8

At a few minutes before three o’clock that afternoon, a man walked into a small branch bank near Coney Island and slipped a note through the teller’s window. The note stated that the man was desperate, that he was holding a grenade beneath his raincoat, and that if he did not receive all of the small bills in the teller’s cash drawer at once, without fuss, he would pull the pin and toss the grenade over the glass enclosure. The teller, a young man and recently married, took no chances but followed instructions. He later told police that, at the moment, he was far from convinced that the man really had a grenade, but he saw no future in taking any chances.

He could not have been more correct in his attitude, for as the bandit took his hand from his pocket to reach for the money, he accidentally pulled the pin of his weapon. The teller just had time to fall on his face after seeing the horrified expression on the thief’s face. He escaped with minor cuts, protected by the barricade of the counter; the man was blown to bits. Some of the bills on the counter-top were also destroyed, but they were covered by insurance.

Wednesday–3:15 P.M.

Captain Wise looked up from his cluttered desk as Clancy entered the office. He noted the serious look on the lieutenant’s face and put his work to one side, nodding gravely toward a chair. Captain Wise knew Clancy in all his moods, and he knew something important had come up.

“What’s the problem, Clancy?”

Clancy sat down, brought a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. He shook out the match slowly, trying to formulate his thought. The eyes he turned toward the larger man across from him were brooding. He took a deep breath.

“Sam, I think I’ve got bad news. We had a very odd thing happen a little while ago. Three fellows mugged a uniformed cop on his beat—in broad daylight—and took his gun away from him. And got away. Or rather, two of them got away; Martin, the cop, held on to the third one. We’ve got him downstairs in a cell, but he won’t talk. Not a word. Not even to tell us to go to hell.”

Captain Wise leaned forward, a frown appearing on his face. “What’s Martin got to say about it?”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Clancy said. “The way they worked it, it could have happened to you. Or me.” He reported Martin’s description of the affair. “Very professional.”

Captain Wise nodded. “And you think the whole thing was rigged just to get his gun?”

Clancy moved his head up and down. “I do. And that’s only a part of it. This character we have downstairs has foreign clothes; four inside pockets in his jacket and two watch pockets in his pants …”

“Any identification in the clothes?”

“None. All the labels were removed from everything; no laundry marks, no nothing. Even the bottoms of the rubber heels on the shoes had been buffed to get rid of the maker’s design.”

“Anything in the pockets?”

“That’s another thing,” Clancy said. “He had twenty-three dollars in brand new bills—the kind you get at banks—and this slip of paper.” He reached across the desk, handing Captain Wise the slip. The captain took it and studied it with a frown.

“What is it?”

“God knows,” Clancy said, and took it back, slipping it into his pocket.

Captain Wise frowned at him. “But you think it’s important?”

“It has to be,” Clancy said quietly, “because we don’t have another damned thing.”

“And that’s all he had?”

“Absolutely all. Not even a handkerchief.”

Captain Wise reached for his pipe and cradled it in one huge hand, deriving some unknown source of satisfaction from the feeling of the cold briar. His eyes were steady on the worried face across from him. “You think it could be tied into these UN rumors. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“It almost has to be,” Clancy said evenly. “The man we have downstairs looks and acts like a professional killer. Nothing in the pockets, no marks, no labels—and these three men jumped a cop for his gun. No local talent would take on a job without having a weapon lined up, but someone who had to come in through Customs and couldn’t take a chance on having anything found in a search …” He shrugged. “Well, then it makes sense. And it’s the only way it could make sense.”

“And a cop is always a sure source of a gun,” Captain Wise said slowly, “if it’s handled right.”

“They handled it right,” Clancy said bitterly. “Hell, they got the gun, didn’t they?”

Captain Wise put aside his pipe. “Just what wild-eyed explanation does this character give for mugging the cop and taking his gun?”

“I told you,” Clancy said patiently. “He hasn’t made a sound. Kaproski even went a round with him, against my orders, and still not a single peep out of him. Kap wanted to have another go at him, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

Captain Wise’s thick fingers drummed on the desk. “We may have to try it again, Clancy. I don’t like third-degree any more than you do, but this could be plenty serious.”

“I know.” Clancy reached out and crushed his cigarette out in the ash tray. “The only thing is that I doubt if it’ll do any good. Or that we could trust anything he said if we got him to say anything. And I’m not sure we have that much time. The other two are loose with that gun …” He thought a moment, staring over Captain Wise’s grizzled head at the wall behind. “On the other hand, maybe we can get cute …”

“How?”

Clancy didn’t answer. In sudden decision he reached across the desk and picked up the telephone. “Sergeant? Where’s Garcia?”

There was the sound of papers being shuffled about; the sergeant’s voice came back on the line. “He went out to hunt up that hospital orderly who walked out of Uptown Hospital the same time a lot of their narcotics did. I know he was planning on stopping by the hospital first to talk to them, but he would have left there a long time ago. Why?”

“See if you can get hold of him,” Clancy said. “Ask the people at the hospital if they have any idea where he went after he left there. Try to locate him and tell him I want him back here as soon as possible. Tell him it’s very important.”

“Right, Lieutenant.”

Captain Wise was watching Clancy closely as the smaller man deposited the telephone back on its hook. “What do you want with Garcia?”

“An idea,” Clancy said. “A wild idea that probably won’t work.” He studied the face of his superior thoughtfully. “Sam, can you find out if any of those foreign big-shots are housed around our precinct?”

“Sure,” Captain Wise said. “It may take a little time, but I can find out. The only thing is, what makes you think these killers would be after someone around here? This is a big city, Clancy. If I wanted to take a gun from a cop to kill somebody, I’d do it far away. I’d try to spread the two actions as much as possible.”

“You would,” Clancy said. “In New York. Because you know the town. But if you were a complete stranger, and didn’t want to ask too many questions of too many people who might remember you—like cab drivers, for example—you’d keep your area of movement as small as possible.” He got to his feet. “Anyway, I’d like to know if any of the foreign diplomats are staying anywhere near where they mugged Martin.”

He moved toward the door; Captain Wise eyed him speculatively.

“You might just be right at that,” he said slowly, and reached for the telephone.

Wednesday–4:50 P.M.

The telephone rang; it was the desk sergeant.

“Lieutenant? Somebody from the lab downtown wants to talk to you. And so far there’s nothing new on Garcia. I haven’t been able to find him.” He tried to sound optimistic. “But he’s due back here pretty soon, anyway. His duty’s up in another hour.”

“That’s what he thinks,” Clancy said. “Well, O.K. Let me have the lab.”

The telephone clicked several times; a new voice came on. “Hello?”

“Hello? This is Lieutenant Clancy.”

“Lieutenant? This is Sergeant Corbin, down at the lab. About that cab your man brought in here the other day. I’m sorry we couldn’t get to it any faster, but …”

Clancy waved this aside. “What about the cab?”

“A couple of things out of the ordinary with that cab, Lieutenant. We checked the agency that sold it, and they say it was delivered three months ago—August twelfth, to be exact. But the mileage on that basis would show an average of only forty miles a day on a six-day basis. The normal average for an owner cab is a little better than a hundred. For a company cab, of course, it runs about two-and-a-half times that much.”

“I know,” Clancy said. “That struck me, too.” He felt pleased to have his original thought verified, and then the memory of all of the unsolved problems in the precinct wiped away his pleasure as if it had never been. “What else?”

“Well, that partition between the driver and the passengers. That’s not standard. In fact, Yellow says they don’t even install them. Some of the drivers have gotten around to having them put in—bullet-proof glass—ever since some of them have been held up and a couple of them shot. But the thing about this one is, it isn’t bulletproof. As a matter of fact, it isn’t even safety glass; it’s just plain glass. So why he ever had it put in, God knows.”

Clancy frowned at the information and marked the word “partition” on his pad. There was a pause as the sergeant apparently referred to his notes; Clancy took advantage of the interruption to add the words “plain glass” to the sheet before him.

“And another thing, Lieutenant—that hole in the back of the front seat. The one on the passenger’s side of the partition. Cabs nowadays don’t have an ash tray there anymore—both of the standard ash trays are in the armrests. And that hole is pretty sloppy, too. My guess is that he put that in himself.”

Clancy marked down the word “hole” and then crossed it out, intending to put down “ash tray” in its place. Instead he found himself writing the word “sloppy”.

“How about the lights?” he asked. “The ones in the back? They didn’t work—and in a new cab, too.” It was not a question to which he honestly expected a useful answer, but for some unknown reason the failure of that illumination bothered him. He received quite a surprise.

“Those lights work, Lieutenant …” The voice sounded supremely satisfied; it had finally arrived at the pièce de résistance of the report. “The only thing is, they aren’t standard bulbs.” The sergeant hesitated a fraction of a second. “They’re infra-red.”

Clancy sat up straight. The old familiar tingling of excitement began stirring in him. “Infra-red?”

“Right, Lieutenant. They throw light that the human eye can’t see. But a camera can.”

Clancy’s mind was racing. “Hold it a moment, Sergeant.” He cupped the mouthpiece of the telephone while he stared at the wall across from him without seeing it. Infra-red bulbs in a cab instead of standard bulbs for lighting; a strange hole in the back of the front seat, undoubtedly placed where the driver would have access to it; a man who had suddenly become vitally interested in photography—and who had also suddenly been able to forego his usual petty rackets because money was no longer a problem … It all made sense. Clancy paused in his thinking, frowning. Like hell it all made sense! It all made sense except for one slightly important detail-why did Caper Connelly jump in front of a subway train? That didn’t fit into the picture.

Unless …

He uncupped the receiver, taking a deep breath. “Sergeant, do you know if Doc Freeman is still around?”

“He ought to be,” the sergeant said. “He’s usually here until at least six.” There was a certain querying note in his voice. “Did the report give you what you wanted, Lieutenant?”

“In spades,” Clancy said, and meant it. “And thank you very much, Sergeant. I won’t forget it. And I’ll want it in writing for the file as soon as possible.”

“By morning,” the sergeant promised. His voice reflected his appreciation of the lieutenant’s words. “You want me to have the operator try and find Doc for you now?”

“Please.”

Clancy waited tensely, his mind charging along. He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, poked it into the corner of his mouth, and then forgot to light it. His hand scribbled meaningless squiggles on his pad without his being even slightly conscious of it. There could only be one possible answer to the thing. That is, if he was right. But he had to be right! Unless, of course, he was wrong …

Doc Freeman’s voice interrupted his jumbled thoughts. Doc Freeman was bone-tired and sounded it. “Clancy? You wanted me?”

“Yeah.” Clancy came back to earth, bending forward. The cigarette in the corner of his mouth impeded speech and he flipped it away from him, unaware that he had not lit it. “Look, Doc. I want a favor. I want you to take a look at a jumper down in the icebox.”

“A jumper?”

“That’s right. He dove in front of an IRT train over on Eighty-sixth Street the other day. He ought to have a tag on his big toe marked Caper Connelly.”

“Oh, him. I remember.” Doc Freeman’s voice became sarcastic. “And just what do you want me to look for? Hepatitis? Indian arrow poisoning? Or just a double hernia?”

Clancy was in no mood for humor and his tone of voice showed it. “Listen, Doc, this is important. I don’t want you to do an autopsy. I just want you to go down and look him over. It won’t take you five minutes.”

“You’re so right it won’t take me five minutes,” Doc Freeman said wearily. “It’ll take me a couple of hours at the least.” He sighed. “What do you expect me to find?”

“That I can’t tell you,” Clancy said. “I mean I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want somebody with a smart lawyer to come around later and claim a plant. Though I doubt if they would. But still …”

“Look, Clancy,” Doc Freeman said, trying to be patient. “You may know what you’re talking about, but …”

“Forget it. I’m not sure what I’m talking about myself. Just take a look at him. O.K.?”

“And it has to be right now? Tonight?” Doc Freeman’s voice was hopeless. “Look, Clancy, I’m part of a minion—you wouldn’t know what it is—and I’m late already …”

Clancy knew what a minion was; it was a group of ten men who prayed for the soul of a dead friend each day for a week following his death. And they met at the schul each day at sunset. In the section of Hell’s Kitchen where Clancy had been raised, Jewish customs and Irish Catholic customs had been equally understood, just as their religious holidays had been equally commemorated, at least to the extent that it served as an excuse to avoid school. He nodded his head at the telephone in complete understanding.

“I know what a minion is, Doc. You go ahead—I guess Caper Connelly won’t change by tomorrow morning.” A sudden disquieting thought came to him and he raised a finger, almost as if Doc Freeman could see it. “As long as nobody comes in with papers or anything to claim his body before then. I don’t want that body to leave the morgue until you get a chance to go over it.”

“That part we can handle,” Doc Freeman said, obviously relieved. “I’ll see that he stays here no matter what. And thanks, Clancy. I’ll get to it the first thing in the morning and call you. Right now I’ve got to beat it. I’m late already.”

“Pray real good,” Clancy said, and hung up. The telephone rang before he could remove his hand.

“Lieutenant, Garcia just come in.”

It took Clancy a second or two to adjust his thoughts, to bring them back from the morgue, and Caper Connelly, and Doc Freeman. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his neck, disregarding the telephone. There were just too many damned things cooking at the same time.…

“Lieutenant?”

“I heard you,” Clancy said almost snappishly. “Send him in.”

Garcia appeared at the door, shoving back his hat. He hesitated a moment and then came in. “You wanted me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes,” Clancy said. “Sit down. How did you do on that hospital orderly?”

For a brief moment Garcia considered dragging out his notebook and then reflected that the facts were clear enough in his mind without it. Besides, he was sure that the question had been purely rhetorical, and was not the cause for Clancy’s request for his presence. His typed report would be before the lieutenant in the morning.

“I finally caught up with the poor bastard,” Garcia said. He pulled a chair alongside the desk and dropped into it wearily, shaking his head. “Took damn near all day, too—in the rain, yet! Every place I went, he’d just been. It wasn’t he was trying to get away from me; he just had the wanders, I guess. He must have been afraid somebody’d take his candy away from him before he got a chance to finish it.”

“How is he?”

“He’s in sad shape.” Garcia shrugged, but it was easy to see that beneath his even exterior he was angry about something. “Maybe he makes it, maybe not.”

“Where’d you take him?”

“Downtown,” Garcia said. “He’s in the hop-ward, and I just hope to Christ they keep an eye on him. He’s a young kid and a very sick boy.” His voice became hard, remembering. His eyes came up. “And I read the riot act to those bird-brains at the hospital, tool Doctors! Good God! They figure if they got a narcotics book and they keep it up to date, that’s all that counts. They don’t figure you maybe ought to keep an eye on the junk, too. Not to mention checking up just a little bit on the people they hire.” His voice was bitter. “This poor kid’s been working there four days, and they let him get his hands on the stuff. I ate them out.”

Clancy looked interested. “How did they take it?”

Garcia stared at him. “How did they take it? They took it like if a word had more than five letters in it, how come a dumb ape like me was using it? That’s how they took it!” He leaned forward, his voice intent. “Lieutenant, it’s none of my business, but maybe if you or Captain Wise talked to them, maybe they’d get the message.” He leaned back, simmering down. “I feel sorry for the poor bastard I picked up.…”

Clancy nodded and marked a note on his pad. “I will. I promise. And you did a good job.” He paused, eyeing the other. “You busy tonight?”

Garcia continued to contemplate his superior steadily. “I guess I am, Lieutenant, from the sound of your voice. What’s up?”

“A little job,” Clancy said, and leaned forward, speaking quietly and steadily.

Wednesday–5:50 P.M.

Kaproski returned to the precinct house just in time to help a uniformed patrolman handle the recalcitrant prisoner who didn’t seem to want to be brought down to the cell block. The big, fighting, cursing, dark-complexioned man was strong as a bull; it took the full efforts of both Kaproski and the uniformed man usually on duty at the desk to hustle him along the corridor and down the steps to the cell block. They removed his belt, necktie, and shoelaces by sheer force, not asking his permission. Clancy watched them, his eyes steady on the prisoner.

“Lock him up and throw the key in the river,” he said coldly to the turnkey. “Or drop it down the toilet. We’ll let the judge take care of tough boy tomorrow!”

The turnkey looked interested. Life below could be boring at most times. “What’s he done?”

“He’s a real tough guy,” Clancy said, not bothering to keep the repugnance from his voice. “Give him a woman to beat up when she doesn’t hand over all the dough she earns on her back, and he’s a real killer. Especially when she must weigh all of eighty pounds dripping wet.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Lock the son of a bitch up and get him out of my sight!”

The big man twisted suddenly, throwing the uniformed officer off balance; he tried to pull himself free of Kaproski in the same movement. Kaproski’s large hand slapped him brutally across the face, knocking him back against the cell bars. The swarthy man snarled viciously, turned, and tried to kick Kaproski in the groin. Kaproski turned a leg expertly, avoiding the kick with ease; his heavy hand descended again, chopping viciously at the twisted brutal face.

“Inside, tough guy, you!” Kaproski said. He waited as the turnkey opened the cell door and swung it wide, and then pushed the struggling figure into the narrow space, shoving him hard against the far wall. The man bounced off the plaster and came tearing back. Kaproski slapped him once more, open-handed, and stepped out before the other had recovered from the blow. The cell door slammed; the key turned gratingly.

Kaproski shoved a hard face against the bars, sneering. “Try that one on for size, tough guy!”

The man caught at the bars, shaking them; their rigidity resulted in his body reflecting the action rather than the impervious strands of steel. His lips were pulled back madly; white teeth glistened in the half-light of the dim detention area. “You dirty bastards! You can’t hold me, you stinking lousy cops!”

“We can try,” Clancy said with no expression, and started to turn away.

“You dirty lousy stinking bastard cops! I’ll be out of here in an hour!”

Kaproski sneered at him savagely. “How? You got a key?”

The man bared his teeth at him. “I’m entitled to a telephone call and I want it! I know my rights! You can’t stop me from making a telephone call! That’s the law!”

“A lawyer, yet,” Kaproski said with simulated admiration. “Me, I never got past high school. Who paid your way through law school—the babe you beat up on tonight? Out of her mattress money?” He stepped closer to the bars, his voice icy. “I got news for you, tough guy. The telephone’s out of order. You’ll get your call tomorrow morning—from court.”

The man shook at the rigid bars helplessly. “You dirty bastards!”

Kaproski shoved his face almost between the cell bars. His sarcasm disappeared, replaced with anger. “You’re a big-mouth! How would you like me to come in there and slap a little decent language into you?”

The man tried to spit into Kaproski’s face; the spittle struck one of the bars and ran down it, curling about it almost lazily. The man jerked his hand back from the bar to prevent it from getting soiled. “Yeah,” he said, sneering. “Come on in! I’d like to get you in here without your pals! You big bastard hero, you!”

“O.K.,” Kaproski said with finality. “You asked for it!”

Clancy put his hand on the big detective’s arm. “Let him alone, Kap,” he said shortly. “The judge will take care of tough guy tomorrow. Let him alone.”

“I’ll take care of the big-mouthed bastard right now,” Kaproski growled tightly. “What the hell gives, I got to listen to a lot of crap like that?”

The man inside the cell put a thumbnail to his teeth and clicked it outwards. “Up yours, copper!”

Kaproski clenched his jaw. “That does it! I’m going in there and …”

Clancy clamped him by the arm in no uncertain manner. “Come on!” he said in a tone that was an order. He dragged the large detective away and back to the steps, Kaproski still muttering balefully. Behind them the man stood glaring with hatred, his big hands locked on the cold steel of the cell bars, his knuckles white with strain. Warnicki, in the cell adjacent on one side, had watched the drama with barely concealed excitement. The silent little man on the other side sat in his nightgown with his feet tucked under him on his cot, his eyes closed, his face expressing no emotion whatsoever.

Clancy and Kaproski entered the office with Clancy’s hand still on the large detective’s arm. He released it and dropped into his chair, rubbing his face with weariness. Kaproski took a deep breath and looked at Clancy sympathetically.

“Tough day, Lieutenant?”

“Like every day,” Clancy said dispiritedly. He swiveled his chair and stared at the window; the darkness of the areaway beyond made a mirror of the glass; the dismal inadequacies of the drab office were reflected waveringly in the streaked panes of glass. He swiveled back and stared at Kaproski, trying to organize his thoughts.

“Did you come up with anything on that McFadden case that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“What I found could wait forever,” Kaproski said honestly. He shrugged. “Anyways, it can sure wait until tomorrow. You go out and have yourself a good time tonight and relax, Lieutenant.”

Clancy stared at him. “A good time?”

“Sure. Ain’t you got a date for dinner tonight?”

Clancy suppressed a smile. “No, I don’t have a date for dinner tonight.”

“Well, you sure could have,” Kaproski said almost accusingly. “Mary Kelly don’t date nobody else.” He paused, embarrassed a bit by Clancy’s sudden glare. “Well, she don’t …”

Clancy’s sternness faded despite himself. He shook his head. “Everybody’s getting to be Cupid around here.”

Kaproski relaxed, pleased to see the lieutenant in a better mood. “Well, we’re all here to help you, Lieutenant …”

“Help me by doing some work,” Clancy said dryly, and then paused, remembering. “By the way, did you check on young Martinez today?”

Kaproski snapped his fingers. “I knew there was something I had to do! I better go out and get him a sandwich, too. Hey, Lieutenant—you want one too?”

“Make mine a Danish and milk,” Clancy said, and turned to the mountainous pile of papers that had accumulated on his desk. “Let’s see if that joint across the street can ruin those!”