CHAPTER 22

The Girl in the White Jaguar

Someone who knew what a chisel was made for had been prying open automobile windows in the east fifties, mostly near hotels where out-of-town visitors parked on arrival and left their bags. It sounded like a team of three, two to get into the car quickly and a third in another car to pick up the loot. Bauer mentioned it when the afternoon tour gathered in the squad room.

“They haven’t hit for five days and they’re about due. They may figure the rain’ll help them. Lee, you and Neill cruise as far up as Fifty-seventh. Take your meal period after nine, because they haven’t been doing anything after nine o’clock. Harry, you and Al do the same about Fifty-seventh until you get a call.”

For the next hour Lambert and Ryan shuttled back and forth in a well-worn Plymouth sedan through wet, shiny side streets from Fifth Avenue to Third, saying little, listening whenever the hoarse radio rasped into communication. They had worked together long enough so that they did not have to say much. Lambert was driving, inching and stopping and inching again through the dense traffic of a gloomy, rainy afternoon. They both scanned the parked cars for luggage that would attract thieves.

A frustratingly long line of cars had halted them in Fifty-second Street when Lambert touched Ryan’s arm. Twenty-five yards ahead of them two men in dark overcoats were standing, hardly sheltered from the rain, against the wall of a building. In front of the two men a yellow Cadillac convertible was parked. One of them kept looking down the street in the direction from which Ryan and Lambert had come.

Lambert said mildly, “They seem to like it in the rain.”

Ryan unlatched his door. “Probably their car’s behind us,” he said, and slipped out of the Plymouth. He walked back a few car lengths, then reached the sidewalk. From here he could not see the men so well; a restaurant’s well-lighted canopy over the street interfered with his vision.

The traffic in the street began to crawl again, taking Lambert with it. Ryan studied the cars coming up behind. Two cabs, then a glossy Buick fresh from a garage, then a small white sports car—it would be none of those.

But behind the white Jaguar were two nondescript sedans. Ryan strolled toward the bright canopy and the two men beyond it. The Jaguar had pulled up before the restaurant canopy and the garage attendant who had delivered it took the parking slip from the doorman on duty. Ryan looked again for the two men; one had walked over near the Cadillac and was still looking west down Fifty-second Street. The first sedan had gone past, but the second one blinked its lights.

This looked good. And by now Lambert must be at the corner.

Ryan moved forward—and collided with the doorman coming out of the restaurant, hurrying with an open umbrella. “Watch it, Mac,” said the doorman. Immediately behind him came a copper-haired girl in a new, glossy fur coat with a film-like rain cape over it. She was followed by a hatless man in a gray sport jacket. He was laughing. “Thanks, Joe,” he said to the doorman. A dollar bill appeared between their hands.

The doorman opened the Jaguar’s door and held the umbrella over it. Ryan forced his mind away from the fact that she was the girl who had just told him she hadn’t seen Sandalwood lately. He made himself look ahead. The two men were near the Cadillac.

He hurried across the bright canopy. She was getting into the little car’s jewel-like interior. The second sedan that had blinked its lights had stopped alongside the Cadillac. The two men walked around the Cadillac without touching it and started to get into the sedan. Ryan came up behind them.

“Where you been?” said one.

“Ethel made me drive her to the employees’ entrance,” said the driver. The door closed on them.

Ryan walked up to the corner where Lambert had pulled in near a hydrant.

“False alarm.” He got back into the car.

“Next time lucky,” said Lambert.

So she couldn’t wear that coat out in the rain, huh?

* * * *

Ryan called in at nine to say that everything was quiet and that they were taking their meal period at the Polish sausage restaurant. All evening he had fought the thought of Gee Gee and Sandalwood being together. Sergeant Weiner said, “Wait a minute. Your mother phoned and said to tell you Connie called.”

“Who?”

“Connie. She said you had called her earlier.”

“I get it.”

“Call her at this number.”

He kept Lambert waiting while he called the barber. “Connie? This is Ryan.”

“Yeah. About that party you were asking about. He left town in November. Quite sudden.”

Ryan’s worry and weariness left him. “What date was that?”

“I can’t get it exactly, not so far. I’ll keep tryin’. But it was well before Thanksgiving. Because he paid a—a person I been talkin’ to some money he had owed him a long time. This person says it was about two weeks before Thanksgiving. I looked that up on a calendar. Thanksgiving came on a Thursday.”

“It usually does.”

“Yeah? Well, this one was Thursday the twenty-fifth.”

That could figure. If Mackie had done it and had heard of Derby’s immediate arrest he would feel relieved. Naturally. But after a few days he would start worrying. He would wonder if the cops weren’t putting out a newspaper phony to lull the real killer… Then he might worry himself right out of town.

“How much did he owe this person?”

“Two hundred bucks. He paid him only a hundred, though.”

God! This was coming too fast. Derby had still had the hundred dollar bill.

“You know this Mackie?”

“A little. I used to box at his place.”

“Box?”

“His joint is part Turkish bath and part health club. Or it used to be. A few fighters trained there, prelim boys and like that.”

“Remember any of them? Or do you know anyone who might have heard from him recently?”

“I dunno who’d of heard from him. The old man who helps him. Or that screwy kid who gives out the towels, maybe. I dunno who else. I hear when he left, Mackie said he was going to visit his mother in Chicago.” Connie sniggered. “I’ll bet she lives in a kennel.”

“Who else did he know?”

“I’m telling you, boss, I don’t know. I ain’t seen Mackie in three years myself. Maybe five. Today—hey, I know one. And you do too. That guy who’s gonna burn in Sing Sing.”

“Who?”

“That guy Derby,” said Connie. “What’s his name—Harry Derby? The one who killed the old lady. Sure. He wanted to be a fighter. I’ve gone more than a few rounds with him at Mackie’s. Mean, he was. But Mackie always thought he’d make a fighter.”

Ryan said, “Can you think of anyone else?” but it was only habit. He didn’t listen to the answer.

When he climbed into the car, Lambert said, “They had something for us, huh?” disappointedly. He was hungry.

“No. I had to call home. Sorry.”

But when they were both seated in the restaurant, Ryan could not think of food. All he could think of was Sandalwood and Gee Gee, and how little time he must have left, and the facts Connie had given him that twirled and flittered in his mind like a deck of cards in a gale.

“Lee, do me a favor? I’m not hungry. And I’ve got an errand to run.”

“Sure,” said Lambert. Ryan had had a phone call. He was a nice-looking kid and unmarried. “Better gimme an address.”

Ryan knew what Lambert thought, but it didn’t matter. He gave an address twelve numbers away from the Derby apartment. “Blow two long and two short if we get a call.” He would be able to hear it from that close.

“I won’t unless I have to,” Lambert grinned.

* * * *

She said, “What I don’t understand is why the fingerprint at the drugstore didn’t tell the police right away that Harry committed the—that robbery.” She was sprawled back on the day bed in the tight slacks. Her hair was pulled tight in a pony tail. She looked young and thoughtful.

“Everyone thinks fingerprints are a big thing,” said Ryan. “Actually they’re valuable mostly after you’ve made the collar. If even a partial print is found at the scene, and then you make an arrest, you can tell fast whether the suspect is your man. But what good is one fingerprint in itself? Individual prints are not classified by themselves. The whole system of fingerprint identification is based on getting a complete set—it’s only the habitual criminal or specialist whose individual fingers are classified. Say you go over a safe job and find one left thumbprint. You look at the file of left thumbprints of habitual box men. Then maybe you make it.

“But we can’t file and classify all ten prints of every guy who ever hit a drugstore. If Harry had been arrested in the drugstore job, then that print would have helped us make him fast. But no one could go through all the sets of prints on file downtown to find one that matched. It would take forever. Don’t put your trust in fingerprints. For one thing we don’t often find them, no matter what you see on television.”

He sipped the Coke she had insisted he take, and which he had accepted because he knew she wanted to be a thoughtful hostess. Ken would be home soon, she had said. Ryan was glad he wasn’t there now.

“What I really wanted to ask you about,” he said, “was what you might remember of the day that—that Mrs. Connors was murdered. And also about a guy named Mackie.”

“Mackie?”

“Big Mackie, he’s usually called. He runs some kind of athletic club near Fifth Avenue. Ever hear Harry mention him?”

“I don’t think so. Harry tried boxing once, though, ten years ago or so. Maybe Ken would know. He’ll be along any minute.”

“I can’t stay much longer.” He looked at his wrist. “One other thing. I wish you would tell me everything you can remember that happened here the day of the murder.”

“Happened? Here?”

“I won’t try to explain. Please.” He was oppressed by time’s swift passing.

“Well.” She drew on her cigarette and considered. “Harry was staying with us then.”

“Didn’t he always?”

“Harry came and went. Sometimes he roomed alone. Sometimes he—he stayed with a friend.” Ryan caught the intonation’s meaning. “When he was broke he often came here for a few days or a week at a time. He slept on this couch.”

Ryan listened to a car braying outside. It wasn’t a Plymouth.

“That’s how it was that day. I remember Ken woke Harry up when he was getting ready to go to work, and Harry got mad. I remember him swearing he’d find some other place to stay where he could get a night’s sleep. But they’d been arguing the night before; this was just a continuation.”

“What about?”

“The night before? They’d argued about money. Harry had some sort of chance to buy into a little gum vending machine business. He could have swung it with five hundred dollars. He wanted Ken to lend it to him.”

“And Ken wouldn’t?”

“Ken didn’t have it. He helps keep this place going. And he’s got a girl who—who likes to go out and spend money.”

How about you? Ryan wondered. Don’t you ever want to go out and spend money? Or is your whole life just looking clean and working in a library?

She misinterpreted his look. “Really, I know Ken didn’t have it,” she said emphatically. “If he had, he’d have loaned it to Harry. He was awfully anxious for Harry to go straight. It—they had a strange relationship, Ken and Harry. They liked each other and sometimes I’ve thought each one took a kind of vicarious pleasure in the other’s goodness or badness. Harry was proud of Ken, I know. He used to kid him about looking like a traffic cop in his uniform. And I suppose Ken sometimes admired Harry’s wildness.”

“Yeah. What else happened that day?”

“Well, I straightened the house and got breakfast—Ken leaves a lot earlier than I do—than I did. I didn’t get to work until ten. So I made breakfast for Harry and me, and Harry was still here when I left. That’s the last I saw of him. You—you arrested him that night.”

“Did he get any phone calls that morning? Or the night before?”

“No.”

“Or have any visitors?”

“No. He and Ken just argued.” She said it matter-of-factly, but in that monotone Ryan heard the shouts and curses that had echoed in these quiet walls.

“That’s how they always were. Emotional. Pulling and tearing and yanking at each other. And liking each other underneath. Ken wanted to borrow Harry’s jacket that day—his uniform was at the cleaner’s. Harry told him to—to go to the dickens.” Ryan could imagine what Harry had said.

“The checkered jacket?”

“That’s right.”

Hell, thought Ryan. What was he getting—a stronger case against Harry? In these few minutes he had confirmation that Harry had needed money that day, was in an ugly mood and had his telltale jacket. “Tell me this. Did you ever see a cuff link like this?” He took it from his wallet.

She looked long and carefully. “No. I never did.”

“Harry never had cuff links like that?”

“No. I don’t ever remember seeing them.”

Outside a Plymouth honked, then honked again. The apartment door opened.

“Ken?”

“Hi, kid. How’s tricks. I just got a big—” He caught sight of Ryan. “Well, well.” He grinned and held out a hand. “Hi. I’m sorry about the other night. Any hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.”

Ken Derby pulled off the black whipcord jacket, unclipped the shiny leather bow tie from his shirt collar, and unbuttoned the collar. Then he rubbed his jaw. “That’s quite a right you got,” he said amiably. “Quite a right.”

“Thanks. I was lucky, too.”

“How about food, Rosie? Listen, I know a good right when I see one. I used to box. I still follow the fights on television.”

“Where’d you box?”

“Down at Mackie’s. With Harry.”

Ryan had a sense of things falling exactly into place.

Rosemary said, “There’s liver and bacon.”

“Mackie’s?”

“That’ll be fine.” Ken looked at Ryan. “This’d be a long time back.”

The Plymouth honked again.

“You familiar with Mackie’s?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Something began taking shape in Ryan’s mind. “I’m working to try to clear your brother.”

“So Rosie told me. If I can help…”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“If it’ll help Harry,” said Ken doggedly, “I can keep my mouth so damned shut—”

“Good. Because there’s a chance—just a bare chance, according to some information I have—that this guy Mackie killed the old lady Harry got sent up for.”

Ken’s expression was eloquent. “Listen. If that’s so and I can help prove it—”

“It’s a long shot, and besides I’ve still got a lot of things to check.” He waited for another bleat from the car below. “I understand Mackie has living quarters above his joint, right?”

“He used to have an apartment on the third floor.”

“Could you draw me a plan? And show me how to get into the living quarters?”

Ken Derby put hands on knees and leaned forward earnestly. “Listen. I know the joint and I’ll draw all the plans you want. If you’re trying to spring Harry, there’s nothing you can’t ask me.”

Finally it came, a loud impatient entreaty.

Ryan jumped guiltily. “I’ve got to go. Listen, draw that plan. Although I can’t get back for it until after midnight.”

“You come any time you want,” said Derby. He held out a hand. “It’ll be ready and so will I. If getting into Mackie’s joint will help, you’re as good as in.”

“Okay,” said Ryan. “I just want to frisk it. Okay. But keep your mouth shut.”

When he reached the street a tawny Plymouth convertible was panting at the curb across the way. The boy in it leaned impatiently on the horn. Lambert was nowhere in sight. Ryan grinned. This half hour had been better than food.