by Ed McBain
“You fellows are getting better all the time,” Benny told them some ten minutes later, in a cafeteria on Forty-sixth Street and Eighth Avenue. “That was a truly remarkable performance.”
“Well, thank you,” Alfred said shyly, and ducked his head.
“Thank you,” Vinny repeated.
“Remarkable,” Benny said. “And what’s even more remarkable is that you get away with it.”
“How do you mean?” Alfred asked.
“That the people watching you don’t realize you’re in some way related to each other.”
“How do you mean?” Vinny asked.
“In that you look so much alike.”
“Oh,” Alfred said.
“Being twins, I mean.”
“Oh,” Vinny said.
“Identical twins,” Benny said.
“Well,” Alfred said, “we don’t think of ourselves as twins, you see.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” Vinny said. “We were born fourteen hours apart.”
“That’s hardly twins,” Alfred said.
“That’s a medical phenomenon,” Vinny said, “but it’s not twins.”
“I thought it was twins,” Benny said.
“Millie the Midwife didn’t think so,” Vinny said. “In fact, she thought her work was done. My mother thought so too. Millie went to a movie after she delivered me. That was at seven o’clock at night. She went to see Where the Sidewalk Ends, with Dana Andrews and Gene Tierney.”
“That was a very good picture,” Benny said.
“Yes, I myself saw it on television only last week,” Vinny said.
“Jeanette Kay watched it too.”
“How is Jeanette Kay?” Vinny asked.
“She’s fine, thank you.”
“Anyway, the next morning my mother called Millie and said she was feeling very strange. ‘Very strange how?’ Millie wanted to know. My mother said she felt as if there was still somebody inside her kicking around. Millie rushed right over and they did the malocchio. Do you know what the malocchio is?”
“Yes, it’s the Evil Eye,” Benny said.
“Correct,” Vinny said. “What Millie the Midwife done was put a few drops of oil in a dish of water. If the oil separated into drops close together, like eyes, that meant somebody had put the malocchio on my mother. Which could have accounted for why she was still feeling somebody kicking around inside there when I was already born.”
“But it wasn’t the malocchio,” Alfred said.
“Correct. The oil just lay there in the dish like a big gold coin. No eyes, nothing. So Millie said to my mother, ‘Well, let’s take another look, Fanny.’ So they took another look, and it was Alfred.”
“Me,” Alfred said.
“A medical phenomenon,” Vinny said.
“But not twins,” Alfred said.
“How can you be sure you’re not twins, though?” Benny asked.
“If we were twins, would they call us the Corsican Brothers? They’d call us the Corsican Twins, correct?”
“But the Corsican Brothers were twins.”
“Correct,” Vinny said. “But we’re not. In fact, we’re not even from Corsica. None of our family’s from Corsica, neither. The whole thing’s an entire mystery.”
“The way I figure it,” Alfred said, “my mother conceived twice.”
“Probably with my father both times,” Vinny said.
“But fourteen hours apart,” Alfred said.
“That would explain it, all right,” Benny said.
“That’s very definitely what probably happened,” Alfred said.
“So you see there’s nothing remarkable about our act in that respect. People accept us for what we are. After all, superficial similarities don’t mean nothing when there’s two distinct and definite personalities involved. We’re very different people, Ben.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Though very much alike in many respects as well.”
“But different,” Alfred said.
“Different but the same,” Vinny said.
“Of course the same, but different,” Alfred said.
“For example,” Vinny said, “whereas I’ve been doing a lot of talking here, I’m very shy when it comes to performing. It’s Alfred who gives the spiel, you may have noticed.”
“Yes, I did notice that,” Benny said.
“Whereas, on the other hand,” Vinny said, “I can’t even draw a straight line, whereas Alfred is very talented artistically.”
“Which is exactly why I came to see you.”
“Why’s that?” Alfred asked.
“I need fifty thousand dollars in phony bills.”
“I have given up that career,” Alfred said.
“You have?” Benny asked. “Why?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Alfred said. “The first batch I done was ten-dollar bills. But the fellows who went out to pass them got caught right off the bat and are now serving ten years each and respectively at Sing Sing.”
“That’s a shame,” Benny said. “What happened?”
“I made a mistake,” Alfred said. “I was working on two batches at the same time, a five-dollar batch and a ten-dollar batch. I accidentally put Lincoln’s picture on the ten-dollar bills.”
“We all make mistakes,” Benny said.
“That’s what the fellows said when I went up to visit them.”
“But I’m sorry to hear this. I was hoping you could help me.”
“I don’t even have my equipment no more,” Alfred said. “I sold the press and everything a long time ago.”
“To who?”
“To Cockeye Di Strabismo.”
“Why don’t you try him?” Vinny suggested. “I’ll bet he can help you.”
“Yes, maybe,” Benny said. “In the meantime, if you hear of any loose money that’s around for sale cheap, will you get in touch with me?”
“May I ask why you need this kind of cash?” Vinny said. “Or is that too personal?”
“There has been a child snatched,” Benny said.
“Which child?”
“Ganooch’s son.”
“Who would do a crazy thing like that?” Alfred asked.
“Listen to me,” the voice on the telephone said.
“Yes?” Nanny said.
“Do you know who this is?”
“No, who is this?”
“This is the kidnaper. Who is this?”
“This is Nanny. The child’s governess.”
“Madam, let me talk to Mr. Ganucci at once.”
“Mr. Ganucci isn’t in right now.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s out of town,” Nanny said.
“Oh, the old out-of-town trick, eh?” the voice said. “Where out of town?”
“In Italy.”
“Dove in Italia?” the voice asked. “I speak seven languages fluently, don’t try any more tricks.”
“He’s on the Isle of Capri.”
“Nonsense! Put him on right this minute or we’ll dispose of the child!”
“No, please,” Nanny said, “I swear he’s . . .”
“I’ve got a vicious Doberman pinscher poised to spring at that boy’s throat if I give the signal. All I have to do is yell, ‘Töte ihn!’ Now stop playing games and put Mr. Ganucci on the phone.”
“I told you, he’s in Italy.”
“Madam . . .”
“Please, we’re trying to get the money now. All we need is a little time.”
“Who’s we?” the voice asked. “Have you told the police about this?”
“No,” Nanny said in alarm. “Have you?”
“Have I what? Told the police? Are you crazy, madam?”
“Fo
rgive me, I . . .”
“Listen and listen hard,” the voice said. “I’m giving you until tomorrow afternoon at five o’clock to raise the money. I’ll contact you at that time and tell you where and when and how I want delivery made. Would you like some advice, madam?”
“Please,” Nanny said.
“I suggest you cable Mr. Ganucci on the Isle of Capri and tell him to come home fast!”
5: Cockeye
“Who is it?” a voice said.
“It is I, Benny Napkins.”
“Just a second,” the voice said. A flap in the door flew open. Cockeye’s best eye appeared in the revealed circle. The flap dropped into place again. Benny heard the lock being turned, the night chain being taken off. The door opened.
“How you doing, Ben?” Cockeye said.
“We have a problem,” Benny answered immediately.
He stepped into the loft, and Cockeye locked and chained the door behind him. The loft was immense. It had until recently been occupied by a sculptor whose latest project had been modeling parts of the human body in larger than life-size scale. When he’d moved out, he had left behind some of his earlier experimental work, and as a result the loft was crowded with enormous noses of every shape—hooked, pug, straight, flat, aquiline, broken, bobbed, and bulbous. Nose flaps gaped from ceiling and wall, bridges thrust from pedestals, nostrils lay in plaster heaps on the floor. As they picked their way through the remnants overhead and underfoot, Benny had the distinct impression that someone was breathing down his neck. He was relieved when they reached the rear of the loft, where Cockeye’s printing press stood alongside the metal table on which he did his engraving. Opposite that, in a nook formed by the peculiar architecture of the loft, Cockeye had set an old sofa and a scarred coffee table. A hot plate rested on a long shelf overhung by a huge sculpture of what surely had to be the ugliest nose in the entire world.
“Is that all this guy ever made?” Benny asked. “Noses?”
“He done belly buttons, too,” Cockeye said. “But he took them with him when he moved.” Cockeye paused. “Well, no, he left one hanging in the bathroom.”
“What was the idea?”
“I don’t know,” Cockeye said, and shrugged. “I guess he was maybe going to put them all together one day and have this very large statue.”
Benny looked up at the nose again.
“You recognize that nose?” Cockeye asked.
“No,” Benny said. “Whose nose is that?”
“Snitch’s.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m serious. Snitch was up here one day sniffing around, you know, as is his habit. This was before this artist guy was all moved out, he was still running around picking up belly buttons and things. He takes one look at Snitch’s nose and a light bulb goes on over his head. ‘I got to do your nose!’ he yells. So he gives Snitch five bucks just to sit here on a stool with his nose in the air.” Cockeye looked up at the nose. “You didn’t recognize it, huh?”
“No, not in that size,” Benny said.
“It’s the proportions in life that render things meaningful,” Cockeye said, solemnly studying the nose. “You want some coffee?”
“I could use a cup, thank you,” Benny said.
Cockeye went to the hot plate and set a kettle on it. “It’s instant, is that all right?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Well, what brings you here?” Cockeye asked congenially, leaning on the engraving table.
“I need fifty thousand dollars,” Benny said.
“That’s a large order,” Cockeye answered. “How soon do you need it?”
“Immediately.”
“In what denominations?”
“It wasn’t specified. Small bills, I would guess. That’s the usual demand.”
“Who’s placing this order?” Cockeye asked.
“I don’t know the name of the party.”
“One of our fellows?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Because I could maybe give a larger discount if it was one of our own fellows, you understand.”
“What are you currently getting for fifty thousand dollars in small denominations?” Benny asked.
“One-tenth of one per cent,” Cockeye said, “or exactly fifty bucks.” He paused. “Depending on the risk. If there’s a higher element of risk, my percentage is perforce higher.” He paused again. “May I ask to what use this money will be put?”
“It will be used to pay a ransom demand.”
“Oh-ho,” Cockeye said. “And who’s been snatched, may I ask?”
“Carmine Ganucci’s son.”
Cockeye’s mouth fell open.
“Uh-huh,” Benny said.
“Ganooch’s son?” Cockeye said, appalled.
“The very same.”
“Who would do a crazy thing like that?”
“Some crazy person, who do you think?” Benny said, and rose from the couch and began pacing back and forth near the printing press. “Ganooch is in Italy right now, thank God. If we can get the kid back before he hears anything about . . .”
“Ben, I’m not so sure I want to get involved in anything that has to do with Ganooch’s son.”
“You are involved,” Benny said.
“Involved? Me? How?”
“Because I came to you. Nanny came to me this morning . . .”
“Oh, Nanny, huh?” Cockeye said.
“Yes, Nanny. She came to me, which is how I got involved. Now I’m coming to you and that’s how you’re involved. If God forbid something should happen to Ganooch’s son . . .”
“God forbid,” Cockeye said, and rolled his best eye heavenward.
“. . . anybody who was involved will wish he was not, I can tell you that.”
“I already wish I was not,” Cockeye said.
“Yes, so do I,” Benny said, “but that’s one of life’s little ironies.”
“What is?”
“That sometimes the fellows with the least involvement are the ones who get the most involved. If this, for example, should come to the attention of some of the fellows higher up . . .”
“God forbid,” Cockeye said, and again rolled his best eye.
“So let’s just get the thing done, get the kid back, and hope this all blows over before Ganooch returns. That’s the best we can hope for.”
“I can have the bills for you by tomorrow at this time,” Cockeye said.
“Good. Do you require a deposit?”
“Not from an old friend like you.”
“What have you been working on lately?” Benny asked conversationally.
“Dollar bills,” Cockeye said. “There’s not much of a markup on them, but you do a bigger volume. Have you seen my recent work, Ben?”
“No, I haven’t,” Benny said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen any of your work. But I’d certainly like to.”
“I was running some bills off when you came in,” Cockeye said. He walked to the printing press. “Let me show you,” he said. “Then we can have our coffee.”
He lifted a fresh dollar bill from the platen. “It’s still a little wet,” he said, “be careful.” With the pride of creation gleaming in his best eye, he handed the bill to Benny. “Have a look,” he said.
Benny looked at the bill. It seemed like very nice work. He blinked his eyes and looked at the bill again, more closely this time, and suddenly he did not feel like staying for coffee, suddenly he realized that getting Ganooch’s kid back would be a lot more difficult than merely delivering fifty thousand dollars in counterfeit bills to those crazy maniacs who had taken the boy. Transfixed, he continued staring at the bill, his telephoto gaze zooming in on the picture of General George Washington:
“What do you think of it?” Cockeye asked, beami
ng.
“Well,” Benny said, “it’s a wee bit off, don’t you think?”
“Really?” Cockeye said, and studied the bill. “Where do you think it’s off?”
6: Snitch
Nanny went to see Snitch Delatore early Thursday morning in the hope that he may have heard something about who had stolen little Lewis. The possibility that he had heard anything, since no one ever told him anything, was extremely remote, but Nanny was becoming somewhat desperate. A call from Benny Napkins the night before had apprised her of the difficulties he was having in raising the counterfeit money, an idea that had at first seemed eminently workable. Benny had told her he would get to work on another scheme he had, and that in the meantime she should let him know as soon as the kidnaper called her again. She did not know what Benny’s other scheme was. She was, in fact, beginning to regret she’d contacted him at all.
She was also beginning to regret having contacted Snitch Delatore because conversation with him was proving somewhat difficult. She had been warned time and again never to tell Snitch anything unless she wished it to be re-channeled directly into the Police Department. She was determined not to tell him anything now. But at the same time, Snitch considered himself to be in the business of gathering information, and he was equally determined to get from Nanny whatever she had to offer. So they sat together in the sunshine on a bench in the United Nations Plaza Park, watching the traffic on the East River, and their discussion was, of necessity, a trifle circuitous.
“Tell me again why you came to see me,” Snitch said.
“I wanted to know if you had heard anything,” Nanny said.
“About what?” Snitch said.
“About anything.”
“Well, I’ve heard a lot about a lot of things,” Snitch said, which was an outright lie since he never heard anything about anything. “Which of those things was it you wanted to know about?”
“Well, I won’t know what I want to know until I know what you know,” Nanny said.
“Well,” Snitch said, “if I don’t know what you want to know, how can I know if what I know is what you want?”