CHAPTER SIX

Thursday—7:25 A.M.

Clancy came out of the bathroom, shaved and dressed, if not particularly rested, to find that Kaproski had already located the orange juice in the refrigerator, had coffee perking merrily on the stove and toast ticking along in the toaster, and was bending interestedly over the morning newspaper which he had retrieved from the mat before the front door. Clancy stared in admiration.

“Kap, someday you’re going to make some man a good wife.”

“Yeah,” Kaproski said, looking up from the headlines with a grin. “Me and Mary Kelly, huh, Lieutenant?” His eyes dropped back to the front page of the newspaper. “They got a big spread here about that Blount deal last night. That was a real cute trick he pulled, meeting his wife in that cab, and holding the rod on the driver, huh, Lieutenant?”

“Real cute,” Clancy said bitterly. “Those stupid, stupid, cops …!”

Kaproski looked at him, surprised. “Well, hell, Lieutenant, it was cute. They couldn’t help—” Comprehension suddenly dawned on him. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” he asked solicitously. “Didn’t you sleep good on that couch?”

“You ought to know how that couch is for sleeping,” Clancy said shortly. He shook his head. “I slept all right, I guess; at least up until just before it was time to get up. Then I had one of those half-awake, half-asleep brainstorms.…” He pulled a chair around to the front of the kitchen table and sat down, reaching for the orange juice. “A real dilly.…” He started to drink and then paused, setting his glass down again half full. And then frowned, staring at the glass of juice with narrowed eyes, not seeing it. “I wonder …”

He pushed back from the table and walked into the bedroom, picked up the telephone, and dialed a familiar number. The phone at the other end rang endlessly, but Clancy continued to wait. At long last the receiver was lifted and a sleepy voice answered.

“Hello? Hello? Who in hell is calling at this hour?” There was a momentary pause; when the voice continued it was charged with outraged and honest indignation. “Hey! I just looked at the clock! Who in hell is calling at this hour?”

“Wake up, Porky,” Clancy said evenly. “I want to meet with you.”

“Oh.” There was a deep yawn. Clancy could visualize the other in his silk pajamas eying the telephone malevolently. “Mr. C., I recognize that happy voice. Your wide-awake voice, I might mention with disgust. But it’s still the middle of the night, Mr. C. You want to remember that in my profession we don’t keep the same regular hours that you do in yours.”

“In twenty minutes,” Clancy said.

“Twenty minutes?” The shock momentarily deprived Porky of his vocal cords. “Mr. C., do you have any idea what time I went to bed last night? This morning, that is?”

“And I couldn’t care less,” Clancy said, and meant it. “I have to see you right away, Porky. You know the conditions of our deal. You have to take the good with the bad.”

“Well, all right.” There was another deep yawn. “Someday, God willing, I’ll get the good.” He paused. “At least let me pick the spot. Someplace nearby so I can get back here and get to bed, afterwards.”

“You name it.”

“How about Angelo’s Bar and Grill? It’s over on Second Avenue, just a block from my pad. And they’re always open.”

“I know where it is,” Clancy said. “I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.”

“Bless you, Mr. C.” There was another pause culminating in the end of a yawn. “Whooosh! You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t shave.”

“I’ll forgive you,” Clancy said, and hung up.

He walked back into the kitchen, wider awake and happier now for having made at least the first step toward scratching the itch in his mind. He twitched the newspaper from beneath Kaproski’s nose. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Kaproski stared at him, astounded. “We ain’t eaten yet! I was going to fry you some eggs.…”

“Fry them for yourself,” Clancy said quietly. “Because I’m going. Just make sure you clean up the dishes after yourself.…” He started back to the living room. Kaproski got up hurriedly, turned the gas off under the coffee, and moved after him.

“You know I can’t do that, Lieutenant.…”

“Then keep quiet and come on.” Clancy slipped on his topcoat and picked up his hat, setting it on his head and adjusting it squarely. “And when we get where we’re going, you stay in the car. I have enough trouble getting information when I’m alone.”

“But Captain Wise said—”

But Clancy had already opened the front door and was ringing for the elevator.

Thursday—8:05 A.M.

The rancid odor of stale beer hit Clancy like a blow; he suddenly wished he had not left home without eating, but the restlessness that had been building up in him as time passed without positive results was a goad that he had long since learned not to disregard. The bartender looked up with that subtle combination of pity, superiority, and cupidity that all honest bartenders reserve for customers who have the misfortune to arrive before at least ten in the morning.

“Coffee,” Clancy said, wiping the combined expression from the other’s face. “Black with sugar. And tomato juice, if you’ve got it.”

He spoke without slackening his pace in any way, going toward the back of the room without waiting for confirmation of his order. He came to a stop before a booth where Porky Frank was sitting, a cup of coffee before him, untouched. Clancy slipped into the booth without troubling to remove his topcoat.

“Hello, Porky.”

Porky nodded pleasantly, albeit sleepily. “Good morning, Mr. C.”

A casting director for a cops-and-robbers movie, faced with the selection of someone to play the part of a stool pigeon, would not have wasted a second glance at Porky Frank. It is very likely, however, he might have gone back later and picked him for the role of the young local banker if one were needed. Porky Frank was far from unhappy that he did not look like the stereotyped picture of a stool pigeon: small, hunched, sniveling, and constantly looking over his narrow shoulders nervously. As a matter of fact, Porky Frank was not particularly unhappy about anything. Outgoing and handsome, his main occupation was running a small but honest book, and his work as a stool pigeon at best was only part time. But it gave him an outlet for some of the things he heard, augmented an income designed to allow him to live as he liked to live—which was excellently—and also enabled him to meet Lieutenant Clancy from time to time, whom he actually liked as a person.

The two men waited silently until the bartender had placed Clancy’s order before him. Porky finally deigned to sip his coffee and smiled at the bartender benignly. Even being dragged from his rest at this ungodly hour had not noticeably diminished his good humor, and he had even dressed with his usual neatness although—true to his word—he had not shaved. When the bartender had gone back to the front, Porky spoke.

“Mr. C., I’m always pleased to exchange ideas with you, but in all honesty if you’re going to ask me what I think you’re going to ask me, you’re losing money and I’m losing sleep.”

“Well, that’s how it goes,” Clancy said philosophically, and drank his juice. It tasted tart and good, waking him up a bit. He set down the glass, feeling better already. “What do you think I’m going to ask you?”

“I would guess you’re going to ask me about Lenny Cervera,” Porky said calmly. “I heard from sources that you were in charge of the case. Under Inspector Clayton, of course. But I have sad news for you—the truth is that I don’t know a thing.”

“And what do you know about the other man who’s free? Blount?”

“Blount?” Porky lifted his shoulders. “About him I know even less. I never heard of the man before this breakout, and all I’ve heard since then of him was what the man said last night on the late news. Television, that is.” Porky sighed. “It’s hard enough keeping track of the local bums without listening to out-of-town gossip.”

“Well,” Clancy said, nodding his head, “I figured that would be the situation.” He looked up at the other, his eyes smiling. “Now can I ask you what I came here to ask?”

Porky’s eyebrows went up. “Sure.”

“What do you know about Cholly Williams and Phil Marcus?”

Porky’s eyes opened wide momentarily and then returned to normal. It was about the maximum expression of surprise that he permitted himself. “Probably less than you do,” he answered. “What do you want to know about them?”

Clancy reached for his coffee, sliding it closer, stirring it absently. He took a sip, made a face, and pushed it away. “How were they fixed for money, do you know?” He shrugged. “After all, Phil Marcus did a number of those loft jobs before he was caught, and I’m sure he didn’t do them for free. He must have collected a young fortune in fees before the police got wise to his little stunt with the explosive. I want to know if he still had the money as of last week, and if so where he kept it, or if anyone else held it for him. And the same goes for Cholly Williams—moneywise, I mean. Also, Williams had a brother who visited him regularly up there, took his body for burial as a matter of fact. Did his brother have any money? And if he had—or has—has he been tapping it lately? You should be able to get those answers.”

Porky frowned. “You could get all that information downtown, Mr. C.”

“I know I could,” Clancy said. “But it would take a lot longer, and I doubt if I’d trust it as much.”

Porky nodded, accepting the compliment without false modesty. He finished his coffee and then withdrew a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wiped his lips carefully.

“You know, Mr. C.,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “you have a devious mind, which is one of the things I like about you, because so do I. I think I see what you’re driving at.” He shrugged. “I don’t have the answers to your questions at the moment, but I imagine I can find out.”

“Good,” Clancy said. “When?”

“By this afternoon at the latest, I should judge.”

“That’ll be fine. Where will I contact you?”

“I’ll contact you,” Porky said.

“Good enough.” Clancy got to his feet and slid free of the booth. “And one more thing: if you hear anything about Lenny Cervera, I’ll want that, too. Or even more.”

“Obviously,” Porky said.

“Just so we understand each other,” Clancy said, and reached for his pocket. Porky raised a hand almost languidly.

“We can wait and settle up this afternoon,” he said, and smiled. “And I’ll even buy your coffee.”

“Thank you,” Clancy said. “And you can even drink it, too.” And walked out without a backward glance.

Thursday—8:45 A.M.

Stanton was sitting in Clancy’s office, waiting, when the two men walked in. He inched his chair a bit to remove it from their path and put aside the newspaper he had been reading.

“Hi, Lieutenant. Pretty cute deal this Blount pulled last night.”

“Yeah,” Clancy said without expression. He distributed his top clothing in his accustomed fashion between the door hook and the filing cabinet, walked back of his desk, and sat down. A pile of reports from the various men connected with the case filled the in basket. He wrinkled his nose at them and looked up.

“What’s on tap for today, Lieutenant?” Stanton asked.

Clancy thought a moment. “Stan, I want you to take over from Kaproski on the El Cids, Lenny’s old gang. Kap wore out his welcome yesterday, and anyway he’s on special assignment from Captain Wise to see that Cervera doesn’t kill me—and I wouldn’t want the Captain to think I was countermanding any of his orders.” Clancy suddenly grinned; it lit up his whole face. “Not that I’m complaining. I think when this is all over, I’m going to ask to have Kaproski transferred to me on a permanent basis—as my housekeeper.”

“Sure, Lieutenant,” Stanton said, mystified by these comments, but almost used to such mystification when his superior was beginning to get ideas about a case. “What do I do with them? The gang, I mean?”

Clancy’s smile faded; he leaned over the desk, serious.

“Lenny had to get that car someplace, and he had to stash it someplace after he was through with it. If he is through with it. I don’t think the gang helped him get it, but they may know where he put it. And frankly, I don’t know where else to look. And even more important, he had to hole up someplace in New York these past two days.”

His hand reached over, tapping the pile of reports awaiting his attention. “The people you heard on the telephone, talking to old Mrs. Cervera—her relatives and friends—have been identified from the tapes, and the precincts in which they live have been notified. The beat patrolmen are keeping their eyes open. The only thing left is the gang—or at least that’s the only thing left I can think of right now. It may be a waste of time, but if you can suggest a better assignment for yourself—one that will help locate Lenny faster—I’ll give you that one instead.”

Stanton nodded. “Where do I find this gang?”

“Kap can give you all the dope. He was practically a member. But do it in the other room. I’ve got work to do.”

“Right.”

“And Stan—call in every few hours. I don’t want to have to send a squad car after you if I need you.”

Stanton nodded; the two men filed from the room and Clancy lit a cigarette and bent to the pile of reports. The clock marched slowly around, the pile of reports diminished, their total intelligence reducing itself to one word: Nothing. Clancy sighed and reached for a pencil and a pad of paper. Newton, he thought, should never have stopped with that law about what goes up has to come down. He should have propounded one more, stating that everything that came in had to go out—but multiplied. He could have called it the Law of Expanding Reports, Clancy thought sourly, and started to write. The telephone saved him before he had time to do more than start writing the heading over a blank sheet.

“Hold on, Lieutenant.” It was the desk sergeant. “Inspector Clayton wants to talk to you.”

Clancy nodded and leaned back, twiddling the pencil between his fingers. The familiar voice came on the line.

“Clancy, you were up at Sing Sing yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I was checking out some of the other men involved in the escape, and also trying to find anything that could help locate Cervera. Without luck, I might add.”

“Did the warden there mention any suspicions of his? About the possibility of a prison guard up there being involved?”

“He inferred it,” Clancy said. “He didn’t say it was a guard; as a matter of fact he didn’t say anything except he had his suspicions. I think he was afraid I was going to ask some embarrassing questions about the breakout and security in general there. Hell, Inspector—security at a state penitentiary isn’t our business and I told him so. We have enough problems of our own. How those four managed to break out, and if the people up there can prevent future escapes—that’s strictly their affair, not ours.”

“I know,” the inspector said slowly. “In any event I just finished speaking with the warden. He called me; I didn’t call him. It seems that one of his guards didn’t show up for work yesterday afternoon, when he was supposed to. He was the guard the warden suspected—the one he was giving rope to.…”

Clancy sighed. He started to twiddle the pencil in his fingers again and then tossed it aside in disgust. “Giving rope to! My God! So now instead of looking for two people, we’re looking for three?”

“No, Clancy.” The inspector’s voice was expressionless. “We’re not. He’s been found. As a matter of fact he was found early this morning, even before we knew he was missing.”

Clancy could guess the rest. “Where?”

“Floating in the Hudson. Some kids saw him just offshore somewhere in the Eighties, but he could have been put in anywhere upriver. With two bullet holes in him. Manhattan West has it, but so far they haven’t come up with anything.” Clancy remained silent, thinking. The inspector’s voice continued almost gently. “You haven’t sent in any reports, Clancy, so I can’t tell. Does this fit into anything you have?”

Clancy frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t know.… How long was he in the river?”

“A couple of days is the M.E.’s guess. Doc Freeman has him now—maybe he’ll be able to bring it a little closer, but you know these water cases.”

“Yeah.…” A sudden thought struck Clancy. “Inspector, did he have any money on him?”

“I don’t know, but I can find out soon enough. Hold on.” Clancy leaned back as he waited, trying to fit the dead guard into the picture, trying to organize his thoughts. It wasn’t that the guard didn’t fit—he fit too well. But didn’t bring any solution any closer. Inspector Clayton finally came back on the line. “Property says he had $4.16 in his pockets. That’s all the money, and very little else. Nothing helpful.” His voice became curious. “What’s on your mind, Clancy?”

“Well,” Clancy said slowly, “it’s a little hard to explain, but early this morning, when I was waking up, I lay there and just let my mind wander; and somehow or other I pictured myself in a taxi with Blount and he was throwing all of his money out of the window. When I finally woke all the way up, I finally figured out what I was trying to say to myself.” He paused, formulating his thoughts. Inspector Clayton, knowing Clancy, waited patiently.

“It’s like this, Inspector,” Clancy said at last. “Prison breaks have to be financed, like everything else in this world of ours today. Now, none of the four men involved in the break were tied up with the syndicate or with any of the big-money boys. They were all lone wolves, with no connection with each other. So I began to wonder who paid the tab. The guard must have been bribed; they had to have some sort of transportation waiting; they needed arms, and at least travel or eating money; there was the business of clothes in that trunk—all in all it comes to money, and somebody had to furnish it.”

He took a deep breath and continued. “Now Lenny Cervera didn’t have a dime, and neither did his family. Or his girl friend. All the dough in that bank job in Glens Falls when Blount dynamited that safe was recovered. And from the reports we had on last night’s deal in Albany, he certainly didn’t sound flush.…”

The inspector saw his point. “How about Williams and Marcus? Do you want us to check on them?”

“I’m having them checked out right now. I ought to know something by this afternoon at the latest.”

Inspector Clayton’s voice was thoughtful. “You know, Clancy, the guard may not have been paid off. He may have been promised the money, and then got two bullets instead.”

“That’s true,” Clancy admitted, “but it still doesn’t answer the question of who put up the other money that was needed. And I can’t picture a guard taking those chances for an IOU. Certainly not from four cons you couldn’t trust any farther than you could kick a steam roller.”

Inspector Clayton sighed. “All right, Clancy. Maybe your check on Marcus and Williams will tell us something. But remember, basically the escape isn’t our problem. Our job is to pick up Cervera before he can take a crack at somebody else.”

Clancy could have given a strong answer to that, also, but he knew the inspector was as cognizant of the difficulties as he was. “We’ll do our best, sir.”

“I know you will, Clancy. Keep in touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clancy pushed the telephone away, picking up the pencil once again, attacking the report. This time he managed to complete the heading and get two lines started vertically to begin tabulating some of the facts, when the telephone rang once again. He looked at the ceiling imploringly, but the sagging cracked plaster obviously had enough troubles of its own. Damn! he thought; if it were merely a question of talking instead of writing, it wouldn’t be so bad, but eventually this blasted report would have to be filled out anyway. He picked up the telephone and found himself listening to an extremely puzzled desk sergeant.

“Lieutenant, are you interested in the horses?”

At first it didn’t strike a responsive chord. Clancy scowled at the phone. “What? Me? Horses?”

“That’s what I kept trying to tell this character,” the sergeant said plaintively, “but he said you’d have my neck for a Christmas ornament if I didn’t give you the message.”

“And what was the message?”

“I wrote it down, it was so screwy,” the sergeant said. “This character says to tell you that Tomato Juice and Coffee are running in the Twelve O’Clock Handicap, and Angelo is giving even money, and if he was you he’d be at the window the minute it opened.”

Clancy grinned. The code signals between Porky Frank and himself had no particular basis in the necessity for secrecy; all Porky demanded from Clancy—and got—was the assurance that no calls to him went out through the precinct switchboard. The code signals were now merely a game which both men played with increasing attempts at originality. The desk sergeant hesitated and then spoke again.

“Does it mean anything to you, Lieutenant?”

“Not a thing,” Clancy said firmly. “The guy was an obvious nut.”

He hung up, looked at his wrist watch, and got to his feet. The unfinished report seemed to stare at him accusingly; he reached over and turned the top sheet over. And then walked from behind his desk, got his hat and coat, and started down the corridor. Kaproski immediately appeared from another room.

“Hey, Lieutenant! Wait for me!”

“I’m just going to lunch,” Clancy began, and then smiled. “Oh, well—come on. You can chauffeur.”

They came down the steps of the precinct and crawled into Clancy’s car. Kaproski got behind the wheel and started down the street. “Where we going, Lieutenant?”

“Angelo’s Bar and Grill; that place where we stopped this morning. And when I get through there, we’ll go out to eat.” He looked over at Kaproski. “And when we get into Angelo’s you stay in the car again. And don’t argue.”

“I didn’t say nothing,” Kaproski said, hurt, and stepped on the gas.

Thursday—12:00 Noon

They pulled up before Angelo’s in the same spot they had occupied that morning; Clancy got out and walked quickly across the sidewalk to the bar. The same smell of stale beer struck him as before, but this time it had a different effect. Without diminishing his stride in the least he looked at the bartender, speaking over the heads of the several customers seated at the bar.

“Beer,” he said, and continued to the back.

Porky Frank was sitting quietly in the last booth, a tall drink before him. He smiled happily as Clancy slipped into the booth to face him. “Hi, Mr. C. The hour, thank God, has finally arrived. I hate to drink before noon. That doesn’t always stop me, of course, but I hate it. Some tomato juice for you?”

The bartender came up behind them, placed a bottle of beer on the table, gave the small glass he carried an extra wipe with his apron in deference to the customer being with Porky, and padded back to the front. Porky’s eyebrows raised. “Beer? Alcoholic beverage? I’m surprised at you, Mr. C. Drinking on duty!”

“I’ll take a Sen-Sen before I go back,” Clancy promised, and poured himself a glass of beer. He drank it slowly, aware of how good it tasted, and set the empty glass back on the table. “What do you have for me? And how did you get it so fast?”

“I had it fifteen minutes after I saw you here this morning,” Porky said loftily. “I thought I’d put out some feelers before I went back to sleep, and the information was lying there, right on top, in plain sight. Waiting to be picked up.”

“And why didn’t you call me then?”

“Several reasons,” Porky said. “First, because I wanted to get some sleep. Second, because the dope I got isn’t going to help you at all, so it could wait awhile. And third, because if you get your information too quickly you don’t appreciate it. You think it’s easy. Although,” he added truthfully, “this was so easy it’s a shame to take your money.”

“You haven’t taken it yet,” Clancy reminded him. He tilted the small glasss, refilling it carefully, holding the collar to a minimum. “What did you find out?”

“That they were both brokers. Bust-o, the two of them. This Marcus may have made money—I guess he did from what I heard—but he also liked to spend it. Mostly on the ponies, I gather. In any event, the word I got this morning is that at the time he went up the river, he was into Big Benny for two thousand of the best. And I don’t imagine he worked much of it off at the twenty cents a day, or whatever they make up there in the jute mill.” He paused, considering. “I’m just happy that it was Big Benny who took his bets, and not me. As it might well have been.”

Clancy nodded. “And how about Cholly Williams?”

“He was even broker, if possible. No, I guess that isn’t true—at least he didn’t owe anybody. But cash he didn’t have, and never had. He was driving a truck for some company when he got into that fight in the bar, and he hadn’t held the job long because he was always getting fired for fighting. And his brother works as a plumber’s helper someplace. The Teamsters’ Welfare defended him—Cholly, that is—and now they’re going to bury him, so I wouldn’t put the Williams family in the upper brackets.”

Clancy’s face was a study in disappointment. He finished his beer and wiped his mouth. “So much for that, then …”

Porky sipped his drink. His sharp eyes watched the other. “It appears to me, Mr. C., that you’re still stuck with the main problem: who laid the dough on the line for the break?”

Clancy looked at him. “You’re pretty sharp, Porky.”

Porky shrugged. “I never bragged about being stupid.”

“You’re right,” Clancy said. “I’d love to know who the money man was. And why. Do you have any ideas?”

Porky shook his head. “Not at the moment. But in my business one sometimes hears things.”

“Then listen,” Clancy said. “Because in your business one also collects.” He got to his feet, reached into his pocket and laid some money on the table, sliding it across to his companion. “And I’ll let you pay for the beer out of this, too.”

Porky grinned. “My pleasure. And I won’t tell a soul I saw you drink it, either.”

Clancy turned and walked the length of the bar, pushed through the door, and climbed in beside Kaproski. So much for that lead; if the answer to the problem lay in who financed the breakout, then it was as deep a mystery as ever. But somebody did, and with money Cervera could be holed up almost anywhere. And in addition to the changes in his appearance that three years in Sing Sing must have effected, his time there undoubtedly gave him a lot of new contacts they knew nothing about.… He was suddenly aware that Kaproski was speaking to him and apparently had been for some time.

“What?”

“I said, where do you want to eat?” Kaproski swung around a car parked in front of them and headed down the avenue. “Hey, Lieutenant—how about the new Greek restaurant down near the precinct?”

Clancy looked at him. “You’re supposed to be guarding my life,” he said coldly. “Not threatening it.…”

Thursday—3:20 P.M.

Stanton was on the phone.

“I’m calling in like you told me, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m hanging around the gang, like you said. I’ve talked to most of them, but so far, no dice.”

“What are you doing now?”

Stanton sounded slightly embarrassed. “As a matter of fact, I’m fixing their motorcycle for them. Of course I could have told them to go blow, but at least this way I got them all together, watching, and maybe somebody’ll say something. Anyway,” he added defensively, “it ain’t broke too bad.”

“All right—” Clancy began, but just then the desk sergeant cut into the line, his voice tight and urgent.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant! They want you downtown right away! Criminal Courts Building, fourth floor! Rush! Cervera’s just went and dynamited old Judge Kiele …!”

“Stanton!” Clancy snapped. “Did you hear?”

“I heard, Lieutenant, Jeez!”

“You stick where you are.” Clancy’s brain was racing. “See if any of those punks had access to dynamite anywhere—construction job, or whatever. And get in touch with me as soon as you finish!”

“Right, Lieu—”

But Clancy had already slammed the phone down, jumped from his desk and grabbed his hat and coat in almost the same motion, moving quickly into the corridor. “Kap! Let’s go!”