by Ed McBain
“Ready to begin, sir,” the detective named Sam said.
Bozzaris cleared his throat again. “Well, let’s see what we have here this morning,” he said in a friendly cheerful manner, and then called off the name and the age of the first offender.
The man who got off the bench and walked to the screen was nattily dressed in a dark brown suit, white shirt, yellow tie, and polished brown shoes. He looked like a jockey. He stood against the screen and Mullaney saw that his height was just five feet six inches. In the same cheerful friendly voice, Bozzaris told the assembled detectives why the man had been arrested, and then said, “No statement,” which Mullaney took to mean the prisoner hadn’t said anything when they’d apprehended him, a gambit he himself had employed the night before, mainly because he had been unconscious at the time.
“Well now,” Bozzaris said, “it seems that you picked somebody’s pocket last night, Jerry, is that right?”
“No,” Jerry said, “I’m innocent.”
“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said in his friendly familiar voice, “two off-duty detectives saw you stick your hand into a man’s pocket and remove his wallet from it, isn’t that right, Jerry?”
“No, I’m innocent,” Jerry said, which Mullaney wished he wouldn’t say quite so often or quite so strenuously.
“Well, Jerry,” Bozzaris said, “when you were arrested we found a man’s wallet in your pocket, and the name in that wallet was David Gross. Now your name doesn’t happen to be David Gross, does it, Jerry?”
“No, it’s Jerry Cooke,” Jerry said, sounding astonished.
“That’s what I thought, Jerry.”
“Yes, that’s what it is,” Jerry said, sounding even more astonished.
“So how did this wallet with a driver’s license for a man named David Gross, and a Diners Club card for this man David Gross, and oh all sorts of identification for this man David Gross, happen to come into your possession? Would you happen to know, Jerry?”
“Gee, I wouldn’t happen to know,” Jerry said.
“Unless you picked it out of his pocket, isn’t that right, Jerry?”
“Gee, I wouldn’t know,” Jerry said.
“Well, what do you think, Jerry?”
“I think I’m innocent.”
“You didn’t pick Mr. Gross’s pocket?”
“No, sir. That I definitely did not do.”
“Are you a pickpocket, Jerry?”
“Yes, sir, I am. And a very good one, I’m proud to say.”
“Jerry, I have your B-sheet here, and I think these gentlemen might be interested in knowing that you have been arrested for picking pockets on three separate occasions, and convicted on two of those occasions, so just how good a pickpocket you are would seem to be a matter for debate. Did you or did you not pick Mr. Gross’s pocket?”
“No, sir, I did not. I am innocent.”
“Jerry, you had better have new stationery made,” Bozzaris said. “Next case.”
One of the detectives took Jerry’s arm and led him to the door, where a uniformed policeman was waiting to escort him out. Mullaney watched with rising anticipation, knowing very well that he, personally, had not committed a felony or, for that matter, any crime—and hoping to tell that to Bozzaris at the earliest opportunity. But there were eight other prisoners in the room (including a woman, he now saw), and he wondered how long it would take Bozzaris to get to him.
“Harrison, Randolph, age twenty-six,” Bozzaris said, “beat a man over the head with a stickball bat. No statement.”
Harrison got off the bench and walked over to the white screen, shading his eyes with his hand and trying to see past the glaring spotlight. He was a man of medium height and build, wearing a plaid sports jacket and dark-blue slacks. His white shirt was open at the throat, and he wore no tie.
“Well now,” Bozzaris said, “why did you hit a man over the head with a stickball bat, Randy?”
“Who says I did?” Randy answered.
“Well, the man you hit over the head with the bat, for one.”
“If I hit him with anything at all, which I didn’t, it was definitely not a stickball bat.”
“What was it?”
“A broom handle.”
“What’s the difference between a stickball bat and a broom handle?”
“A stickball bat has had the broom part taken off of it, whereas what it is claimed I hit him with had the broom part still attached. Therefore, if I hit him, it was with a broom handle which was never a stickball bat.”
“Be that as it may, why did you hit him?”
“If I hit him, which I didn’t, it was because of a tip.”
“A tip?”
“On a horse.”
“You gave him a tip on a horse.”
“No. He refused to give me a tip on a horse.”
“So you hit him.”
“I persuaded him to give me the tip.”
“On which horse?” Bozzaris asked, and Mullaney looked toward the desk, where he saw Bozzaris picking up a pencil and moving a small pad into place.
“Well, I don’t know if I should reveal such a confidence,” Randy said, “especially since it is claimed I hit a man with a stickball bat.”
“Perhaps the charge will be dropped, who knows?” Bozzaris said.
“Who knows indeed?” Randy said. “But in the meantime, why should I give away a perfectly good tip on a horse which was supposed to run yesterday and got scratched, but which is running today instead. At twenty-to-one on the morning line.”
“Twenty-to-one?” Bozzaris asked.
“Twenty-to-one,” Randy said.
There was a new flurry of activity in the room. Mullaney noticed that all the gathered detectives were opening their black books in which they took notes on criminals and criminal activities, and reaching for pens and pencils.
“Where is this horse running?” Bozzaris asked.
“Aqueduct.”
“Which race?”
“The second race.”
“And the horse’s name?”
“It is too bad about this charge against me,” Randy said.
“It certainly is,” Bozzaris agreed, “but people are talking to the D.A. all the time, and who knows what will fall upon his ear? I personally, in fact, do not see how anyone could get hurt with a broom handle. It had been my impression that this person was assaulted with a stickball bat, which is a horse of another color.”
“A stickball bat can be a very dangerous weapon,” Randy agreed.
“Certainly. But I don’t see how a broom handle, especially with the broom attached, could be at all dangerous.”
“Neither do I.”
“Ask him the horse’s name,” one of the detectives said.
“By the way, what is the horse’s name?” Bozzaris said.
“I will tell you in confidence if you promise to respect the confidence,” Randy said.
“I will certainly respect the confidence,” Bozzaris promised.
Randy walked to the desk, bent over it, and whispered something into the lieutenant’s ear. Bozzaris nodded and scribbled a word onto the pad in front of him. Mullaney tried to see what was written on the pad, but the room was too dark and the desk too distant.
“Thank you,” Bozzaris said, “I certainly appreciate this confidence.”
“Please say hello to the district attorney for me,” Randy said.
“Next case,” Bozzaris said. “Hawley, Michael, age fifty-seven, and Ryan, Diana, age fifty-five, broke into a jewelry store on West Forty-seventh Street, no statement. How about it, folks?”
There seemed to be a new excitement in the air, and Mullaney realized it had nothing to do with the tip Randy had just given the lieutenant, which tip was still secretly nestled under Bozzaris’ large protecting hand. The detectives were leaning forward avidly, their eyes fixed on the man and woman who now stood against the illuminated white screen. Mullaney found himself leaning forward as well, intently studying the pair and tryi
ng to determine what accounted for their undeniable star quality. There was no question that they were the leading performers thus far, though not next-to-closing, and Mullaney could not imagine why. They seemed to be the most ordinary sort of aging couple, the man a lanky fellow in a dark-green raincoat, his hands in his pockets, his hair long and unruly, a dazed look on his face; the woman a frizzled redhead wearing too much makeup, a wrinkled blue dress, and the same dazed expression. Yet every detective in the office was giving them his undivided attention, and even Bozzaris’ voice dropped a decibel or two, so that it now seemed he was talking to a pair of honored guests in his own living room, the governor and his wife perhaps, his voice friendly and warm, the port sparkling in the light of a cozy fire, intimate and relaxed; Mullaney heard himself sighing.
“What were you doing in that jewelry store, Mike?” Bozzaris asked.
“Looking,” Mike said.
“For what?”
“A ring.” Mike smiled in embarrassment. “For Diana,” he said.
“For who?”
“Diana.”
“Me,” the woman said. “He was looking for a ring for me.”
“At three o’clock in the morning?” Bozzaris said.
“Yes,” Diana said, and blushed.
“Why?”
“Because we just got engaged,” Diana said, and smiled.
“What?”
“Last night. And we needed an engagement ring.”
“At three o’clock in the morning?”
“Yes. Well no. We got engaged at two-thirty. So Mike said we needed a ring.”
“So we went out shopping for one,” Mike said.
“But all the stores were closed,” Diana said.
“So you decided to open one,” Bozzaris said.
“That’s right,” Mike said. “But we didn’t mean any harm.”
“It’s just we’re in love,” Diana said, and squeezed her fiancé’s hand.
“Let me get this straight,” Bozzaris said. “You got engaged …”
“I love you, darling,” Diana said.
“I love you, too, sweetheart,” Mike said.
“… last night at two-thirty and decided you needed a ring …”
“Yes, to seal the engagement. I love you, honey.”
“Oh darling, yes, I love you, too.”
“Now cut it out!” Bozzaris said. “There happens to be a law against breaking into jewelry stores.”
“What do jewelers know about love?” Mike asked.
“Or policemen, for that matter,” Diana said.
“Be that as it may, you’d better listen to me, you two, because this is something pretty serious here, and I want some honest answers.”
“All our answers so far have been honest, Lieutenant,” Mike said sincerely, and blew a kiss at Diana.
“Good, and I hope they’ll continue to be that way because we appreciate honesty here, don’t we, fellows?”
The detectives grunted.
“I love you,” Mike said.
“I adore you,” Diana replied.
“This is what I want to ask you,” Bozzaris said, “and I’d appreciate an honest answer: Did you know that a large jewelry concern on Forty-seventh Street was broken into on Thursday night?”
“What’s that got to do with last night?” Mike asked.
“I love you,” Diana said.
“Last night was Friday night,” Mike said.
“That’s true, and I’m glad you’re still being honest with us,” Bozzaris said. “But I’m asking you about Thursday night, and I want to know whether or not you were aware of the information I just gave you.”
“What information?”
“That a large jewelry store on Forty-seventh Street was broken into on Thursday night.”
“No, I was not aware of that information,” Mike said.
“Now that you’re aware of it, what do you think?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Mike said.
“Neither do I,” Diana said. “All I know is I love him, oooh, I love him, love him, love him.”
“Would it surprise you to learn,” Bozzaris asked, “that several very expensive gems were stolen from that concern on Thursday night?”
“It would surprise me,” Mike said, “because I have no knowledge whatever of the heist.”
“I adore you,” Diana said.
“The stolen gems were diamonds, Mike.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“There were three very large diamonds stolen, Mike, each about ten carats, and there were also eight smaller diamonds stolen, about five or six carats each.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mike said, “but what’s it got to do with love?”
“Lots of money involved here, Mike.”
“Can money buy love?” Mike asked.
“I worship you,” Diana said.
“Mike, when our patrolman found you and Diana there in the jewelry store with the alarm ringing, you were stuffing your pockets with diamond rings, kid stuff compared to the Thursday-night heist, oh maybe one or two carats each, some a little larger, maybe something like twenty thousand dollars involved, small potatoes. But don’t you think it’s possible, Mike, that someone who knocked over a place on Thursday night—and got away with it—might decide to come back to the same street on Friday night and knock over another place?”
“It’s possible,” Mike said. “Are you saying I knocked over that place on Thursday night?”
“You just said it was possible.”
“Why would I do a thing like that?”
“Why not?”
“We weren’t even engaged on Thursday night. In fact, we hadn’t even met on Thursday night.”
“Kiss me,” Diana said.
“Why’d you need so many rings?” Bozzaris asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You had seven or eight rings in your pockets. Why’d you need so many?”
“A girl like Diana should have a choice,” Mike said.
“He’s mad about me,” Diana said.
“I’m mad about you,” Mike admitted.
“So your story is you know nothing about that other heist, huh?” Bozzaris said.
“What’s your favorite color?” Mike asked Diana.
“Yellow,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Blue. Who’s your favorite singer?”
“Sinatra. Who’s yours?”
“Yes, oh yes! Do you want boys or girls?”
“Three of each.”
“Get them out of here,” Bozzaris said.
“Do you like walking in the rain?”
“I love it. What’s your favorite pie?”
“Blueberry.”
“I love you.”
“I adore you.”
Mullaney watched as they led the engaged couple out of the room, trying to figure out how he could sneak over to Bozzaris’ desk for a look at the nag’s name on the pad there under his hand. If this really was a bona-fide tip, and if the jacket at the library really did contain the clue to the whereabouts of five hundred thousand dollars, “… age thirty-nine,” Bozzaris was saying, “charged with Burglary in the First Degree. No statement.”
The room was silent. No one rose from the bench to walk toward the screen.
“Is he here?” Bozzaris asked.
“Mullaney, Andrew,” the detective named Sam said. “Are you here?”
“Present!” Mullaney said, and rose swiftly.
“All right, Andy, let’s get up there,” Bozzaris said.
Mullaney nodded and walked toward the screen. The spotlight was blinding, he could see only the detective sitting closest to the screen; beyond him, the room was a black void. Bozzaris’ voice came out of that void, friendly and familiar. “Shall I read that again, Andy?”
“Please,” Mullaney said.
“Mullaney, Andrew, age thirty-nine,” Bozzaris said. “You’re charged with Burglary One, what do you have to say?”
> “I don’t understand the charge,” Mullaney said.
“I will explain the charge, or at least the part that applies to you,” Bozzaris said. “You are charged with violation of Section 402 of the Penal Law of New York State, Burglary in the First Degree, which is defined thusly: A person who, with intent to commit some crime therein, breaks and enters in the night time, the dwelling house of another, in which there is at the time a human being and who, while engaged in the night time in effecting such entrance, or in committing any crime in such a building, or in escaping therefrom, assaults any person. That is the charge as it applies to you, Andy. How about it?”
“I didn’t break and enter any building.”
“You broke and entered a cottage owned by a Mr. Roger McReady of McReady’s Monument Works in the borough of Queens, at or about midnight last night.”
“I was invited into the cottage.”
“You broke and entered in the night time the dwelling of another at which time Roger McReady, who I’m told is a human being, was present. And in attempting to escape from this dwelling, you assaulted a friend of Mr. McReady’s by tackling him and knocking him to the ground in the cemetery where he was giving chase. What do you say, Andy? Burglary One happens to be punishable by no less than ten and no more than thirty.”
“Years?” Mullaney asked.
“Years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“That’s a very long time. What do you have to say, Andy?”
“What is it I’m supposed to have burgled?”
“You’re supposed to have burgled a considerable amount of whiskey, as well as some very good cheese and salami. Is this your first offense?”
“I’ve never had any trouble with the law before,” Mullaney said.