7

The rain finally came Tuesday night. It came like an avenging army, brutal and ruthless, attempting to sweep all before it in a seething explosion of blind power. Sheets of churning water, forged on the black anvils of the angry sky, battered the ramparts of the city, determined on victory, slashing at the traffic lights swinging wildly in a vain attempt at escape, roaring down on the canyons of the city, drumming in mad frustration at the locked windows of the buildings. It stormed down in wave after wave, whipping its own froth from the cringing streets, clattering through gutters and bubbling violently as it fought the twisting tunnels leading to the river. The river took it all in stride, remaining calm. It had seen worse storms before and would again.

However, for the time of the storm, at least, tragedy left the streets, but only the streets. In a borrowed tenement flat, two fifteen-year-olds—opposed by their parents in their love affair—lay fully clad upon a bed, their hands clasped tightly, their eyes locked one with the other. The steady hiss of gas was lost in the noise of the storm.

When they were found in the morning, the rain had settled down to a steady drizzle, and the temperature had fallen almost twenty degrees in less than twelve hours. It was necessary to break their fingers in order to separate the two thin bodies.

Wednesday–11:10 A.M.

Stanton came into Clancy’s office, shaking water from his raincoat. He took off his hat and swung it in a violent arc; Kaproski, from his tilted stance on a chair against the wall, nearly lost his balance in attempting to avoid the spattering drops. He glared at Stanton balefully; Stanton merely grinned and replaced his hat on his head.

“A beautiful day,” he said. “For scuba divers.”

“A beautiful day for policemen,” Clancy said. “If this rain keeps up maybe we can get caught up a bit.” He spoke in the tone of one who had been indoors that morning long enough to get dried out. “What’s new at the house over on the Drive?”

Stanton stripped off his raincoat and hung it from the top edge of the open door. He drew up a chair and straddled it, brought out his notebook but made no attempt to open it.

“I haven’t been out there this morning,” he said. “I was downtown like you said. But I talked to Keller. He’s finished with the telephone books. Nine hundred and some-odd bucks, not counting the four hundred and twenty I brought in yesterday. Keller’s starting on the magazines, but so far they look clean. My guess is the newspapers are a waste of time; I can’t picture even a nut like Willie ducking money in newspapers.”

“How about stamps and coins?” Clancy asked.

“I asked him. He hadn’t run into any more stamps, but when he gets through with the magazines he’ll start hitting the rest of the junk. On the coins he says no dice. At least so far.”

Clancy frowned. “What about the stamps you found yesterday?”

Stanton opened his notebook, flipping through a few pages. “Junk. Pretty paper. The boys downtown haven’t had a chance to go through them in detail, but the first run-through sure didn’t impress them.” He looked up, his finger tucked into his place in the notebook. “You want the rest of the stuff I dug up downtown?”

Clancy nodded and leaned back. Stanton started to shove his hat further back on his head from force of habit, grimaced at the damp feel, and returned his attention to his notebook. He flipped another page and found what he wanted.

“Well, to begin with, Records says the house was in Willie’s name, free and clear. Taxes are paid every year from the estate by a law firm downtown—Ryder, Blasius, and Gordon. His father set up the deal in his will, way back in 1918.” He looked at the other two with attempted innocence, anticipating their reaction to his next announcement. “Remember yesterday when I said I couldn’t figure Willie for a guy anybody would try to borrow from?” He waited for their answer, his eyes bright.

“We remember,” Clancy said at last, weary of waiting.

“Well,” Stanton said, “it just goes to show how wrong a guy can be. For your information, Willie had a slight bank account—of a little better than six hundred thousand bucks.” Kaproski whistled in disbelief. Stanton nodded, pleased with the anticipated result. “Yeah. Six hundred grand. He was a real nut, living like a bum with all that scratch in the bank …”

Clancy frowned. “Did he leave a will?”

Stanton returned to his notes. “The law firm says that Willie never bothered to make a will. They were trustees for the old man, Willie’s father. Willie got one hundred dollars on the first of every month. I guess when his old man set that up it looked like a lot of money; anyway, it was never changed. The lawyers say that Willie never asked for any more.”

“The economical type,” Clancy said dryly. “What else?”

Stanton flipped a page, studied his scribbling and then looked up. “A little more on Willie, for whatever good it does. He’s been a pack rat all his life, ever since he was a kid. If Henry and him ever did a lot of things together when they were young, it must have been scavenging. The lawyers say he was a typical recluse. They can’t figure out what started him—they say he came from a good home, orphaned early, but his old man always had dough.” He looked down. “Let’s see—what else? Oh—he never went with women that they know of; never went with anyone, as a matter of fact. A lone wolf.”

He turned another page; a note caught his eye. “Oh; and this in interesting. The lawyers happened to mention that his brother-in-law Henry was down there a couple of weeks ago asking them if there was a statute of limitations on contesting a will.…”

Clancy sat up straight. “And?”

Stanton shook his head. “They told him to forget about it. He was trying to claim that Willie didn’t deserve it, that he was a slacker in the war, and a lot more crap like that. Actually, the lawyers said that the draft board had turned Willie down for being too old, in bum health, and also because he was slightly nuts. They didn’t use those words, but that was the gist of it.”

“Henry should talk,” Kaproski said derisively. He brought his chair down and leaned forward. “I been checking on him. A phony. He managed to get a soft desk job in the war with some pretty fancy wire-pulling, hitting up pals of Willie’s old man through his wife. And that famous war wound of his, his old lady was talking about? That’s a real laugh.” Kaproski didn’t sound amused; he sounded disgusted. “He got that in London. He was run down by a bread truck during a blackout. They did a bum job on his leg and it left him crippled.”

Stanton suddenly stared at him. “Crippled? Does he use a cane? Or a crutch?”

“A cane. He …” Kaproski suddenly saw the light. He swung to Clancy. “A cane could have done it, Lieutenant.”

“Sure,” Clancy said, agreeing. “Sure a cane could have done it. Also a pool cue. Or a drum-major’s baton, or a hoe handle.” He sat thinking deeply, his fingers drumming nervously on the desk. Beyond the streaked window the rain matched his rhythm, splattering from the garbage can tops in the dim areaway. “If it was Henry, why did he wait thirty years before he did anything?”

Stanton shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t need the dough until now.”

“His old lady,” Kaproski said thoughtfully. “Did you take a good look at her? That dyed rabbit she had around her neck from the year one, and the fact her hair ain’t seen a beauty parlor in a long time …” Clancy stared at him, amazed as always at the things that Kaproski saw and mentally noted. “She sure didn’t look like they’ve been in the chips for a long, long time.”

“And not only that,” Stanton said. “She comes into the dough. He died intestate, and his estate will have to be probated, but when it’s finally cleaned up, she gets the whole ball of wax. Less what Uncle Sam knocks off for commission, of course. I checked that out with the lawyers.”

Clancy frowned. “It makes a nice story, but you can’t hang a man on suspicion only.” He shook his head. “If we could even place him in the neighborhood anywhere around the time of the killing …” His eyes came up, staring at Stanton intensely. “Are you sure that none of the neighbors saw anything? Nobody? Nothing?”

“We can check them out again,” Stanton said. “Maybe that reward will goose some of them, but up in that neighborhood, most people would rather give five hundred bucks the go-by rather than get involved with the police. Especially in a murder case. We can try them again, though.” He grinned suddenly, almost savagely. “I’d laugh like hell if the old lady put her dear husband Henry on the spot with that reward gimmick.”

“Yeah,” Clancy said absently. He had been trying to put the pieces together. He looked up. “Well, you’ll have to go over the neighbors again, Stan. And also anybody that works around there—maids, delivery boys, janitors … And Kap, while Stanton’s busy with that, I want you to try and find out about Henry’s bank account. Maybe Willie’s lawyers can give you an idea of where to start. Henry may have developed a taste for blondes late in life. Or horses. Or dice.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.” Kaproski started to come to his feet and then paused. “By the way, what did you find in that bundle I brought in the other day, Lieutenant?”

“Bundle? What bundle?”

“The one Jimmy at the morgue said you were in such a rush about.” Kaproski held his hands about two feet apart to demonstrate, and then dropped them. “I put it in your drawer like you said.”

“Christ!” Clancy struck his forehead. “I forgot all about it! There are just too many damn things to try and keep track of at the same time!” He bent down and pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk, withdrawing the hastily wrapped package Jimmy had prepared for him. He pushed the papers on his desk to one side and placed the bundle in the center of the cleared space, ripping open the top and folding back the torn paper. There was an envelope neatly placed on top of a folded sweater and colorful vest. Clancy slid the envelope to one side for the time being, removed the clothing, and crumpled the wrapping paper, tossing it into the waste-basket. He picked up the sweater first, spreading it open, and then looked at the other two men.

“These are the things that Willie McFadden was wearing, up on top, when he was killed. I had them sent up from the morgue.”

Stanton nodded in recognition. “I remember them. There’s the blood up on top around the front of the turtle-neck sweater, from his busted nose.” He looked at his superior curiously. “What did you want them for, Lieutenant?”

Clancy frowned. “Doc Freeman doesn’t think he could have been hit by a crowbar, because the type of bruise on his chest doesn’t check out. But I figured if he was wearing both a sweater and a vest—and thick winter underwear, according to Jimmy—the clothes could have softened the blow. But maybe still show something …” He leaned forward suddenly, his eyes bright, his finger poking at the fluffy surface. “And this sweater’s been torn.…”

Kaproski bent over to look; his tone of voice denied the lieutenant’s contention. “That ain’t been torn, Lieutenant. Not recently, anyways. You can see where he passed a crochet needle through the knit-rows above and below to catch the ends and bring them around. That was yarn-sewn. He sure didn’t do that after he was hit.”

“Crochet needle?” Clancy looked at Kaproski in astonishment.

“Knit-row? Yarn-sewn?” Stanton asked, smiling wickedly. “Well, well! Old Mother Kaproski!”

“Well, sure I know about knitting,” Kaproski said defensively. “I had over eight months in a Naval Hospital, and you don’t do that physical therapy junk, they beat your brains out.” He bent back to the sweater, abandoning his explanation. “Anyways, that’s an old tear.”

Clancy sighed, accepting the truth of Kaproski’s statement. He turned the sweater around for a last look, and then put it almost reluctantly to one side, to pick up the vest. It was, as Jimmy had described it, an old-fashioned type, with a brocaded design woven into the fabric, with button-down pockets, patched under one armhole with a neat square of non-matching cloth, but otherwise intact and clean. Clancy studied the front carefully and then, with a sigh, tossed it to one side to join the sweater.

“Well,” he said slowly, almost hopelessly, “for all the use that was, that bundle could have stayed in my drawer for another month.” He shook his head unhappily. “I’d certainly like to know what Willie was killed with. I’ve a strong feeling it would help.” He rolled the sweater and vest into a crumpled bunch and stuffed them back into the bottom drawer, closing it upon his disappointment. He reached for the small envelope and opened it, upending it. Two coins rolled out; he neatly trapped them and slid them to the center of his desk for inspection.

“An English penny. And what’s this? One cruzeiro? That’s Brazil.” He lifted it. “Feels like tin.” He spun it with his fingers, watched it come to a teetering halt, and then pushed the two coins together. He looked up at the other two men. “So? What do we know?”

“Not much,” Stanton admitted. “We know he was a nut. We also know he’s dead. And that’s about all we really do know …”

“He may have been a nut,” Kaproski said warmly, as if in defense of the dead man, “but he was a rich nut.”

“Yeah,” Clancy said. “He was a rich nut and that may still be the answer. Only we have to have a little more to go into court.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Anyway, it’s time for lunch. And afterwards, Stan, you go over and start on those neighbors again.”

“I’ll grab a bite first,” Stanton said, and came to his feet. “You want a sandwich or anything from across the street, Lieutenant?”

“Artists and writers,” Clancy said a bit grandly, sweeping the two coins into his pocket. “Maybe they need to starve to do a good job, but I never heard it said of police lieutenants. I’m getting a decent meal again today.” He grinned and stood up. “I’m getting into the habit, and I like it.”

Wednesday–1:45 P.M.

Clancy had just finished giving Kaproski his instructions and was walking with him up to the desk, when Patrolman Martin pushed his way through the heavy precinct doors dragging a small man behind him. The patrolman’s raincoat was in shreds; beneath it his jacket could be seen to be ripped. His face was bleeding from a bad gash that had torn open one cheek. He unlocked the handcuffs that held him to the smaller man and flung the other viciously onto a bench beside the desk. Kaproski automatically moved over between the prisoner and the door, but the small man made no effort to move.

“Tried to mug me!” Martin growled. “The bastards! In broad daylight the little bastards tried to mug me!”

Clancy stared at him. “What happened?”

“They was three of the little bastards! They jumped me over by the park. In broad daylight!” Martin was fuming. He put his hand to his face and stared at the blood that came away, but his mind was elsewhere, back on the assault. “The rain had just let up. I was on the other side of the street when I seen them. They looked like they was arguing about something, getting ready for a fight, and then they started really swinging at each other so I crossed over in a hurry to break it up. And then all three of the little bastards ganged up on me!”

“Nobody around?”

“They was a dozen people around!” Martin said hotly. “More! But do you think any of them bastards would come and help me? Me, a cop? Don’t make me laugh!” He certainly didn’t look like anything could make him laugh; he looked down at his ripped raincoat and wiped his bloody hand against it. “Bastards!”

Clancy turned to the silent figure hunched on the bench.

“What’s the idea, buster?” The little man looked up and through the police lieutenant above him; his manner exhibited nothing except complete disdain, as if the proceedings had nothing to do with him.

Kaproski moved closer. “Lieutenant,” he said darkly, “you want I should open him up?”

“No,” Clancy said. A sudden frightening thought came to him and he swung sharply back to Martin. “Did they take anything from you?”

“Yeah. My gun.” Martin flicked back the shreds of his raincoat and lifted the torn skirt of his jacket to show his empty holster. The reason for his delay in the announcement was evident in the shamefaced bitterness of his voice; for a policeman to lose his service revolver was a bad mark on his record. His voice tightened a bit as he tried to explain.

“The three little bastards slugged me and when I went down they dragged my coat open and snaked my gun out. I thought they was going to plug me, but they run off into the park.” He looked at the indifferent figure on the bench and his voice hardened. “All except Little Orphan Annie here. I kept ahold of him!” He drew out a handkerchief and held it against his bleeding cheek.

Clancy frowned; his eyes were sharp. “What did the other characters with him look like?”

Martin grimaced, remembering. “They was all little guys, like this monkey here. They didn’t have on raincoats or any coats at all—just jackets. Dark ones, like his. And they didn’t have on neckties; they had the shirt collars on the outside. And no hats. None of them was wearing hats.” He thought a moment and his eyes ranged over the little man on the bench. The object of his inspection didn’t even bother to look away. “As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, the whole three of them looked the same. And they was all dressed the same.”

“Did you see where they came from?”

Martin shook his head. “They was all just standing there when I first seen them, arguing. I don’t know where they come from.”

“What did they say? When they were slugging you?”

“They didn’t say nothing.” Martin’s eyes narrowed as he recalled this odd fact. “You know, Lieutenant, now that you ask me that, that was a funny thing. They didn’t say one solitary word, none of them, all during the whole thing.”

“I see.” Clancy thought about this for a moment and then turned to the prisoner. “All right,” he said brusquely. “Open up. What was the big idea back of this?”

There was complete silence; the little man stared at him with disinterest for a moment and then turned his head to stare with equal disinterest at the wall beside him.

“You know what slugging a cop can get you?”

There was still no answer. Kaproski’s jaw hardened; he started forward. Clancy waved him back, still frowning at the bored-looking little man before him. The prisoner appeared to be about thirty years of age, dressed as Martin had described his assailants, with a pallid face as expressionless as the wall he was staring at. For one brief instant he raised his eyes, but brought them back immediately to the stucco surface.

“O.K.,” Clancy said at last, tightly. “Frisk him and book him and toss him into a cell. We’ll get the story of his life later.” He walked over to the small man and with sudden thought bent down and fingered the lapel of the other’s jacket. The little man did not even pull away. Clancy looked up, his forehead puckered in a frown. “And give him a nightgown to wear. I want to see these clothes of his.”

The desk sergeant had his pen poised over the register. “What name do we use, Lieutenant?”

“Call him John Doe.” Clancy turned back to Martin. “And you’d better see a doctor about that cheek of yours. You’ve got a nasty cut. What did they slug you with?”

“A chunk of pipe. About a foot and a half long,” Martin said. “I remember I seen one of the guys waving it around during the argument, like he was going to crown one of the others, before I went over to break it up.” He drew away the handkerchief and stared at the bright red blood on it almost curiously. His hand carried the swab back to his cheek, probing the area gently. “The bastards like to knocked my eye out.”

“Just three of them the size of this runt?” Kaproski snorted. “You must be getting old, Martin.”

Martin eyed him coldly. “It should just happen to you someday …”

Clancy interrupted the exchange. “Well, you better get that face looked after.” He turned to Kaproski. “And you can hold off on that assignment I gave you for a while. Get this man downstairs in a cell and bring me back his clothes. And keep your hands off him.”

“Sure, Lieutenant,” Kaproski said, and reached out to drag the small prisoner to his feet. “Let’s go, Superman …”

Wednesday–2:30 P.M.

Kaproski came into Clancy’s office and dumped a pile of clothing on the desk. He stood back, rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. “He’s a tough little monkey,” he said, half-admiringly. “Old Silent Sam himself.”

Clancy looked up sharply. “I told you to lay off him,” he said with irritation. “You know I don’t go for that sort of thing. One of these days you’re going to cost the department a conviction with those big hands of yours you can’t keep to yourself!”

Kaproski looked surprised. “He slugged a cop, Lieutenant.”

“We have laws to handle people who slug cops,” Clancy told him coldly.

“Sure, Lieutenant,” Kaproski agreed equably. “We also got cops getting slugged just too damn often.” He shrugged. “Anyways, I only give him a little tap for luck. I bet his mother hit him harder the first time she caught him swiping pennies off the dresser.”

Clancy stared at him a moment and then shook his head wearily. “Forget it.” He turned his attention to the pile of clothing and then looked up again. “Where’s the stuff he had in his pockets?”

“Here.” Kaproski handed over a small folded wad of money. “And he had this around his neck under his shirt.” He fished out a medallion on a gold chain and laid it before Clancy.

Clancy picked up the medallion and chain, studying them. They were both new and glistening. He looked up. “Did he try to stop you from taking this from him?”

“Old Silent Sam? Naw. He wasn’t in any position to argue, and anyways he didn’t.” Kaproski shook his head. “And anyways, why should he? It’s a St. Christopher medal for travelers, and he ain’t going nowheres.”

Clancy turned the medallion over; there was nothing on it a bit different from the one he had at home himself, other than its newness, and nothing that could possibly serve for identification. He shrugged and laid it to one side, picked up the small folded wad of money and then looked up at Kaproski in surprise.

“This is all?”

“That’s the works,” Kaproski said definitely. “Every last thing he had. Not a handkerchief, not even any loose change. Not even a key or a billfold. All of his regular pockets were empty; that dough there was in his watch pocket.”

“That’s odd,” Clancy said thoughtfully, and laid aside the wad of money for the time being in order to study the clothing. He picked each piece up in turn, looking carefully at the seams, turning out the pockets, staring at the slightly cleaner places where labels had once advertised a manufacturer or admitted a size, and had since been removed. Clancy shook his head disconsolately.

“Let’s see his shoes.”

Kaproski slid them over. They were small, fitting into Clancy’s hand almost as a woman’s shoe would. The stitching along the welt had been done by hand, and the soft almost suede feel of the fine leather gave the sensuous sensation of stroking warm flesh. Vastly expensive and unfortunately, vastly unidentifiable. The lining that normally carried the width, size, and manufacturer’s code had been neatly sliced away; no marking disturbed the sole, and the rubber heels had been ground down to obliterate any secrets the molded design might allow to escape.

“Professional,” Clancy murmured, almost to himself. He sighed and went back over the pieces of clothing once again, but they revealed nothing new. He studied the small jacket again, carefully, holding it up before him, turning it about slowly. His eyes narrowed in speculative thought. Then, with a shrug, he pushed the pile of clothing to one side, set the fancy shoes on top of them, and unfolded the wad of money.

A slip of white paper detached itself as he unfolded it, falling to the floor. Clancy bent down and picked it up. He laid it to one side while he counted the bills; there were four five dollar bills and three ones, all crisp and crinkling new. He glanced at the numbers from force of habit and then shook his head at his own optimism—the chances of a bank registering bills of this small a denomination was nil. He moved the money to one side and picked up the slip that had been folded in with the money.

It was a narrow strip of paper and scribbled across it in figures of red ink was the following:

11/16/1500/26.20/57.26

Clancy turned the slip over; the back was blank. He reversed it again and stared at the numbers for several minutes, his eyes half-closed, his brain attempting to make some sense from them. Kaproski had been standing behind him, silent, watching the search; now he cleared his throat and pointed to the slip in Clancy’s fingers.

“What’s them numbers, Lieutenant?”

“You tell me,” Clancy said, frowning. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I only wish I did.”

Kaproski moved around to the front of the desk where Clancy could see him. His voice was even. “Lieutenant, I can open that monkey up, if you want. Professional or no professional. Hell, we ain’t exactly amateurs, and he ain’t knee-high to an ant.”

Clancy looked at him stonily. “I doubt if you could. This is no punk from around the corner. This is a highly trained professional character who probably does and says just what he wants to, and no more.”

“He still has to hurt,” Kaproski argued. “And he still ain’t any bigger than a baby midget. You want to find out anything he knows, Lieutenant, just say the word.”

“Forget it,” Clancy said decisively. “Anyway for now.” He thought about it awhile and then shook his head. “No, forget it. You’d just be wasting your time. Lock all of this junk up. Make out a receipt for the money and the medal and leave it at the desk. I’ll keep the slip.”

“O.K., Lieutenant.” Kaproski’s voice was tinged with disappointment.

Clancy remembered something else; he looked at his watch. “And Kap—it’s about time for your ward to show up, isn’t it?”

“My ward?”

“Yeah,” Clancy said. “Young Martinez, our shoe-shine boy. How did he do last night, by the way?”

“Oh, him.” Kaproski nodded, his face clearing. “He didn’t do too bad, considering it was the first time he ever tried it. He’s learning.” He started to hold out one of his size thirteens as an example; the rain had eliminated it as a possible advertisement for the boy’s skill. He pulled it down. “Anyways, he’s getting the idea. And the boys were pretty good with him.”

“Good,” Clancy said, and forgot the boy as quickly as he had remembered him. “O.K. Lock up those clothes and get me that receipt.” He leaned back in his chair a moment, placed his hands back of his neck and tugged, trying to loosen the tension of the muscles. “Christ! I’d like to see the day we only had to worry about one thing at a time!”

“A dream,” Kaproski said, and picked up the pile of clothing.

Clancy swung around as the big detective left the room, picking up the telephone. “Sergeant, is Captain Wise in?”

“He’s in his office, Lieutenant. You want me to ring him?”

“No,” Clancy said. “I’ll go up and see him.”

He dropped the receiver on its hook, got to his feet, and looked over his desk, as if wondering what data to take with him. But there wasn’t anything concrete to substantiate his theory; all he could take with him were his fears and suspicions. He tapped his shirt pocket to make sure his cigarettes and matches were in place, picked up the enigmatic slip of paper, and started towards the corridor.