The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues

by Ellen Raskin

  “I think he’s trying to say he likes the frame,” Dickory shouted above the mute’s ravings.

  “There, there, young man, everything is going to be all right.” Cookie cooed and patted Isaac’s arm, comforting him into silence.

  Now Dickory studied the unfamiliar painting that had sent Isaac into his spell. “Fruit Peddler” by Edgar Sonneborg (1935- ) , the plaque said. It was a harsh portrait of a rouged woman in tatters straddling a pushcart full of fruit. Head thrown back, she was laughing shamelessly at the hungry hordes that surrounded her cart, saluting them with a peeled banana. The artist’s bold, almost frenzied brush had sketched the peddler in brittle colors, in naked and tragic truth; yet the sordidness was somehow fused with compassion. Sonneborg, whoever he was, had painted a portrait of a woman’s soul.

  Isaac Bickerstaffe was panting heavily from his maniacal exertions, his head weighed down by confusion.

  “I think we’d better go now, Mrs. Panzpresser. Thank you for showing me your husband’s collection.”

  “Come back any time, Dickory Dock,” Mrs. Panzpresser said warmly. “And thanks so much for bringing the portrait; I can’t wait until Julius sees it. Good-bye, Mr. Bickerstaffe, it was so nice meeting you.”

  2

  Inspector Noserag was sorting the photographs of the fifty-seven witnesses when Dickory returned to the studio. “Don your hat, Sergeant Kod, we have no time to lose.”

  Helmeted, Dickory sat beside him at the library table and suggested they begin with the bracelet. “Length: Ten inches.”

  “Ten inches long? Incredible,” Noserag exclaimed. “The Empress Fatima was corpulent, which of course has nothing to do with this case. Go on.”

  “Width: Four inches. Consists of six chain-linked identical segments, gold clasp with safety catch.”

  “Aha! Not pin-linked. The thief would not have had time to take it apart and dispose of the segments separately. The bracelet was stolen in one piece, one piece ten inches long and four inches wide.”

  “Did you think it might have been taken apart?”

  “I think of everything, Sergeant, everything.” Inspector Noserag drew deep on his pipe and exhaled a lopsided smoke ring.

  Dickory continued. “Each segment consists of one ten-carat diamond surrounded by a rosette of emeralds and....”

  “Never mind that part; let’s get on to the floor plan.”

  Head to head (or hat to helmet) they pored over the layout of the ninety-ninth floor. Dickory was getting dizzy from the pipe under her nose.

  “Now, Sergeant Kod,” Garson said, straightening, “how would you remove yourself from these premises if you were a bracelet ten inches long and four inches wide?”

  Having wiped her smarting eyes with the back of her hand, Dickory again studied the floor plan, trying to imagine herself as a bracelet. “The air-conditioning or heating ducts?”

  The inspector pointed a shaky finger at a notation on the plan. “The ducts are in the ceiling, which is twelve feet high. Anyone climbing to that height, especially a midget, would surely have been noticed, even in a panic. But there is another way out for an object that size. Look in the hall next to the elevators.”

  “The mail slot?”

  “Indeed! My thief carried a padded, stamped, and addressed envelope in his pocket. He slipped the bracelet into the envelope, sealed it—or perhaps it was self-sealing —and, unnoticed in the ensuing panic, deposited it into the mail slot. A daring feat, brilliantly planned and executed. When was the crime committed, at what time?”

  “Three-fifteen in the afternoon.”

  “Make a note, Sergeant. I, Inspector Noserag, surmise that the Empress Fatima bracelet was placed in an envelope, dropped into the mail chute, and collected by the postman from the ground-floor box no later than three-thirty.”

  “Very good, Inspector,” Dickory remarked. “Now, all we have to do is find out who mailed the bracelet, and to whom.”

  “Precisely.”

  In their photographs the fifty-seven witnesses stood tall and short (but not short enough) , in attitudes ranging from self-conscious to indignant. Some slouched, some leaned, and one thumbed his nose at the camera.

  “Hmmmmm,” murmured the inspector.

  The identity of the jewel thief was still a deep mystery, but the character of Inspector Noserag had finally emerged. His voice was deliberate, upper-class yet tough. His shoulders were slumped, his back bowed from a lifetime spent tracking footprints. All that remained of Garson was a tremor in his right hand.

  Kod was still Dickory wearing a funny hat.

  Pipe-puffing Inspector Noserag, shoulders slumped, hands clasped behind his bowed back, moved in his typical long-legged, bent-kneed stride down the length of the table and back, studying the faces in the long row of photographs. He was followed by Sergeant Kod.

  “Bah, photographs prevaricate,” he grumbled. “Cameras lie. These are pictures of masks worn consciously or unconsciously by the posers. Red hair appears black; eyes are in shadow; the curve of the chin, the contour of the cheek are flattened onto the two-dimensional emulsified paper as though the faces had been rolled under a paving machine.”

  Still studying the photographs, Dickory thought these likenesses came closer to the truth than Garson’s dream portraits did.

  The inspector sighed wearily. “Nevertheless, these hazy imitations of fifty-seven living and breathing mortals are all we have to go on, for the nonce.” Dickory bumped into Noserag when he suddenly stopped. “Now, Sergeant Kod, before we study the testimony and before we become entangled in facts, do you have any intuitive choice?”

  “Yes, I do,” Dickory replied, setting her helmet straight. “The crime took a lot of nerve. It was pulled off right in the middle of the day in front of fifty-six witnesses. Our man was not a sneak thief.”

  “Good thinking, Sergeant. And your audacious culprit is whom?”

  “The man thumbing his nose.”

  Inspector Noserag reached across the table for the nose-thumber’s photograph (average size, average build, glasses, wearing a suit and necktie) and turned to the information taped to the back.

  TIMOTHY HAY

  Date of birth: 3/ 15/38. Sex: M.

  Height: 5-10. Eyes: Hazel.

  Corrective lenses.

  Occupation: Underwear salesman.

  Reason for being on premises:

  Bought pearls for wife’s birthday.

  Location at time of robbery:

  At pearl counter.

  Testimony:

  Says he seen nothing. Says he will

  sue N.Y.C. for money lost in missing

  3:30 appt. with important buyer (confirmed) .

  Attitude of witness:

  Uncooperative.

  “Timothy Hay sounds like a fake name,” Dickory said.

  “The stranger the name, the more likely it’s real,” Noserag instructed. “No, Timothy Hay is definitely his real name. Not only was his appointment confirmed, but compare the phrase ‘corrective lenses’ with ‘says he seen nothing.’ The illiterate who wrote this report copied the vital statistics from a driver’s license.”

  “Have you considered that a 3:30 appointment is an excellent alibi, Inspector?”

  “Naturally,” Noserag replied huffily. “Everything is possible, and anyone could be the thief. Except Timothy Hay.”

  “And why not Timothy Hay?”

  “Deductive introspection, Kod. What better pose of innocence than to place the guilt on someone else. My clever thief would have been very quick to point his finger at someone else, or at least confuse the police with a misleading description.” Inspector Noserag had developed a habit of using the personal possessive when referring to the criminal. “My clever thief,” he had said. Perhaps he was trying to place himself in the mind of the offender, Dickory thought, or perhaps there was some of the larcenist in Garson’s own soul.

  “Not only can we eliminate Timothy Hay,” Noserag continued, “we can eliminate those witnesses who tes
tified to seeing nothing.”

  Each took a stack of photographs and sorted through the testimony on the reverse sides. “Says he seen nothing” occurred nineteen more times. Dickory added them to the reject pile along with Timothy Hay (the haystack, she called it) .

  “Twenty witnesses rejected,” the inspector remarked. “Which, if I am not mistaken, leaves us with only thirty-eight suspects.”

  “Thirty-seven,” said Sergeant Kod.

  Thirty-seven witnesses had described the thief. From their testimony, Noserag and Kod compiled a report indicating the number of times each feature was mentioned:

  Male (20). Female (17).

  Height: Midget (4). Short (10). Average (23).

  Weight: Thin to average (35). Fat (2).

  Hair: Red (4). Blond (7). Brown (18). Black (8).

  Eyes: Blue (6). Brown (8). Did not notice (23).

  Clothes: Blue suit (5). Brown suit (3). Gray suit (1).

  Black dress (1). Print dress (1). Blue zippered

  jacket, no tie (22). Did not notice (4).

  Distinguishing marks: Harelip (4). None (33).

  “What do you make of this confusion, Sergeant?”

  “I think everybody’s lying, or else everybody did it,” Dickory replied.

  Noserag blew another irregular smoke ring into the smoke-filled air. “This reminds me of a devilishly difficult case I solved several years ago . . . never mind.” Unable to invent a story fast enough, he rose and strode to the front window. “Sergeant Kod, you are an observant person. In fact, my dear friend Garson has testified to your keen awareness and descriptive ability.”

  Perhaps it was due to her poor acting ability, but Noserag was confusing Dock with Kod.

  “Sergeant, have you been aware of a snaggle-toothed blind man walking his German shepherd up and down this street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quickly now, tell me in which ear he wears a gold earring.”

  “The left?”

  “No guessing. You are an eyewitness. Is it or is it not the left ear?”

  “Yes.” Dickory had been forced to commit herself. “The gold earring is in the left ear.”

  “Wrong!” The inspector spun around and stared at Dickory. “You are totally and unequivocally wrong, Sergeant Kod. In the first instance, the snaggle-toothed blind man has straight, even teeth—a fact which you did not bother to correct. In the second instance, the blind man’s earring is not gold; in fact, he is wearing no earring at all. And in the third instance. . . .”

  Resenting his ridicule, Dickory turned her back on him and walked into the studio. Garson followed and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Come, Dickory, don’t take it so hard. I was just trying to prove a point. If an astute observer like you can be badgered into giving false testimony, you can imagine how thirty-seven simple-eyed, panicky witnesses could get so mixed up. Come, let’s begin again.”

  Once again Dickory studied the composite descriptions. “Twenty-two witnesses saw a man in a blue zippered jacket, no tie. There’s a photo of him somewhere.”

  “Class snobbery, that’s all. Probably a messenger. The rich think only the poor are thieves. Hah!”

  Dickory tried again. “The number 4 appears more often than any other number. Four people seem to be agreeing on something.”

  “Excellent, Sergeant Kod, excellent. And what exactly do the four witnesses agree on?”

  “Midget. Red hair. Did not notice clothes. Harelip.”

  “Quick, Sergeant, to the easel.” Noserag dashed to the police easel, stared at the blank canvas, unbuttoned his cuff, then, deciding not to roll up his sleeves, buttoned it again.

  Still seated, Dickory was sorting through the photographs knowing that Garson would soon return.

  “Did you say a red-headed midget with a harelip?” he asked, walking slowly back to the library table.

  “Yes. And not one of the fifty-seven witnesses is a redhead or a midget or has a harelip.” Sergeant Kod handed him the pictures of the four people who had supplied that testimony.

  “Indeed,” Noserag exclaimed. “It is just as I surmised. My clever thief provided a false description that was testified to by three gullible bystanders. There was no redheaded midget with a harelip. One of these four witnesses is my real thief.”

  Dickory could not understand how three people could agree on having seen a midget who wasn’t there.

  “Not at all surprising,” Noserag explained. “What surprises me more is that there were only three such gullible witnesses. Imagine the scene, Sergeant, alarms blaring, guards with drawn guns. Some people ducked or fell to their knees; and in the panic, three witnesses saw midgets. Some people bit their lips in fear; and three witnesses saw harelips.”

  Eyes closed, Dickory pictured the scene, but she saw no redhead in it.

  “The red hair is what I call memory displacement,” Noserag said with authority. “Earlier in the day three witnesses had glimpsed a person with flaming red hair. Upon hearing the false description, they displaced that memory to the ninety-ninth floor.”

  Now Dickory remembered. The gold earring had been in the ear of the tattooed sailor who had given her the letter for Manny Mallomar.

  Three gullible witnesses and one thief. The photographs of the four people who had described the red-headed midget with a harelip lay face up on the table: a squinting old man in uniform; a thin, nervous woman in a print dress; an elderly businessman; and an idiot-faced young delivery boy. One by one Dickory read the testimony aloud to the slouched and smoking inspector.

  “ANGUS STUMPF, elevator operator.

  Reason for being on premises: works there.

  Location at time of robbery: in elevator.

  Testimony: My elevator had just opened at the ninety-ninth floor and the passengers were filing out into the showroom, when bam! the alarm goes off. That shuts off power to the elevator, can’t even shut the doors if it’s open like mine was. So everybody starts running in all directions, mostly into each other, and yelling. I come out of my elevator to get a good look, my eyes not being what they used to be, but that’s all right, driving an elevator’s not like driving a truck, you know. Then I sees him: a red-headed midget with a harelip. He’s the one all right, all right.

  Attitude of witness: Talkative.

  “That leaves him out,” Dickory continued. “Angus Stumpf couldn’t have been riding up in the elevator and stealing the bracelet at the same time. But he was standing next to the mail slot—maybe he’s an accomplice.”

  “I doubt that, Sergeant. It would be too dangerous a caper for more than one person. No, I’m quite certain my clever thief did it alone. Next?”

  “HORTENSE FREEMARTIN, bookkeeper at the S & S Sausage Company.

  Reason for being on premises: to look at the Empress Fatima bracelet.

  Location at time of robbery: looking at the Empress Fatima bracelet.

  Testimony: I was looking at the Empress Fatima bracelet. I glanced up when the President of the United States came in. Then the alarm went off, right next to me. I nearly had a heart attack I was so scared. The next thing I saw was a midget run by. I’m sure I saw him, red hair, harelip, and all.

  Attitude of witness: Nervous.

  “The President of the United States?” Dickory reached for the haystack of rejected photographs.

  “Obviously a diversionary tactic by my thief to draw attention away from the glass display case. Go on, Sergeant.”

  “This is the young guy in the zippered jacket and no tie.

  “JOACHIM NESSELRODE, delivery boy for the Quickee Coffee Shoppee.

  Reason for being on premises: delivering six cofees—five regular, one black; and four Danishes—three cheese, one prune.

  Location at time of robbery: can’t remember.

  Testimony: First I see the President of the United States. Then I hear a loud alarm, like a fire, I think. Then I look for a midget with red hair and a hairy lip. Then I see him, then I don’t.

  Attitude of witness: Co
operative. Possibly mentally deficient.

  “What a perfect disguise,” Dickory added.

  “Too perfect.” Noserag waved at her to continue.

  “F. (Frederick) K. (Kurt) OPALMEYER, owner of Opalmeyer Jewelers.

  Reason for being on premises: owns the place.

  Location at time of robbery: checking on the Empress Fatima bracelet.

  Testimony: I went to the display case to check on the bracelet. It was still there when someone shouted, “Good afternoon, Mr. President.” I looked up, since I’m the president of Opalmeyer Jewelers. Suddenly, I heard glass breaking and the alarm went off. I looked down at the case; the bracelet was gone. Gone, oh me, oh my! (blows nose, wipes eyes) . Excuse me. Then I thought I saw the thief dodging through the crowd. I ran after him, but he disappeared. Red hair. Harelip. A midget, he must have been a midget, else how could he steal the bracelet without being seen? The bracelet, the beautiful bracelet. It was my dumb brother-in-law’s idea to borrow it in the first place. Free publicity, he said. Some publicity, I could do without such publicity. A two-million-dollar bracelet, stolen in my own shop, under my very nose. Why did it have to happen to me. What have I done to deserve such a fate?

  Attitude of witness: Depressed.

  Note: brother-in-law in Europe on business.

  “I still think the delivery boy did it,” Dickory said. “And I live in a tenement, so it’s not class snobbery.”

  Inspector Noserag accepted the fact that a police sergeant could live in a tenement. He puffed and puffed and hmmmed and hmmmed. Suddenly he sprung from his chair. “I must call Quinn immediately.”

  Dickory grabbed the deerstalker hat from his head just in time. “Hello, Chief? Garson here. I’ve got your man. I know who stole the Empress Fatima bracelet.”

  “Who?”

  “Hang on to your chair, Chief. It was F. K. Opalmeyer.”

  “Really?”