3

At two o’clock that afternoon, in the stiff breeze that had suddenly sprung up from the north, a policeman on his beat in the Bronx noticed a flower pot teetering dangerously from a window ledge on the third floor of a tenement. He entered the building and started to climb the steps. On the second-floor landing, as he prepared to make the turn, he ran into Charles Campbell, a fugitive from justice who had been hiding out in the building for several weeks, and who had been about to take some air on the roof. Campbell understandably thought the officer was after him; he drew a gun and shot the officer twice before making a dash for the stairway. The patrolman, from his position on the floor of the landing, thrust his service revolver through the railing and shot Campbell when he was about halfway down. The momentum carried the criminal to the bottom in a shuddering crash, his neck broken. The policeman’s wounds were relatively superficial, but in a Bronx precinct the duty roster was short the services of still another man for a period of over a month.

The flower pot later fell, shattering itself on the sidewalk. It did not strike anyone, but it frightened two bystanders half to death.

Monday–2:15 P.M.

Stanton was sitting in Clancy’s office, his hat thrust back on his head, his collar unbuttoned, his notebook spread open in his big hands. Like everyone else who reported to Lieutenant Clancy, he seemed to find the task easier if he tilted his chair back on two legs, angling it against the wall. Clancy had often thought that if he ever nailed the four legs of that chair to the floor, ninety per cent of his staff would merely sit in his office, tongue-tied.

Stanton was a tall man, as tall as Kaproski, but there the resemblance between the two men ended. Stanton’s hair was coal-black, dropping sharply to a pointed widow’s peak; his face was a series of wedged interposed planes, with a hatchet nose that separated wide-spread sharp black eyes. His voice was deep and slightly harsh. At the moment there was a frown upon his face that marked his forehead with deep V-shaped furrows.

“The damnedest thing you ever saw, Lieutenant,” he said wonderingly. “You’d have to see it yourself to believe it. Newspapers piled up in stacks all through the place, even in the bathroom. You can’t hardly walk through the halls. Junk? My good God! Telephone directories from the year one, from a dozen cities, plus tin cans, barrels, magazines, old stacks of flattened-out cartons he must get from the corner grocer, plus rags, cigar boxes.… You name it, he had it. Even the rooms that used to be bedrooms, upstairs. Jammed solid. One of them was even filled with empty orange crates—you know, them slat things they use for shipping oranges. It’s the truth. I’m telling you, you’d have to see it to believe it.” A faint smile crossed his thin lips. “I’ve seen it, and I still don’t believe it.”

Clancy was taking notes. “What was his name?”

“Willie McFadden.”

“How old?”

Stanton shrugged. “Hard to say. My guess, offhand, is middle or late fifties. Maybe older.”

Clancy glanced down at his notes. “You say even the bedrooms were crammed with junk. So the old man didn’t live there?”

“Oh, he lived there,” Stanton said. “Slept in the kitchen. He had an old couch there with the ends ripped off, and half a mattress with the stuffing sticking out all over. And a couple of blankets I bet ain’t been washed since he got them.” He thought about the kitchen a moment, repicturing it in his mind. “And he probably had to climb over a pile of junk to get to sleep every night, too.”

Clancy nodded and leaned back, twiddling his pencil idly. “Whereabouts on the Drive is it?”

Stanton named a cross street. “I didn’t even know they had any of them old houses left anymore,” he said. “Place looks like something out of a horror movie. I must have passed the place a hundred times since I’ve been in the precinct—hell, I drive by there every day—and I’d have sworn all them old houses had been torn down for apartments. But this one’s still there.”

Clancy marked something else down and then got down to the main business. “How was he killed?”

Stanton didn’t refer to the notebook in his hand; he closed his eyes a moment and then reopened them. “He was lying on the floor with his arms wrapped around his stomach, like he had a bad gut-ache, and his legs all pulled up. If he didn’t have that bloody nose—busted—we’d of probably figured he’d had himself a heart attack or something. But like I said, his nose was broken, smashed; blood all over his chin. Doc Freeman said he’d call you when he comes up with something.”

“Any chance he may have broken his nose falling? If he had had a heart attack, say?”

Stanton shook his head. “Not a chance. His nose was really smashed. Anyway, Doc will get the story.”

Clancy nodded. “So he was killed. Was there anything to show how the killer might have gained access to the house?”

“He could have broke in,” Stanton said. “The back door looked like it might have been pried open. Or it may have been like that since the place was built, for all we know. The windows weren’t touched; anyways, they’re all boarded up with planks that’ve been there a long, long time. All nailed shut. And not a sliver of glass in any one of them. But nobody came in that way.” He thought a moment. “Some tramp might have figured the place was deserted and bust in through the back. The old man could have started a fuss and the tramp could have popped him to shut him up. And popped him too hard.”

“A tramp?” Clancy’s eyebrows raised. “In that neighborhood?”

Stanton shrugged; the movement nearly unseated him. He caught his balance, leaning back again against the wall. “Hell, Lieutenant; after dark there ain’t any decent neighborhoods in this town anymore. You know that.”

“I guess you’re right,” Clancy said. He referred to the notes he had been scribbling. “Did he have any family?”

“We don’t know yet,” Stanton said. “But we will.”

“And was anything missing?”

Stanton’s shoulders went higher this time, his shrug more impressive. “To tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I don’t see how you could even tell in that joint. It’s a real junk heap; you’d have to see it to know what I mean. I went over next door and talked to the janitor of the apartment there, and he told me the old man was screwy. Harmless, but a real nut. He used to pick up any piece of junk he saw and cart it home. The janitor didn’t know the old man too well—I guess nobody did—but he said one day the old man was over there picking some empty tin cans out of the garbage, and I guess he was feeling friendly that day because he started to brag about a coin and stamp collection he had …”

“A coin and stamp collection?” Clancy sounded interested.

“Yeah,” Stanton said, “but so far we haven’t found a sign of either one.” He stared at his superior evenly. “Which doesn’t mean too much—they could be hidden in a million places in a joint like that. Plus which, we haven’t really looked yet.”

“Nobody’s looked around?”

“Not really,” Stanton said. “At least not yet. Timmons—he’s the beat patrolman—found the old man. The front door was open, first time since Timmons has been on the beat, so he figured he’d better check.” He thought a moment, his dark eyes half-closed. “Of course, the front door being open, maybe the old man let his killer in himself. Which means it could be a friend, except it sounds like he never had a friend. Or maybe the killer walked out that way afterwards.…”

“Maybe,” Clancy conceded, and waited.

“Anyway,” Stanton went on, “the boys from downtown are all through; I left Keller there until I get back. I figure to catch something to eat, because I haven’t had time up to now, and then bring back a sandwich for Keller and start hitting up some more of the neighbors while Keller goes through the place.” He shrugged. “For whatever good talking to the neighbors will do—they’re all pretty swanky apartments up that way. Probably don’t even know who lives in the flat next to them.” He glanced at his wristwatch and let the chair ease to the floor; he stood up, straightening his hat. “Anything special you want us to do up there, Lieutenant?”

Clancy laid down his pencil and swiveled his chair to face the drab canyon of the areaway. The afternoon sun, peeking over the parapet of the furthest roof, glanced in through the tall old-fashioned window of the small office, reflecting itself from the enamel of the worn filing cabinet; it gave the crowded room an almost cheerful look.

“Keep Keller there with you,” Clancy said. “I wouldn’t waste too much time on the neighbors—I’d be more interested in the house itself. Go over everything there. The old man had to live somehow—he didn’t eat out of the tin cans he picked up in the garbage. And see if you can find any trace of that stamp or coin collection.” A sudden thought struck him; he swung his chair back again, staring up at the tall man waiting beside his desk. “How about dust?”

“Dust?” Stanton frowned at him. “What about it? There’s plenty there, if that’s what you mean.”

“So if somebody knocked off the old man in order to go through the place looking for anything,” Clancy said patiently, “you may be able to see it in the dust. Or rather, in any marks he left in the dust.”

“It’s a thought,” Stanton said. He didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “The place is such a mess, I don’t know. Anyways, we’ll keep our eyes open.” He moved to the door, closing his notebook. “I’m catching a bite to eat at the Greek joint across the street, Lieutenant. Can I bring you something?”

“Yeah,” Clancy said evenly. “Bring me the guy who killed that old man. Toasted. On rye.”

“Huh?”

“You might bring me a cup of black coffee,” Clancy said wearily, remembering his lunch. “No cream, but plenty of sugar.”

“Oh. Right, Lieutenant.” Stanton raised one hand in a half-salute, tucked his notebook in his pocket, and walked from the room.

Monday–2:50 P.M.

Kaproski stuck his head in the doorway. “I got that cab out here in the garage, Lieutenant. I had a little trouble getting her started without the key—I had to jump the ignition, and on these new jobs that ain’t as easy as it used to be. Plus the fact that I had to keep proving to the loafers that come up that I carry a badge and that I wasn’t trying to swipe the damned thing …”

“Good,” Clancy said, interrupting the explanation a bit brusquely. “Let’s go out and take a look at it.” He started to push his chair back from his desk, preparatory to rising, when the telephone rang. He settled back; one hand went up to hold Kaproski in place while the other picked up the instrument.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant? This is the desk. I’m sorry to bother you, but I got a customer here won’t talk to anybody but the chief salesman. I don’t think Captain Wise would want to see him, and anyway,” the sergeant continued, in no way conscious of being illogical, “he ain’t here. He’s downtown at a meeting. What do I do?”

Clancy stared at the telephone and sighed. “Send him in.” He put the telephone back on the hook and motioned Kaproski to a chair. “Sit down and wait a moment, Kap. Somebody wants to see me.”

An old man appeared in the doorway, carrying a battered homemade shoe-shine box. There was great dignity to the deep-lined brown face; his clothes were old and worn, with leather knee-patches, but the attempt at neatness could be discerned in the clean shirt buttoned to the throat, and the highly polished wrinkled shoes. A mass of snow-white hair was combed evenly back from the broad forehead, framing large sorrowful eyes. He hesitated uncertainly in the doorway as if he were suddenly sorry he had come, but the weight of his problem drew him further into the room despite himself. His soft eyes went from Clancy to Kaproski and then returned to settle gravely on the man behind the desk.

“You boss?”

“Yes,” Clancy said, equally grave. “What’s the trouble?”

The old man looked about the small room carefully before returning his eyes to Clancy’s. He seemed to be subtly judging the chances of receiving help in this place.

“I been stole,” he said simply.

Clancy nodded his head, sliding his pad into position and picking up a pencil. “How much?”

The old man hesitated once more, as if fearful that the sum he was about to mention might not be believed, might even invoke jeering laughter. He swallowed nervously. “Seesteen dollar,” he said at last. The honesty of his black eyes staring straight at the man before him challenged anyone to doubt him.

Clancy merely nodded again. “Where did you keep it?”

This time the hesitation clearly showed the fear of revealing his hiding place to complete strangers, but memory that this hiding place could never again serve broke down his reserve. He lifted his shoe-shine box a trifle higher, his hand steady.

“Here. Ol’ empty can polish.”

“When did you miss it?”

“Now. I look. I don’ know why. Money gone.”

“I see.” Clancy glanced down at his pad and then back up again. “Do you have any idea who might have taken it? Or when it might have been taken?” This was received with a steady metronome-like shaking of the head. Clancy frowned. “Has the box been out of your hands at any time?”

“No. I sit on her when I work. Else I hold her.” The brown hand lifted the box again as if to demonstrate.

“Do you live alone?”

“Wit’ gran’son.” A shadow of alarm crept across the old man’s face as he foresaw the possible direction the interview might take. He shook his head violently. “But he’s no take it. He’s good boy, never in trouble …”

“How old is he?”

“I tell you he’s no take it! Somebody else he’s take it.” He swung his head away as if by breaking the common glance with Clancy he might also somehow break the ugly fabric of suspicion that was being woven. He swallowed. “He’s go school, study hard. Someday he’s grow up be big man. He’s no take it.”

“Yeah.” Clancy sighed. “Sure. Your name?”

“Martinez. Raúl Martinez.”

“And where do you live, Mr. Martinez?”

“Hunnerd and two Street. Twel’hunnerd seesty, wes’ side. Nom’er B.”

Clancy marked it down. His eyes came up to those of the old man standing rigidly in front of him, his hands locked on the handle of his shoe-shine box. Clancy hesitated a moment. “All right, Mr. Martinez. We’ll look into it. We’ll try and find your sixteen dollars. Try not to worry about it.”

The old man shrugged with a fatalism that had been ingrained for years. He hadn’t really expected any help from these strangers; it was only his sudden panic at discovering his colossal loss that had brought him in a rush to the precinct house. He stood for a moment, seeing nothing of the room or its occupants, seeing only the size of his loss and the things he needed the money so desperately for; then he turned and walked from the room almost blindly.

Stanton, coming in, pulled his bulk to one side to let the old man pass, stared after him a moment in frowning thought, and then came in, carrying a damp paper bag. He set the bag gingerly on one corner of the desk and jerked his head curiously toward the door. “What’s old Martinez doing here?”

Clancy slit the stained bag up one side and removed a sodden cardboard container with a loose cover. He looked at the container dubiously and then wiggled the cover loose, dropping it into the waste-basket at his feet and wiping his fingers.

“Martinez?”

“The old man with the shoe-shine box. What’s his trouble?”

Without the support of the cover, the container almost collapsed in Clancy’s hand. “You know him?”

“Sure. He shines shoes in front of Haley’s Cigar Store over on Amsterdam. He’s okay—a good joe.”

The coffee was barely warm and had a faintly oily taste. It also tasted more than a little of cardboard. Clancy shuddered, wrinkling his nose. “Know his grandson?”

“Also. Unfortunately. What’s the beef?”

Clancy shoved the coffee to one side as being patently impossible and returned his attention to Stanton. “The old man claims he’s missing sixteen dollars he had hidden in his shoe-shine box. In an old empty can of polish. And he wasn’t rolled or anything like that. And the box wasn’t out of his sight.” Stanton snorted; Clancy looked at him curiously. “What’s the matter? Don’t you believe it?”

“Sure I believe it,” Stanton said in disgust. “If old man Martinez said it, of course I believe it. I never knew him to lie. But this is a mystery? Hell! His punk grandson took it when the old man was sacked in one night. Who else?”

“The old man doesn’t think so.”

Stanton looked at Clancy with deep pity. “The old man wouldn’t think so if he caught the kid with his grubby paws in the box. The old man wouldn’t think so if the kid told him so himself. The old man thinks the sun rises and sets on that punk grandson of his.” He sighed in disgust, shaking his head, and then brought his mind back to the business in hand. “Well, anyway, I’m on my way. Keller caught me before I went out—he managed to get something to eat, so I don’t have to bring him nothing. He’s waiting for me at the house. We’ll give it a real shakedown this time. Anything else, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah.” Clancy frowned a moment in thought and then glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s a bit late today, but tomorrow afternoon I want you to stop by the school when it lets out and bring in young Martinez.” He looked up at Stanton. “Do you know where he goes to school?”

“He goes to Wilson High,” Stanton said in a stunned voice, “but my God! We’ve got a hundred important things on the fire, Lieutenant, and what with the UN and the guys out sick we’re short-handed as hell right now!”

“So now we’ve got a hundred and one things on the fire,” Clancy said evenly. “Tomorrow. Bring him in. After school.”

“But, Lieutenant! For sixteen lousy bucks …!”

Kaproski had been listening quietly from one corner of the room. Clancy allowed his glance to flicker between the two men; he swiveled his chair, staring out of the darkening window at the shadows formed by the dirty tenements, and the dim outline of clothes waving above like ghostly birds tethered to the invisible line.

“Where do you draw the line?” he asked quietly, as if he were really asking himself, as if he would really like to have an honest answer to his question. “And when do you draw it? When they graduate from stealing from grandparents and start on strangers? When they move up from petty pilfering to grand larceny? When they give up using rocks and fists and start on guns and knives? When they finally get around to killing somebody?”

“But look, Lieutenant …”

“If the National Bank over on Columbus was robbed of sixteen thousand dollars, or sixteen hundred dollars,” Clancy asked stonily, “would it make a case?”

“Well, sure, of course, but …”

“If Haley’s Cigar Store over on Amsterdam was knocked off for a hundred and sixty bucks, or a hundred and sixty cartons of cigarettes—would we be right to send a man around to check into it?”

“Sure, but look, Lieutenant …”

Clancy swung his chair around suddenly, savagely. His voice was bitter, biting; his eyes were gray chips of flint. “So I ask you—where do you draw the line?”

Kaproski always felt nervous when people around him, people that he liked and respected, got too serious. He cleared his throat a bit self-consciously.

“Look, Lieutenant,” he said helpfully, “we could raise the sixteen bucks for the old man just around the precinct house here. Most of the guys know old Martinez and like him; they’d all be willing to chip in.” He paused and then added, as if in explanation, “If the kid took it, it’s probably gone into the pool tables by now, anyways.”

Clancy looked at him with mounting irritation. “This is a police station,” he said coldly. “If that kid swiped sixteen bucks or sixteen cents, I want to see him.” He turned back to Stanton; one finger came up for emphasis. “I said if he swiped it. Which means that when you pick him up, you do it quietly. With no fuss. None of the other kids at the school need to know anything about it.”

“What I’m trying to get at,” Stanton said patiently, “the old man won’t prosecute anyways, so why bother?”

“Look, Stanton,” Clancy said in a tone of utter finality. “That old recluse that got killed this morning over on the Drive—that Willie what’s-his-name—he won’t prosecute, either.” He picked up the container of cold coffee and dropped it into the waste-basket in a sudden burst of anger. “God damn it! I said I want to see that Martinez kid tomorrow afternoon, and I mean I want to see him!”

Stanton still attempted one more evasion. “All right, Lieutenant, but there’s no school on Saturday. How’s about waiting …?” One look at Clancy’s face and he hastily swallowed the balance of the words. “Yes, sir. Tomorrow afternoon, Lieutenant.”

“Anyway,” Clancy said tightly, “I’d like to see the kind of kid—face to face—that an old man like Martinez breaks his back for.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

“Sure, Lieutenant!” Clancy mimicked bitingly, and pushed himself abruptly to his feet, turning to Kaproski. “All right, Kap. Let’s take a look at that cab of yours.…”

Monday–3:40 P.M.

The two men walked side by side down the dingy corridor of the precinct, turned at the end, stepped down one step, and pushed through a swinging door that led to the precinct garage. There was the always-present odor of gasoline and oil in the almost-deserted space; a pair of feet were angled out from beneath a jacked-up patrol car that had the hood raised as well. The owner-Yellow taxi was angled in towards a cluttered workbench that ran alongside the far wall of the garage. Clancy walked over to it, his heels echoing on the bare concrete. He surveyed it a moment and then swung open the door at the driver’s side, sticking in his head. He withdrew it at once, turning to Kaproski with a frown.

“It’s got a glass partition between the front and the back,” he said. “That’s not standard.”

“Some of the boys have been having them added,” Kaproski said. “It’s bullet-proof glass. Ever since they been knocking off hackies lately.”

“Oh.” Clancy stared at the sliding glass. “I’ve never seen one before.” He shrugged and moved his attention to the complicated dashboard, automatically comparing the battery of shining instruments with the ones that graced—or rather, didn’t grace—his own ancient Chevy. He shook his head. “They’re making these things more like jet airplanes every day. Next they’ll put kitchens in them. How did she run?”

“Like a dream,” Kaproski said enthusiastically. He enclosed a circle of air between his thick forefinger and thumb. “Which, after all, she should. She’s brand new, practically.”

Clancy nodded, studying the speedometer. “Not many miles on her, even for a new cab—if that’s the speedometer and not the altimeter. We can check her actual age with the agency, but I’d say it’s at least a few months old.” He frowned speculatively. “It seems to me that a cab that was worked normally for even a few months in this town should run up more miles than this one shows.”

Kaproski looked at his superior a moment and then nodded slowly in understanding. “I get what you’re driving at, Lieutenant. You don’t think that Caper Connelly ate off what he earned hacking this job.” He shrugged. “Well, we more or less knew that before …”

“I don’t know what I mean myself,” Clancy said shortly. “Maybe he was just lazy. Or maybe he was subject to car-sickness. It just seems odd, that’s all.” He studied the other instruments a few minutes longer and started to swing the door shut; then he paused. “Anything in the glove compartment?”

“Registration and a city map. And a book that lists all the restaurants and fancy night clubs. And a flashlight and a screwdriver. Oh, and some gook to clean the windshield. The usual junk.” Kaproski reached over to take the door handle from Clancy. “You want I should get it?”

“Leave it for now,” Clancy said.

He moved to the rear door and opened it, looking in at the new plastic upholstery of the interior. There was even a new smell to the car. His eyes took in the floor-mat and the clean deck back of the tufted seat. There was nothing unusual. He was about to close the door again when a sudden throught struck him. The dome lights hadn’t lit when he opened the door. He reached up inside the padded frame and found the light switch, flicking it up and down several times. He frowned.

“Yeah,” Kaproski said, noticing the action. “I saw that, too. The inside lights don’t work. And somebody swiped the ash tray, too, it looks like—the one on the back of the front seat.” He leaned over, pointing. “The arm ash trays are here.”

Clancy continued to flip the unresponsive light switch up and down. “Queer that the lights don’t work on a new cab …”

“They don’t build them to last nowadays,” Kaproski said with profound disgust. “They build them to sell and after that to hell with you! Same thing with appliances. My mother went out and bought herself a new refrigerator a month ago, and already …”

“Yeah,” Clancy said, and stepped back, swinging the heavy door shut behind him. He continued to stare at the empty interior of the car through the clear glass window, and then made up his mind. “Kap, take her downtown. I want the lab boys to go over her.”

“For what, Lieutenant?”

“For luck,” Clancy said shortly. He looked at his wristwatch. “And give me a ring when you’re ready to leave downtown, in case something comes up and I need you.”

“Sure, Lieutenant,” Kaproski said equably. He climbed into the driver’s seat, then suddenly remembered he had no ignition key and climbed out again. He raised the hood, clipped two already prepared wires together, slammed the hood down again hastily, and hopped back inside in time to press down urgently on the accelerator and catch the weakly gasping motor. The engine caught and roared enthusiastically. Clancy backed away. Kaproski rolled down the window and leaned out.

“How’s that for a hot motor, Lieutenant? Hey, is it all right if I pick up some fares on the way downtown?” He grinned. “Christmas is coming and every little bit helps …”

Clancy grinned back and shook an admonitory finger; Kaproski raised a shoulder in supplication to the powers in whose hands the benefits of moonlighting rest, smiled, and backed up. He shifted gears expertly, swung the wheels, and drove out of the garage with a burst of power. Clancy stood staring at the empty garage doors a moment in deep thought, and then turned in the direction of his office. He noted, as he passed, that the feet sticking out from beneath the disabled patrol car had not seemed to move since he and Kaproski had first entered the garage.

If I hang around much longer, he thought, I’m just apt to hear a snore, and not wanting to hear a snore, I’d better not hang around much longer. He pushed through the door that led back to the precinct corridor, his ears blissfully deaf.