The Library Fuzz

by James Holding

  That eliminates the lady in 18A, I told myself, watching him turn into Spartan Drive and head west in the Pontiac. And that eliminates the firestairs stranger, too, I thought, and the door-to-door salesman. So what am I left with? Either Mrs. Stout’s boy friend, or—I fired up my Chevy and backed around—a guest of Mrs. Stout’s who, for some reason unknown, refused to allow her to answer my ring at her doorbell. Or someone who, in Mrs. Stout’s absence, refused to answer her doorbell himself. But why?

  I turned the Chevy west on Spartan Drive and almost cheerfully began to follow Mrs. Stout’s green Pontiac through the early-morning traffic. I kept asking myself why I was neglecting my own job to pry into the private affairs of Mrs. J. W. Stout, whom I had never even met but who owed the public library the astonishing fine of $18.90. I had no good answer to this question, yet my foot kept bearing down on the accelerator and my eyes stayed doggedly fixed on Mrs. Stout’s car, now being driven toward an unknown destination by an unknown young man.

  Still, I reflected, I was my own boss. Why shouldn’t I indulge my natural curiosity if I wanted to? And I wanted to. I had a definite feeling about the young man in Mrs. Stout’s Pontiac.

  We went at moderate speed through Elmersville and Conshocklie, heading over west. I stayed on the Pontiac’s trail, but far enough back to avoid, I hoped, the attention of the young man driving it. Once we hit the four-lane interstate from Conshocklie west, I could make an accurate guess as to where we were going.

  The Tricounty Airport. There wasn’t anything else out this way except 75 uninspiring miles of farmland between the airport and Culmertown. Ten minutes later the Pontiac turned into the airport. I turned in after it and followed it, not too closely, until it entered the huge east parking lot, whereupon I turned the other way, into the west lot. I took my ticket from the gatekeeper, parked the Chevy in the first vacant place I came to, and made for the terminal building.

  Mrs. Stout’s young man was there before me. When I came into the domed rotunda, I saw him standing in the queue of passengers before the Eastern Airlines counter. He had an Eastern ticket in his hand but no luggage of any kind.

  I went to the newsstand that flanks Eastern’s counter on the left and pretended to be looking through a copy of a magazine. From the corner of my eye I saw my quarry gain the counter and hand his ticket to the clerk. I came to the front of the newsstand in time to hear the clerk’s words as he gave the ticket back to Mrs. Stout’s young man after checking it. “Flight 837,” he said. “Departure Gate 6.”

  I turned my back quickly and bent my head over my magazine as he idled momentarily in the open corridor and then headed for the airport lunchroom, designated by a sign over its entrance as The Coronado Restaurant.

  Casually I trailed after him, pausing at Eastern’s counter only long enough to note from the posted departure schedule that Flight 837 for St. Louis departed at 10:45.

  The wide glass partition that separated The Coronado Restaurant from the terminal rotunda gave me an unobstructed view of the interior.

  Mrs. Stout’s young man was settling himself on a high stool among a dozen or so other customers at the quick-service counter. He was tapping his fingers in a relaxed way on the countertop as he waited for a menu. The wall clock in the restaurant showed the time to be 10:03.

  I began to feel pretty silly, spying on a citizen who was probably quite innocent of any wrongdoing. He had to be either Mrs. Stout’s lover, I told myself, or a friend or a relative. He’d had her car keys, hadn’t he? And there had been nothing furtive or surreptitious about his actions. Casual, untroubled, and jaunty—that was Mrs. Stout’s young man. I still had a feeling about him, though. Maybe it was his jaunty air.

  He put sugar and cream into the coffee the waitress brought him and stirred it languidly with a spoon. While he did so, his eyes sought the lunchroom entrance doors several times.

  That decided me. I went over to the rank of pay phones along the far wall of the rotunda, closed myself into one of the booths, dropped my dime, dialed police headquarters, and asked for Lieutenant Randall. I’d worked under him for several years in the detective division of the city police.

  When I got through to him he said, “Lieutenant Randall,” in a noncommittal voice.

  “Hal Johnson,” I said. “I’ve got a problem you might be able to help me with, Lieutenant.”

  “Really, Hal? You need help? A smart ex-cop like you?” His tone was dulcet but dripped with sarcasm.

  “A police problem, Lieutenant,” I said. “At least it could be. You can help me find out.”

  His manner changed at once. “What is it, Hal?”

  I told him about my abortive call on Mrs. Stout and about the young man who had driven off in her car so blithely, and that I now knew where said young man could be reached if it developed he had done anything to break the law.

  “Where are you now?” Randall went right to the heart of it.

  “The airport. I can see our young man from this pay phone.”

  “Oh?” He waited for more.

  “Yeah. He’s having coffee in the lunchroom. His flight for St. Louis leaves in exactly forty minutes.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Send a radio car to The Scottish Arms. Check on Mrs. Stout’s apartment. Get a look inside it on some excuse or other. Suspected auto theft, maybe. Or an anonymous tip that her place has been burglarized. Then call me back here and let me know the score.”

  “I guess I can do that.”

  “Thanks.” I gave him the number of the pay phone I was using. “I’ll wait right here until I hear from you.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  I half opened the door of the telephone booth, leaned against it, and waited as patiently as I could to find out whether I was a suspicious fool or a very perceptive library cop. Mrs. Stout’s young man went right on drinking his coffee, unperturbed. His head, though, it seemed to me, turned more frequently toward the lunchroom doors with the slow passage of time. I took what comfort I could from that while I waited.

  I smoked two cigarettes down to nubbins before the telephone at my elbow jangled. I glanced at my wrist watch as I closed the door and took down the receiver. I had to hand it to Randall. Seventeen and one-half minutes.

  I said into the phone, “Well?”

  “Car 67 just reported finding your Mrs. Stout tied into a chair and gagged with a napkin in apartment 18B of The Scottish Arms.”

  I blew out my breath. “What does she say happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “She’s in shock. Fainted. Went out like a light when they untied her. That guy of yours still there?”

  “Finishing his coffee.”

  “Grab him,” Randall said. “I’ve got two men on the way.”

  “Grab him! Listen, Lieutenant, he’s twice as big as I am and half as old. I need help.”

  “You’re getting it.”

  “What if your men can’t make it here before Flight 837 leaves?”

  He hesitated. Then, “Stay where you are. I’ll call the airport police to lend you a hand. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I hung up.

  I figured it ought to take the Lieutenant about two minutes to alert the airport police. That would still give us plenty of time to detain Mrs. Stout’s young man before plane time. I began to relax a little as I waited for the airport cops to show.

  Somebody else showed first. A tall heavy-set man, in his thirties, left the Eastern checkout counter and went like a homing pigeon to the lunchroom stool to the right of the one occupied by the guy who stole Mrs. Stout’s Pontiac. He wore a conservative business suit, polished black shoes, a narrow Establishment-type necktie. He carried an oversize briefcase in one hand.

  As he settled himself on his stool, he said a few words to his neighbor. Then they both glanced up at the wall clock and the newcomer said something to the waitress behind the counter. After that, conversation languished. My nerves tightened up again. Now t
here seemed to be two malefactors for me to handle—and the new one was even bigger and more formidable than the first one.

  Oh well, I thought, counting the airport police and me, and Randall’s troops, there would be at least five of us to their two. The trouble was, I was still all by myself on the battle line and the time for Flight 837‘s departure was drawing closer.

  I lit another cigarette. It tasted awful.

  Presently two husky men with airport police patches on their shirt sleeves drifted up to my telephone booth and raised their eyebrows at me. I nodded, stepped out of the booth, and drew them across the rotunda until we were out of sight of the lunchroom counter. Then I said, “Listen, there are two men in the lunchroom—”

  “Two?” said one of the cops in surprise. “City police said one.”

  “He’s been joined by a pal,” I said, “and the lunchroom’s half full of people, so you can’t operate in there. Too many bystanders might get hurt.”

  “Then where?” asked the second cop.

  “How about the gate before they board their plane? Flight 837. Eastern. Gate 6. I don’t want them to see your sleeve patches, though. They might smell a rat.”

  “We’ll put on jackets. How do we recognize them?”

  I said, “I’ll go into the restaurant and keep an eye on them until their flight is called. And an eye out for the city cops who are on their way. When the two approach the barrier to be processed by the skyjacking machine, I’ll be right behind them, maybe with the city cops, too. I’ll tip you the sign. The main thing is, I don’t want anybody hurt.”

  “Neither do we.” And they drifted off.

  I swallowed a dry lump in my throat and walked into the lunchroom. Threading my way between tables I came to rest on the stool at the counter at the left of Mrs. Stout’s young man. The clock on the wall said it was now 10:28. Seventeen minutes until flight time. I ordered coffee from the waitress when she came along. It was black and strong and when I took a gulp of it I burned my tongue. I wondered idly whether Lieutenant Randall’s men would get there in time for zero hour.

  At 10:32 the man beside me turned his head my way and spoke in a slow soft drawl. “Look under the counter,” he murmured.

  I was startled. “Under the counter?”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked under the counter. His hand, lying in his lap and partially concealed by his yellow lunchroom napkin, held a short-barreled gun pointed at my right kidney.

  “What’s that for?” I said, forcing myself to take another sip of coffee.

  “For curious old jerks who don’t mind their own business.” He smiled at me.

  His friend with the narrow necktie was looking at him sideways. “What’s all this?” he said in a bored voice.

  “This guy was snooping at Stout’s apartment an hour ago,” the younger man explained. “Ringing the doorbell. Trying to get in.” He turned a cold colorless stare on me and moved the gun in his lap. “You followed me here from The Scottish Arms. Why? You a cop?”

  “A cop?” I tried to laugh but it came out hollow and shaky. I was thinking what a brainless dummy I’d been to come boldly into the lunchroom, drawing attention to myself. For this guy had obviously viewed my rugged features before—through the peephole in Mrs. Stout’s apartment door. So naturally he recognized me the minute I sat down beside him in the lunchroom.

  His friend didn’t seem unduly worried. He calmly drained the last of his coffee, glanced once more at the wall clock. “I think he has to go to the Men’s Room,” he said with the suggestion of a smile.

  Mrs. Stout’s young man nodded. “Good a place as any.” He motioned to the waitress for their checks. Then he asked her for mine, too. I kept quiet. If you’ve ever had a gun barrel only four inches from your kidney you’ll understand why.

  The man with the narrow tie took the checks, reached under his stool for his brief case, and headed for the cashier’s desk. Under his breath he said, “Meet you on the plane, Joe.” His manner was composed.

  Joe slipped his gun into his side jacket pocket but he kept his hand on it. “Men’s Room,” he said to me. “No tricks.”

  Meekly I preceded him out of the lunchroom into the rotunda, down the transverse corridor toward a sign that said MEN in brass nailheads. Joe was only a step behind me, practically breathing down my neck. The loudspeakers began to call Flight 837. The man with the brief case wandered off toward Gate 6.

  I didn’t know what Joe had in mind for me in the Men’s Room, but I knew it wouldn’t be pleasant. In fact, it might even be fatal if the room should happen, by ill chance, to be empty when we got there.

  My luck was running sour. The Men’s Room was as empty as a sleep-walker’s eyes.

  “Well, well,” said Joe’s soft drawl over my shoulder. “Go into the stall at the far end, baby.” I risked looking back at him for an instant. All I saw was his hand coming out of his jacket pocket, still holding the gun, only now he was holding it by the barrel. I breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed I was going to get conked with a gun butt. That’s bad enough. But it’s much better than getting shot in the kidney.

  I stepped briskly, therefore, to the end stall. I was almost there when I heard a soft thud behind me. I risked another glance behind. And this time I saw a beautiful sight.

  Joe was still behind me, but he had come to a sudden stop.

  Both hands, including the one holding his gun like a club, were raised above his head. Over his shoulder grinned the homely Irish face of Detective Second Class Herb O’Neill, and close behind him loomed Detective Third Class Terry Shenkin who was reaching up a hand to relieve Joe of his short-barreled gun. The reason for the tableau was that O’Neill had his own police positive shoved into the small of Joe’s back so hard I expected to see its snout emerge from his belt buckle. The soft thud I’d heard was the Men’s Room door closing.

  I turned around. O’Neill said, “Is this the monkey Lieutenant Randall wants, Hal?”

  “Yeah,” I said weakly.

  “Good. Cuff him and we’ll take him out to the car,” O’Neill said to Shenkin.

  I looked at my watch. “We can pick up another monkey to go with him if we hurry,” I said. “At Gate 6. We’ve got four minutes.”

  Shenkin put the cuffs on Joe who hadn’t said a word, not even a four-letter one, since my friends arrived. O’Neill and I ran out of the Men’s Room and put on speed for Gate 6.

  “Where’d you drop from?” I panted as we hurried along.

  “Came into the terminal and saw you coming out of the lunchroom with that monkey walking too close behind you in what we call a threatening posture,” O’Neill said. “No magic about it, Hal.”

  “For me it was magic,” I said. “Thanks, Herb. Now slow down.”

  We approached Gate 6. I spotted the two airport cops idling in the crowd around the boarding gate. Joe’s pal with the narrow tie was standing fifth in the line of passengers, waiting his turn for the skyjacking frisk. Every few seconds he turned his head to check on whether Joe was going to make the plane.

  I ducked my head and brushed imaginary dust off my trousers just in time. He didn’t see me. As soon as his back was toward us again, I snaked through the crowd, O’Neill trailing, to one of the airport cops and said to him, “This is O’Neill, city police. And the fifth man in the boarding line is the one we want.”

  “You said there was two,” he said, giving me a funny look.

  I didn’t blame him.

  “We nailed him upstairs. Can you take this one? The guy with the narrow necktie?”

  “We can take him. Come on, Al,” he said to his partner. They had put dark jackets on over their police shirts.

  “I’ll be right behind you if you need me,” O’Neill said. It was their turf.

  They didn’t need him. Or me, either. They closed in from behind on the big man and took him out of the crowd at the boarding gate like the professionals they were. One on each arm, holding him up as though he’d grown suddenly faint, murmuring soot
hing remarks to the people nearby about getting him to the sick bay. It was slickly done.

  The guy was too surprised to do much more than struggle weakly as they led him out of the crowd. By the time they bundled him over to O’Neill and me, waiting behind a soft-drink machine, everybody had turned back to the boarding gate and forgotten all about him.

  “Thanks a million, boys,” I said to the airport cops. Then to O’Neill, “You want to take the prisoner? I’ll take the brief case.”

  I got the best of that bargain. For the brief case contained $92,000 in hundreds, fifties, twenties, and tens. The paper bands around the bundles of bills said FIRST FIDELITY SAVINGS AND LOAN.

  “Yeah,” Lieutenant Randall told me five minutes later when I telephoned him from a pay phone to report the money, “your Mrs. Stout’s husband is the big boss at First Fidelity. We just got a call ten minutes ago that his secretary found him locked in his private can at the office, out cold, gagged and tied up. And the cashier says there’s ninety-two thousand missing from the vault. Looks like you found it, Hal.”

  “Lucky me,” I said. “So that’s how they worked it, hey? Forced their way into Stout’s apartment and Joe held Mrs. Stout hostage while his buddy went with Mr. Stout to his office and made him cooperate in getting the dough from the vault or Joe would do something violent to Mrs. Stout?”

  “And arranged to meet at the airport and leave town,” Randall said. “The Stouts will tell us about it when they’re fit to talk. Both are in the hospital—shock and mild concussion.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “I hope there’s a reward, Lieutenant. I could use some extra dough.”

  “No reward. The insurance company doesn’t even know First Fidelity was robbed and we’ve already recovered the loot. So why a reward?”

  “Something to show for my wasted morning,” I said.

  Randall laughed. “Don’t pester me with your little problems,” he said. “I got enough of my own. Send in the ninety-two grand with O’Neill and the hoods, will you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No?”

  “I’ll send in exactly $91,981.10,” I said. “I’m keeping the $18.90 that Mrs. Stout owes me in library fines. And if First Fidelity is out of balance tonight, that’s their problem!”