CHAPTER ONE

Tuesday—3:20 P.M.

The urgent message that came clattering over the air to be picked up by the 52nd Precinct desk that blustery, rainy afternoon in late September, was being broadcast and telephoned simultaneously from the five Borough Communications Bureaus to every precinct and patrol car in the giant, sprawling city. Independent radio stations were picking it up and readying it for instant transmission—as soon as commercial commitments permitted, that is, for station billings are not to be taken lightly. Editors of afternoon-daily newspapers, whose products were already on the streets, were leaning over teletype machines and cursing the hour bitterly. Morning-daily editors were grinning like fiends and tearing out their front pages for replates.

At the 52nd Precinct, the startling news resulted in an immediate call from Captain Sam Wise, skipper of the precinct, for Lieutenant Clancy, assigned by the Detective Division to the 52nd. Captain Wise, hunched over his desk with a telephone receiver almost lost in his huge paw, waved the arriving Clancy to a seat with the stem of his pipe, and bent his grizzled head into even tighter contact with the telephone. He dropped his pipe into an ashtray and reached for a pad and pencil.

“Yes, sir, Inspector,” he was saying into the instrument, his deep voice and thick Brooklyn accent loud in the small room. “I got it. Yes, sir; I’ll do that, Inspector. Who? Right …” The pencil scrawled hastily. “I’ll tell him. Yes, sir, Inspector.” He nodded his big head vigorously to the telephone as if to confirm beyond any doubt his intention to comply with his instructions, and then set the receiver back into its cradle. He turned to Clancy, thought a moment, and then replaced the pencil with his blackened pipe. “That was the inspector,” he explained as he completed the maneuver.

Clancy refrained from the obvious comment. He tilted his head toward the telephone. “What’s up?”

“Prison break at Sing Sing,” Captain Wise said. “Four men went out in a provision truck. No details yet, but the truck was spotted while it was still inside the Ossining city limits by this smart local cop. Smart because he spotted it, I mean—not smart because he tried to be a hero and stop it all alone. He’s lucky to be alive, and he may not be in a couple of hours. He caught one in the chest and it’s still touch and go. But he got some results, I got to admit, because two of the escapees are back home—one in the morgue and the other in the prison hospital all smashed up. The truck hit a pole.”

“I know all that,” Clancy said patiently. “I was downstairs at the desk listening when you called me up here. I mean, what’s up with the inspector?”

Captain Wise continued exactly as if Clancy had not spoken. “The other two cons are still missing. They must have ducked out of the truck before this cop spotted it. Their prison uniforms were found in the back of the truck, so they must have changed. They’re wandering around some place dressed like us.”

“Better, I hope,” Clancy said. “In this weather. I told you I heard it all downstairs.”

Captain Wise stared at him and then shook his head in simulated disgust. “And did you hear who they were, you bigears, you? I mean the two who are still loose?”

Clancy suppessed a grin. “No. They hadn’t sorted them out, yet.”

“Well, they have now, so get ready for some news. One of them is your old pal Lenny Cervera.”

Clancy’s grin disappeared; his eyebrows went up. His hand, which had been reaching idly into a pocket for a cigarette, paused in mid-reach. “Lenny Cervera?”

“Right. Correct. The boy who did all that high-pitched screaming in court the day you testified him into the pen.” Captain Wise’s eyes were somber as he stared at the slender lieutenant facing him. “You ought to remember, Clancy. He swore he’d take care of you, and the judge, and the prosecuting attorney if and when he ever managed to see daylight again. You must remember.”

Clancy shrugged, uninterested. “I remember. But that’s standard procedure with kids nowadays. It gives them status with the gang.”

“The newspapers didn’t seem to think so.”

Clancy treated this statement with equal disdain. “It must have been a dull day for news. Normally something like that wouldn’t rate a paragraph under the truss ads on the sports page.” He frowned and completed bringing the cigarette from his pocket.

“I don’t get it,” he said thoughtfully. He stared at the cigarette, his mind elsewhere. “I just don’t get it. Lenny took a five-to-ten for that hit-run with a stolen car, but that was almost three years ago. The way I hear it, he’s been a good boy up there—keeps his nose clean, says yes-sir to the right people at the right time, and doesn’t flush bulky items down the john to clog it. He’d be about due for parole in six or eight months. Why would he jeopardize his parole by getting involved in a deal like this?”

“Maybe he just wanted out?” Captain Wise asked sarcastically.

“I’m serious,” Clancy said. “Why would he do it?”

“You can ask him when you find him,” Captain Wise said. He looked over at the telephone and then back to Clancy. “That was Inspector Clayton I was talking to. You’re on special assignment until Cervera is brought in. Plus the protection of Judge Kiele and that prosecutor. With any help from the precinct we can give you. Or from headquarters. Cervera was from this neighborhood; you know him and his family—or at least his mother—and the inspector thinks there’s a good chance he may head for this section to hole up. Also, he had a girl around here.…”

“She was the one who gave me the tip-off on him,” Clancy said almost absently. “Not that Lenny ever found out about it …”

“Oh?” The gray eyebrows went up. “I didn’t know that.”

“Very few people did, outside of those of us who were directly involved in the case. There wasn’t anything to be gained by spreading it around.” He frowned, brought out a match, and finally lit his cigarette. The match was held and studied contemplatively. “Who were the others who were with him in the breakout?”

Captain Wise referred to the notes he had scribbled. “Cholly Williams; he was driving the provision truck. He’s in the morgue, decorating a slab; the cop caught him in the head. Phil Marcus, he’s in the prison hospital. He went through the windshield when they hit the pole. Maybe it’ll teach him to use seat belts from now on. Then there was Blount, a tough guy from Albany, and your pal Cervera.”

“How about the regular driver?” Clancy asked. “What did they do with him?”

“Swatted him and left him behind in the commissary. He’ll be all right.”

Clancy shook his head again. “I still don’t get it. Lenny was always a punk; a fresh kid. A break from Sing Sing is big time. What was a punk doing in it? And with a fair chance to walk out free and clear so soon, why would he do a stupid thing like that?”

“Stupid? What’s stupid?” Captain Wise raised his heavy shoulders expressively. “Hitting a youngster with a stolen car, you call intelligent? Shooting off his big mouth in court, you call smart? How should I know? Maybe he just got tired of the food all at once.…”

“Maybe,” Clancy conceded with a smile, and leaned over to place the burnt matchstick in the ashtray.

“Or maybe he was afraid you’d die of lung cancer before he got a crack at you, the way you always got to have a cigarette in your mouth,” Captain Wise said, and stroked his pipe a bit obviously. “Anyhow, that’s the job. I don’t think Inspector Clayton is so positive the punk was just shooting off his mouth to impress the gang. Or he doesn’t want to take any chances. Anyway, he gives us our orders, and we’re here to follow them. And you just got through hearing them.”

“Right,” Clancy said, and pulled himself to his feet.

Captain Wise looked up at the thin face leaning over him. “What do you want?”

“I’ll pick out four patrolmen, and I’ll want Kaproski and Stanton. After that we’ll see.”

“Good enough.” The broad face of Captain Wise wrinkled in an affectionate but slightly worried smile. “And don’t take any chances, Clancy. Remember your job is to protect yourself as much as those other two men. If this meshuga really wasn’t fooling with those threats, I’d hate to be the one to have to break any bad news to Mary Kelly …”

Clancy grinned at him. Mary Kelly was a policewoman attached to the 52nd who thought the late forties the ideal age for a man, and graying temples very distinguished for a man, and a slender build a bit above medium height the best shape for a man—and the name Clancy by far the finest for a man. She also thought the name Clancy would do excellently for a woman. It was on this last point that Clancy just could not bring himself to agree.

“You keep talking about Mary Kelly,” he said, “and I’ll get the idea that you’re interested in her yourself, Sam.”

“I am,” Captain Wise said. “For you.” He hesitated and then decided this was no time to pursue the subject. He turned back to his desk full of papers, his smile fading. “Just be careful.”

“I’ll be careful. But just for you,” Clancy said, and went out the door and down the steps.

Tuesday—3:50 P.M.

Second-grade Detectives Kaproski and Stanton had not been built by nature to occupy spaces as restricted as Lieutenant Clancy’s tiny office; at least not at the same time. Both above six feet in height, and each weighing over two hundred pounds, their presence gave the small room a cramped appearance, especially since Kaproski insisted upon tilting his hard wooden chair back precariously against one of the battered filing cabinets, blocking all access to the narrow space in front of the desk. Stanton, forced to make do with the remaining room, was straddling a chair that almost blocked the doorway.

Clancy crushed out his cigarette and turned, looking through the rain-streaked glass of the high old-fashioned windows into the dismal areaway beyond. The rusted garbage cans tilted against the dull tenement walls were splattering the heavy raindrops back into the air with a muffled drumming sound that could be heard within the enclosed office. He swung back to the others, shrugging.

“Well, that’s the story,” he said quietly. “The inspector seems to think that maybe the threats were for real. At least that’s Captain Wise’s version. Personally, I think the inspector just wants this kid picked up before anyone else gets hurt. In any event, that’s our job. I want you to go out and talk to the mother and the girl friend.…” He considered this statement. “Ex-girl friend.” He shook his head. “No; I guess he still figures she’s his girl friend.”

“Are they being covered?”

“I’ve got a patrolman on his way over to each place. They’ll be stationed near the front of the apartments, but not too obviously. I’ll get more help when I get downtown, later.” He looked out of the window again at the rain. “If they can spare anyone in this weather.”

“That judge,” Stanton said, recalling. “That was old Judge Kiele, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. And the prosecutor assigned from the D.A.’s office on the case was Kirkwood. Roy Kirkwood.”

Stanton stared at him. “Hey. That’s funny.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“Those two are running against each other in next month’s election,” Stanton said. “Don’t you read the papers? They been saying some pretty uncomplimentary things about each other.”

“Well,” Clancy said, “as far as this is concerned, they’re both in the same boat.”

“You having them covered, too, Lieutenant?” Kaproski asked.

“They’re being covered right now. And they’ll stay covered until we pick our friend up.”

Kaproski looked at him. “And how about you, Lieutenant?”

Clancy merely stared at him coldly. The big detective flushed and kept quiet, but his partner refused to be intimidated. “Kap’s right, Lieutenant. How about you?”

“I can take care of myself,” Clancy said shortly, his jaw tightening.

“But—”

“I remember that Cervera case,” Kaproski cut in diplomatically, changing the subject. He looked up at the ceiling and nearly fell; his size twelve shoes made an instant adjustment on the bottom rung of the chair, bringing him back in balance. His eyes came down. “I hear old Judge Kiele did all right for himself since then. Made himself a fortune. Can’t figure out why he wants to still go on being a judge.…”

“Ambition,” Stanton said. “He cleaned up in the stock market, but he still likes being a big shot.” He shook his head enviously. “I should just have his connections!”

“What would you do?” Clancy asked sarcastically. “Buy one share of uranium stock? At eight cents?”

Stanton grinned. “If they’re that cheap, I might even buy two.”

“He was a tough cookie, that Judge Kiele, as I remember,” Kaproski said, remembering.

“Maybe. But that Lenny Cervera sure couldn’t squawk,” Stanton said. His smile faded; his face became grim. “Five-to-ten was gravy for his rap. If I’d have been on the Bench I’d have given the little bastard life. He’s just lucky the kid he hit pulled through.”

“He’s lucky he’s got two talkative second-grades checking on him,” Clancy said dryly. “He could have dinner with his mother, shoot a game of pool, play house with his girl friend, and catch a slow boat to Peoria while you two are still wandering down memory lane. How about getting around to doing some work?”

“All right, Lieutenant,” Kaproski said, his feelings hurt. He brought his chair down with a thump and stood up, towering in the small office. “Who takes who? Or do we work together?”

Clancy frowned. His eyes automatically went to his wrist watch.

“Even if he came through all the blocks, he couldn’t have gotten down from Ossining by now. Supposing he’s headed this way, which I doubt. So for the moment, at least, there’s no need to work together. And we don’t have either the time nor the men to spare. Kap, you take the girl friend. You have the address. Do you have any mug shots of Cervera?”

Kaproski tapped his jacket pocket. “Everybody in town has by now, I guess. Unless he lost a lot of weight in stir. Which could be, with that food.” He stared down. “I’ll call in, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you,” Clancy said. He looked at the two speculatively. “Just remember that three years in the big house can change a man. I’m damned if I know why they don’t take shots of them every year.…”

“They ain’t supposed to escape,” Stanton reminded him.

“Yeah,” Clancy said. “Stan, you talk to the mother. You both know what to say. Any letters he wrote, or anything he might have said during visiting hours—anything at all that might give us a clue as to where he would head for.” He stared at the two men, his eyes hard. “They’re not going to volunteer information.…”

“We figured that,” Stanton said. He also came to his feet, shoving his chair free of the doorway, glancing gloomily out of the rain-spattered window. “I wish to Christ these hoods would do their dirty work in decent weather.…”

“Yeah,” Clancy said. He continued to lean back, looking up at the two men above him. His voice sobered. “And one more thing: there’s a cop up in Ossining who may not live because of this breakout. The charge against both Cervera and Blount is a big one now—it may be the chair. So don’t take any chances.”

“How about this other guy, this Blount?” Stanton asked.

“He originally came from Albany,” Clancy said. “They probably figure that’s where he’ll head for. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. You’ve got pictures of him, too, in case he decides to stick with Lenny. Although why he should beats me.” His eyes held them. “In any case, no chances. With either one.”

They returned his gaze. There was a moment’s silence.

“Right, Lieutenant.” It might have been a chorus. They turned and tramped out of the office. Clancy watched them go and then swung about, reaching for the telephone.

“Sergeant, I want to talk to the warden at Sing Sing. I’ll hold on.”

“Yes, sir.”

The wind swept madly through the areaway, catching the rain, smashing it in vicious sheets against the tall windows, obscuring the view with blurred patterns washing down the glass. A vast improvement, Clancy thought sourly; maybe the rain will wash the tenements away, and the dirt, and the garbage, and the whole city, leaving the bare rocks the Indians had managed to live on so peacefully. The telephone traded operator talk in his ear; the sergeant cut in.

“The warden isn’t in his office, Lieutenant. I’ve got the captain of the guards. You want to talk to him?”

“All right.”

A strange voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Hello. This is Lieutenant Clancy of the 52nd Precinct, in the city.…”

Hesitation came into the high, nervous voice. “Lieutenant who?”

“Lieutenant Clancy, of the 52nd Precinct,” Clancy said patiently. “I’m the one who gathered the evidence that sent Lenny Cervera up there in the first place. Now I’m assigned to the case of his breakout.…”

“Oh?”

“Is there anything new?”

Suspicion entered the high-pitched voice. “You say you’re a police lieutenant?”

Clancy sighed hopelessly. “Look, Captain. My number here at the Precinct is Murray Hill 9-6500. Why don’t you call me back? Or have the warden call me. Lieutenant Clancy.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” The voice was apologetic. “The warden isn’t here right now, and we’ve had reporters and photographers, and.… it’s been a madhouse. What did you want to know?”

“Is there any news? About either Blount or Cervera?”

“No. Nothing. I—” The voice stopped suddenly, as if in recognition that the two words it had uttered had, in fact, given the whole story.

“How’s Marcus doing?”

“He’s still alive, but he’s still unconscious.”

“And the cop? From Ossining?”

“We don’t have anything new on him.”

“I see.” Clancy stared at the telephone. “I’d like to come up and talk to the warden. Tomorrow sometime. Will he be there?”

“Yes, he’ll be here.”

“Fine. I’ll try and make it sometime in the morning. Or I’ll call if I can’t make it. And thanks.”

Clancy hung up before the problems of the other could be transferred into problems for him. He leaned back in his chair, thinking, his fingers still on the receiver. And then released it and pushed himself to his feet. He edged around his desk, picked his battered hat from its accustomed resting place on top of a filing cabinet and set it squarely on his head. A plastic raincoat was unhooked from behind the door; he draped it over his arm and walked out to the front. The desk sergeant looked up.

“Sergeant, I’m going downtown. I want you to call Judge Kiele—he may still be in his chambers, or he may be home by now. In any event I want you to get hold of him before he makes any plans for this evening. Tell him I’m planning on stopping by his home tonight between 8:30 and 9:00. If he can’t make it, or you can’t locate him, give me a ring at Centre Street. I’ll be with Inspector Clayton.”

“Right, Lieutenant.” The sergeant was making notes.

Clancy thought a moment. “Or just hold the information. I’ll be back before then, anyhow.”

“Right.” The sergeant tore off the sheet he had been writing on and reached for a telephone.

Clancy shrugged his way into the plastic raincoat; the sleeves felt clammy where they touched his bare wrists. Plastic! he thought with a grimace; plastics and the atom bomb—the measure of man’s progress. He pushed through the heavy front doors of the precinct to be met squarely by a wave of good old-fashioned rain.

Tuesday—4:45 P.M.

Lieutenant Clancy came into the Centre Street Headquarters, let the thick doors swing closed behind him, and removed his hat. He swung it sharply, spraying water onto the floor. The collar of his raincoat, snidely awaiting some such movement as this, instantly released an accumulation of water down his neck. He squirmed and marched, face rigid, down the wide hall to Inspector Clayton’s office.

The inspector looked up from his work at Clancy’s entrance; his face, never too indicative of his feelings, softened for a moment to almost form a smile at the sight of the soaked figure before him, and then returned to immobility.

“Hello, Lieutenant. I assume Captain Wise gave you your instructions.”

“Yes, sir.” Clancy looked about for a place to set his sodden hat and then decided that the politest thing would be to hold it. He sat himself gingerly on the edge of a chair and looked at his superior. “I’ll need some help, Inspector.”

“Certainly, Lieutenant; I imagined you would. That’s what we’re here for. What can we do for you?”

A drop of water slithered from Clancy’s wet hair, trickling down his cheek to come to rest on the point of his chin. He scratched it off with the back of his hand while the inspector waited.

“I’d like to have taps put on a couple of phones.…”

“Whose?”

“Cervera’s mother, for one. And the Hernandez girl—his girl friend. I figure that even if he comes to New York to see them, he isn’t going to make any visits without calling first. Or, what I really mean is that he might call to set up a meeting somewhere else. I doubt if he’ll go over to either place.”

Inspector Clayton nodded. “That makes sense. Of course the chances are that he’ll assume we’d tap the phones, and arrange to have someone else visit them with a message. If he trusts anyone that much. However, I agree we ought to try it.” He made a note. “We can arrange the taps, but they’ll have to be taped only. We’re too short of men right now to keep technicians on a tap full time. Is that all right?”

Clancy shrugged. “I guess it’ll have to be all right. If you can get the tapes over to the 52nd every so often.…” He paused, thinking. “Or I can arrange to have them picked up. Where will they be set?”

“Probably in the basement of the apartment building,” Inspector Clayton said. “Or in the janitor’s apartment.” He made another note. “I’ll have the technical boys call the 52nd with the information and let you know. Any particular one first?”

“The girl friend’s, of course,” Clancy said definitely.

“Why so positive?”

Clancy looked at him. “The man’s been in stir three years. If he calls anybody, it’ll be her.” He shook his head. “And that’s funny, in a way, because she was the one who tipped me off the night we picked him up. But he doesn’t know that.…”

The inspector’s eyes widened. “Neither did I.”

“Few people did.” Clancy raised a hand. “Oh, she wasn’t trying to get him in trouble; she really loves the guy, or at least she did. The thing is that she could see the way he was heading, him and his gang, and when he asked her to go for a ride that night, and then told her the car they were driving in was stolen, she wasn’t having any. She made him stop and she got out. And then came to see me. She wanted him stopped before he got into real trouble. The only thing is—” Clancy stared at his wet hat almost sadly. “—he got into real trouble less than an hour later when he hit this young kid over on Third Avenue.…”

“I see.” Inspector Clayton made another note. “All right, we’ll tap her place first. I’m sorry we can’t put a man there with it, but we’re just too short.” He paused, his pencil poised over the pad for further application. “What else?”

“I’ll need more men.” Clancy hesitated, realizing from the inspector’s last statement that he was probably asking for refusal. He plowed on. “I have four patrolmen from the 52nd on the job, one each at the mother’s, the girl friend’s, Judge Kiele’s apartment building, and Roy Kirkwood’s. But just in front, in the street. I couldn’t take any more off the duty roster; in weather like this there’s always a flock of work.”

“I know.” The inspector nodded his head in agreement; his pencil doodled as he spoke. “You’d think that bad weather would keep even the crooks home, but it doesn’t seem to work out that way. Go on.”

Clancy cleared his throat. “If I could have another four—at least that many—I could have them stationed to cover the rear of the apartments, or they could even relieve the men in front, if the need arose. Plain-clothes would be the best, but I’ll take what I can get. Although for my money—” He stopped abruptly.

“For your money, what?”

Clancy disregarded the question. “Can I get the extra men, sir?”

“I’ll arrange them for you somehow, either patrolmen or third-grades. I’ll take them from the nearest precincts and send them over for your assignment. Plus four to handle the swing.” The deep-blue eyes stared at Clancy shrewdly. “Now; what did you start to say before, when you began, ‘although for my money …?’”

Clancy set his hat firmly on his knee, wincing at the sudden damp feeling that was transferred to his leg. He looked across the desk at the inspector; his voice was low but steady.

“Inspector, you know how busy we all are—as you said, bad weather brings out the crimes, and we’re all understaffed as it is. Yet we’re using a lot of men to cover a threat made a long time ago by a fresh young punk, and the standard type of dramatic stuff those young punks love, but the kind of threat we’ve all heard a dozen times before.…”

“He’s a convict that broke out of prison, Clancy. Don’t you think we should look for him?”

“You’re needling me, Inspector. You know what I mean. Every man in the city is looking for those two as part of his regular duty. We’re making a special effort, it seems to me, just because of those threats.…”

“And?”

Clancy took a deep breath. “Inspector, I’ve known Lenny Cervera for a long time. He was our problem at the 52nd for quite a while, him and that gang of his, before this hit-run put him in the penitentiary. I just find it hard to believe that a punk like that would put his neck out.…”

Inspector Clayton laid down his pencil and stared at Clancy’s damp but sincere face. His eyebrows were raised. “You can’t believe he’d put his neck out? Don’t you believe he broke out of jail? Or do you think the warden up there made a mistake?”

“I have a feeling you’re still needling me, Inspector. I know he broke out. It’s just …” Clancy searched for words. “I mean, why would he do it? Why would he jeopardize everything in a fool scheme when his chances for parole so soon were so good?”

“In the first place, Clancy, we don’t know at this moment if his chances for parole were good or bad. And in the second place, the fact still remains that he did break out.”

“I know the punk broke out!” Clancy cried in desperation. “What I want to know is, why?”

Inspector Clayton leaned over his broad desk. His eyes were suddenly icy; his voice quiet.

“Lieutenant, let me tell you something. You keep talking about this Lenny Cervera as a punk. Why? Because you remember him as a punk? Because he was only twenty-two years old when he went into the penitentiary? Because the farthest up the ladder he made it before he was caught, was stealing an automobile? Well, he may have been a punk when he went up the river, but that doesn’t mean he’s a punk today. They run a school up there, those convicts. Day school, night school—all the way through university. Cervera had three years under the best tutors in the game. Do you honestly think he didn’t learn anything? That he’s the same kid you sent up? Do you honestly think so?”

His blue eyes swung away from Clancy, staring at the wall. “Sure, it’s not in accordance with our fine theories of rehabilitation, but as long as we separate criminals on the basis of age alone, or equate a one-year sentence to a life sentence—as long as we put a first offender of a hit-run in the same classroom as a habitual thief, and a rapist, and a dope peddler—and then put a three- or four-time loser, a murderer or somebody like him, up in front of the class as the professor.…” He hesitated, shook his head, and sighed. His eyes came back to Clancy. “Well, Lieutenant, just that long we aren’t going to have rehabilitated men coming out of our penal institutions. Or even punks. We’re going to have a crop of dangerous criminals. More than went in.”

“I don’t deny it,” Clancy said stubbornly. “Everything you say. But Cervera made those threats when he was still a punk—before he had a chance to go to college.…”

Inspector Clayton leaned back. “Clancy, I’m surprised at you. If he had been an old lag when he shot his mouth off, I’d worry a lot less about it. It’s just because he was a punk. You never know what that education up there can do. And there’s something else—you raised a good question: why did he go along with the breakout? He needed a strong reason, and I don’t know that reason. And I’m nervous about things I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Our job is to prevent crime. Maybe I’m wasting the department’s time, but maybe I’m not. I hope I am.”

Clancy remained silent. The inspector surveyed him speculatively.

“Lieutenant, you know what I think of you. You’re one of the sharpest men I’ve got. It wasn’t because you were one of the three men Cervera threatened that I assigned you to this case; it was in spite of it. And it wasn’t because you know him, or his mother, or the neighborhood. I would have assigned you in any case. There’s something odd here—and that’s where your brain shines. Don’t let it go dull on you with any preconceived notions.…”

And that, Clancy thought, is as backhanded a compliment as you’ve received in many a moon. But still, he could not help but feel satisfaction at the inspector’s words. That’s the way we are, he suddenly thought. We suck the sweet juice and discard the bitter peel, but the tree has to live with both. And that’s why this man sitting opposite me is an inspector, and one of the best on the force.

“No, sir,” he said. “I’ll try not to.”

“Try hard,” Inspector Clayton said dryly, and moved away from the subject. His big hand drew his notes closer; he reached for the telephone. “I’ll get those men for you now.”

“Yes, sir,” Clancy said meekly.