing there when I first seen them, arguing. I don�t know where they come from.�
�What did they say? When they were slugging you?�
�They didn�t say nothing.� Martin�s eyes narrowed as he recalled this odd fact. �You know, Lieutenant, now that you ask me that, that was a funny thing. They didn�t say one solitary word, none of them, all during the whole thing.�
�I see.� Clancy thought about this for a moment and then turned to the prisoner. �All right,� he said brusquely. �Open up. What was the big idea back of this?�
There was complete silence; the little man stared at him with disinterest for a moment and then turned his head to stare with equal disinterest at the wall beside him.
�You know what slugging a cop can get you?�
There was still no answer. Kaproski�s jaw hardened; he started forward. Clancy waved him back, still frowning at the bored-looking little man before him. The prisoner appeared to be about thirty years of age, dressed as Martin had described his assailants, with a pallid face as expressionless as the wall he was staring at. For one brief instant he raised his eyes, but brought them back immediately to the stucco surface.
�O.K.,� Clancy said at last, tightly. �Frisk him and book him and toss him into a cell. We�ll get the story of his life later.� He walked over to the small man and with sudden thought bent down and fingered the lapel of the other�s jacket. The little man did not even pull away. Clancy looked up, his forehead puckered in a frown. �And give him a nightgown to wear. I want to see these clothes of his.�
The desk sergeant had his pen poised over the register. �What name do we use, Lieutenant?�
�Call him John Doe.� Clancy turned back to Martin. �And you�d better see a doctor about that cheek of yours. You�ve got a nasty cut. What did they slug you with?�
�A chunk of pipe. About a foot and a half long,� Martin said. �I remember I seen one of the guys waving it around during the argument, like he was going to crown one of the others, before I went over to break it up.� He drew away the handkerchief and stared at the bright red blood on it almost curiously. His hand carried the swab back to his cheek, probing the area gently. �The bastards like to knocked my eye out.�
�Just three of them the size of this runt?� Kaproski snorted. �You must be getting old, Martin.�
Martin eyed him coldly. �It should just happen to you someday...�
Clancy interrupted the exchange. �Well, you better get that face looked after.� He turned to Kaproski. �And you can hold off on that assignment I gave you for a while. Get this man downstairs in a cell and bring me back his clothes. And keep your hands off him.�
�Sure, Lieutenant,� Kaproski said, and reached out to drag the small prisoner to his feet. �Let�s go, Superman...�
Kaproski came into Clancy�s office and dumped a pile of clothing on the desk. He stood back, rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. �He�s a tough little monkey,� he said, half-admiringly. �Old Silent Sam himself.�
Clancy looked up sharply. �I told you to lay off him,� he said with irritation. �You know I don�t go for that sort of thing. One of these days you�re going to cost the department a conviction with those big hands of yours you can�t keep to yourself!�
Kaproski looked surprised. �He slugged a cop, Lieutenant.�
�We have laws to handle people who slug cops,� Clancy told him coldly.
�Sure, Lieutenant,� Kaproski agreed equably. �We also got cops getting slugged just too damn often.� He shrugged. �Anyways, I only give him a little tap for luck. I bet his mother hit him harder the first time she caught him swiping pennies off the dresser.�
Clancy stared at him a moment and then shook his head wearily. �Forget it.� He turned his attention to the pile of clothing and then looked up again. �Where�s the stuff he had in his pockets?�
�Here.� Kaproski handed over a small folded wad of money. �And he had this around his neck under his shirt.� He fished out a medallion on a gold chain and laid it before Clancy.
Clancy picked up the medallion and chain, studying them. They were both new and glistening. He looked up. �Did he try to stop you from taking this from him?�
�Old Silent Sam? Naw. He wasn�t in any position to argue, and anyways he didn�t.� Kaproski shook his head. �And anyways, why should he? It�s a St. Christopher medal for travelers, and he ain�t going nowheres.�
Clancy turned the medallion over; there was nothing on it a bit different from the one he had at home himself, other than its newness, and nothing that could possibly serve for identification. He shrugged and laid it to one side, picked up the small folded wad of money and then looked up at Kaproski in surprise.
�This is all?�
�That�s the works,� Kaproski said definitely. �Every last thing he had. Not a handkerchief, not even any loose change. Not even a key or a billfold. All of his regular pockets were empty; that dough there was in his watch pocket.�
�That�s odd,� Clancy said thoughtfully, and laid aside the wad of money for the time being in order to study the clothing. He picked each piece up in turn, looking carefully at the seams, turning out the pockets, staring at the slightly cleaner places where labels had once advertised a manufacturer or admitted a size, and had since been removed. Clancy shook his head disconsolately.
�Let�s see his shoes.�
Kaproski slid them over. They were small, fitting into Clancy�s hand almost as a woman�s shoe would. The stitching along the welt had been done by hand, and the soft almost suede feel of the fine leather gave the sensuous sensation of stroking warm flesh. Vastly expensive and unfortunately, vastly unidentifiable. The lining that normally carried the width, size, and manufacturer�s code had been neatly sliced away; no marking disturbed the sole, and the rubber heels had been ground down to obliterate any secrets the molded design might allow to escape.
�Professional,� Clancy murmured, almost to himself. He sighed and went back over the pieces of clothing once again, but they revealed nothing new. He studied the small jacket again, carefully, holding it up before him, turning it about slowly. His eyes narrowed in speculative thought. Then, with a shrug, he pushed the pile of clothing to one side, set the fancy shoes on top of them, and unfolded the wad of money.
A slip of white paper detached itself as he unfolded it, falling to the floor. Clancy bent down and picked it up. He laid it to one side while he counted the bills; there were four five dollar bills and three ones, all crisp and crinkling new. He glanced at the numbers from force of habit and then shook his head at his own optimism � the chances of a bank registering bills of this small a denomination was nil. He moved the money to one side and picked up the slip that had been folded in with the money.
It was a narrow strip of paper and scribbled across it in figures of red ink was the following:
11/16/1500/26.20/57.26
Clancy turned the slip over; the back was blank. He reversed it again and stared at the numbers for several minutes, his eyes half-closed, his brain attempting to make some sense from them. Kaproski had been standing behind him, silent, watching the search; now he cleared his throat and pointed to the slip in Clancy�s fingers.
�What�s them numbers, Lieutenant?�
�You tell me,� Clancy said, frowning. �I haven�t the faintest idea. I only wish I did.�
Kaproski moved around to the front of the desk where Clancy could see him. His voice was even. �Lieutenant, I can open that monkey up, if you want. Professional or no professional. Hell, we ain�t exactly amateurs, and he ain�t knee-high to an ant.�
Clancy looked at him stonily. �I doubt if you could. This is no punk from around the corner. This is a highly trained professional character who probably does and says just what he wants to, and no more.�
�He still has to hurt,� Kaproski argued. �And he still ain�t any bigger than a baby midget. You want to find out anything he knows, Lieutenant, just say the word.�
�Forget it,� Clancy said decisively. �Anyway for now.� He thought about it awhile and then shook his head. �No, forget it. You�d just be wasting your time. Lock all of this junk up. Make out a receipt for the money and the medal and leave it at the desk. I�ll keep the slip.�
�O.K., Lieutenant.� Kaproski�s voice was tinged with disappointment.
Clancy remembered something else; he looked at his watch. �And Kap � it�s about time for your ward to show up, isn�t it?�
�My ward?�
�Yeah,� Clancy said. �Young Martinez, our shoe-shine boy. How did he do last night, by the way?�
�Oh, him.� Kaproski nodded, his face clearing. �He didn�t do too bad, considering it was the first time he ever tried it. He�s learning.� He started to hold out one of his size thirteens as an example; the rain had eliminated it as a possible advertisement for the boy�s skill. He pulled it down. �Anyways, he�s getting the idea. And the boys were pretty good with him.�
�Good,� Clancy said, and forgot the boy as quickly as he had remembered him. �O.K. Lock up those clothes and get me that receipt.� He leaned back in his chair a moment, placed his hands back of his neck and tugged, trying to loosen the tension of the muscles. �Christ! I�d like to see the day we only had to worry about one thing at a time!�
�A dream,� Kaproski said, and picked up the pile of clothing.
Clancy swung around as the big detective left the room, picking up the telephone. �Sergeant, is Captain Wise in?�
�He�s in his office, Lieutenant. You want me to ring him?�
�No,� Clancy said. �I�ll go up and see him.�
He dropped the receiver on its hook, got to his feet, and looked over his desk, as if wondering what data to take with him. But there wasn�t anything concrete to substantiate his theory; all he could take with him were his fears and suspicions. He tapped his shirt pocket to make sure his cigarettes and matches were in place, picked up the enigmatic slip of paper, and started towards the corridor.
At a few minutes before three o�clock that afternoon, a man walked into a small branch bank near Coney Island and slipped a note through the teller�s window. The note stated that the man was desperate, that he was holding a grenade beneath his raincoat, and that if he did not receive all of the small bills in the teller�s cash drawer at once, without fuss, he would pull the pin and toss the grenade over the glass enclosure. The teller, a young man and recently married, took no chances but followed instructions. He later told police that, at the moment, he was far from convinced that the man really had a grenade, but he saw no future in taking any chances.
He could not have been more correct in his attitude, for as the bandit took his hand from his pocket to reach for the money, he accidentally pulled the pin of his weapon. The teller just had time to fall on his face after seeing the horrified expression on the thief�s face. He escaped with minor cuts, protected by the barricade of the counter; the man was blown to bits. Some of the bills on the counter-top were also destroyed, but they were covered by insurance.
Captain Wise looked up from his cluttered desk as Clancy entered the office. He noted the serious look on the lieutenant�s face and put his work to one side, nodding gravely toward a chair. Captain Wise knew Clancy in all his moods, and he knew something important had come up.
�What�s the problem, Clancy?�
Clancy sat down, brought a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. He shook out the match slowly, trying to formulate his thought. The eyes he turned toward the larger man across from him were brooding. He took a deep breath.
�Sam, I think I�ve got bad news. We had a very odd thing happen a little while ago. Three fellows mugged a uniformed cop on his beat � in broad daylight � and took his gun away from him. And got away. Or rather, two of them got away; Martin, the cop, held on to the third one. We�ve got him downstairs in a cell, but he won�t talk. Not a word. Not even to tell us to go to hell.�
Captain Wise leaned forward, a frown appearing on his face. �What�s Martin got to say about it?�
�It wasn�t his fault,� Clancy said. �The way they worked it, it could have happened to you. Or me.� He reported Martin�s description of the affair. �Very professional.�
Captain Wise nodded. �And you think the whole thing was rigged just to get his gun?�
Clancy moved his head up and down. �I do. And that�s only a part of it. This character we have downstairs has foreign clothes; four inside pockets in his jacket and two watch pockets in his pants...�
�Any identification in the clothes?�
�None. All the labels were removed from everything; no laundry marks, no nothing. Even the bottoms of the rubber heels on the shoes had been buffed to get rid of the maker�s design.�
�Anything in the pockets?�
�That�s another thing,� Clancy said. �He had twenty-three dollars in brand new bills � the kind you get at banks � and this slip of paper.� He reached across the desk, handing Captain Wise the slip. The captain took it and studied it with a frown.
�What is it?�
�God knows,� Clancy said, and took it back, slipping it into his pocket.
Captain Wise frowned at him. �But you think it�s important?�
�It has to be,� Clancy said quietly, �because we don�t have another damned thing.�
�And that�s all he had?�
�Absolutely all. Not even a handkerchief.�
Captain Wise reached for his pipe and cradled it in one huge hand, deriving some unknown source of satisfaction from the feeling of the cold briar. His eyes were steady on the worried face across from him. �You think it could be tied into these UN rumors. That�s it, isn�t it?�
�It almost has to be,� Clancy said evenly. �The man we have downstairs looks and acts like a professional killer. Nothing in the pockets, no marks, no labels � and these three men jumped a cop for his gun. No local talent would take on a job without having a weapon lined up, but someone who had to come in through Customs and couldn�t take a chance on having anything found in a search...� He shrugged. �Well, then it makes sense. And it�s the only way it could make sense.�
�And a cop is always a sure source of a gun,� Captain Wise said slowly, �if it�s handled right.�
�They handled it right,� Clancy said bitterly. �Hell, they got the gun, didn�t they?�
Captain Wise put aside his pipe. �Just what wild-eyed explanation does this character give for mugging the cop and taking his gun?�
�I told you,� Clancy said patiently. �He hasn�t made a sound. Kaproski even went a round with him, against my orders, and still not a single peep out of him. Kap wanted to have another go at him, but I wanted to talk to you first.�
Captain Wise�s thick fingers drummed on the desk. �We may have to try it again, Clancy. I don�t like third-degree any more than you do, but this could be plenty serious.�
�I know.� Clancy reached out and crushed his cigarette out in the ash tray. �The only thing is that I doubt if it�ll do any good. Or that we could trust anything he said if we got him to say anything. And I�m not sure we have that much time. The other two are loose with that gun...� He thought a moment, staring over Captain Wise�s grizzled head at the wall behind. �On the other hand, maybe we can get cute...�
�How?�
Clancy didn�t answer. In sudden decision he reached across the desk and picked up the telephone. �Sergeant? Where�s Garcia?�
There was the sound of papers being shuffled about; the sergeant�s voice came back on the line. �He went out to hunt up that hospital orderly who walked out of Uptown Hospital the same time a lot of their narcotics did. I know he was planning on stopping by the hospital first to talk to them, but he would have left there a long time ago. Why?�
�See if you can get hold of him,� Clancy said. �Ask the people at the hospital if they have any idea where he went after he left there. Try to locate him and tell him I want him back here as soon as possible. Tell him it�s very important.�
�Right, Lieutenant.�
Captain Wise was watching Clancy closely as the smaller man deposited the telephone back on its hook. �What do you want with Garcia?�
�An idea,� Clancy said. �A wild idea that probably won�t work.� He studied the face of his superior thoughtfully. �Sam, can you find out if any of those foreign big-shots are housed around our precinct?�
�Sure,� Captain Wise said. �It may take a little time, but I can find out. The only thing is, what makes you think these killers would be after someone around here? This is a big city, Clancy. If I wanted to take a gun from a cop to kill somebody, I�d do it far away. I�d try to spread the two actions as much as possible.�
�
He moved toward the door; Captain Wise eyed him speculatively.
�You might just be right at that,� he said slowly, and reached for the telephone.
The telephone rang; it was the desk sergeant.
�Lieutenant? Somebody from the lab downtown wants to talk to you. And so far there�s nothing new on Garcia. I haven�t been able to find him.� He tried to sound optimistic. �But he�s due back here pretty soon, anyway. His duty�s up in another hour.�
�That�s what he thinks,� Clancy said. �Well, O.K. Let me have the lab.�
The telephone clicked several times; a new voice came on. �Hello?�
�Hello? This is Lieutenant Clancy.�
�Lieutenant? This is Sergeant Corbin, down at the lab. About that cab your man brought in here the other day. I�m sorry we couldn�t get to it any faster, but...�
Clancy waved this aside. �What about the cab?�
�A couple of things out of the ordinary with that cab, Lieutenant. We checked the agency that sold it, and they say it was delivered three months ago � August twelfth, to be exact. But the mileage on that basis would show an average of only forty miles a day on a six-day basis. The normal average for an owner cab is a little better than a hundred. For a company cab, of course, it runs about two-and-a-half times that much.�
�I know,� Clancy said. �That struck me, too.� He felt pleased to have his original thought verified, and then the memory of all of the unsolved problems in the precinct wiped away his pleasure as if it had never been. �What else?�
�Well, that partition between the driver and the passengers. That�s not standard. In fact, Yellow says they don�t even install them. Some of the drivers have gotten around to having them put in � bullet-proof glass � ever since some of them have been held up and a couple of them shot. But the thing about this one is, it isn�t bulletproof. As a matter of fact, it isn�t even safety glass; it�s just plain glass. So why he ever had it put in, God knows.�
Clancy frowned at the information and marked the word �partition� on his pad. There was a pause as the sergeant apparently referred to his notes; Clancy took advantage of the interruption to add the words �plain glass� to the sheet before him.
�And another thing, Lieutenant � that hole in the back of the front seat. The one on the passenger�s side of the partition. Cabs nowadays don�t have an ash tray there anymore � both of the standard ash trays are in the armrests. And that hole is pretty sloppy, too. My guess is that he put that in himself.�
Clancy marked down the word �hole� and then crossed it out, intending to put down �ash tray� in its place. Instead he found himself writing the word �sloppy�.
�How about the lights?� he asked. �The ones in the back? They didn�t work � and in a new cab, too.� It was not a question to which he honestly expected a useful answer, but for some unknown reason the failure of that illumination bothered him. He received quite a surprise.
�Those lights work, Lieutenant...� The voice sounded supremely satisfied; it had finally arrived at the
Clancy sat up straight. The old familiar tingling of excitement began stirring in him. �Infra-red?�
�Right, Lieutenant. They throw light that the human eye can�t see. But a camera can.�
Clancy�s mind was racing. �Hold it a moment, Sergeant.� He cupped the mouthpiece of the telephone while he stared at the wall across from him without seeing it. Infra-red bulbs in a cab instead of standard bulbs for lighting; a strange hole in the back of the front seat, undoubtedly placed where the driver would have access to it; a man who had suddenly become vitally interested in photography � and who had also suddenly been able to forego his usual petty rackets because money was no longer a problem... It all made sense. Clancy paused in his thinking, frowning. Like hell it all made sense! It all made sense except for one slightly important detail-why did Caper Connelly jump in front of a subway train? That didn�t fit into the picture.
Unless...
He uncupped the receiver, taking a deep breath. �Sergeant, do you know if Doc Freeman is still around?�
�He ought to be,� the sergeant said. �He�s usually here until at least six.� There was a certain querying note in his voice. �Did the report give you what you wanted, Lieutenant?�
�In spades,� Clancy said, and meant it. �And thank you very much, Sergeant. I won�t forget it. And I�ll want it in writing for the file as soon as possible.�
�By morning,� the sergeant promised. His voice reflected his appreciation of the lieutenant�s words. �You want me to have the operator try and find Doc for you now?�
�Please.�
Clancy waited tensely, his mind charging along. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, poked it into the corner of his mouth, and then forgot to light it. His hand scribbled meaningless squiggles on his pad without his being even slightly conscious of it. There could only be one possible answer to the thing. That is, if he was right. But he had to be right! Unless, of course, he was wrong...
Doc Freeman�s voice interrupted his jumbled thoughts. Doc Freeman was bone-tired and sounded it. �Clancy? You wanted me?�
�Yeah.� Clancy came back to earth, bending forward. The cigarette in the corner of his mouth impeded speech and he flipped it away from him, unaware that he had not lit it. �Look, Doc. I want a favor. I want you to take a look at a jumper down in the icebox.�
�A jumper?�
�That�s right. He dove in front of an IRT train over on Eighty-sixth Street the other day. He ought to have a tag on his big toe marked Caper Connelly.�
�Oh, him. I remember.� Doc Freeman�s voice became sarcastic. �And just what do you want me to look for? Hepatitis? Indian arrow poisoning? Or just a double hernia?�
Clancy was in no mood for humor and his tone of voice showed it. �Listen, Doc, this is important. I don�t want you to do an autopsy. I just want you to go down and look him over. It won�t take you five minutes.�
�You�re so right it won�t take me five minutes,� Doc Freeman said wearily. �It�ll take me a couple of hours at the least.� He sighed. �What do you expect me to find?�
�That I can�t tell you,� Clancy said. �I mean I don�t want to tell you. I don�t want somebody with a smart lawyer to come around later and claim a plant. Though I doubt if they would. But still...�
�Look, Clancy,� Doc Freeman said, trying to be patient. �You may know what you�re talking about, but...�
�Forget it. I�m not sure what I�m talking about myself. Just take a look at him. O.K.?�
�And it has to be right now? Tonight?� Doc Freeman�s voice was hopeless. �Look, Clancy, I�m part of a
Clancy knew what a
�I know what a
�That part we can handle,� Doc Freeman said, obviously relieved. �I�ll see that he stays here no matter what. And thanks, Clancy. I�ll get to it the first thing in the morning and call you. Right now I�ve got to beat it. I�m late already.�
�Pray real good,� Clancy said, and hung up. The telephone rang before he could remove his hand.
�Lieutenant, Garcia just come in.�
It took Clancy a second or two to adjust his thoughts, to bring them back from the morgue, and Caper Connelly, and Doc Freeman. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his neck, disregarding the telephone. There were just too many damned things cooking at the same time...
�Lieutenant?�
�I heard you,� Clancy said almost snappishly. �Send him in.�
Garcia appeared at the door, shoving back his hat. He hesitated a moment and then came in. �You wanted me, Lieutenant?�
�Yes,� Clancy said. �Sit down. How did you do on that hospital orderly?�
For a brief moment Garcia considered dragging out his notebook and then reflected that the facts were clear enough in his mind without it. Besides, he was sure that the question had been purely rhetorical, and was not the cause for Clancy�s request for his presence. His typed report would be before the lieutenant in the morning.
�I finally caught up with the poor bastard,� Garcia said. He pulled a chair alongside the desk and dropped into it wearily, shaking his head. �Took damn near all day, too � in the rain, yet! Every place I went, he�d just been. It wasn�t he was trying to get away from me; he just had the wanders, I guess. He must have been afraid somebody�d take his candy away from him before he got a chance to finish it.�
�How is he?�
�He�s in sad shape.� Garcia shrugged, but it was easy to see that beneath his even exterior he was angry about something. �Maybe he makes it, maybe not.�
�Where�d you take him?�
�Downtown,� Garcia said. �He�s in the hop-ward, and I just hope to Christ they keep an eye on him. He�s a young kid and a very sick boy.� His voice became hard, remembering. His eyes came up. �And I read the riot act to those bird-brains at the hospital, tool Doctors! Good God! They figure if they got a narcotics book and they keep it up to date, that�s all that counts. They don�t figure you maybe ought to keep an eye on the junk, too. Not to mention checking up just a little bit on the people they hire.� His voice was bitter. �This poor kid�s been working there four days, and they let him get his hands on the stuff. I ate them out.�
Clancy looked interested. �How did they take it?�
Garcia stared at him. �How did they take it? They took it like if a word had more than five letters in it, how come a dumb ape like me was using it? That�s how they took it!� He leaned forward, his voice intent. �Lieutenant, it�s none of my business, but maybe if you or Captain Wise talked to them, maybe they�d get the message.� He leaned back, simmering down. �I feel sorry for the poor bastard I picked up...�
Clancy nodded and marked a note on his pad. �I will. I promise. And you did a good job.� He paused, eyeing the other. �You busy tonight?�
Garcia continued to contemplate his superior steadily. �I guess I am, Lieutenant, from the sound of your voice. What�s up?�
�A little job,� Clancy said, and leaned forward, speaking quietly and steadily.
Kaproski returned to the precinct house just in time to help a uniformed patrolman handle the recalcitrant prisoner who didn�t seem to want to be brought down to the cell block. The big, fighting, cursing, dark-complexioned man was strong as a bull; it took the full efforts of both Kaproski and the uniformed man usually on duty at the desk to hustle him along the corridor and down the steps to the cell block. They removed his belt, necktie, and shoelaces by sheer force, not asking his permission. Clancy watched them, his eyes steady on the prisoner.
�Lock him up and throw the key in the river,� he said coldly to the turnkey. �Or drop it down the toilet. We�ll let the judge take care of tough boy tomorrow!�
The turnkey looked interested. Life below could be boring at most times. �What�s he done?�
�He�s a real tough guy,� Clancy said, not bothering to keep the repugnance from his voice. �Give him a woman to beat up when she doesn�t hand over all the dough she earns on her back, and he�s a real killer. Especially when she must weigh all of eighty pounds dripping wet.� He wrinkled his nose in disgust. �Lock the son of a bitch up and get him out of my sight!�
The big man twisted suddenly, throwing the uniformed officer off balance; he tried to pull himself free of Kaproski in the same movement. Kaproski�s large hand slapped him brutally across the face, knocking him back against the cell bars. The swarthy man snarled viciously, turned, and tried to kick Kaproski in the groin. Kaproski turned a leg expertly, avoiding the kick with ease; his heavy hand descended again, chopping viciously at the twisted brutal face.
�Inside, tough guy, you!� Kaproski said. He waited as the turnkey opened the cell door and swung it wide, and then pushed the struggling figure into the narrow space, shoving him hard against the far wall. The man bounced off the plaster and came tearing back. Kaproski slapped him once more, open-handed, and stepped out before the other had recovered from the blow. The cell door slammed; the key turned gratingly.
Kaproski shoved a hard face against the bars, sneering. �Try that one on for size, tough guy!�
The man caught at the bars, shaking them; their rigidity resulted in his body reflecting the action rather than the impervious strands of steel. His lips were pulled back madly; white teeth glistened in the half-light of the dim detention area. �You dirty bastards! You can�t hold me, you stinking lousy cops!�
�We can try,� Clancy said with no expression, and started to turn away.
�You dirty lousy stinking bastard cops! I�ll be out of here in an hour!�
Kaproski sneered at him savagely. �How? You got a key?�
The man bared his teeth at him. �I�m entitled to a telephone call and I want it! I know my rights! You can�t stop me from making a telephone call! That�s the law!�
�A lawyer, yet,� Kaproski said with simulated admiration. �Me, I never got past high school. Who paid your way through law school � the babe you beat up on tonight? Out of her mattress money?� He stepped closer to the bars, his voice icy. �I got news for you, tough guy. The telephone�s out of order. You�ll get your call tomorrow morning � from court.�
The man shook at the rigid bars helplessly. �You dirty bastards!�
Kaproski shoved his face almost between the cell bars. His sarcasm disappeared, replaced with anger. �You�re a big-mouth! How would you like me to come in there and slap a little decent language into you?�
The man tried to spit into Kaproski�s face; the spittle struck one of the bars and ran down it, curling about it almost lazily. The man jerked his hand back from the bar to prevent it from getting soiled. �Yeah,� he said, sneering. �Come on in! I�d like to get you in here without your pals! You big bastard hero, you!�
�O.K.,� Kaproski said with finality. �You asked for it!�
Clancy put his hand on the big detective�s arm. �Let him alone, Kap,� he said shortly. �The judge will take care of tough guy tomorrow. Let him alone.�
�I�ll take care of the big-mouthed bastard right now,� Kaproski growled tightly. �What the hell gives, I got to listen to a lot of crap like that?�
The man inside the cell put a thumbnail to his teeth and clicked it outwards. �Up yours, copper!�
Kaproski clenched his jaw. �That does it! I�m going in there and...�
Clancy clamped him by the arm in no uncertain manner. �Come on!� he said in a tone that was an order. He dragged the large detective away and back to the steps, Kaproski still muttering balefully. Behind them the man stood glaring with hatred, his big hands locked on the cold steel of the cell bars, his knuckles white with strain. Warnicki, in the cell adjacent on one side, had watched the drama with barely concealed excitement. The silent little man on the other side sat in his nightgown with his feet tucked under him on his cot, his eyes closed, his face expressing no emotion whatsoever.
Clancy and Kaproski entered the office with Clancy�s hand still on the large detective�s arm. He released it and dropped into his chair, rubbing his face with weariness. Kaproski took a deep breath and looked at Clancy sympathetically.
�Tough day, Lieutenant?�
�Like every day,� Clancy said dispiritedly. He swiveled his chair and stared at the window; the darkness of the areaway beyond made a mirror of the glass; the dismal inadequacies of the drab office were reflected waveringly in the streaked panes of glass. He swiveled back and stared at Kaproski, trying to organize his thoughts.
�Did you come up with anything on that McFadden case that can�t wait until tomorrow?�
�What I found could wait forever,� Kaproski said honestly. He shrugged. �Anyways, it can sure wait until tomorrow. You go out and have yourself a good time tonight and relax, Lieutenant.�
Clancy stared at him. �A good time?�
�Sure. Ain�t you got a date for dinner tonight?�
Clancy suppressed a smile. �No, I don�t have a date for dinner tonight.�
�Well, you sure could have,� Kaproski said almost accusingly. �Mary Kelly don�t date nobody else.� He paused, embarrassed a bit by Clancy�s sudden glare. �Well, she don�t...�
Clancy�s sternness faded despite himself. He shook his head. �Everybody�s getting to be Cupid around here.�
Kaproski relaxed, pleased to see the lieutenant in a better mood. �Well, we�re all here to help you, Lieutenant...�
�Help me by doing some work,� Clancy said dryly, and then paused, remembering. �By the way, did you check on young Martinez today?�
Kaproski snapped his fingers. �I knew there was something I had to do! I better go out and get him a sandwich, too. Hey, Lieutenant � you want one too?�
�Make mine a Danish and milk,� Clancy said, and turned to the mountainous pile of papers that had accumulated on his desk. �Let�s see if that joint across the street can ruin those!�
At five-thirty that Wednesday afternoon, two derelicts on the Bowery managed to complete the raising of sufficient funds for the purchase of some Sterno and a loaf of rye bread through which to filter it. It was not that they required such a vast amount, but they were not particularly prepossessing of appearance, even for beggars � and also, they were not working the most affluent section of town. In any event, they finally got the money and bought their Sterno and rye bread.
One of them, however, was impatient. He was chilled by the falling temperature, trembling from lack of stimulant, and long since convinced that the filtering of Sterno through rye bread was a legend, anyway. His partner shook his head at such philistinism, and proceeded to treat his portion of the can in the time-honored fashion.
When the headlights of the passing patrol car happened to pick up the shadows of the two inert bodies lying in the open doorway, the impatient one was already dead. The other did not die until an hour and a half later, which proves the efficacy of rye bread.
Stanton walked into Clancy�s office. He peeled off his gloves and removed a folded newspaper from his overcoat pocket, laying it on the desk before his superior.
�Hey, Lieutenant,� he said with pride. �Did you see this? A whole article about that Willie McFadden character. The Wealthy Recluse, they call him. I didn�t know it, but his old man was a real big-shot in this town in the old days.�
Clancy glanced down at the article. The picture of Willie McFadden which the newspaper morgue had managed to unearth must have been taken at least thirty years before; it certainly bore no resemblance whatsoever to the shots that had been taken by the police photographer in the house on the Drive the day he died. Clancy scanned the headlines and then looked up at Stanton.
�Does it say anything of use to us?�
�They mention my name,� Stanton said, trying to sound noncommittal about it, and then answered the question, his voice dropping a bit. �No. They don�t say nothing at all, hardly.� He took the paper from Clancy�s hand, opened it to an inside page, and refolded it. His finger pointed. �Here�s where the article goes on. Mentions me and Keller both.�
He handed it to Clancy as the telephone rang. Clancy laid the paper to one side and picked up the phone.
�Yes?�
�Hello? Is that you, Clancy?� The deep accented tones could only belong to Captain Wise. �That information you asked me to get on the delgates to the UN � well, I�ve got it. Hang on a second.� There was a pause and the captain came back on the line. �I�ve got so much junk on my desk... Anyway, here it is. Six of them are staying in the precinct area. The ones from Belgium, Cuba, Israel, Uruguay, and Argentina.�
�That�s only five,� Clancy said, his pencil poised over his pad.
Captain Wise shuffled some more papers. �Oh. Here�s the sixth � Bolivia. I wrote it down on a different sheet of paper.� There was another pause. �I�ve got their addresses here, but my good God, Clancy, we can�t afford to put more men on all that mob. We�re short-handed as hell as it is. Even the traffic detail � they�re predicting snow tonight. Two days ago like summer, maybe hotter, and tonight they�re predicting...�
Clancy had run his finger down the hastily scribbled list. He swore. �Christ! Five of the six are hot-climate countries!�
Captain Wise, interrupted in his tirade, stared at the telephone in puzzlement. �So what�s that got to do with anything if I may ask?�
Clancy tried to sort out his thoughts, speaking more to himself than to his superior. �I�m sure that the three of them came in this morning by plane. They didn�t have overcoats or hats � they had to come from someplace warm. And they were planning on doing a fast killing and catching a plane out tonight � off and gone before the real pressure built up, while the panic and the confusion still had us running around in circles.�
�And?�
Clancy�s mind raced on, picturing the three men descending from a plane that morning. �They probably brought overnight bags with them, so they wouldn�t look too different from the other passengers on the plane; and they stashed them. Together with their papers and their passports and any loose stuff in their pockets. In one of the airport lockers...� He paused, thinking, frowning. �And either one of the other two has the key, or even more likely they ducked it someplace around the airport. They wouldn�t take a chance of any one of them getting caught with the key, and they didn�t know how many would be grabbed in that attempt to mug a cop.�
�Ducked it?� Captain Wise was following Clancy�s theory tensely. �The key? Where?�
�Hell!� Clancy said. �You can hide a key anywhere of a million places at Kennedy Airport. In the top of a flush-tank in a pay-toilet, in the dirt of a potted plant, in the upholstery of a bench in one of the smaller airline terminals...�
�That might be an idea,� Captain Wise said slowly. �If we took a picture of this character downstairs in the cell block and circulated it around the airport � hitting the airlines first that go to these six countries � maybe we�d find somebody who would recognize him. If we identified the airline, we�d have some idea...�
�Time!� Clancy interrupted almost savagely. He brought a clenched fist down on the newspaper before him. �It�s the time � we don�t have it! If I�d have done it when we first picked him up it might have done some good, but I had so many other things on my mind...� He dismissed this excuse as being both thin and pointless. �I�m positive this thing is scheduled for sometime tonight, and two of those characters are loose with Martin�s gun!� He shook his head angrily. �What time does that special session of the UN end tonight?�
Captain Wise�s voice became heavy with worry. �It�s already ended, Clancy. Fifteen minutes ago.� He sounded slightly ashamed, as if it were somehow partially his fault. �I got the word when they called in the last of those addresses.�
�Damn!� Clancy said hopelessly. �Those other two are probably setting up the kill right this minute. Can�t we bum men from some of the other precincts, Sam? Everybody�s been yelling bloody murder about a possible international incident and all that crap, and this is the hottest lead we�ve had so far. I�d bet anything it�s going to be one of the delegates in our precinct. Christ � they could even pull men off some of those other delegates, at least for tonight...�
�They�d never do it, Clancy. Not on a slim hunch like you�ve got. And neither would you if you were in their shoes. And we just can�t cover all six of them any more than they�re being covered. We don�t have the men.� Captain Wise�s voice slowed down a bit. �And even if we did...�
�Even if we did, what?�
�Well, even if we did, you know the chances of stopping a real determined assassin if you don�t know where he�s holed up, or when he intends to pull the trigger, or where he intends to pull it. If we don�t know anything else in this country we ought to know that. Anyway by now. And in this case we don�t even know who they�re laying for. I tell you, Clancy, it�s impossible!�
Clancy refrained with effort from slamming the desk in pure frustration. �I know, Sam. But it burns me to think that three professional killers can come into this country cold, come over into our backyard at the Fifty-second, mug a cop to get his gun, use it to kill a man, and then calmly walk away while we�re running around like a chicken with his head cut off!� His voice was bitter. �Especially when we know...�
His voice trailed off into silence; an almost electric shock passed through his slight frame. His hand reached out for the folded newspaper on his desk, trying to open it, attempting to thrust the sheets back one by one. His hand seemed to be governed by frenzy. Captain Wise�s voice sounded in his ear.
�Especially when we know what, Clancy?�
�Hold it!� Clancy�s voice demonstrated his change from despair to sudden excitement. He laid down the receiver to allow him two hands to flip through the newspaper. He found the page he wanted and ran one finger down a long column of tiny print. His finger froze on a line; he closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, doing a series of rapid mental calculations. When he opened them again they were bright with assured knowledge. He picked up the telephone again.
�Sam! I�ve got it! I�ve got it! Christ, but I�m stupid!� His fingers were locked tightly on the instrument in his excitement. �What�s the address where the Uruguayan delegate is staying?�
�The
Captain Wise swallowed his words and delved hastily into his papers. �Here it is. His name is Hurtado � Armando Hurtado � and he�s staying at the apartment of some friends at 45 West Eighty-fifth Street. Apartment 6K. They�re away on a trip and he�s got it alone.� The information scrawled on the sheets before him left him completely puzzled. �But what makes you think it�s the Uruguayan delegate? According to the dope I�ve got here, he doesn�t even have a bodyguard. He refused one.�
�Later! I�ll tell you all about it later!� Clancy started to slam the phone down and then brought it swiftly back to his ear. �Sam? Are you still there? Listen; get hold of the telephone number for that address and start calling. If you get hold of him, tell him to lock his doors and don�t open them for anyone. Not even me. I�m on my way there now. That�s just in case he gets home before I get there, all in one piece. If he doesn�t answer, keep calling him every couple of minutes.�
�But...�
Clancy had already disconnected. He turned to Stanton. He looked ten years younger and twenty years less weary.
�Stan, I want a squad car and I want it right now! I want it in front of the precinct in exactly two minutes, and tell the desk sergeant I don�t care where it is or what it�s doing � I want it! And get hold of Kaproski. He�s somewhere in the building with that shoe-shine kid. The three of us � we�ll handle it ourselves.� He paused as a sudden possible complication struck him; he almost winced at his own sheer stupidity. �Hold it! Forget the squad car. We�ll go in my Chevy. I don�t want them scared off by seeing a police car...�
Stanton was staring at him. Clancy came to his feet, his eyes alive. �Well? What are you waiting for? Get Kaproski!�
Stanton turned and left the room swiftly; Clancy stripped off his jacket, slung a shoulder holster in place, and pulled his jacket back on over it. He took his service revolver from his desk, checked it carefully, and slipped it into place. He grabbed his hat and coat on the run and dashed out toward the front.
The three men came hurrying through the heavy doors of the precinct, shrugging their coats into place. The predicted snow had begun to fall; the road before them was white, traced with black lines where passing tires had scarred the smooth surface. Clancy jumped into the front seat of his parked Chevrolet while Kaproski and Stanton began scraping the light accumulation of snow from the windshield. The motor caught weakly, gasped, and then tried to retire once again into its icy sepulcher; Clancy turned the key again viciously, pumping desperately on the gas pedal. The motor came to life, roaring. Clancy ran down the window.
�Stan, you drive. Kap, get in back. Let�s go!�
Clancy slid over on the chilly seat; Stanton got in and slammed the door. The windshield wipers resisted action for a second and then sprang loose, beating quickly across the frozen glass as if anxious to get the car into movement and the case closed. Stanton shifted into gear.
�Where we going, Lieutenant?�
�Eighty-fifth Street,� Clancy said tersely. �Number Forty-five. It�ll be over near Central Park West; it�s one way west, so you�ll have to go up to the park and then down on Eighty-fifth.�
�Right.� Stanton nodded and pulled out into the snowy street; there was the slightest tug at the wheels as they experienced their first slipperiness of the year. Kaproski leaned over from the back seat.
�How do we handle it, Lieutenant?�
Clancy thought a moment; his eyes noted the slow traffic and the snow now falling faster but his mind was busily fixed on formulating a plan. �When we get to the apartment, Kap, you get out and walk into the lobby; we�ll make it look as if you�re a guy we�re dropping off. And then we�ll cruise down the street. Slow. With our eyes open. These characters might be hanging out in one of the areaways under the stairs of one of those old brownstones over that way.�
Stanton glanced over at him and then returned his eyes to the slippery road; his breath steamed in the cold car. He frowned uncertainly. �In weather like this, Lieutenant? And them without coats or hats? They�d freeze their ears off.�
Clancy shook his head. �I�m sure they didn�t arrange a room around there. They wouldn�t have had the time, nor would they want to make that much of a splash.� He thought a moment, trying to picture the possible moves of the two men with Martin�s gun. �They could be hiding out in the basement of the apartment building...� He turned to Kaproski, speaking to him over the back seat. �You stay in the lobby until we get there. And put your gun in your outside coat pocket � and keep one hand on it. We�ll cruise down the street, and if we don�t see anything we�ll go around the block and come back. If we still don�t see anything, we�ll park just below the entrance. Stanton will stay in the car and I�ll come inside and join you.� His voice hardened. �That�s if we aren�t too late already...�
There was no answer from the two men. Stanton waited for the light to change at Eighty-sixth Street, turned right into Central Park West, and slowed down to turn into the next side street. The snow was pelting down now; the sound of the windshield wipers was a steady rhythmic
Number Forty-five was a new ten-story apartment on the north side of the street; a canvas canopy, fluttering lightly in the growing wind, connected the building with the street, protecting its small patch of sidewalk solicitously. It was one of the modern buildings, designed and constructed to avoid the necessity of a doorman. Clancy had removed his gun from his shoulder holster and slipped it into his coat pocket; the serrated butt of the weapon felt cold, but reassuring, to his touch. Stanton slowed down; the watchful eyes of all three men swept the immediate area, searching the hidden dark corners, noting the possible hiding places. Everything appeared deserted. Stanton swung the wheel, pulling before the building, shifting into neutral. Kaproski opened the rear door.
Clancy spoke swiftly. �Stay inside the lobby. And keep your eye on any door that might lead to the basement.�
Kaproski nodded agreement, stepped to the sidewalk, slammed the door behind him, and walked quickly across the walk to shove through the double glass doors. Stanton eased the car into gear, edging away from the curb. Beyond the lighted front of Number Forty-five a row of old brownstones stretched to the far corner, their curved stone railings a series of parallel white bands that faded into darkness beyond the scope of the faint glow of the overhead street lamps.
Clancy bent forward, staring tightly from his side of the car while Stanton did the same, bringing his eyes back to the road every second to make sure he held the center of the snow-flecked street. There was no sign of movement anywhere. Clancy frowned. His throat felt tight; his hand squeezed over the butt of his revolver almost convulsively.
They came to the corner. Stanton turned right, speeding up, managed to make the traffic light at Eighty-sixth Street and pushed down on the gas, hurrying to get back to Central Park West and complete his circle of the block. At Eighty-fifth Street he slowed down and once again entered slowly. Everything appeared as before; he applied the brake gently as they neared the apartment, turning to look questioningly at Clancy.
�Park it,� Clancy said tersely. �Just below the apartment. And stay in the car. Turn off the lights and cut the engine. And keep your eyes open. That delegate ought to be getting here soon � if he�s going to get here at all.�
Stanton nodded and drew to the curb. Clancy emerged quickly and walked towards the apartment entrance, his eyes automatically checking the nearest darkened areaways once again. Still no movement betrayed the presence of anyone near. He frowned and pushed through the tall glass doors to the small lobby.
Kaproski was standing there, half-facing the front doors and managing at the same time to cover another door set beside the small self-service elevator. One hand was bunched in his coat pocket. He nodded at Clancy and jerked his head in the direction of the second door.
�It leads to a stairway,� he said quietly. �They go up � and down, too. I didn�t check them out; I figured I�d wait until you got here.�
�They can wait,� Clancy said. �How about the elevator?�
�It�s empty and on this floor,� Kaproski said. He nodded in the direction of the indicator set in the wall beside the push-button. �I pushed the button and the door opened and then closed.�
�Good.� Clancy looked around and then scowled at his wristwatch. �Where in the hell can he be? Even in this weather it shouldn�t take this long to get here from the UN!�
�Maybe he isn�t coming right home...�
�Then we wait for him here if it takes all night,� Clancy said.
A worse thought struck Kaproski. �Or maybe they�re setting the kill up somewhere else.�
Clancy shook his head, although he was far from feeling as confident as he tried to sound. �They wouldn�t know where he might be any more than we do. And this place would be ideal for them.� He frowned, his eyes scanning the modernistic murals that adorned the walls of the lobby. �I wonder where in hell they�re holed up...� He moved to the front of the lobby, peering through the glass, and then stiffened. �Hold it! There�s a cab stopping in front...�
Kaproski moved backwards, setting his back firmly against the door that led to the stairway; any attempt to push it open would have to move him with it, giving ample warning. His large hand tightened ominously on the revolver in his pocket.
Through the glass Clancy could see a figure bending over the back seat of the cab, handing money to the driver. A moment later the figure had opened the door of the cab and was walking quickly across to the entranceway. It was a well-built man wearing a black Chesterfield coat and a Homburg of the same color; in one gloved hand a brown, expensive-looking attach� case swung loosely. He came through the glass doors, noted the two men in the lobby with nothing more than polite disinterest, and walked over, pressing the elevator button. We might as well start with this one, Clancy thought, and stepped forward.
�Pardon me, but is your name Hurtado?�
The man paused, puzzled; a slight frown crossed his handsome face. The elevator door slid open; his eyes flickered to it momentarily and then came back to the man at his side. �Yes, it is. Why?�
Clancy heaved a sigh of profound relief. �We are police officers. I�m Lieutenant Clancy of the Fifty-second Precinct.� He withdrew his wallet, opened it to display his identification, and held it out. The handsome man glanced at it incuriously and then back to the open elevator. As if in response to his attention, the doors slid closed once again. The man shrugged and turned to Clancy. �Yes? And?�
Clancy doubled his wallet and returned it to his pocket. �We�ve been waiting for you, Mr. Hurtado. We have reason to believe there is an attempt on your life being planned.�
A look of complete incredulity crossed the other�s face; it held a moment and then was slowly replaced by a faint smile.
�I�ve heard all of these rumors, of course,� he said. �At the meetings.� His English was excellent, with just the barest trace of accent; it was evident that his schooling had been British. �But I�m afraid you don�t understand. I am the delegate from Uruguay. Such things could not possibly affect me. Our country is not like some of the others.� He shook his head, amused. �I�m afraid you are not very conversant with politics, Lieutenant. Uruguay is quite civilized. In Uruguay...� He allowed the words to trail off. �I�m afraid you must be mistaken.�
�And I�m afraid we are not,� Clancy said gently.
The Uruguayan delegate stared at him a moment, looked around, and then raised one gloved hand expressively. �But you see? I do not even have a bodyguard. I am not armed � in fact, I am never armed. I come alone in a taxi. Why should I have any fear?�
�I�m sorry,� Clancy said firmly. �We still feel and believe our information to be correct. If you don�t mind, we�ll accompany you to your apartment. We...� His words stopped; his eyes widened. Of course! Where else to stay, warm and cozy, protected from the curious glances of passersby and out of the reach of the cold winter blasts? Where else to wait, in such certainty of the eventual arrival of the victim, than in the victim�s own apartment? And certainly getting into an empty apartment would prove no unsurmountable task to men as professional as these! He turned to Kaproski, his eyes lit up with the sureness of his knowledge.
�Kap � you take the steps. We�ll give you time to get to the sixth floor and then we�ll come up by elevator. You make sure that nobody�s in the hall when we get there.� He turned to the handsome figure listening in complete disbelief to the cloak-and-dagger nonsense being uttered so seriously in his presence. �Mr. Hurtado � may I please have the key to your apartment?�
The elegant diplomat shrugged and reached into his pocket. Apparently there was only one way to liquidate this nuisance and that was to play their childish game with them. �All right,� he said. �Of course. But this is truly foolish...�
The two men rode up in the small elevator without speaking. Kaproski was waiting when they emerged from the tiny cab. With Clancy in the lead and the almost-bored diplomat in the rear, the three men walked quietly down the thickly carpeted hallway.
The entrance to Apartment 6K lay midway along the end passage that intersected the main hallway. Clancy paused, his hand up to stop the others, and surveyed the cross-passage carefully. A single light fixture lit the narrow space; the switch that controlled it was mounted on the stuccoed wall about three feet before the door of 6K. Clancy considered the situation and then nodded. He started to pull the other two with him beyond the projection of the hallway corner, when the faint ringing of a telephone coming from the apartment could be heard.
Se�or Hurtado started forward. �That�s...�
�Shhh!� Clancy gripped his arm, dropping his voice almost to a whisper. The ringing continued a moment and then ceased. Se�or Hurtado shrugged; he hoped the call had not been from his date for that evening. Clancy stared at the other two. �They can probably see a band of light under the door frame. Mr. Hurtado � please stay here, out of the way. Kap, when I put the key in the lock � and not before � I want you to turn off that switch.� He took his revolver from his coat pocket and checked it. Kaproski did the same. Se�or Hurtado�s eyes widened at the sight of the lethal arms. He said nothing.
�Let�s go!� Clancy said in a hoarse whisper, and moved forward with Kaproski at his side.
He stepped to the near side of the apartment door and then slowly lowered himself to the carpeted passageway; for a moment he wondered what would happen if some neighbor came out of his flat at that moment. He put the thought aside and looked backwards over his shoulder; Kaproski was standing with his large hand on the switch. Clancy steadied his gun in his right hand and slowly reached up with his left, the key held firmly in his fingers. And then the telephone inside of the apartment began to ring again.
Clancy froze, waiting. He wanted the sound of the key to be heard inside the apartment. Seconds ticked by, and then the telephone stopped its sound. Clancy looked up at Kaproski and then suddenly nodded. The key slid into the door with a rasp even as the lights in the hallway disappeared. Clancy turned the key and shoved against the door violently.
There was an instant flash from the darkness beyond, followed almost at once by a dull explosion amplified by the confines of the small room. Clancy steadied his hand and fired at the flash. There was a muffled cry, a hideous gasp lost in the sound of the second explosion. Clancy lowered his hand a few inches and fired again. Kaproski ran forward, stepped hurriedly over him and twisted into the room, gun in hand. His fingers found the wall switch and flicked it upwards.
The man seated in the chair had not required the second shot; the first had found his throat and torn through it brutally. He lay spread-eagled back in the low chair, his head thrown back and twisted, as if trying to avoid the horror of death. The hand with the gun dangled at one side of the chair, impersonal and useless, the gun barrel scraping the carpet. At the far side of the room, sitting stunned by this sudden reversal, was the second of the killers. His hands were locked in a death�s grip on the cording of the chair; his eyes were wide with shock, his mouth frozen open in horrified disbelief.
Clancy pulled himself to his feet and followed Kaproski into the room. The thick fumes of cordite gave an acrid tang to the still air of the apartment; Kaproski was already looming over the second man, pulling him brusquely to his feet, locking the handcuffs about the thin wrists. Se�or Hurtado appeared in the doorway, his handsome face ashen as he surveyed the bloody scene. Clancy drew a deep shuddering breath, holstered his gun, and moved to the telephone. He dialed a number, cupping the receiver, and then glanced at the white face in the doorway.
�Better stay in a hotel tonight,� he said, listening to the faint buzzing of the telephone at the other end of the line. �And let us know where you are. We�ll try and find out what this attempt on your life was all about.� The telephone was finally answered; he bent to it, explaining. There was a muffled exchange of conversation. �... and call Captain Wise and tell him he can stop ringing this number,� Clancy finished, and hung up. He looked across at the shaken diplomat. �We�ll have some people here in a few minutes. You should be able to move back in tomorrow.�
Se�or Hurtado looked faint. �They...�
�That�s right,� Clancy said. �They were going to kill you.� He walked over, contemplated the dead body a moment, and then reached down to pull the revolver from the unresisting dangling hand. He looked at it a moment and dropped it into his pocket. A siren sounded weakly in the distance, growing in strength as it approached.
�If you have any brandy around, I�d suggest you take a good stiff drink. You look groggy.�
The diplomat looked at him blankly. �But why...?�
Clancy shook his head. �We don�t know, but we�ll try to find out.� The siren screamed beneath the windows and then was cut off suddenly; it sounded like a croupy child being given the satisfaction of a warm bottle in the middle of the night. Clancy looked at the pale man before him; his voice was calm.
�And let me give you one last piece of advice. The next time somebody offers you a bodyguard, accept it.�
They brought in the dull-eyed, shocked survivor of the assassination attempt and booked him under the name of Richard Roe. The desk sergeant, pausing in his efforts to keep up with the words of his superior, looked up from the charge-book.
�What do we book him on, Lieutenant?�
�Spitting on the sidewalk,� Clancy said. �We�ll let the State Department worry about that tomorrow.�
He walked down the corridor and turned into his office, pulling off his raincoat and shaking it to free it of snow. Captain Wise was sitting there, his heavy face lined with anxiety. Clancy removed the gun from his coat pocket and laid it on top of the filing cabinet. He hung up the coat, placed his hat on the adjoining hook, slipped out of his jacket, and removed his shoulder holster. He laid it on the desk, put his jacket back on, and walked behind his desk, sitting down with a slight shrug of satisfaction. The holster and gun went into the drawer; he leaned back.
Captain Wise had been watching this routine with poorly concealed impatience. He waited until Clancy had settled down, waited a moment more, and then exploded. �That was a great message you left me! I�m sitting here I don�t know what�s going on and they call from downtown and say I can quit telephoning!�
Clancy grinned. �Well, I didn�t want you to waste your whole evening.�
�Very funny!� Captain Wise forced himself to simmer down. �Well? So what happened?�
Clancy�s grin disappeared. �Well,� he said quietly, �one of them was shot. Killed. And the other is in the process of being booked right now.� His eyes flicked to the top of the filing cabinet and then back to the rigid face before him. �That�s Martin�s gun up there. It�s been checked out.� He shrugged. �You�ll get it all in the report.�
�I know I�ll get it in the report. Only I want it now.� Captain Wise stared at Clancy, his expression half-angry, half-puzzled. �How in hell did you ever figure they were gunning for the delegate from Uruguay?�
Clancy stared back evenly. �Well, I went through the entire picture � how they arrived, what they planned to do, when and how they figured on leaving. The only thing I forgot was the question of money. This character that Martin caught yesterday had new bills on him; the kind you get at a bank. Or at an airport money-exchange counter.� He nodded in satisfaction. �I�m glad I finally had enough brains to think about it when I did � because they were really set to blast him the minute he walked through that door.�
Captain Wise frowned. �This is explaining? What are you talking about?�
Clancy reached into his pocket for his wallet; he sorted through the multiplicity of papers there, extracted the slip that had been found with the bills in Silent Sam�s pocket, and stared at it a moment. Then he passed it over. Captain Wise looked at it briefly and then back at Clancy.
�So?�
�So if they got money at the airport,� Clancy explained patiently, ��I mean dollars � then they had to put up some of their own currency. When I finally got around to thinking of that, I simply checked the newspaper for the exchange rate. The Uruguayan peso is 26.20 to the dollar; it�s been going down.� He leaned over the desk, pointing to the row of figures. �11/16/1500/26.20/57.26 � the first two numbers are today�s date, and how I ever came to miss that I�ll never know. And the rest are the arithmetic of the transaction.�
He picked up a pencil and started to scribble on his pad, explaining.
�They put up fifteen hundred of their own money, which are Uruguayan pesos, at an exchange rate of 26.20 to the dollar. For which they received $57.26 in American money. They actually should have received $57.27, but never mind � the exchange always takes the break.� He leaned back, thinking. �Our boy downstairs must have been the boss of the three � they split the dough and he got the lion�s share.�
Captain Wise studied the figures a moment and then looked up. �I see. But what would have happened if they hadn�t bought any dollars at the airport?�
�Then we probably would never have gotten them,� Clancy admitted cheerfully. �If they had bought their dollars in Montevideo, the chances are they would have beat us.� He raised a finger. �But remember this: the money control in foreign countries is a lot tougher than it is here. Here you don�t have to give your name, or show your passport, or even furnish any identification. Most other places you do. They probably figured it was safer the way they did it.� He shrugged. �So they were wrong.�
�And thank God for that!� Captain Wise said reverently. Kaproski came into the room just as the large captain pulled himself to his feet; he stepped back against the wall. A sudden thought came to the captain and he paused.
�You know, Clancy,� he said thoughtfully, �those three killers could have still come from Uruguay, just the way you figured, with the intention of knocking off the Chinese Ambassador, too.�
�Sure,� Clancy agreed. �I thought of that possibility as soon as I saw how cool this Hurtado was. But what can you do? You�ve got to play the percentages.�
�I suppose you�re right,� Captain Wise said, and shook his head. �Personally, I�ll be glad when this whole UN thing is over, and all we have to worry about are our own hoods.�
�Me, too,� Kaproski said fervently from the sidelines. He rubbed his knuckles. �Them guys I can make talk.�
Clancy stared around the room and then began to arrange his folders. �That�s enough for tonight, I guess,� he said vaguely. �I�m bushed. I�m going home.�
�No date?� Captain Wise�s voice indicated more alarm than curiosity.
Clancy�s eyes came up to his a moment in speculation; he nodded slowly. �You know,� he said thoughtfully, �you might have an idea at that...�
He stretched one hand out for the telephone. Captain Wise stood waiting; Kaproski�s eyebrows were raised. Clancy cupped the receiver and looked slowly from one face to the other.
�Oh, pardon me,� Captain Wise said in embarrassment, and walked quickly from the room. Kaproski winked at his superior, and followed. Clancy smiled and spoke quietly into the instrument.
The snow increased in intensity that Wednesday night, although slowly rising temperatures indicated that the storm was wasting its time, that the muffling blanket of soft white would soon be slush, drifting in gutters, or puddles huddling in low places on damp sidewalks. At two o�clock Thursday morning, as if realizing this, the storm left the city, passing on to try its luck against the heaving ocean to the east.
One incident did occur before it passed, however. In New York Harbor a ferry pilot, blinded by the walls of obscuring white and confused by the echoing sounds of foghorns that seemed to come from every corner of the bay, turned sharply to avoid collision with a huge shape that suddenly seemed to loom out of the night before him. There was nothing before him, but his altered course led him directly into the path of an ocean liner carefully edging its way towards the Narrows. The razor-thin bow of the liner cut deep into the ferry, seeking and finding the bowels of the smaller ship. The explosion killed the engineer and seriously injured his one assistant. One of the passengers on deck was missing and presumed to have been flung into the bay and drowned. The other passengers were removed by police cutter and taken to shore.
The body of the missing passenger was recovered the following morning by a tug on its way to an assignment in Jersey under blue skies. He was clutching his hat, as if to be sure it went with him wherever he went.
The turnkey unlocked the cell door and swung it wide.
�Outside, big guy,� he said evenly. �I don�t know how you managed to work it, unless one of your pals was watching when they put the arm on you, but anyways somebody put up the bail money and you been sprung. Come on, let�s go.�
The dark man swaggered by the turnkey triumphantly. He paused a moment to straighten his jacket sleeves, brushed at his coat, and ran a hand through his hair, attempting to restore some order to the black, rumpled locks. He started to walk from the cell when additional losses occurred to him and he looked up.
�Hey. How about my belt? And my necktie and shoelaces?�
�Upstairs at the desk,� the turnkey said, and shook his head in disgust. �As if you don�t know. As if you ain�t been through this routine a dozen times!�
The dark man sneered at him. �I�m still walking out, ain�t I? You guys thought I was nickel-and-dime. I told you monkeys you couldn�t hold me.�
�Oh, I don�t know,� the turnkey said philosophically. �We�ll see you again. All you hard guys seem to come back.�
The man paused to flip a hand in nonchalant farewell toward the other inmates of the cell block, swaggered to the stairs and trotted up them, one hand held to his trousers to prevent them from falling. The turnkey swung the door shut after him and walked slowly back to his chair at the end of the corridor.
Upstairs the dark man turned into the first door on his left. Clancy was sitting back of his desk; Kaproski was tilted back in a chair against the wall, a broad wicked grin upon his face. The dark man stood staring at him a moment in contemplative thought; the knuckles of one huge hand were rubbing against the calloused palm of the other.
�Kaproski,� he said quietly, �I can lick you. Come the next Policemen�s Matches, I want you for my very own.�
Kaproski�s grin widened. �Hi, there, convict. You heard of the Stanislavski method? Well, last night you got a touch of the Kaproski method.�
Clancy interrupted the discussion. �Well?� He sounded a trifle impatient. �How did it go?�
Garcia shrugged. �Pretty good,� he said. �After that second guy got tossed in the can with him. Up to then, nothing.� He rubbed a large hand against the stubble of his beard and then drew a chair up to the desk as if realizing that his night in the cell entitled him to a rest. He fought down a yawn. �Old Silent Sam didn�t let go of a murmur. I tried to get palsy, but he couldn�t have cared less. That act we put on was just so much vaudeville as far as he was concerned.�
�Act?� Kaproski winked.
Clancy tapped the desk with his pencil. �Did you speak to him in English or in Spanish?�
Garcia looked surprised. �In English, like you said, Lieutenant. You told me to talk English and listen in Spanish, and I did. Only until the second guy showed up, I could have been listening in Swahili for all the good it did. He...�
�And after the second guy was put in the cell?�
�Then it got to be interesting.� Garcia grinned and scratched at his beard. �They tried to whisper, but the guy who built them cells didn�t do much for privacy. Old Silent Sam was eating the other guy out in no uncertain manner. One thing, he wasn�t supposed to have been picked up, I guess. And also, from what I heard, he and another guy was supposed to knock off a third guy, and didn�t.�
�No,� Clancy said. �They didn�t. What language did they use?�
�Platense. In Argentina they call it Porteno. It�s the Spanish they use around the Rio Plate.� He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. �It wasn�t hard to understand.�
�And did they say anything about why they were trying to knock this other man off?�
�Old Silent Sam � I guess I ought to call him plain Sam, because he sure wasn�t silent after the other guy got tossed in the clink with him � anyways, he said something about they never had such a good cover; that it would have looked political � and they blew it. That�s what really seemed to upset him. And got one of them killed in the bargain.� He looked up. �Did you know about a guy getting killed, Lieutenant?�
�The lieutenant�s the guy who killed him,� Kaproski said. He sounded rather proud.
�Oh.� Garcia�s eyebrows went up. �Then I guess I ain�t telling you anything new.�
�Yes, you are,� Clancy said. �Was there anything else said?�
�That was about it, Lieutenant. Just about the guy getting killed and how they blew a natural. The last part seemed to burn him even more than the guy getting knocked off.� He looked across the desk curiously. �What�s it all about, Lieutenant?�
Clancy swiveled in his chair, staring out of the window. His fingers twisted his pencil back and forth. �I think it was a pretty good scheme � a private killing for some personal enemy at a time when the UN was in special session. It would really confuse the issue; everyone would think it had to be political. That�s what he meant about never having that good a cover before. They�re undoubtedly professional killers, and if they were still around, this must be the first one they blew.�
�They�re professional, all right,� Garcia said. �And they look and sound like they�ve had experience in jails a lot worse than ours, too.� He reached back to scratch a shoulder. �I can�t imagine where, but they can have them. For my dough, ours are bad enough.�
Clancy swung his chair back to face the desk. �Well, we�ll pass all the information on to the State Department. They can take it from here.� He nodded at the tired-looking man across from him. �Thanks, Garcia. You did a good job. Now you�d better go home and get some rest.�
�Oh, I slept,� Garcia said. �Not much and not well on that slab of concrete they call a bed, but I got some rest. All I need is to wash my face and shave and I�ll be all right. Anyway, I made me an appointment while I was downstairs in the cell.�
�An appointment?�
�Yeah,� Garcia said, and grinned over his shoulder at Kaproski. �I said that until the other guy got tossed in the cell, old Sam kept his lip buttoned, but not that young Warnicki kid on the other side. He jabbered like talking was going to be illegal next week.�
Kaproski�s chair came down with a bang. �Did he say anything about the other two who were with him on those park muggings?�
Garcia nodded; there was a happy glint in his eye. �He sure did. His cousin Cosmo, and a pal of his cousin�s called Banjo something or other. I had to remember; you guys took away my pencil.�
�We didn�t want you to stab yourself,� Kaproski explained gently. He got to his feet, moving forward. �You want me to go out and pick up those two kids, Lieutenant?�
�Hold it!� Garcia raised a hand. �I told you
Clancy nodded in agreement. �All right, Garcia. You pick them up. Maybe we can start clearing some of these things off the blotter.� He turned to Kaproski. �And you hang around, Kap. Stanton�ll be here in a minute and I want to see where we stand on this Willie McFadden deal. If anywhere.�
Kaproski moved back to his chair and settled into it unhappily. �Well, okay, Lieutenant, but I started on this mugging affair.�
Garcia grinned at him. �Police work is a team effort, Kaproski,� he said; his tone attempted to sound instructive. �Page one in the manual. Any time you want to get on the team, I�ll be happy to wrestle you down to the pokey and slap
�Just you remember them Policemen�s Matches,� Kaproski said direly. �You promised.�
�I engraved them on my memory last night,� Garcia said happily. �I had to because you took my pencil away for fear I�d stab myself.� He winked at Kaproski, smiled at Clancy, and walked swaggeringly from the room, pulling up on his trousers. His place was taken immediately by Stanton who came in looking backwards over his shoulder. He shrugged and came further into the room.
�Who slugged Garcia?�
�I did,� Kaproski said sourly. �Only not hard enough.�
Clancy had had enough of light talk for the moment. He motioned Stanton to a chair. �Let�s get some work done. Let�s see where we stand on this McFadden deal.�
Stanton seated himself and pulled out his notebook. He stared at it a moment and then slipped it back into his pocket. �Well, for my dough it was still a tramp. I went through the neighbors forwards and backwards, but it was just a big waste of time. They didn�t see a thing. Not Henry, or his old lady, or even the milkman.� He shrugged helplessly. �So having no place else to go, I�m back with my tramp.�
�Using what to kill him?� Clancy asked. �Our old friend the crowbar?�
�I know I started that crowbar stuff,� Stanton said, �but when you think about it, it doesn�t make sense. He didn�t leave it there, and I can�t picture a guy walking off after killing a man holding a crowbar in his hand.� He shrugged. �Maybe his fingers, all bunched up like in judo.� He paused and then warmed to his suddenly acquired theory. �Hey, you know, Lieutenant, that�s possible. And he could have smashed the old man�s nose with the side of his hand...�
�So now we look for a tramp with a background in karate,� Clancy said sourly. �With a blood-stained hand, if he hasn�t washed it. Or rather, with a blood-stained glove, since they didn�t find any fingerprints. Who took the old man�s coin collection but didn�t like the stamps.� He shook his head stubbornly. �I don�t like it. I still have the feeling that if we knew what the weapon was, we�d be a lot closer to the right track. You just said something that makes sense � the guy walked out with the weapon. So why didn�t somebody see him?�
Kaproski spoke from his chair. �For my money Henry and his cane still look good,� he said. �Although to tell you the truth I haven�t been able to pin a thing on him. If he had a yen for dames or horses, he sure covered his tracks good. He and his old lady don�t have any dough and they don�t spend any. Still, maybe they just got tired of always being broke when they knew Willie was loaded...�
�A little proof would help,� Clancy said.
�Here�s an idea,� Stanton suggested. �Maybe if Doc Freeman took another look at him, at that bruise on his chest, maybe he could come up with something else.�
�After the autopsy, all there must have been on Willie�s chest was some fancy hemstitching,� Kaproski said. �Anyway, he�s being buried this morning. His sister cleared him out of the morgue last night and got him to the undertakers. By now he�s probably as pretty as a picture, not to mention halfway to the cemetery.�
Clancy drummed on the desk with tense fingers. �Damn!� He shook his head, trying to find something good to say. He found it, but it didn�t satisfy him. �Sure we�ve solved the problem of Silent Sam, and Garcia will pick up those two muggers. And we found that orderly who walked out of Uptown Hospital with a pocketful of dreams. But we still have so damn much to do...!�
There was silence in the small room. Kaproski and Stanton looked at each other but neither had a suggestion to make. In the quiet that fell the sudden strident ringing of the telephone almost made them jump. Clancy reached over and picked it up.
�Yes?�
�Clancy? This is Doc Freeman.�
�Hello, Doc. What�s on your mind?�
�Clancy,� Doc Freeman said with heartfelt congratulations in his voice, �I don�t know if you�re smart or just plain lucky. Or if God kissed you because you knew what a
�On what?�
�You mean you don�t even remember? On that jumper � Caper Connelly.�
Clancy came to life, his fingers instantly reaching for his pad and pencil. He leaned over the desk intently, his fingers gripping the receiver tightly. �What did you find, Doc?�
�Twenty-two short. It went in the back and lodged against bone.� Doc Freeman�s voice was respectful. �I�ll do a complete autopsy if you want, Clancy, but I don�t think there�s any doubt as to what happened. Somebody shot him and the force of the bullet threw him from the platform into the path of the train.�
�We won�t need an autopsy,� Clancy said with satisfaction. �Thanks, Doc. That�s just what I needed. None of it made sense if he had jumped. Thanks again.� He hung up, swinging around to face the two men. �Forget Willie McFadden, anyway for the moment. Maybe we can get somewhere on this Caper Connelly thing.� His eyes swung between the two men. �Where did Connelly live?�
�We ought to have it at the desk up front,� Kaproski said. �We sure drug him in here and booked him often enough. I�ll go see.� He let the chair ease to the floor, stood up, and went out toward the desk. Clancy waited impatiently, frowning unseeingly at the folders on his desk, reviewing the facts in the case one by one. Stanton sat quietly, watching his superior. A moment later Kaproski returned, nodding his head in satisfaction at the slip of paper in his hand.
�Here it is,� he said, consulting the slip. �1015 Central Park West. Apartment 2206.�
Stanton�s eyebrows raised. �That address sure isn�t out of the high-rent district. That�s a pretty snazzy pad for a hackie.�
�I don�t know about that,� Kaproski said thoughtfully. �Hackies do all right for themselves nowadays. I catch one up to my sister�s in the Bronx a couple of weeks ago, and the meter runs up over four and a half bucks by the time I get there.�
Clancy came out of his reverie.
�Yeah,� he said, getting to his feet. He reached for his hat and coat. �Let�s go over and see how the other half lives.� He paused in the action of putting on his coat to review his words, and then amended them. �Or rather, how the other half used to live...�
Kaproski and Stanton stepped to one side in the dim shadows of the apartment hallway while Clancy fumbled at the lock. The third key on his master ring finally fit; he swung the door wide, allowing passage to the other two, followed them in and closed the door behind him. The drapes were drawn, leaving the room in musty gloom; Clancy reached back of him to the wall, found the switch and turned on the lights. The three men stared about them.
The room was expensively furnished with low couches that managed to look both modern and comfortable at the same time. Bookshelves of highly polished wood were bracketed to the walls with brass stanchions, and were well filled and neatly arranged. A long low hi-fi set filled the space along one wall beneath an impressionist painting depicting a Parisian scene. Rich burgundy-colored carpeting stretched from wall to wall, thick and luxurious to their feet.
Stanton surpressed a whistle. �Not bad for a hackie.�
�Or even a call-girl,� Kaproski said.
�Yeah,� Clancy said. �Well, let�s get to work. Let�s take the place apart.�
�What are we looking for, Lieutenant?�
�Pictures,� Clancy said. �Photographs. Of people. Kap, you and Stanton take the rest of the house. I�ll take this room.�
�Right.� The two men disappeared down the hallway; Clancy turned first to the cantilevered bookshelves. The lower shelf of one was a bit wider than the others, furnishing an area that could serve as a writing surface; thin slots in the back held sheafs of correspondence. Clancy pulled the first batch free and began to leaf through them, looking for photographic prints. Stanton�s voice came from the rear of the apartment, urgent.
�Lieutenant!�
Clancy dropped the correspondence and hurried down the hallway; Stanton was leaning out of the kitchen door, beckoning. Kaproski came out of the bedroom as Clancy followed Stanton back into the kitchen; Stanton was pointing to the door. A huge splinter scarred the wood in the area of the lock; the molding had been pried loose from the outside, twisted savagely in an attempt to force entrance. But above the lock the chain-guard was still intact.
�Somebody tried to break in here,� Stanton said. �He didn�t make it.�
Clancy nodded, frowning at the damaged door, thinking. His head came up. �Stan, see if there�s any powder of any sort around, something we can use to check for fingerprints. There�s no sense in dragging the technical boys up here from downtown for nothing...�
�There�s some talcum powder on his dresser, Lieutenant,� Kaproski offered. �I�ll go get it.�
Clancy unhooked the chain-guard and let it dangle; his hand turned the doorknob, swinging the door inward. A porch screen door beyond testified to the anxiety of the potential intruder; it had been jerked loose from its cheap latch and swung away as Clancy opened the kitchen door.
�They must be a bunch of deaf people around here,� Stanton commented, looking at the damage. �Whoever did this must have made a racket you should of been able to hear over in Hoboken.�
�Yeah.� Clancy studied the scarred surface of the kitchen door; deep gouges in the wooden panel above and below the lock indicated the amateurishness of the attempt at housebreaking. Kaproski extended a can of talcum over his shoulder; Clancy accepted it without comment and squatted down. He deftly sprinkled the powder over the outside surface of the knob and puffed gently. The powder drifted, sliding away except in one spot; Clancy bent closer, examining it carefully, and then straightened up. He shook his head.
�No dice. It�s a smudge, probably from some grease on his gloves.� He walked out to the rear areaway and repeated his experiment on the handle of the broken screen door; the results were no better. He came back into the kitchen, the talcum still held in one hand, studied the marred wood some more, and then closed the door and slipped the chain-guard back into place. �Let�s take a look at the front. It was too dark to notice anything when we first came in.�
�Plus we didn�t look,� Kaproski added.
The front door exhibited a series of deep scratches in the neighborhood of the lock, but there was no indication that entry had been accomplished. Clancy looked at the knob, remembered his having turned it, and shook his head at his own stupidity.
�Well,� he said, closing the door behind him, �whoever it was didn�t get in, so let�s get back to work.�
The men separated again; Clancy returned to the letters in the bookshelves, opening them and reading them. Most of them were personal and had no bearing on photography or on anything else in which Clancy was interested. The balance were ads of no particular bearing on the case. Kaproski came in while Clancy was reaching for another bunch; he was carrying a small camera.
�Hey, Lieutenant,� he said. �I found this in his top dresser drawer. I never seen one like it. Looks like it�s all lens.�
�Foreign,� Clancy said, taking it and examining it with interest. �Japanese.� He turned it over; the back swung free, disclosing an empty film spool. He clicked the panel back into place and turned the camera over. His eyes narrowed as he studied the dimensions. �It�s just about the right size, though...�
�For what, Lieutenant?�
�To fit a taxicab,� Clancy said cryptically. He was slipping the camera into his pocket when Stanton called.
�Hey, Lieutenant. The bathroom�s locked.�
Clancy came swiftly. �Anyone inside?�
�I don�t think so. Looks like the light�s out.�
Clancy rapped on the door authoritatively. �This is the police,� he said clearly. �If there�s anyone in there, open the door and come out. And don�t get cute!�
There was silence. Clancy slipped a key from his pocket into the lock and swung the door back. The room was empty. He turned on the light and looked around.
A wooden shelf covered the bathtub along one wall; on it stood a photo-enlarger, several development tanks, and a series of empty molded rubber development trays. Over the tub, slung from the shower-curtain rod, was a cord with a dozen or so of empty clips.
�Hey, I know what that stuff is,� Kaproski said, indicating the equipment. �That�s for making pictures. They call it a darkroom.�
�Yeah,� Clancy said absently. He looked up. �Kap, you go back to searching the bedroom. Stan, you take the living room and those letters I was going through. I�ll take this.�
The two men left. Clancy began with the medicine chest; the shelves were lined with bottles, some of them toiletries, but others marked as containing developers and fixers. There was only one small box that might hold negatives or prints and Clancy opened it; he poured the powder it held into the sink and peered inside. It was empty. He shut the medicine chest and gave his attention to the toilet. He lifted the seat and then put it down, removed the cover of the flush-box and stared within, turned the cover over for inspection, and then replaced it. He lifted the enlarger and pans away from the tub, setting them on the floor, and removed the boards that served as their support; the tub beneath was empty.
The clothes hamper came next. He turned it upside down, dumping the contents on the floor, and set the empty hamper back on its feet. The dirty shirts, socks, and underwear were examined piece by piece and then laid aside. Nothing.
Clancy squatted on his heels beside the hamper, frowning blankly at the bamboo lattice-work. It suddenly seemed to him to be taller from the outside than from the inside; he got to his feet, lifted the hinged top back, and reached inside. The wicker floor resisted his straining fingers for a moment and then sprang loose. Beneath it, lying on the plain plywood floor of the hamper, was a package of photographs with a negative fastened to it with a paper clip. Clancy nodded to himself with profound satisfaction and withdrew the package from its cavity.
There were six positives, all the same; he held the negative to the light and nodded his head. It was undoubtedly the source of the six prints. He walked to the doorway, sticking his head out.
�Kap! Stan!�
The two men hurried in, noticing the pile of dirty clothing on the floor with raised eyebrows. Clancy leaned back against the sink, holding up the package of pictures.
�I think these are probably what we were looking for,� he said. He sounded a bit pleased with himself. �On the other hand, I could be wrong. Kap, I want you to stick around and keep shaking the place down. I want to see every photograph and every negative in the place.� He turned to Stanton. �You come back with me, Stan. One man�s enough for this job now.�
�Hey, Lieutenant,� Kaproski said, holding out his hand. �Let�s see the pictures.�
Clancy passed them over. Stanton moved back of Kaproski, examining them over his shoulder. Kaproski fanned them out, discovered they were all the same, and shoved them together again, concentrating on the top one. He whistled. �Why, the dirty old goat! What kind of a thing is that to be doing to an innocent young girl?�
Clancy reached over, retrieving the package. �I doubt if she was all that innocent,� he said dryly. �Anyway, that�s the least of his crimes. If I�m not mistaken, he�s the one who shot Caper Connelly. And with good reason, for my money.� He slipped the package into his pocket. �O.K., Kap; do a good job.�
�Sure, Lieutenant. How about lunch?�
Clancy glanced at his wristwatch. �All right, but make it fast.� He reached into his pocket and brought out his ring of master keys, handing them over.
Kaproski followed them to the door. �And Lieutenant, you want any kind of pictures, or just the kind like you found?�
�Bring them all,� Clancy said. �So far all we�ve got is a theory, but I think it�s a pretty good one. I�ll bet a week�s pay this is our man, but bring them all anyway.�
�Yeah,� Stanton said, and grinned. �Any like that one we don�t use, we can always sell.�
Clancy picked up the ringing phone to hear a muffled voice on the line. He bent forward, straining to hear, pressing the receiver tighter against his ear. �What?�
�I said, this is Kaproski, Lieutenant.� The voice was low and almost unintelligible.
�Well, speak up!� Clancy barked.
�I can�t, Lieutenant. I�m calling from the phone in the bedroom � with my head practically under the covers.� Kaproski hastened to explain before Clancy got the idea he had been investigating Caper Connelly�s liquor supply. �They�s somebody at the front door, Lieutenant. Scratching around at the lock...�
�Hold it!� Clancy cupped the receiver with the palm of his hand and raised his voice. �Stan!� Stanton stuck his head in the doorway; Clancy spoke rapidly. �Stan, tell the desk to get hold of the patrol car nearest to Caper Connelly�s apartment and get them over there right away. One man is to stay in the lobby downstairs and the other is to get up to the apartment in a hurry. Somebody�s back trying to break in again.� He hesitated for a fraction of a second. �And give them the description of that old guy in that picture. In case any tenant is leaving the building; we want to be sure and get the right man.�
Stanton nodded and disappeared on the run. Clancy uncupped the receiver. �Kap, I�m sending a squad car over there right away. They�ll cover the lobby and get a man up to the floor; they should be there in a few minutes. You just stay back and keep quiet. Don�t make any noise; I don�t want to scare him away. Do you understand?�
�I got you, Lieutenant.�
�And just on the offhand chance that he manages to make it inside, don�t take any chances with him. He could be armed with a twenty-two, probably with a silencer.�
Despite the need for quiet, Kaproski could not help but snort. �My God, Lieutenant! You couldn�t hit the broadside of a barn with a silenced twenty-two...�
�Tell that to Caper Connelly,� Clancy said coldly. �You just follow orders and don�t take any chances, hear?�
�O.K., Lieutenant.�
�It�s probably the old guy in those pictures we found,� Clancy said. �I feel sorry for the poor schnook; see to it he isn�t hurt if you can.� His voice tightened. �But see to it you don�t take any chances, either!�
�Right, Lieutenant. I better get back to the front room...�
There was a click of a telephone being disconnected. Clancy replaced the receiver and leaned back, staring at the silent instrument with a frown. Time never went as slowly as at a moment such as this, when he knew decisive action was being taken somewhere else, and he was playing no personal part in it. And when men under his command were accepting the danger of their assignments without complaint while he had to sit and wait to hear the results. He took a deep breath and tried to bring his thoughts back to the pile of work on his desk, but it was useless.
He reached two fingers into his pocket, bringing out a cigarette, lighting it with nervous fingers. And then swiveled his chair about, drawing in the welcome smoke shudderingly, staring out of the streaked window at the snow-filled areaway beyond...
At three-thirty that afternoon at Kennedy International Airport a 707 pilot, attempting to abort a take-off, struck a melting patch of ice near the end of the runway. The huge metal monster, screaming mightily, veered from the concrete out of control, tore down a section of fence, and plowed madly along on the fuselage and one wing for a hundred more yards before coming to a shuddering halt locked in the mud that bordered the field. By some miracle the fuel tanks did not explode and no one was hurt in the accident.
But when the emergency chutes were rigged and the stewardesses started to get the dazed passengers to their feet and to the exits, one passenger remained who was impervious to the repeated instructions. He had died of a heart seizure undoubtedly caused by the fearful contemplation of the impending disaster.
When his body was finally removed, it was found that he had bitten his tongue in two.
They brought the chattering little man into the precinct handcuffed to Kaproski. The sergeant booked him on suspicion of murder and he was led away, still talking twelve to the dozen. Kaproski walked into Clancy�s office.
�Any trouble?� Clancy asked.
�Naw,� Kaproski said disdainfully. �He�s strictly an amateur. He fumbled with the door so long he started to make me nervous. I was about to go over and open it for him when one of the boys from the squad car come upstairs and collared him in the hallway.�
Stanton came into the room, grinning at Kaproski. He walked over and pretended to inspect him carefully. �No bullet holes?�
�That�s right,� Clancy said. �Did he have the twenty-two on him?�
�No,� Kaproski said, �but we don�t need it. And if we do, he says he has it home. He spilled everything in the squad car coming back, and they�re taking it all down inside right now.�
�What did he say?�
�Well,� Kaproski said, �he didn�t say too much about how come he got his picture took in the first place, but he don�t deny he knocked off Caper. He�s sort of proud of it, actually. That was him on the subway platform, all right. He says he set up a meet with Caper there � told Caper he was coming uptown on a local at that time for the pay-off. He picked a stop at a place and a time when there wouldn�t be many people around. Only he was hanging around in the street, waiting, and when Caper showed, he followed him down into the subway and stood back with a newspaper in front of his face.� Kaproski shrugged. �Anyways, by the time he gets through jabbering, we�ll have the whole story. He�s gabbing away a mile a minute, having the fun of his life.�
Clancy frowned a bit unhappily. �I hope he doesn�t gab himself right into the electric chair. I feel sorry for him, but that story about the pay-off... He may have set up the meet the way he said � and the subway isn�t a bad place for a meet � but one thing is certain: it wasn�t for the pay-off. Or at least Caper Connelly didn�t think so.�
Stanton stared at him. �Why not?�
�Because his pictures were still at Caper�s apartment,� Clancy explained calmly. �As a matter of fact, that�s why I was so positive he was the killer.�
�I don�t get you,� Kaproski said, puzzled.
�I don�t get the whole thing,� Stanton said, half-disgusted. �I still don�t know why you weren�t satisfied with the suicide thing in the first place, Lieutenant.�
�Look,� Clancy said patiently. �We all knew Caper Connelly � he was strictly no good. That cab of his was always a front for one chisel or another. Suddenly Caper gets hold of a brilliant idea � an idea he can work himself without needing any of the other boys in the rackets. He probably gets it one night when he picks up a fare he recognizes as having money and also a wife, who starts to use the back seat of his cab for a wrestling match. Bingo � a little bulb lights up in his head. He rigs his cab to take pictures without his passengers knowing about it. His idea is to blackmail those that can stand the price. And he puts up a glass partition, even, to make them feel more alone and less inhibited.� Clancy shook his head in pretended admiration. �Madison Avenue could have used a guy like that.�
�And?� Kaproski asked.
�And to his amazement the thing worked,� Clancy said. �He finds he�s stumbled into a gold mine.�
�So?� Stanton asked.
�So we get to the point of this lecture,� Clancy said evenly. �At that stage of the game, with everything going right, a man doesn�t jump off of a subway platform. Not a man like Caper Connelly, at any rate.� He raised a finger. �But, on the other hand, at that stage of the game it�s always possible that somebody feels strongly enough about being blackmailed to try and knock off the blackmailer.� He nodded his head. �And that, my friends, is just what happened.�
�I still don�t see how you were so sure it was this selfsame guy, Lieutenant,� Kaproski said. �According to the way you put it, Caper done the same thing to lots of people.�
�Sure he did,� Clancy said patiently. �And they paid off and Caper delivered the goods. He handed over the negative and the prints. All of them. He was an old hand. It�s only in the late-late movies that the bad guys keep bleeding the sucker with the same bait. In real life, blackmail would disappear in a hurry if anyone tried it.� He shrugged expressively. �The very fact that this character�s pictures were still there seemed to indicate that maybe he hadn�t paid off as yet.�
Stanton still didn�t seem satisfied. �And from all this you figured that Caper was shot?�
�Well,� Clancy said with a touch of sarcasm, �of course he could have had a heart attack and fallen in front of that subway train � assuming we could figure out why a hackie would be in the subway in the first place � but there are a couple of things against that theory. One, there are two reliable witnesses who say he didn�t fall; and two, I can get a dozen people to swear Caper didn�t have a heart.�
The banter left his voice. �Actually, it wasn�t a bad way for the old guy to handle it. With even a little bit of luck he might have gotten away with it. I�ll bet they haven�t done a P.M. on a subway jumper in twenty years. If then.� He frowned and shook his head in a worried manner. �I just hope the old guy doesn�t talk too much and talk himself into real trouble. Personally, I think he rates a medal.�
Kaproski grinned. �From the Fifty-second Precinct, at least,� he said. �I�m going to feel lost not having to go out every other month and put the arm on old Caper...�
�What the old man should have done was arrange to knock Caper off in traffic,� Stanton said. �That would have made more sense. All you�d have looked for then, Lieutenant, would have been a bouquet of flowers to send to his funeral.�
�They all get cute,� Clancy said, and added fervently, �Thank God!�
Garcia stuck his head in the doorway, saw the conclave, hesitated a moment, and then joined it. His presence crowded the small room to capacity, and a little bit more. Clancy noted the red-rimmed eyes and weary face. Garcia fought down a yawn, rubbing his face. �I�m on my way home for some shut-eye, Lieutenant.�
�Did you pick up those two boys?�
�Yes, sir.� Garcia nodded. �They�re downstairs with their pal. I see you�ve got a whole new bunch of fresh customers down there. Busy day?�
�So-so,� Kaproski said. His tone indicated his continuing irritation that he had not been allowed to finish the business of the park muggings. �Did the nasty boys give you any trouble?�
Garcia grinned at him. �None that I couldn�t handle. But I�m afraid I lost what might have developed into a great friendship � young Warnicki thinks I�m a rat-fink.�
Kaproski eyed him coldly. �And you think you�re not?�
Garcia�s grin widened. �I�ll tell you all about it at the Policemen�s Matches,� he said. He raised a hand in good-by and walked out of the room. Clancy turned to the others.
�Well,� he said quietly, �let�s get back to work. Let�s kick this Willie McFadden thing around again.� His eyes came up, almost brooding; his fingers picked up a pencil, twiddling it. �What do we do? Forget the thing? File it in the dead letter office?�
Kaproski dragged a chair over to the wall, sat down, and tilted it backwards into his favorite position for thinking. Stanton pulled the other chair around and sat down on it, folding his arms over the back. There was complete silence.
�Well?� Clancy�s voice was beginning to tinge with irritation. �Say something. Anything.�
Kaproski started to scratch his nose, saw the lieutenant�s eye on him and hastily desisted, as if the action might have been construed as comment. Clancy swung his head toward Stanton. The hatchet-faced detective shrugged helplessly.
�You tell us, Lieutenant. I don�t see what else we can do we haven�t done. No prints, no weapon, no witnesses, a million things in the house but not a one of any use to us...�
�Maybe we ought to put a tail on Henry, day and night,� Kaproski suggested, more for lack of anything else to say than for any other reason. �He still makes more sense than anyone else. Hell, there ain�t anybody else. If Henry�s got a girl friend, or if he�s sneaking off to a floating crap game, eventually we�d catch him at it.�
�And just what good would that do?� Clancy asked sourly. �Guys a lot broker than Henry have girl friends. And also gamble. And pretty soon he�ll be able to indulge himself, anyway.� He shook his head and then flipped his pencil away in irritation. �You can�t hang a man on a hunch; proof is what we need...�
Quiet fell again in the small room. A short dark figure passed silently in the hallway outside; it caught a corner of Clancy�s vision, bringing with it a memory. He turned to Kaproski, nodding his head slightly in the direction of the door.
�Which reminds me. How�s the Martinez kid doing?�
Kaproski�s eyebrows went up at the change of subject, but he was not averse to it. �I ain�t seen him today,� he said, �but I checked him out last night. In fact, I even took him home.� His blue eyes crinkled at the corners; he looked pleased. �He ain�t doing bad; he catches on fast. Personally, I think he�s even beginning to like it. And the boys haven�t been rough on him. He ain�t so hard-mouth like he was at first.�
Stanton made no attempt to repress a disgusted snort; Clancy paid him no attention.
�How much is in the kitty?�
Kaproski had to straighten his chair to reach his wallet. He pulled out a piece of paper, replaced the wallet, and then consulted the paper even as he tilted the chair backwards again. �As of late last night, we had a little better than fourteen bucks, which ain�t too bad for only two days. Of course, there�s still the outfit to pay for � that was three-forty, you got the receipt, Lieutenant � plus the fifty-five cents for Tuesday and another sixty-five from yesterday.� He looked up. �He said he was going to bring some sandwiches today.�
�Good,� Clancy said. As if in answer to the conversation, the young head poked itself in at the doorway, and encouraged by the silence came further in. He was carrying a new shoe-shine box.
�Lieutenant,� he said softly. �Can I get you now?�
�What? Oh, sure,� Clancy said. He swiveled his chair, pulled up one trouser leg, and slid one foot on top of the new box. He looked down at it. �That�s a pretty nice new outfit you�ve got for yourself there. Where did you get it?�
The boy grinned; it lit up his whole face. It was evident that he was proud of the box. �I made it in woodworking class.�
�Not bad,� Clancy said. �Getting to like shining shoes, eh?�
The grin disappeared as if wiped away by a brutal hand.
�I like making money,� the boy said sullenly, almost harshly. �My own money.� He got to his knees, withdrawing rags and polish from a small drawer in the box. Clancy opened his mouth to say something and then closed it abruptly. He looked up to find both Kaproski and Stanton watching him.
�Well, all right,� he said half-angrily. �Let�s get on with it. Where were we?�
Kaproski cleared his throat. �We weren�t any place, Lieutenant,� he said. �We were stuck.�
�Damn it,� Stanton said, frowning. �It could have been anyone in the city of New York. Hell, as far as that goes it could even have been his sister. Henry�s not the only one in that family that gains.�
�Hitting him with what?� Clancy asked sarcastically. �Her purse? Her shoe? Or that rattletrap fur she was wearing?� There was a prod at his foot; he automatically switched shoes on the shoe-shine box, swiveling his chair to accommodate the movement. �Or did she bend over and butt him in the chest with her frizzled hair? Or borrow Henry�s cane while he was sleeping?�
Stanton stared at him curiously over the back of his chair. �You�re really hipped on the question of what weapon was used in the killing, aren�t you, Lieutenant?�
�Yes,� Clancy said. �I am.�
�Why?�
Clancy suddenly paused. �I really don�t know,� he said at last, slowly, honestly. �It�s just something that itches at me; something that sticks in my mind that I can�t get rid of. A feeling. A hunch.�
He felt a professional tap on his shoe, lifted his foot free, and glanced down, admiring the gleam. �That�s a mighty good job, son,� he said, trying to put into his tone an apology for his previous ill-thought statement. He reached into his pocket, fumbled some change loose, extracted a coin and handed it to the boy.
The young face fell. �Aw, shucks, Lieutenant,� the boy said. �Not twice!� He sounded more sorrowful than angry. �I�ll never get off the hook that way...�
Clancy looked down in surprise to see what the complaint was. He saw that he had inadvertently handed the boy the Brazilian cruzeiro found in Willie McFadden�s vest. With a smile he started to take the coin back when his hand suddenly stiffened.
�Not twice?� he said slowly. �What do you mean, not twice?� He looked down at the pouting brown face steadily. �What do you mean, not twice? Who slipped you the other one?�
The boy froze. There was a moment of hushed silence; then both Stanton and Kaproski saw the light. Kaproski�s chair came down with a thud; Stanton came to his feet swiftly.
�Who gave you the other one, kid?� Kaproski asked softly.
The boy sat there, biting his lip. �I can take it,� he mumbled.
Stanton exploded. �Damn it! Who gave it to you, you little punk?�
The boy cowered back under the assault, his eyes fixed on the floor. �I ain�t squawking... I can take it...�
Stanton reached over, taking the small figure by the shoulder and shaking it violently. �What kind of an answer is that?� he roared. His voice mimicked the boy�s savagely. ��I can take it! I can take it!�� The mimicry disappeared, replaced by a blast. �What kind of a damned fool stupid answer is that?�
Kaproski brushed Stanton�s clenched hand from the boy�s hunched shoulder. �Let me do it, Stan,� he said. He leaned over quietly. �Look, son � nobody�s trying to pin anything on you. It actually hasn�t anything to do with you. We just want to know one thing � who gave you a coin like this one? It�s very important, son.�
The boy looked up, probing Kaproski�s steady eyes, hesitating. �One of the cops,� he finally said. His eyes dropped back to the floor again. �I figured he was trying to give me the needle, so I kept my mouth shut.� His face hardened; his voice became defiant. �I don�t care; I ain�t squawking. I can take it.�
�Which one of the cops?� Kaproski asked, still in the same quiet voice.
�I don�t know his name,� the boy said sullenly. �A big one. With freckles, and red hair.�
There was a moment�s silence as the three men looked at one another.
�Timmons!� Clancy said in a harsh voice, smashing his fist violently down on his desk. His eyes were alive, but there was an icy anger in their depths that was frightening. �It wasn�t a cane or a crowbar or anything else � it was a patrolman�s night-stick! And of course he walked out of the house with the weapon in his hand, and of course nobody thought a thing about it!� He swung around to Stanton, his voice tight. �Where is he now?�
�He ought to be on his beat,� Stanton said. �I can check on the duty roster.� He went through the door quickly. Kaproski moved in the direction of the door as well.
�You want me to check his locker, Lieutenant?�
�Hold it,� Clancy said. �Let�s wait for Stanton.�
Stanton came back into the room. �He�s due in at seven, Lieutenant.�
Clancy looked at his wristwatch. �Good! That�ll give you two time to check his locker and his house, too.� He turned to the boy. �And you stay right here, son. You may be a valuable witness.�
He swiveled his chair back to the waiting men. �All right, get going. And be back here by seven.� His voice hardened almost to a rasp. �We wouldn�t want Mr. Timmons to come back after a hard day�s work robbing the citizens of New York without having a proper reception committee to meet him!�
They took the big patrolman�s night-stick and service revolver away from him and walked him quickly down the hall to the interrogation room. At a gesture from the lieutenant, young Martinez slipped into the room behind them, going quietly to a corner, trying to obscure his small figure against the drab walls. Timmons� big red face was completely expressionless; his small blue eyes watchful.
They seated him with his broad back to the plain scarred table, and closed the door. Kaproski and Stanton took positions facing each other as well as the motionless prisoner; Clancy stood back and away, where he could watch all three. The small barred window, facing the blackness of the deserted alley beyond, attempted to reproduce faithfully the dire scene as a mirror, but it did it only waveringly. Its surface was wet, as if with tears.
Stanton took a deep breath and began.
�He had the coins in an old suitcase on a shelf in his bedroom,� he said, his voice low and almost conversational. He spoke as if Timmons were not in the room at all. �And over a thousand bucks, some of them that old-fashioned big bill size we found when we went through that place on the Drive.� His eyes swept over the uniformed figure contemptuously, as if it were a poorly designed bit of furniture, scarcely warranting attention. �He must have thought he had the works before he rang in to report it. Or maybe something came up that pressed him for time. I imagine he�ll tell us.� He shrugged. �And I guess he didn�t clean out his pockets so good, if he left that coin in with his other loose change.�
Kaproski took up the recital.
�We found a stamp collection, too,� he added. His voice was almost mechanical, a computer reciting numbers. �A regular one, in them big books, each stamp separated in little cellophane envelopes. I guess he took one look at them stamps of Willie�s in the cigar boxes and he didn�t bother with them no more because he knew they weren�t worth nothing.� His cold eyes flickered over the quiet figure as if it weren�t there. �I guess he don�t know as much about coins as he does about stamps.�
He finished and stood waiting. Clancy looked at the silent, uniformed figure. �Well, Timmons?�
Timmons looked at each man in turn, slowly, carefully. He wet his lips. �The old man was nuts,� he said at last, thinking before each word. �He came at me like a maniac for no reason at all. I simply walked in his front door to tell him it was open, and he went crazy. Sure, I had to cool him. It was self-defense.�
�Sure,� Clancy said. �And, of course, once he was dead you took his dough so the rich old man wouldn�t have any trouble getting into heaven. Very commendable.�
�So I took the dough,� Timmons said, and shrugged. �If it makes you any happier, I admit it. So what�s that? So I get kicked off the force and maybe pick up six months on top. Or a year, most. You think being a cop is such a pleasure?�
�One thing I�d like cleared up,� Clancy said. He seemed to have traded both his anger and his sarcasm for honest curiosity. �How did he come at you? Did he have a weapon?�
Timmons hesitated, trying to remember what the others had found.
�No,� he said slowly, �but he had his hands, and you know how strong crazy people can get. You should have seen him. He started for me without any warning whatsoever and I put my club up in front of me for protection, and he ran right into it, smashing his nose.� His voice took on a bit of emotion, reliving the scene he was describing. �And then from the pain, or when he seen the blood, he really went nuts! He plowed at me like a crazy guy, so I poked him in the stomach to cool him.� He shrugged, leaning back, his deep voice dramatic in the quiet of the room. �He folded over, and when I looked he was dead.�
There was a moment�s shocked silence in the room. Clancy sighed with a bitterness that was personal.
�God, I hate a crooked cop!� he muttered. He took two steps forward and bent down to stare at Timmons, the dark hatred of his eyes almost making the larger man quail. �Timmons, the day you burn will be a personal pleasure for me!�
�Burn?� Timmons tried to sound scornful.
�Burn!� Clancy said in a tight voice. �Yeah, I said burn!� He held the other man with his fierce expression, enumerating his points on his fingers. �One; there�s no jury in the world is going to believe that a cop weighing over two hundred pounds needs to use his night-stick to cool down a sick, old man. Two; he didn�t run into your night-stick; you poked him in the stomach first, knocking him out. And then � and this is what�s going to burn you � when he was helpless, dying on the floor, you smashed him across the face with your club!�
�Who, me?�
�You,� Clancy said with icy fury. �You! If you had poked him in the face first, the way you say it, there would have been blood on your night-stick, and some trace of it would have come off when you jabbed him in the stomach. It would have marked his sweater �
�I...� Timmons closed his mouth. His freckles were dark against the pallor of his skin.
Clancy stepped back. �Take him away,� he said tonelessly. �Take him out of my sight...�
Stanton dragged the shocked man to his feet. �You know, Timmons,� he said conversationally, �you�re stupid. Real stupid. If you hadn�t tried to build up a big scenario with that self-defense crap, if you had just kept your big mouth shut, it might have held us up for a while. Not long, but for a while.� He pulled the unresisting arm to the door and through it, his big fingers clamped down tightly.
The boy had stood in the corner of the room all through the interview, taking it in wide-eyed. He came forward softly, now, and cleared his throat self-consciously. �Lieutenant...�
�Yeah? What?� Clancy swung around, looking him over as if seeing him for the first time.
�Is he � did he kill that old man?�
�Yes, he killed him,� Clancy said savagely.
The kid said softly, �I�m sorry I stole that dough from my grandfather.�
Clancy looked at him, finally seeing him. He suddenly seemed to realize the connection. �You earned it back, kid. You worked for it, and you earned it back.� He walked over and sat down in a chair, looking at the wide-eyed watchful face before him, trying to erase the last interview from his mind. �And you�re in for a reward, kid. That�s right, a reward. Five hundred dollars. What do you think you�ll do with it?�
The boy thought carefully, this new intelligence wiping the thought of Timmons and his crime from his mind.
�I don�t know,� he said slowly. �Will five hundred dollars pay for a regular shoe-shine stand? A big one, with chairs? Big enough for both me and my grandfather?�
Clancy stared at him. �I honestly don�t know, son,� he said wearily. �I honestly don�t know. To tell you the truth, I don�t know what pays for anything any more.�
The boy stood silent before him, trying to understand this inexplicable statement. Kaproski had been watching; now he drew near, clearing his throat. �Better go along, kid,� he said gently, and eased the boy from the room. He came back, standing beside Clancy. �Lieutenant...�
�God, but I hate a crooked cop!� Clancy said bitterly.
Kaproski nodded. His big, broad face was calm, his blue eyes understanding. �Sure, we all do. But at least you did something for that kid. If you hadn�t helped him, and in the right way, he could have ended up like Timmons. Or maybe even worse.�
Clancy sighed. He leaned forward, looking down at the gleaming surface of his shoes. His eyes came up to those of Kaproski.
�Yes,� he said somberly. �Maybe you�re right. I suppose you can�t lose them all...�
So the weather changes, and the seasons come and go, marching past blindly. Clear skies follow angry storms; clouds sweep across the endless heavens, some high and wispy thin in the shimmering sunlight, some dark and lowering on black horizons, fertile with threat. Rain slashes down, warped sheets in the howling night; and mist curls lightly through forested glades, giving them ghostly brightness. Snow beautifies bare branches, furnishing ornament until spring; and ice throttles rivers and chokes lakes, weighs down masts and crashes through rigid shrouds. Wild wind tears across oceans, whipping towering waves to torment, drowning ships; and soft breezes flutter the corn tassels and lean the grass gently in patterned softness.
And the wash of crime across the police blotter flows and ebbs, its clear effluent seeping quietly away in the silent sands of the past; the dregs are retained, recorded, studied, compared, and then buried with the other detritus of our current civilization. Cells fill and are emptied; pages of painfully penned names and addresses drift like idle seed-pods into numberless filing cabinets and disappear forever in shadowed archives. Ranks, names, and assignments change on duty rosters; squad car models advance from year to year, glistening with all the latest gadgets. The price for living in communal harmony is promptly charged and promptly paid each day of each year...
Mary Kelly was waiting for Clancy when he emerged from the precinct. The street was heavy with slush; a slight fog was springing up. The overhead street lamps glowed faintly down on pavements damp with melting snow. Clancy came down the worn stone steps, his coat collar raised, his hat pulled tightly over his brow. Mary Kelly met him at the bottom step, putting her arm protectively through his. For a moment something in him resented the intimacy; then the firm body touching him seemed, instead, a sudden source of strength.
They crossed the darkened street to his car. He held the door open for her, closed it behind her, and walked around the front to get in at his side. He closed the door behind him; his fingers found the keys to the ignition and he reached forward towards the lock. Her fingers came forward to grasp his hand; he turned, facing her in the shadows of the darkened car.
�Did you have a hard day?� she asked softly. Her warm eyes were studying him with sympathy.
He turned from her, staring through the streaked windshield at the deserted street beyond. A hard day? The picture of a small body spread-eagled on the bloody chair in the apartment on Eighty-fifth Street came to him, and then the photograph of the old man caught in a compromising position in the rear seat of a blackmailer�s cab. Warnicki�s sneering, hard young face crossed his mind. And then, dominating all else, the pallid freckled face of Timmons, leaning forward earnestly, explaining so easily, so logically, so reasonably � and so falsely!�� why he had murdered an innocent, harmless old man. The bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.
And then, suddenly, the pictures were all replaced by a small mahogany face with huge black eyes looking at him earnestly, asking him a question, honestly wanting to know. Would five hundred dollars be enough to buy a shoe-shine stand � with chairs � big enough for him and his grandfather to work together?
He turned back to her, suddenly noticing the beauty of her fine face, the loveliness of her dark eyes, the very warmness of her body and her sympathy across from him. He felt the harshness drain away in him. His fingers tightened against hers.
�No,� he said gently, honestly. His eyes surveyed her, alive and calm once again. �No; it was a good day...�