‘Now that makes sense,’ Isadore decided. ‘He wanted to get the girl’s money; that’s why he framed her old man. Don’t give me any of this hocus-pocus stuff.’
Roman and Isadore were making slow progress down Centre Street to department headquarters. Every time Isadore wanted to make a point he stopped and jabbed a stubby index finger into Roman’s arm. Pedestrians took second looks at the round policeman and the dark man with the patch on his head.
Roman snapped his fingers.
‘I never thought of that.’
Isadore scowled. ‘Sure. Well, you better think of this: Your testimony’s the only thing between those kids and a healthy sentence. They’re only out of trouble as long as you are, at least until the trial is over. So stay clean.’ His finger beat a tarantella on Roman’s shoulder.
Roman countered by whistling a mazurka. It gave him a headache, but it kept Isadore from asking any more questions. They went into headquarters and got on an elevator.
‘Lousy home life,’ Isadore relented. ‘That’s what did it. They wouldn’t have swallowed any of that stuff if they had good homes.’
The psychological explanation seemed to be a respectable compromise between Roman’s demon theory and the usual economic motivation. ‘Don’t give me any more tales about the devil. It’s not the sort of case breakdown that the captain likes.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I can’t say that a werewolf in the shape of this Howie tried to start a new wave of human sacrifices. It looks a little funny on the file cards. You’ll have to bear with us if we say Howard Washington Hale, thirty-two, mental discharge from the Marine Corps, schizoid, superior intelligence, tried to work a new racket. Okay?’
‘You’re the detective,’ Roman said as he ushered Isadore into his own office.
‘I keep reminding myself.’
They sat down, and Isadore pushed over a sheaf of papers for Roman to sign. Roman went over the statements word by word. Isadore glanced covertly at the men at the other desks. He took off his jacket, cleaned his fingernails and picked his teeth, but Roman didn’t hurry. Isadore even took his hat off. A few of the other officers were sitting up and smirking by now.
‘Will you sign one of these goddamn things?’ Isadore whispered. ‘You’re making a fool out of me. You’re on our side, remember?’
Roman didn’t fool about papers. He took his cigarettes and pushed them across the desk to Isadore. Isadore refused and shoved a stick of gum in his mouth. The damn Gypsy had the funniest quirks, he thought.
Isadore meditated upon society in general, on fathers and sons, Gypsies and non-Gypsies. The curious thing, he decided, was that the person who had come out best was Grey’s fellow antique dealer, Sloan. Charges dropped, daughter safe, troublesome girlfriend out of the way, insurance money paid.
‘This one isn’t for me,’ Roman said.
He handed one of the papers to Isadore. It was a bulletin from Boston, and Isadore wondered if some supernatural signal had prompted the thought about Sloan. The dealer was poisoned, a suicide in his workshop an hour after he was released. According to the first report, the dealer’s mouth and throat were covered with gold paint. Roman had written in the margin the word ‘orpiment.’
‘What does that mean?’ Isadore asked.
‘It means he became an antique. You see, some people do believe in magic.’
He started signing the papers. Isadore picked up the bulletin and got up to go to the teletype room, hoping that nothing else strange and illogical had happened. He crossed his fingers.