The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon, and other humorous tales

by Richard Edward Connell

  VII: _Where is the Tropic of Capricorn?_

  "One, two, three, bend! One, two, three, bend!" So barked the physicalinstructor, a bulgy man with muscles popping out all over him as if hisskin had been stuffed with hard-boiled eggs.

  Little Peter Mullaney oned, twoed, threed and bent with such earnest andwhole-hearted violence that his blue eyes seemed likely to be jostledfrom their sockets and the freckles to be jarred loose from his thin,wiry arms. Though breathless, and not a little sinew-sore from the stiffsetting-up exercises, his small, sharp-jawed face wore a beatified look,the look that bespeaks the rare, ecstatic thrill that comes to mortalsso seldom in this life of taxes, prohibitions and denied ambitions. Sucha look might a hero-worshiping boy wear if seen by his gang in thecompany of Jack Dempsey, or a writer if caught in the act of taking teawith Shaw. Peter Mullaney was standing at the very door of his life'sambition; he was about to be taken "on the cops."

  To be taken "on the cops"--the phrase is departmental argot and is incommon use by those who enjoy that distinction--this had been the idealof Peter Mullaney since the days when he, an undersized infant, hadtottered around his Christopher Street back-yard, an improvisedbroom-stick billy in his hand, solemnly arresting and incarcerating hissmall companions. To wear that spruce, brass-button studded blueuniform, and that glittering silver shield, to twirl a well-trainednight-stick on its cord, to eye the layman with the cold, impassive eyeof authority, to whisper mysterious messages into red iron signal boxeson street-corners, to succor the held-up citizen and pursue the crook tohis underworld lair, to be addressed as "Officer"--he had lived for thisdream.

  And here he was, the last man on a row of thirty panting, perspiringprobationary patrolmen, ranged, according to height, across thegymnasium of the police training school. From big Dan Mack, six feetfour in his socks, they graded down as gently as a ramp to little Peteron the end of the line a scant, a bare five feet five and seven-eighthsinches tall including the defiant bristle of his red pompadour.

  Peter was happy, and with reason. It was by no generous margin thatPeter had gained admission to the school that was to prepare him for hiscareer. By the sheerest luck he had escaped being cast into the exteriordarkness; by the slimmest degree he had wiggled into the school, andwhether he could attain the goal on which he had kept his eye for twentyyears--or ever since he was four--was still decidedly in doubt. The lawsaid in plain, inexorable black and white that the minimum height apoliceman can be is five feet and six inches. Peter Mullaney lacked thatstature by the distance between a bumble-bee's eyes; and this, despitethe fact that for years he had sought most strenuously, by exercise,diet and even torture to stretch out his body to the required five feetsix. When he was eighteen and it seemed certain that an unsympatheticfate had meant him to be a short man, his father found him one day inthe attic, lashed to a beam, with a box full of window-weights tied tohis feet, and his face gray with pain.

  "Shure, me bye," remarked old man Mullaney as he cut Peter down, "are yeafter thinkin' that the Mullaneys is made of Injy rubber? Don't it sayin the Bible, 'What man by takin' thought can add a Cupid to hisstatue?'"

  Peter, in hot and anguished rebellion against this all too evident lawof nature had sought relief by going straight out of the house andlicking the first boy he met who was twice as big as he was, in a fightthat is still remembered in the Second Ward. But stretching and wishingand even eating unpleasant and expensive tablets, alleged by theirmakers to be made from giraffes' glands, did not bring Peter up to afull and unquestionable five feet six.

  When Peter came up for a preliminary examination which was to determinewhether he possessed the material from which policemen are made,Commissioner Kondorman, as coldly scientific as his steel scales andmeasures, surveyed the stricken Peter, as he stood there on the scales,his freckles in high relief on his skin, for he was pale all over at thethought that he might be rejected.

  "Candidate Mullaney," said the Commissioner, "you're too short."

  Peter felt marble lumps swelling in his throat.

  "If you'd only give me a chance, Commissioner," he was able to gulp out,"I'd----"

  Commissioner Kondorman, who had been studying the records spread on hisdesk, cut the supplicant short with:

  "Your marks in the other tests are pretty good, though you seem a littleweak in general education. But your strength test is unusually high fora small man. However, regulations are regulations and I believe insticking to them. Next candidate!"

  Peter did not go.

  "Commissioner," he began urgently, "all I ask is a chance----"

  His eyes were tense and pleading.

  The Chief Inspector, grizzled Matthew McCabe, plucked at theCommissioner's coat-sleeve.

  "Well, Chief?" inquired Commissioner Kondorman, a little impatiently.

  "He's a good lad," put in the Chief Inspector, "and well spoke of in theSecond Ward."

  "He's under height," said the Commissioner, briefly.

  "But he knows how to handle his fists," argued the old Chief Inspector.

  "Does he?" said the Commissioner, skeptically. "He looks rather small."He examined Peter through his eye-glasses; beneath that chill andcritical gaze Peter felt that he had shrunk to the size of a bantamrooster; the lumps in his throat were almost choking him; in an agony ofdesperation, he cried,

  "Bring in the biggest man you got. I'll fight him."

  The Commissioner's face was set in hard, and one would have thought,immovable lines, yet he achieved the feat of turning up, ever soslightly, the corners of his lips in an expression which might pass asthe germ of a smile, as he gazed at the small, nude, freckled figurebefore him with its vivid shaving-brush hair, its intense eyes and itsclenched fists posed in approved prize-ring form. Again the officialbent over the records and studied them.

  "Character recommendations seem pretty good," he mused. "Never has usedtobacco or liquor----"

  "'Fraid it might stunt me," muttered Peter, "so I couldn't get on thecops."

  The commissioner stared at him with one degree more of interest.

  "Give the lad a chance," urged the Chief Inspector. "He only lacks afraction of an inch. He may grow."

  "Now, Chief," said the Commissioner turning to the official by his side,"you know I'm a stickler for the rules. What's the good of sayingofficers must be five feet six and then taking men who are shorter?"

  "You know how badly we need men," shrugged the Chief Inspector, "andMullaney here strikes me as having the making of a good cop. It will dono harm to try him out."

  The Commissioner considered for a moment. Then he wheeled round and facedPeter Mullaney.

  "You've asked for a chance," he shot out. "You'll get it. You can attendpolice training school for three months. I'll waive the fact that you'rebelow the required height, for the time being. But if in your finalexaminations you don't get excellent marks in every branch, by the LordHarry, you get no shield from me. Do you understand? One slip, andgood-by to you. Next candidate!"

  They had to guide Peter Mullaney back to his clothes; he was in a dazedblur of happiness.

  Next day, with the strut of a conqueror and with pride shining fromevery freckle, little Peter Mullaney entered the police training school.To fit himself physically for the task of being a limb of the law, heoned, twoed, threed and bent by the hour, twisted the toes of twohundred pound fellow students in frantic jiu jitsu, and lugged otherponderous probationers about on his shoulders in the practice of firstaid to the injured. This physical side of his schooling Peter enjoyed,and, despite his lack of inches, did extremely well, for he was quick,tough and determined. But it was the book-work that made him pucker hisbrow and press his head with his hands as if to keep it from burstingwith the facts he had to jam into it.

  It was the boast of Commissioner Kondorman that he was making his policeforce the most intelligent in the world. Give him time, he was fond ofsaying, and there would not be a man on it who could not be calledwell-informed. He intended to see to it that from chief inspector d
ownto the greenest patrolman they could answer, off-hand, not onlyquestions about routine police matters, but about the whole range of theencyclopedia.

  "I want well-informed men, intelligent men," he said. "Men who can tellyou the capital of Patagonia, where copra comes from, and who discoveredthe cotton-gin. I want men who have used their brains, have read andthought a bit. The only way I can find that out is by asking questions,isn't it?"

  The anti-administration press, with intent to slight, called thepolicemen "Kondorman's Encyclopedias bound in blue," but he was not inthe least perturbed; he made his next examination a bit stiffer.

  Peter Mullaney, handicapped by the fact that his span of elementaryschooling had been abbreviated by the necessity of earning his ownliving, struggled valiantly with weighty tomes packed with statutes,ordinances, and regulations--what a police officer can and cannot doabout mayhem, snow on the sidewalks, arson, dead horses in the street,kidnaping, extricating intoxicated gentlemen from man-holes, smokingautomobiles, stray goats, fires, earthquakes, lost children, blizzards,disorderly conduct and riots. He prepared himself, by no small exertion,to tell an inquiring public where Bedford street is, if traffic can goboth ways on Commerce street, what car to take to get from Hudson streetto Chatham Square, how to get to the nearest branch library, quicklunch, public bath, zoo, dispensary and garage, how to get to the OldSlip Station, Flower Hospital, the St. Regis, Coney Island, Duluth andGrant's Tomb. He stuffed himself with these pertinent facts; he wantedto be a good cop. He could not see exactly how it would help him to knowin addition to an appalling amount of local geography and history, thename of the present ruler of Bulgaria, what a zebu is, and who wrote"Home, Sweet Home." But since questions of this sort were quite sure tobob up on the examination he toiled through many volumes with a zealthat made his head ache.

  When he had been working diligently in the training school for threemonths lacking a day, the great moment came when he was given a chanceto put theory into practice, by being sent forth, in a uniform slightlytoo large for him, to patrol a beat in the company of a veteran officer,so that he might observe, at first hand, how an expert handled the manyand varied duties of the police job. Except that he had no shield, nonight stick, and no revolver, Peter looked exactly like any of the otherguardians of law. He trudged by the side of the big Officer Gaffney,trying to look stern, and finding it hard to keep his joy from breakingout in a smile. If Judy McNulty could only see him now! They were to bemarried as soon as he got his shield.

  But joy is never without its alloy. Even as Peter strode importantlythrough the streets of the upper West Side, housing delicious thrills inevery corpuscle from the top of his blue cap to the thick soles andrubber heels of his shiningly new police shoes, a worry kept plucking athis mind. On the morrow he was to take his final examination in generaleducation, and that was no small obstacle between him and his shield. Hehad labored to be ready, but he was afraid.

  That worry grew as he paced along, trying to remember whether the Amazonis longer than the Ganges and who Gambetta was. He did not even payclose attention to his mentor, although on most occasions those fiveblue service stripes on Officer Gaffney's sleeve, representing a quarterof a century on the force, would have caused Peter to listen with raptinterest to Officer Gaffney's genial flow of reminiscence and advice.Dimly he heard the old policeman rumbling:

  "When I was took on the cops, Pether, all they expected of a cop was twofists and a cool head. But sthyles in cops changes like sthyles in hats,I guess. I've seen a dozen commissioners come and go, and they all hadtheir own ideas. The prisint comish is the queerest duck of the lot, widhis "Who was Pernambuco and what the divil ailed him, and who invintedthe gin rickey and who discovered the Gowanus Canal." Not that I'm agina cop bein' a learned man. Divil a bit. Learnin' won't hurt him none ifhe has two fists and a clear head."

  He paused to take nourishment from some tabloid tobacco in hiship-pocket, and rumbled on,

  "Whin I was took on the cops, as I say, they was no graduatin' exerciseslike a young ladies' siminary. The comish--it was auld MalachiBannon--looked ye square in the eye and said, 'Young fella, ye're aboutto go forth and riprisint the majesty of the law. Whin on juty be claneand sober and raisonably honest. Keep a civil tongue in your head forivrybody, even Republicans. Get to know your precinct like a book. Don'tborrow trouble. But above all, rimimber this: a cop can do a lot ofqueer things and square himself wid me afterward, but there's one sin nocop can square--the sin of runnin' away whin needed. Go to your post.'"

  Little Peter nodded his head.

  They paced along in silence for a time. Then Peter asked,

  "Jawn----"

  "What, Pether?"

  "Jawn, where is the Tropic of Capricorn?"

  Officer Gaffney wrinkled his grey eyebrows quizzically.

  "The Tropic of Whichicorn?" he inquired.

  "The Tropic of Capricorn," repeated Peter.

  "Pether," said Officer Gaffney, dubiously, scratching his head with thetip of his night-stick, "I disrimimber but I think--I think, mind ye,it's in the Bronx."

  They continued their leisurely progress.

  "'Tis a quiet beat, this," observed Officer Gaffney. "Quiet butresponsible. Rich folks lives in these houses, Pether, and that drawscrooks, sometimes. But mostly it's as quiet as a Sunday in Dooleyville."He laughed deep in his chest.

  "It makes me think," he said, "of Tommie Toohy, him that's a lieutinantnow over in Canarsie. 'Tis a lesson ye'd do well to mind, Pether."

  Peter signified that he was all ears.

  "He had the cop bug worse than you, even, Pether," said the veteran.

  Peter flushed beneath his freckles.

  "Yis, he had it bad, this Tommie Toohy," pursued Officer Gaffney. "Hewas crazy to be a cop as soon as he could walk. I never seen a happierman in me life than Toohy the day he swaggers out of the station-houseto go on post up in the twenty-ninth precinct. In thim days there wasnawthin' up there but rows of little cottages wid stoops on thim;nawthin but dacint, respictable folks lived there and they always givethat beat to a recruity because it was so quiet. Well, Toohy goes onjuty at six o'clock in the evenin', puffed up wid importance andpolishing his shield every minute or two. 'Tis a short beat--up one sideof Garden Avenue and down on the other side. Toohy paces up and down,swingin' his night-stick and lookin' hard and suspicious at every man,woman or child that passes him. He was just bustin' to show hisauthority. But nawthin' happened. Toohy paced up and back, up and back,up and back. It gets to be eight o'clock. Nawthin happens. Toohy canstand it no longer. He spies an auld man sittin' on his stoop,peacefully smokin' his evenin' pipe. Toohy goes up to the old fellow andglares at him.

  "'What are you doin' there?' says Toohy.

  "'Nawthin,' says the auld man.

  "'Well,' says Toohy, wid a stern scowl, shakin' his night-stick at thescared auld gazabo, 'You go in the house.'"

  Peter chuckled.

  "But Toohy lived to make a good cop for all that," finished the veteran."Wid all his recruity monkey-shines, he never ran away whin needed."

  "I wonder could he bound Bolivia," said Peter Mullaney.

  "I'll bet he could," said Officer Gaffney, "if it was in his precinct."

  Late next afternoon, Peter sat gnawing his knuckles in a corner of thepolice schoolroom. All morning he had battled with the examination ingeneral education. It had not been as hard as he had feared, but he wasworried nevertheless. So much was at stake.

  He was quivering all over when he was summoned to the office of theCommissioner, and his quivering grew as he saw the rigid face ofCommissioner Kondorman, and read no ray of hope there. Papers werestrewn over the official desk. Kondorman looked up, frowned.

  "Mullaney," he said, bluntly, "you've failed."

  "F-failed?" quavered Peter.

  "Yes. In general education. I told you if you made excellent marks we'doverlook your deficiency in height. Your paper"--he tapped it with hisfinger--"isn't bad. But it isn't good. You fell down hard on questionseve
nteen."

  "Question seventeen?"

  "Yes. The question is, 'Where is the Tropic of Capricorn?' And youranswer is"--the Commissioner paused before he pronounced the damningwords--"'The Tropic of Capricon is in the Bronx.'"

  Peter gulped, blinked, opened and shut his fists, twisted his cap in hishands, a picture of abject misery. The Commissioner's voice was crispand final.

  "That's all, Mullaney. Sorry. Turn in your uniform at once. Well?"

  Peter had started away, had stopped and was facing the commissioner.

  "Commissioner," he begged----

  "That will do," snapped the Commissioner. "I gave you your chance; youunderstood the conditions."

  "It--it isn't that," fumbled out Peter Mullaney, "but--but wouldn't youplease let me go out on post once more with Officer Gaffney?"

  "I don't see what good that would do," said Commissioner Kondorman,gruffly.

  Tears were in Peter's eyes.

  "You see--you see----" he got out with an effort, "itwould be my last chance to wear the uniform--andI--wanted--somebody--to--see--me--in--it--just--once."

  The Commissioner stroked his chin reflectively.

  "Were you scheduled to go out on post for instruction," he asked, "ifyou passed your examination?"

  "Yes, sir. From eight to eleven."

  The Commissioner thought a moment.

  "Well," he said, "I'll let you go. It won't alter the case any, ofcourse. You're through, here. Turn in your uniform by eleven thirty,sure."

  Peter mumbled his thanks, and went out of the office with shoulders thatdrooped as if he were carrying a safe on them.

  * * * * *

  It was with heavy steps and a heavier heart that little Peter Mullaney,by the side of his mentor, passed the corner where Judy McNulty stoodproudly waiting for him. He saluted her gravely with two fingers to hisvisor--police officers never bow--and kept his eyes straight ahead. Hedid not have the heart to stop, to speak to her, to tell her what hadhappened to him. He hadn't even told Officer Gaffney. He stalked alongin bitter silence; his eyes were fixed on his shoes, the stout, shinypolice shoes he had bought to wear at his graduation, the shoes he wasto have worn when he stepped up to the Commissioner and received hisshield, with head erect and a high heart. His empty hands hung heavilyat his sides; there was no baton of authority in them; there never wouldbe. Beneath the place his silver shield would never cover now was a coldnumbness.

  * * * * *

  "Damn the Tropic of Capricorn," came from between clenched teeth, "Damnthe Tropic of Capricorn."

  Gaffney's quick ears heard him.

  "Still thinkin' about the Tropic of Capricorn?" he asked, not knowingthat the words made Peter wince. "Well, me bye, 'twill do no harm toknow where it is. I'm not denyin' that it's a gran' thing for a cop tobe a scholar. But just the same 'tis me firm belief that a man may beable to tell the difference bechune a begonia and a petunia, he may beable to tell where the--now--Tropic of Unicorn is, he may know who wrote"In the Sweet Bye and Bye," and who invented the sprinklin' cart, he maybe able to tell the population of Peking and Pann Yann, but he ain't acop at all if he iver runs away whin needed. Ye can stake your shield onthat, me bye."

  His shield? Peter dug his nails into the palm of his hand. Blind hateagainst the Commissioner, against the whole department, flared up inhim. He'd strip the uniform off on the spot, he'd hurl it into thegutter, he'd----

  Officer Gaffney had stopped short. A woman was coming through the night,running. As she panted up to them in the quiet, deserted street, the twomen saw that she was a middle-aged woman in a wrapper, and that she waswhite with fright.

  "Burglars," she gasped.

  "Where?" rapped out Officer Gaffney.

  "Number 97."

  "Be calm, ma'am. What makes ye think they're burglars?"

  "I heard them.... Moving around.... In the drawing room.... Upstairs."

  "Who are you?" asked the old policeman, imperturbably.

  "Mrs. Finn--caretaker. The family is away."

  "Pether," said Officer Gaffney, "you stay here and mind the beat like agood bucko, while I stroll down to ninety-sivin wid Mrs. Finn."

  "Let me come too, Jawn," cried Peter.

  Gaffney laid his big hand on little Peter's chest.

  "'Tis probably a cat movin' around," he said softly so that Mrs. Finncould not hear. "Lonely wimmin is always hearin' things. Besides meambitious but diminootive frind, if they was yeggs what good could ye dowid no stick and no gun? You stay here on the corner like I'm tellin'you and I'll be back in ten minutes by the clock."

  * * * * *

  Peter Mullaney waited on the corner. He saw the bulky figure of OfficerGaffney proceed at a dignified but rapid waddle down the block, followedby the smaller, more agitated figure of the woman. He saw OfficerGaffney go into the basement entrance, and he saw Mrs. Finn hesitate,then timidly follow. He waited. A long minute passed. Another. Another.Then the scream of a woman hit his ears. He saw Mrs. Finn dart from thehouse, wringing her hands, screaming. He sprinted down to her.

  "They've kilt him," screamed the woman. "Oh, they've kilt the officer."

  "Who? Tell me. Quick!"

  "The yeggs," she wailed. "There's two of them. The officer wentupstairs. They shot him. He rolled down. Don't go in. They'll shoot you.Send for help."

  Peter stood still. He was not thinking of the yeggs, or of Gaffney. Hewas hearing Kondorman ask, "Where is the Tropic of Capricorn?" He washearing Kondorman say, "You've failed." Something had him tight.Something was asking him, "Why go in that house? Why risk your life?You're not a cop. You'll never be a cop. They threw you out. They made afool of you for a trifle."

  Peter started back from the open door; he looked down; the street lightfell on the brass buttons of his uniform; the words of the old policemandarted across his brain: "A cop never runs away when needed."

  He caught his breath and plunged into the house. At the foot of thestairs leading up to the second floor he saw by the street light thatcame through the opened door, the sprawling form of a big man; the lightglanced from the silver badge on his broad chest. Peter bent overhastily.

  "Is it you, Pether?" breathed Gaffney, with difficulty. "They got me.Got me good. Wan of thim knocked me gun from me hand and the otherplugged me. Through the chist. I'm done for, Pether. I can't breathe.Stop, Pether, stop!"

  The veteran tried to struggle to his feet, but sank back, holdingfiercely to Peter's leg.

  "Let me go, Jawn. Let me go," whispered Peter hoarsely.

  "They'll murder you, Pether. It's two men to wan,--and they're armed."

  "Let me go in, I tell you, Jawn. Let me go. A good cop never runs--yousaid it yourself--let me go----"

  Slowly the grip on Peter's leg relaxed; the dimming eyes of the woundedman had suddenly grown very bright.

  "Ye're right, me little bucko," he said faintly. "Ye'll be a credit tothe foorce, Pether." And then the light died out of his eyes and thehand that had grasped Peter fell limp to the floor.

  Peter was up the stairs that led to the second floor in three swift,wary jumps. He heard a skurry of footsteps in the back of the house.Dashing a potted fern from its slender wooden stand, he grasped the endof the stand, and swinging it like a baseball bat, he pushed throughvelvet curtains into a large room. There was enough light there from themoon for him to see two black figures prying desperately at a door. Theywheeled as he entered. Bending low he hurled himself at them as he haddone when playing football on a back lot. There was a flash so near thatit burned his face; he felt a sharp fork of pain cross his head as ifhis scalp had been slashed by a red-hot knife. With all the force in histaut body he swung the stand at the nearest man; it caught the manacross the face and he went down with a broken, guttural cry. A secondand a third shot from the revolver of the other man roared in Peter'sears. Still crouching, Peter dived through the darkness at the knees ofthe man with the gun; together they went to the fl
oor in a cursing,grunting tangle.

  The burglar struggled to jab down the butt of his revolver on the headof the small man who had fastened himself to him with the death grip ofa mongoose on a cobra. They thrashed about the room. Peter had gotten ahold on the man's pistol wrist and he held to it while the man with hisfree hand rained blow after blow on the defenseless face and bleedinghead of the little man. As they fought in the darkness, the burglar witha sudden violent wrench tore loose the clinging Peter, and hurled himagainst a table, which crashed to the floor with the impact of Peter'sone hundred and thirty pounds of muscle and bone.

  As Peter hurtled back, his arms shot out mechanically to break his fall;one groping hand closed on a heavy iron candle-stick that had stood onthe table. He was up in a flash, the candle-stick in his hand. His eyeswere blinded by the blood from his wound; he dashed the blood away withhis coat-sleeve. With a short, sharp motion he hurled the candle-stickat his opponent's head, outlined against a window, not six feet away. Atthe moment the missile flew from Peter's hand, the yegg steadied himselfand fired. Then he reeled to the floor as the candle-stick's heavy basestruck him between the eyes.

  For the ghost of a second, Peter Mullaney stood swaying; then his handsclawed at the place on his chest where his shield might have been as ifhis heart had caught fire and he wished to tear it out of himself; then,quite gently, he crumpled to the floor, and there was the quiet of nightin the room.

  * * * * *

  As little Peter Mullaney lay in the hospital trying to see through hisbandages the flowers Judy McNulty had brought him, he heard the voice ofthe doctor saying:

  "Here he is. Nasty chest wound. We almost lost him. He didn't seem tocare much whether he pulled through or not. Was delirious for hours.Kept muttering something about the Tropic of Capricorn. But I thinkhe'll come through all right now. You just can't kill one of these toughlittle micks."

  Peering through his bandages, Peter Mullaney saw the square shouldersand stern face of Commissioner Kondorman.

  "Good morning, Mullaney," the Commissioner said, in his formal officialvoice. "I'm glad to hear that you're going to get better."

  "Thank you, Commissioner," murmured Peter, watching him with wonderingeyes.

  Commissioner Kondorman felt round in an inside pocket and brought out asmall box from which he carefully took something that glittered in themorning sunlight. Bending over the bed, he pinned it on the night-shirtof Peter Mullaney. Peter felt it; stopped breathing; felt it again;slowly pulled it out so that he could look at it.

  "It was Officer John Gaffney's," said the Commissioner, and his voicewas trying hard to be official and formal, but it was getting husky. "Hewas a brave officer. I wanted another brave officer to have his shield."

  "But, Commissioner," cried Peter, winking very hard with both eyes, forthey were blurring, "haven't you made a mistake? You must have got thewrong man. Don't you remember? I'm the one that said the Tropic ofCapricorn is in the Bronx!"

  "Officer Mullaney," said Commissioner Kondorman in an odd voice, "if acop like you says the Tropic of Capricorn is in the Bronx, then, by thelord Harry, that's where the Tropic of Capricorn is."