4

At four o’clock that afternoon, a householder in the borough of Richmond decided to burn the stack of colorful crisp autumn leaves which he had laboriously assembled in the road in front of his house, before the growing cold wind could redistribute them. The fire caught beautifully; a billowing cloud of pungent white smoke rolled across the street, obscuring the vision of a laundry-truck driver—who, in any event, was traveling too fast for that speed zone. The driver attempted to slow down, to peer through the sudden wall of smoke, but by that time it was too late. He plowed into one parked car, caromed off, swerved blindly in panic, and crashed into a station wagon driven by a nervous mother bringing her youngest child home from nursery school. All three were injured, the mother seriously.

The homeowner eventually received a summons for burning leaves in the street without a permit. Had he been found guilty, the fine would have been ten dollars, but fortunately he had a brother-in-law who was acquainted with the Mayor’s secretary, so he got off with only a lecture.

Monday–4:55 P.M.

The telephone rang with startling suddenness. Clancy looked at it blankly a moment, shook his head to clear it of the previous thoughts that had been swirling in it, and pushed aside the report he had been studying. He reached across the battered desk and scooped the receiver to his ear.

“Yes?”

“Clancy?”

He recognized the voice and leaned back, relaxing. “Yeah.”

“Doc Freeman here. About that old man that was found dead in that house over on the Drive this morning …”

“Yeah.” Clancy reached for his pencil, inching a pad closer. For a moment he wondered what the stationery business would be without police lieutenants to consume their products, and then put the thought aside to pay attention to the thin voice coming to him over the wire.

“Well, it looks as if he received a sharp blow—a very sharp blow, I should judge—in the general area of—in your language—the stomach. Rather high, I should say; right under the rib cage separation. We opened him up and he had a chest cavity full of blood from a ruptured pulmonary artery.” Doc Freeman had sounded as if he had been reading from a report; now his voice assumed human proportions, and sad ones at that. “That old man was in sad shape, Clancy. I’d judge it didn’t take too much force to rupture that artery.”

Clancy was scribbling hastily, trying to keep up. He finished and leaned forward, twiddling his pencil as he spoke. “What about the bloody nose Stanton said he had? From a busted nose?”

“It was busted, all right. Smashed.” The doctor’s voice became almost pontifical. “About the nose, I’d judge that in all probability they were both caused by the same thing …”

“What?” Clancy interrupted in a disbelieving tone of voice. “Are you trying to tell me that his nose bled as a result of a ruptured artery in his chest?”

“No, no!” Doc Freeman sounded testy. “Damn it, Clancy—if you’d only let a person finish what they started to say! I mean, in all probability both were caused by the same weapon. At the very least I’d say they both occurred at the same time.” He couldn’t help but hedge. “Or at least, at quite approximately the same time.” He hesitated, trying to put his next words in a form that would be useful to the branch of service charged with the apprehension of those responsible for these things. “It looks as if he were jabbed with something—in the face, breaking the cartilage of the nose, and also in the stomach, rupturing the pulmonary artery and causing death.”

“I see,” Clancy said slowly. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placed it in the corner of his mouth, reaching for a match. His eyes were thoughtful. He lit the cigarette and tossed the match into a corner. “Do you have any idea of what that something might have been, Doc? The weapon, I mean?”

Doc Freeman hesitated; he hated to make a positive statement about something he wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of. “It’s a bit hard to say, Clancy. Something like an umbrella, maybe—or in all probability, something a bit thicker. The bruise area on the chest was very restricted and quite regular. Something as big around as a broom handle would be more likely, I’d say offhand. It’s hard to be more definite, Clancy.”

Clancy drew smoke deep into his lungs, leaned forward, and scraped ash into an ash tray. He leaned back, still thinking. “Could it have been a crowbar, Doc? The report says that the back door looked as if it might have been pried open. By a tramp, possibly.”

“It would depend upon what kind of a crowbar, Clancy. If he were poked with the sharp end of a standard crowbar—the kind used to open cases or boxes, for example—you could expect a more linear bruise. Or possibly even a lesion of the skin.” Doc Freeman sounded like an anatomy professor lecturing to a class, and not a particularly bright class at that. “And, of course, if the same tool were used to strike the face, an instrument like a crowbar should have done more damage …”

“The way I heard it,” Clancy said, “there was plenty of damage done to his nose.”

“Quite. But still, scarcely the damage one would expect from a metal instrument of the nature of a crowbar. Personally, I should be inclined to doubt that a crowbar was used.”

There was silence for several seconds. Clancy tried to think of other questions that might prove helpful, but just couldn’t. He sighed and shook his head. “Well, I guess that’s that, then. Thanks just the same, Doc. When will I get it in writing?”

“It’s being typed up by my secretary right now. Your precinct copy should be out there the first thing in the morning.” There was the briefest of pauses and then Doc Freeman added ingenuously, “In more technical language, of course. We have to maintain, protect, and advance the interests of our profession, you know.”

Clancy grinned at the telephone. “Too well I know. I only wish we could also maintain and protect our profession that easily.” An additional thought came to him. “Say, Doc—what about the clothes this guy was wearing?”

“I would judge they’re downstairs,” Doc Freeman said, never a man to make an unqualified statement. “When they come to me for examination, they’re baby-naked. And not particularly pretty. Do you want me to switch you down to Jimmy?”

“Please.”

Clancy waited while strange voices mingled unintelligibly on the line; it seemed to be a contest between the Bellevue operator and the AT&T. One finally dominated and the others, defeated, disappeared into the limbo of the ether. Clancy immediately recognized the high, inane voice. “Hello? Yes? Who’s this?”

“Jimmy? This is Lieutenant Clancy at the Fifty-second Precinct. That old man that Doc Freeman just finished doing a post on—what did you find in his clothes?”

Jimmy neighed. To the simple mind of the morgue attendant, something about the question seemed to strike him as comical. “That’s a rich one, Lieutenant. Did you see him?”

“No.”

The morgue attendant’s neigh drifted down to a giggle and then sloughed off into minor sniggers. It was obvious he had milked the joke for all it was worth. “Well, you should of had. This character has on long underwear, them old-fashioned kind with the buttoned trap-door in the seat; bedroom slippers each one a different kind and a different color; a pair of old patched Levi’s I don’t even know how he even got in them they was so small; one of them fancy-dan printed vests like them Mississippi card sharks used to wear in the movies; and then on top of everything else he has on one of them turtle-neck sweaters! I ain’t kidding. Like a college kid. And on a day as warm as this one, yet! Man; I wonder what he wears when it really gets cold! What a farce!”

“Hilarious,” Clancy said drily, and made a mark on his pad. “What did you find in his pockets?”

“Not much,” Jimmy said sadly. He sounded disappointed that the subject of the conversation did not lend itself to a continuation of the humorous vein. “In his pants pocket he had a rag I guess maybe he used sometimes for wiping his nose, and he had a key, maybe fits the front door. And in his fancy vest pocket he had a couple of coins.” His voice was somber. “That was the works, Lieutenant.”

Clancy leaned forward in sudden interest, crushing out his cigarette in the ash tray. “Coins? What kind of coins?”

“Foreign, I guess,” Jimmy said doubtfully. “Anyhow, not good old U.S.A. One of the boys on the stretcher gang down here knows something about them things, and he said these don’t have no special value. One of them was an English penny, I remember he said. Size of a lollipop.” The giggle came again, happy that the subject permitted it, and then faded dubiously. “I don’t remember what the other one was. Middle-size, I think. I can dig them out if you want, though.”

Clancy made a note on his pad and turned back to the telephone, making up his mind. “Jimmy, listen. Put those coins in an envelope and make out a receipt to the Fifty-second. In my name. I’ll have them picked up this afternoon or first thing in the morning.”

“Sure, Lieutenant. You want his other things, too?”

Clancy thought about it, twiddling his pencil. He came to a decision. “Yeah, all right; some of them. Send the sweater and the vest along, too. The rest of the things you can hold.”

“Right.”

“And thanks, Jimmy.”

“Any old time, Lieutenant,” Jimmy said airily, and hung up.

Clancy eased the receiver back on the bar; it responded to this unusually gentle treatment by ringing again, angrily. He picked it up with a look bordering on the desire to strangle it.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant? This is Kaproski. I finally got that cab downtown here, and I should of picked up fares for all the good the rush did. The lab guys won’t get a chance to go over it until tomorrow. I been waiting around in the hope they’d get busy on it, but two of them just got called out on a job, and the rest are all tied up. Plus it’s just about quitting time for the day crew—these guys work strictly union hours—and the night crew swears on a stack of bibles they’re loaded.”

Clancy shrugged at the phone. “Forget about it, Kap—tomorrow will do.” A thought came to him. “And listen, since you’re downtown, go over and see Jimmy at the morgue …” He hesitated. “Do you know which one he is?”

“Sure,” Kaproski said with confidence. “The goop.”

Clancy didn’t discuss it. “He has a package for me. Pick it up and bring it back.”

“Sure, Lieutenant. You going to be there when I get back?”

“Probably,” Clancy said. He looked at the papers piled on his desk. “With my luck, probably. But just in case I’m not, put the package in one of the drawers of my desk and I’ll get to it tomorrow. And then you can knock off for the day if you can manage to get by the front desk without getting tagged for somebody’s assignment who’s out with the flu …”

Kaproski chose to take the advice seriously. “Sure I can, Lieutenant. I can always go out through the garage.”

Clancy grinned. “You know,” he said slowly, “that’s what I like about the men of the famous Fifty-second Precinct. They’re intelligent.” He hung up, happy; the phone buzzed madly again. Clancy’s happiness faded as quickly as it had come. “For Christ’s sweet sake!” he muttered angrily and almost jerked the phone from his desk in his irritation; his voice showed his feelings as he barked into it.

“Now what!”

“Clancy? What’s got you all fermisht all of a sudden?” It was amazing how Captain Wise, with only a few words, could manage to identify himself, his character, his background in Brooklyn, and his intense feelings. Clancy relaxed, smiling.

“Hello, Sam.”

“So hello!” Captain Wise was still irked; he forced himself to simmer down. “So how’s it going?”

“How does it usually go around the Fifty-second?” Clancy asked, and immediately answered his own question. “Hectic; that’s how it goes around the Fifty-second.” He grinned at the receiver. “And where have you been all afternoon? At the movies?”

Captain Wise’s tone indignantly denied the allegation. “Movies? It should happen! I been in Inspector Clayton’s office, that’s where I’ve been. With half the precinct captains in town, plus a couple of wheels from the State Department, and about two-thirds of the local FBI. Or maybe nine-tenths. They’re really worried about this UN thing.” Captain Wise sounded equally worried. “The rumors are really flying.…”

“Rumors about what?”

“Maybe rumors isn’t the right word,” the captain conceded, as if happy to oblige. His voice became serious again immediately. “Only thing is, everyone is scared to death one of these foreign big-shots might get bumped off. There are about eight of them here in town now it could happen to—that we know of, I mean—and God alone knows how many more it could happen to that we don’t know of. And the eggheads from the State Department made quite a deal about how it was our responsibility to see to it nobody gets hurt.” Captain Wise sounded understandably aggrieved. There was a pause as a sudden memory returned. “Hell, Clancy; you know about it. I told you myself this morning.”

“I know you did, Sam,” Clancy agreed. He tilted his chair back and stared at the telephone. “My question is: what do all those brains expect us to do about it?”

“That they don’t say. All they say is, just see to it that nobody gets killed.”

“Great!” Clancy said in disgust. He brought his chair forward, leaning on the desk, tightening his grip on the receiver. “Sam, they’re crazy. They’re scared about the possible death of one out of eight or ten men. And I appreciate their feelings. The only thing is, we’re busy as hell worrying about a couple of men I know are dead, just in our precinct alone, and a lot more I know will be dead by tomorrow morning, if statistics mean anything! Not to mention all the other crimes that have taken place and are going to take place. Now, multiply that by the number of precincts in this city, and then you compare the problems! For Christ’s sake!”

“Look, Clancy,” Captain Wise said patiently. “Don’t argue with me; I’m on your side. Tell it to Inspector Clayton, or the State Department, or even the FBI. They’re the ones screaming, not me. Anyway, that’s not why I called.” There was a dead pause for several seconds and then the heavy voice changed, attempting subtlety. “We just finished with this meeting, Clancy, and Sarah’s coming downtown to meet me for dinner. I figured, maybe if you were free tonight, with nothing to do, you could meet me and Sarah at the restaurant and eat with us. You haven’t seen Sarah for ages. And also we could even talk a little, maybe.…”

Clancy stared at the telephone with a suspicion that slowly became a certainty. “Sarah’s meeting you? And you want me to join you for dinner?” He nodded in sudden sure knowledge. “And I don’t suppose that you—or Sarah—would like me to bring along a date so the whole affair won’t be too lopsided?”

There was a brief pause while Captain Wise cleared his throat self-consciously. “Actually, Clancy, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I think Sarah already arranged for somebody.…”

“And I suppose that somebody just happens to be named Mary Kelly?”

“As a matter of fact,” Captain Wise said, trapped, “I think Sarah did mention something about Mary Kelly.…”

Clancy opened his mouth to let loose a blast calculated to teach Captain Wise a lesson in minding his own business, and then shut it slowly. And just what was wrong with the invitation? What was wrong with eating a pleasant meal across a table from friends instead of trying to choke down another soggy sandwich at his desk at the precinct, or trying to eke out companionship from the sport pages of the evening newspaper in the terrible restaurants he normally frequented? Just what was wrong with spending the evening with human beings, old friends, rather than spending it switching endlessly from TV to radio to staring blankly out of the window of his small apartment and eventually giving it all up to toss and turn in a lonely bed? What was wrong with it? Actually, nothing.

“Sam, Sam,” Clancy said slowly. “Hold on to something. Get ready for a big surprise. I accept.”

“Clancy, you’re nothing but a stubborn Irisher! So what did I do so wrong asking you to eat dinner with me and Sarah? That’s a crime now? So what if Mary Kelly …?” There was a sudden silence on the telephone. “You accept?”

“Right,” Clancy said. “And I’ll even go so far as to thank you—and Sarah—for it. After today I’m ready for a decent meal with some friendly faces. Where do we meet?”

He could almost see the look of amazed disbelief on Captain Wise’s face; he could also well imagine Sarah’s reaction had the good captain been unsuccessful in his sales pitch. “At Luchow’s, Clancy—on Fourteenth Street. At seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” Clancy said, and glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll put my stuff away and still have time to go home and clean up and shave. And change my shirt.”

“And change your tie, too, Clancy.” Success had gone to Captain Wise’s head; he sounded almost dictatorial. “Put something on with a little leben so we’ll know you aren’t going to a funeral, God forbid. And while you’re at it, shine your shoes.”

“Right. I’ll …” Clancy paused and a very odd look crossed his face. He dragged his pad toward him, picked up a pencil, and made a note. He nodded at the pad in satisfaction. “That was a very good idea, Sam, about shining my shoes. I’ll remember that.”

Captain Wise stared at the telephone in his hand a moment in puzzlement, and then shrugged elaborately. “Of course, remember it,” he said. “And also don’t forget Luchow’s. At seven.”

“At seven,” Clancy agreed, and hung the telephone back on its hook. He stared at it a moment, waiting for it to ring again, but it remained obediently silent. “Good boy,” he said approvingly, and patted it nicely on its thin body. When even this inducement failed to cause it to shrill, he winked at it genially and started to pack his papers into his desk.