CHAPTER EIGHT

Friday—5:30 A.M.

The corner window of the living room of Clancy’s small apartment insisted upon rattling under the blustering winds that swept restlessly through the narrow block, pushing and pulling at the ill-fitting frame to sound a monotonous but irritatingly irregular tick-tick that denied sleep. The pillow, after years of obedient service on the bed, took its location on the couch as an excuse for refusal to bunch properly, and the narrow width of the couch gave the excess of blanket on one side ample opportunity to lend its weight to gravity, and slide relentlessly to the floor. A rasping snore from the bedroom formed an aggravating background to insomnia, aided by the intermittent purr of the refrigerator which, after all these years, refused to contain itself quietly in its enamel prison. Clancy found himself listening intently for drips from faucets; he thrashed himself into a more comfortable—or at least, different—position and pressed his eyes closed more tightly in search of sleep, fathoming his rock to carry him with it into the soft depths of narcosis.

And then, suddenly, tired of its tricks, the wind slowly faded. The tick-tick of the window frame assumed a regularity, blending in rhythmically with the contrapuntal snores of Kaproski to become soporific. The pillow abandoned its revolt; the blanket refused the enticement of the natural law and remained fixed. Clancy’s eyes began to close, and then remained at barely opened slits; his mind churned a moment and then began its kaleidoscopic trip through the swirling fog of his thoughts. He relaxed completely, allowing it full rein, letting himself be carried along, a willing and watchful passenger …

He was not at all surprised to find the telephone booth now standing in the center of the wide steps of the Criminal Courts Building in Foley Square instead of outside of the fenced-in playground. The lack of traffic in the area, however, led him to believe it must be very late at night, although the bright sunlight on the steps seemed to deny this. He did not let it bother him.

A little child approached, dressed in bathing trunks and wearing what appeared to be a sheet-metal life jacket—at least it covered him from neck to waist and reflected the light brilliantly—and entered the telephone booth. He seemed to experience no difficulty in reaching the instrument despite his reduced size and the bulkiness of his jacket, and then Clancy saw that his size was not reduced at all. Nor was it a child; nor was he wearing the jacket any longer. It was Roy Kirkwood, and he was speaking into the telephone with all appearances of urgency. Clancy nodded and yawned; a light breeze had sprung up in the deserted square and was now blowing withered leaves from invisible trees across the white steps on which he was standing.

Clancy turned his head in time to notice Lenny Cervera come walking up, revolver in hand. He wanted to greet him, but Lenny seemed intent upon other business. Lenny walked up to the telephone booth and held his revolver at arm’s length, aiming at the figure within. He began shooting steadily into the glass windows; the bullets seemed to bounce off harmlessly into space without interfering in any way with the conversation Roy Kirkwood was carrying on.

Clancy shrugged fatalistically and brought the telephone in his hand to his ear, watching the booth and the figure within idly. The muffled voice of the intent man behind the glass windows was suddenly clear. Clancy listened.

“Is this Marcia?”

Clancy yawned deeply. “Yes. Who’s this?” A silly game, he thought, and apparently endless.

The answer seemed to come from a distance, delayed somehow, like an echo. I wish he’d speak more clearly, Clancy thought with sudden irritation, and then realized that there was really no necessity. He knew what the man was going to say. “Listen, don’t talk any more. Just keep your mouth shut and your ears open. I’ll do all the talking for both of us. I’m calling to give you a message from an old friend of yours. He wants to see you. Right away.”

Clancy tried to inject interest into his voice but it was difficult. His heart just wasn’t in it. “Where?”

“Damn it, I told you not to talk! Just listen! He says he wants to meet you at a place he says you’ll remember. He says it’s the place where you two first met.…”

The formula was not to be denied. “But …”

Clancy frowned; the telephone booth he had been watching during his conversation was no longer there. He swung around, prepared to complain to any employees of the Telephone Company he might see, but instead he noticed Lenny Cervera advancing on him. The gunman was climbing the steps slowly, approaching him, his revolver extended before him. Flame spat from the end of the gun, angrily.

Tick-tick-tick-tick …

His automatic reaction of dropping under the bullets brought Clancy from the couch to the floor with a thump; he untangled himself from the sheet and blanket and stared about, confused, his half-open eyes frozen in shock. The’ window frame rattled anxiously. From the bedroom, Kaproski’s snores continued to echo regularly.

Clancy got to his feet, hitched up his pajamas, and tried to remake the couch. The pillow was no trouble, and the bottom sheet went into place without an argumentative wrinkle; the top blanket, however, suddenly became recalcitrant, refusing to restrict itself to the confined space under any circumstance. Clancy stood in the darkened living room, lighted only by the rays of the distant moon slotting in wavering bars through the Venetian blinds, and cursed steadily, fighting the blanket. That damned half dream! That double-damned half dream! To allow himself to be frightened like that by his own imagination!

Suddenly he froze, the blanket dangling forgotten from his hands while his mind finally began to wake up. But—? And then with a muttered curse at his own stupidity he dropped the blanket and padded hurriedly into the bedroom.

Kaproski was curled up in a large but tight knot, his head buried beneath the covers, his snores coming from beneath the stacked covers with muffled regularity. Clancy snapped on the night lamp and reached for the telephone. And thank the good Lord, he thought sincerely, that his head was stuffed under the blankets, or I’d never have gotten a chance to relax at all. Or gotten to ride that roller coaster of my imagination with that beautiful view.

He dialed from memory, hoping he had the number right, hoping he wasn’t waking some poor stranger at this miserable hour. The phone rang; Clancy waited, wishing he had taken the time to don his bathrobe and slippers. The ringing stopped in momentary silence as the receiver was lifted; a woman’s voice, alert with the worry of the unexpected, came on.

“Yes? Who is it?”

That’s what Marcia said, Clancy thought; those were her exact words. He pushed the thought away, concentrating on his call. “Hello? Is Stanton there?”

“Just a moment.…”

Clancy stood in the shadowed bedroom, trying to warm one foot by placing it under the other, but this maneuver was scarcely effective. He could hear a low sibilant voice at the other end attempting to do with intensity what it obviously didn’t want to accomplish with volume. “Stan! Stan! I think it’s your boss, Lieutenant Clancy.…”

Stanton finally came on the wire, groggy. “Yes? Hello?”

“Stan, are you awake?”

There was a deep yawn, followed by an almost audible shudder. “Yeah. I guess so. What’s up, Lieutenant?”

Clancy tried to speak slowly and clearly, to penetrate Stanton’s fog. “Stan, I want to see Julio Sagarra tomorrow morning. This morning. You know, the head of the El Cids. Make it at eight o’clock, at the precinct.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.” There was a prodigious yawn. “Who?”

“Stan, wake up! Write it down, for God’s sake—don’t try to remember! Or have your wife write it down. Julio Sagarra, the head of the El Cids.”

Stanton was waking up, slowly. “You want me to put the arm on Julio, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t want you to arrest him. I just want you to bring him down to the precinct at eight o’clock this morning. I want to have a talk with him. Is that clear?”

“I guess so, Lieutenant.…”

Clancy exploded. “Well, damn it! Is it or isn’t it?”

Clancy’s tone woke Stanton up once and for all. “It’s clear, Lieutenant.”

“Well, thank God for that! All right—I’ll see you at eight.” Clancy hung up and then felt ashamed of himself for his burst of temper. God knew he was the last person to be bright and gay when he was dragged from sleep in the middle of the night. He turned and discovered that Kaproski had shoved a tousled head from beneath the mountain of covers and was staring at him, bleary-eyed.

“Did you say something, Lieutenant?”

“I said, go back to sleep,” Clancy said, and padded back to the living room and his couch. He lay down and pulled the covers about him; the window frame, its work done, subsided quietly, refusing any more ticks. Sleep came at once, peaceful and dreamless.

Friday—8:00 A.M.

Kaproski was in another room and Clancy was alone when Stanton came in, herding Julio Sagarra before him. The young man looked around cockily and then grinned at Clancy.

“Hi, Lieutenant. Where’s the heavy in the act?”

“Sit down,” Clancy said evenly.

“Sure. Don’t mind if I do.” The young man swung a chair around and straddled it, unconsciously emulating Stanton. He jerked a thumb back at him. “Your boy said you wanted to see me. You know, Lieutenant, this guy ain’t a bad guy, as cops go. As a matter of fact, he ain’t a bad mechanic, either.”

Clancy disregarded this. He leaned over the desk and offered the boy a cigarette, which was accepted. A light followed; Julio leaned over and drew in, and then leaned back. Clancy looked at him. “Julio, I’ve got a simple question to ask you.…”

“Which I ain’t going to answer,” Julio said. He inhaled deeply, speaking through the cloud of smoke he exhaled. “Because I don’t know.”

“Oh?” Clancy studied him calmly. “You know what I was going to ask?”

“Sure,” Julio said with disdain. “I guess you guys finally believe me now that we never furnished Lenny with no car, so it’s got to be who’s hiding him out. And I don’t know.”

“Lieutenant,” Stanton said in a deadly voice, “you want some information from this punk he don’t want to give?”

“My pal,” Julio said with disgust.

Clancy paid no attention to this exchange, either. “Julio, the question I’m going to ask you is a simple one. Where did Lenny Cervera meet Marcia Hernandez?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. All I want to know is where Lenny met Marcia. The first time.”

Young Sagarra looked puzzled. “Why do you want to know that for?”

“Let me worry about that. Just answer the question.”

Julio shook his head. “Jeez, Lieutenant, I’d answer that one all right. If I knew, which I don’t. They was already going steady when I first come into the gang.”

Clancy listened to him, looked at him, and decided he was telling the truth. “Can you find out?”

“I guess so, sure. Somebody in the gang ought to remember. But why do you want to know for?”

“I want to mount a plaque there,” Clancy said wearily. “Bronze. On the doorpost.”

“Huh?”

“Skip it,” Clancy said abruptly. He looked at Stanton. “You go with him and bring back the dope.”

Julio stared at him, mouth open. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

The young man came to his feet, shrugged elaborately, stopped to review the interview in his mind, and then repeated the shrug in an exaggerated manner. He turned to Stanton. “Let’s go, mechanic,” he said, and walked from the room with his usual swagger. Stanton also shrugged in nonunderstanding and followed him out.

Clancy looked at his watch, looked at the pile of reports in the in basket, and decided he had time to look through a few before leaving for his appointment with Inspector Clayton. The sharp ring of the telephone changed his mind.

It was the desk sergeant. “Lieutenant, Captain Wise would like to see you upstairs.…”

Clancy nodded to the telephone and hung up. All I have to do to get the telephone to ring, he thought, is to start looking through reports.… He came around the desk, picked up his hat and coat, and walked down the corridor to the staircase. He mounted it slowly and turned into Captain Wise’s office. He tossed his hat and coat on a chair near the door and selected another, drawing it up to the desk.

“You wanted to see me, Sam?”

The large man back of the paper-strewn desk nodded his grizzled head. “I’d like to know what you’re doing, Clancy—how things are going.” He hesitated. “That bombing yesterday.… That wasn’t too good, you know. Whose fault was it?”

“The guy who planted the bomb,” Clancy said evenly. “I talked to my men covering him, and I ate them out. But in all honesty I don’t know what else they could have done. You know as well as I do, Sam, that it’s almost impossible to really protect a man against a killer who’s determined to kill.”

“I know,” Captain Wise said, and sighed. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. Was it Cervera?”

Clancy shrugged. “It looks like it, but it could have been Blount as well. He may be in town. I have a hunch he is.”

The captain’s eyebrows went up. “Based on anything?”

“Based on nothing.” Clancy looked across the desk at his old friend steadily. “Sam, I haven’t had a decent idea about this case since I was assigned to it. Do you want to take me off it?”

Captain Wise returned his look with equal steadiness. “Clancy, I’ll be honest with you. If it was up to me, I would. I’d take you off it and send you out of town until this maniac momser is picked up. But Inspector Clayton assigned you to the case, and he’s the only one can take you off. I’ll tell you the truth; I don’t like the idea of you going around the streets, open like, with your name on a nut’s list.”

“Neither do I,” Clancy said with a wry smile. “I’d like to clear it up as fast as possible if only to get Kaproski out of my bed. I’m getting tired of sleeping on the couch.…”

“That should be your only worry,” Captain Wise said with sincerity. He frowned down at his desk, avoiding Clancy’s eyes.

Clancy leaned forward. “Look, Sam. I know when you have something on your mind. You didn’t call me up here to tell me that Cervera’s dangerous. What are you trying to say?”

Captain Wise suddenly made up his mind. “All right, Clancy. I’ll tell you. Gomez is free now and I thought maybe we ought to put him on with Kaproski to—well, to cover you better.”

“And then where would I sleep?” Clancy asked sarcastically. “On the floor?” He looked across the desk with real affection at the heavy, worried face of his superior. “Look, Sam, one’s enough. Don’t fret about it. Wasting the time of one man is more than enough.” He got to his feet, picked up his hat and coat from the chair, and walked to the door. He looked back.

“Anyway,” he said quietly, logically, “we had three men on Judge Kiele, and you saw how much good it did.”

“You’re not Judge Kiele,” Captain Wise pointed out softly.

“Not yet, anyway,” Clancy said grimly. He waved and went out to the staircase.

Friday—9:05 A.M.

Clancy left Kaproski on the bench outside of Inspector Clayton’s office with a sports page to keep him company, and stepped inside. The inspector was talking on the telephone; Lieutenant Lundberg was sitting quietly before the desk. Clancy nodded to Lundberg and drew up a chair beside him; the inspector looked over and nodded without breaking into his conversation.

“Yes,” he was saying into the telephone. “Yes, Mrs. Wells. Your husband? Certainly. I believe so, or at least I can arrange it. If you wish. No, the department has no objections. When? That should be all right. Yes, I’ll see to it. Yes. We’ll discuss it this afternoon.…” He looked at the other two helplessly. “What? Certainly. Yes, I’ll do that. Good-by.”

He set the receiver back in its cradle and stared across the desk at Clancy. “That was Mrs. Wells,” he said quietly. “She wants to post a reward for any information leading to, etc. Her husband will be down to talk to you about it. She’s still under a doctor’s care.”

Clancy made a sour face. “And I’d rather not talk to either of them.”

Inspector Clayton shrugged. “That’s one of the dirty parts of our job, Lieutenant. Speaking to the relatives of victims. But still it’s a part of the job. I suggested meeting here. Actually, I ought to offer them my condolences personally. I’ve known Carol since she was a child, since her mother died.”

“When do we have to meet?” Clancy asked, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Six o’clock this afternoon. Here in my office.” Inspector Clayton dismissed the subject, turning to Lundberg. “Anything new on the bombing, Bill? Outside of these reports?” His fingers gestured toward a pile of papers before him.

Lundberg shook his head discouragedly. “Nothing useful, Inspector. We’ve more or less determined that the bomb was set in a book of some sort, but we thought that all along. It was triggered on opening the cover. We didn’t find any pieces that would indicate it was actuated by a timing mechanism, and I think we’ve seen this sort of thing before. Like I told Clancy; in those loft fires Marcus set. Anyway, we judge it to be a fairly big book, and we know it was bound in calf. We guess two sticks of dynamite, first from the site of the book and also because of the general extent of the damage in the room. But we haven’t found one damn thing that would help identify the bastard who planted it.”

“How about fingerprints?”

“The judge’s, his secretary’s, and a few that look old that could belong to anyone—from the kid who brought up his lunch, to the cleaning woman that swept the place out each night.”

He dug out a cigarette and lit it broodingly. “Our men checked—or maybe tried to check would be a better way of putting it—on anyone who might have been seen around that time with a book, either in the corridor itself, or even in the building, but you know the Criminal Courts Building, Inspector. It’s like looking for somebody carrying a book in the public library. And to listen to the people we checked on, either everybody had one, or nobody had one. Plus the fact that he could have been carrying it under a topcoat, or in a brief case.…” He sighed. “Go fight City Hall.…”

He turned to Clancy, remembering something else. “And we didn’t find any radio speech, either. Not in any of his drawers, or anywhere else. And his secretary said she never saw it.…”

“I know,” Clancy said. “He made his speeches off the cuff.”

Inspector Clayton frowned at this subject but didn’t question it. He turned to Clancy. “And how about you, Lieutenant? Any ideas at all? What did you find out about Cholly Williams and Phil Marcus? Moneywise, I mean?”

“For what it’s worth,” Clancy said dully, “they didn’t have a pot between them. Williams made a bare week’s pay pushing a truck, and that’s all he made. And Marcus was bit by a horse once, and it took. He went up to Sing Sing owing Big Benny two thousand dollars from bum bets on the nags.”

“Which could be interesting,” the inspector said thoughtfully.

“That’s what I thought at one time,” Clancy said discouragedly. “Now I don’t know what to think. Or even how.”

“Well—” the inspector began, but the telephone interrupted him. Clancy leaned back in silence as the inspector answered it. The conversation was mainly grunts on the part of the inspector, and when he finally hung up he looked across the desk at Clancy without expression.

“That was Captain Wise,” he said slowly. “He’s requesting a transfer for you. He wants you to be put on some duty, until Cervera is picked up, where there’s less chance …” He hesitated and then stopped, his eyes steady on the other.

“It’s up to you,” Clancy said evenly. “I’m not afraid of what Cervera might do to me, and you know that, Inspector. But the truth is that I haven’t set the world on fire on this case.…”

“No ideas at all, Clancy?”

Clancy shrugged. “Oh, I’ve had a few hot flashes, but they’re certainly nothing to write home about. I’ve got Stanton out right now, checking on something that didn’t click to me, but even if I get the answer I want—and I’ll tell you right now I don’t even know what answer I want—I still won’t be anywhere. If you want to take me off the case, it’s strictly up to you.”

“It’s up to both of us,” Inspector Clayton said. “However, if you feel—” The telephone interrupted him once again and he picked it up with a scowl that was as close as he ever permitted himself to exhibit anger.

“Hello? What? Oh, for Heaven’s sake! Tell him to check with Personnel, or Records! My Lord! And Sergeant, no more calls unless they’re important, will you? I’m trying to get some work done here.…”

He refrained from slamming the receiver down, simply because he had long since trained himself never to give way to his emotions. “Damn all telephones …!”

“I know what you mean,” Clancy said idly. “I’ve come to a point where I even dream about them. Telephones and telephone booths, both.” He looked at the curious expressions on the other two faces and nodded seriously. “I mean it. It’s absolutely true. I’ve had this same dream, almost, for the past two nights. About telephones.…”

He stopped suddenly, frozen. Later he was never able to say exactly where in his speech he saw the first break in the clouds. The telephone booth of his dreams suddenly materialized before him in his mind’s eye; and the corner of the street where Marcia Hernandez lived, and the fenced-in playground, and the wide steps of the Criminal Courts Building with Cervera advancing up the steps toward him, pistol flaming. He stared at the inspector with widened eyes without seeing him. “Telephones.… Holy Mary Mother of God!”

“What is it, Clancy?”

Clancy held up one hand unconsciously, warding off speech; his brain was racing, uncovering all the little problems that had been bothering him for so long. “Of course …!”

The inspector was bent forward, leaning over his desk, his eyes intent upon the other. “Clancy—what is it?”

Clancy came back from the faraway land of his jumbled thoughts. He was on his feet, hat clenched tightly in his hand, with no conscious memory of having arisen. “Inspector—can you spare me right now? I think I finally see … I’ve got things to do.…”

He turned and pushed through the door without waiting for an answer, his dark eyes gleaming. He did not acknowledge Lundberg’s open mouth with so much as the usual warning against flies; in fact without even the normal goodby. His voice boomed back at the men in the room, muffled by the already closing door.

“Kap! Let’s go!”

To Lieutenant Lundberg’s complete surprise, the inspector—instead of calling Clancy back peremptorily—merely leaned back in his chair and smiled across the desk at him. And then, to Lundberg’s even greater surprise, Inspector Clayton—albeit poorly from lack of practice—winked.…

Friday—10:20 A.M.

Clancy swung his old sedan into the curb, bringing it to rest alongside one of the street telephone booths that had played so great a part in both his waking and sleeping hours the past few days. He slid from the seat, leaving Kaproski to handle the irate traffic cop who was already on his way over from his intersection, ticket book in hand. Clancy pushed his way into the booth, fumbled a dime loose from the change in his pocket, and hurriedly dialed.

There was a brief wait, and then the telephone was answered by a familiar voice. “Hello?”

“Hello, Porky. Any word yet on the breakout?”

Porky Frank was both shocked and disappointed in Clancy’s tactics, and he made no attempt to disguise his feelings. “Mr. C.! You’re breaking all the rules of the game.…”

“I don’t have time for games today,” Clancy said testily. “Just give me answers.”

“Well, all right,” Porky said with resignation. “But it’ll cost you more. Or it would if I had anything for you. Which I don’t.”

“Nothing?”

“But nothing. Like zero. In fact, like the zero-zero at the bottom of the little wheel of fortune. I’ve checked around, and that breakout is as much a mystery to the big boys as it is to us common folk.”

“That’s how it goes,” Clancy said philosophically, and got down to the real reason for his call. “Porky, you know all the big-money boys in town, don’t you? The boys who loan dough on little or no security except maybe your right arm?”

“Mr. C.!” Porky said chidingly. “Isn’t the graft enough?”

“I’m not in a kidding mood right now, Porky,” Clancy said tighty. “Do you or don’t you?”

“Assuming you don’t mean the Chase Manhattan, or the First National,” Porky said, in no way brought down to size by Clancy’s outburst, “but guys like Manny Klopper and the Squeezer, I certainly do. Too well I know them. They’re the first-pay boys, and an honest bookie is always low man on the tote pole.…” He thought a second. “Hey, I just made a funny.…”

Clancy was not amused. “Yeah. Look, Porky, I want you to contact them and try to find something out for me. It’s a long, long shot, but it just may work. And when you get it—yes or no—I want you to send it over to my office by messenger. As soon as possible.”

“Have we given up meeting in bars?” Porky asked curiously. “For Lent? That was months ago.”

“I told you I don’t have time for games today,” Clancy said impatiently. “Now here’s the story, and the dope I’m looking for.…” He spoke rapidly but concisely into the instrument. Porky, at the other end, filed away the information in his sharp brain; his eyebrows raised as he listened, but he made no comment. Porky knew when to be cute and when not to be.

“Will do, Mr. C.,” he said softly when Clancy had finished.

“If there’s anything to find,” Clancy said.

“If there is we’ll find it,” Porky said, and hung up.

Clancy pushed through the doors of the booth and walked out to the car. He nodded to the traffic cop who was leaning on the sill, still gabbing with Kaproski about some department boxing matches they had both been in, and slid into the driver’s seat. The cop stood away with a friendly wave as Clancy put the car in gear and started down the street.

Kaproski looked over at the animated face of his superior. “Good news, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah,” Clancy said with profound satisfaction. “I think maybe pretty soon I can go back to sleeping in my own bed.…”

Friday—10:45 A.M.

Stanton was waiting patiently in Clancy’s office, relieving his boredom by flipping paper clips into the wastebasket from as far across the room as he could, which—in Clancy’s office—was not very far. So do the taxpayers of New York pay for departmental office supplies.… He had raised his arm and poised it carefully, preparatory to making a bull’s-eye, when Clancy came into the office, walking fast. Stanton depressed his arm, looked at the paper clip a moment and then slipped it into his jacket pocket as unobtrusively as he could.

Clancy dropped his hat and coat on a corner of the desk, significant in itself, and swung on Stanton before the larger man was even prepared for the question.

“Trenton, eh?”

Stanton stared at him. “What, Lieutenant?”

“I asked you where they met—Marcia and Lenny.”

Stanton would have liked to withdraw his notebook from his pocket for reference in standard fashion, but he knew the answer, of course, and he also knew that Clancy knew he knew it. He also sensed that this was no time for delay. “Ronkonkoma, Lieutenant. Lake Ronkonkoma, up on the Island. There was this picnic, see.…”

“The same thing,” Clancy said with quiet triumph. “Ronkonkoma or Trenton—the same thing.” He dropped into his chair without attempting to explain to Stanton why the upper part of Long Island and the lower part of New Jersey were similar. “Kap …!”

Kaproski came hurrying in from the corridor, recognizing the tone. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Is Gomez around?”

Kaproski nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Clancy stared at him. “Well, don’t just stand there! Get him!”

Kaproski started. “Oh. Sure, Lieutenant.” He hustled out into the hallway again. Clancy dragged out a cigarette and lit it, waiting for Kaproski to return with Gomez, reviewing the details in his mind. The two came in and lined up with Stanton before his desk, crowding the small office. Clancy nodded to himself in satisfaction and then looked up, his eyes bright.

“Boys, we’ve got work to do. Gomez, you’re going down to the license bureau, and then—if you find what I think you’ll find—you’re going to start visiting automobile dealers.…” He crushed out his cigarette and reached for a pencil, continuing to talk as he did so. The three men stared at him in amazement but made no comment. He scribbled some notes on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. Gomez looked at it; his eyebrows went up as he read it.

“I don’t understand, Lieutenant.”

“You don’t have to understand. Just check out this information. And call in as soon as you find anything. Or even if you find nothing.” He swung around. “Stan, you and Kap are going up to Ossining.…” He spoke for several minutes more, and again scribbled some notes on a piece of paper, pushing it across the desk. “Copies of hotel registrations, and of phone calls, if you can get them.…”

Stanton glanced down at the paper; he frowned and then nodded slowly. “If they still have them, Lieutenant.…”

“They’ll have them,” Clancy said with a confidence he was far from feeling. “Or at least let’s hope so. The phone company lists almost every call, nowadays.”

“But, Lieutenant,” Kaproski said protestingly, “I got to stick with you. Captain Wise—”

“I’ll handle Captain Wise,” Clancy said evenly. “You just do what I finished telling you.”

“But—”

“I’ll lock the door and sit here with a milk bottle in one hand,” Clancy said with withering scorn. “Look—if you can’t figure out by now that you can’t do any good here, then either I’ve been wasting my time talking, or you haven’t been listening.”

Kaproski looked at him. “Yeah.… That’s if you’re guessing right, Lieutenant.…”

“I’m not guessing,” Clancy said. “Now get going. And Stan, call in from Ossining. I don’t want to have to wait until you get back to get this information.”

“Right, Lieutenant.”

The three men filed from the room. Clancy reached over for the pile of reports in the in basket, brought them to the center of the desk, and began reading them carefully, seeing in them a different significance in view of his new idea. He read each report twice, slid them to one side, and dug out the previous days’ reports, reading them with equal intensity. When he finished he placed them to one side and pulled his pad closer, picking up his pencil, twiddling it a moment in thought, his eyes lost in some speculation that prevented him from seeing the scratched filing cabinets he was staring at. And then he began to write.…

The clock ticked quietly, relentlessly. Twice Gomez called; each time. Clancy nodded at the information he received, made some notes on his pad, gave further instructions, and returned to his work. At one o’clock he realized he was hungry, sent out for a sandwich, some buttermilk, and another pack of cigarettes, but the first bite of the sandwich convinced him he hadn’t been hungry after all. At two o’clock Stanton called the first time, his voice excited as he related his find. Clancy marked it down, gave further instructions and returned to work. At three o’clock an elderly Western Union messenger appeared, obviously none too pleased to be delivering messages to a police precinct, and was directed to Clancy’s office where he handed over an envelope with nothing but Clancy’s name and the precinct address on it. He stood on one foot, sneering to himself at the obvious poverty of the City as exemplified by the furnishings of the office, while Clancy slit the envelope open, read the message carefully, and then tipped him far more than he had ever expected from a public servant, and especially a lieutenant of police.

Porky Frank had, as usual, come through in fine style. Clancy nodded his head in satisfaction and went back to proving his case—on paper, at least.

Friday—4:15 P.M.

The clatter of Captain Wise’s large feet drumming down the rickety staircase of the precinct brought Clancy’s eyes up from his papers; the captain burst into the doorway, struggling to draw on his topcoat even as he moved.

“Clancy! Let’s go!”

“What’s up?”

“Blount! They just picked him up! He’s down at Centre Street.…”

Clancy had come to his feet at the first word. He rolled up his papers, thrust them into his pocket, and swept his hat and coat from the corner of the desk in the same motion.

“Bingo!” Clancy said happily, and followed Captain Wise down the narrow hallway. The captain checked his stride for a moment, speaking over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Except for the meshuga Cervera.…”

Clancy said nothing, but trotted down the steps after the captain. A squad car was waiting at the curb; the two men ducked into the back as the driver swung into traffic, siren screaming. Captain Wise suddenly seemed to wake up.

“Where’s Kaproski?” he asked.

“Wasting his time,” Clancy said with a broad grin.

“Wasting his time?”

“Yeah,” Clancy said. “Him and Stanton and Gomez. All wasting their time. You see, I didn’t know that Blount would be picked up.…” And he leaned back against the soft upholstery, his dark eyes gleaming.