by Ed McBain
“But you didn’t know this particular felony might be connected to . . .”
“Which felony?” Bozzaris said, and smiled. “Do you see what I mean, Snitch? So far, no new information.”
“Well, what is it you’d like to know?” Snitch asked. “Which felony it was?”
“I’m not interested in felonies,” Bozzaris said. “Felonies are a dime a dozen around here. I think I can say with some measure of pride that there are more felonies committed in this precinct than in any other precinct in the entire city. So don’t tell me about felonies. I’m not interested in felonies.”
“Well,” Snitch said, “what are you interested in?”
“The fruits of organized evil,” Bozzaris said. “Money. I am primarily interested in intercepting that fifty thousand dollars before it gets to Naples.”
“If I may say so, Lieutenant,” Snitch said, “I don’t know very much about organized evil, of course, but I’m willing to bet those fellows send a check to Naples.”
“I beg to differ with you,” Bozzaris said, “and I’ll make allowances for your ignorance since I’ve made a lifelong study of organized evil, whereas you have not. But it’s been my experience that these fellows never write checks. Never. You can mark that down as a cardinal rule.”
“Well, maybe so,” Snitch said, “in which case it would be a simple matter to arrange a transfer of funds from a New York bank to a Naples bank. If there’s one thing I know about organized evil, and I admit I don’t know very much, it’s that these fellows are very well organized.”
“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “not too many of them are willing to risk keeping records that show large amounts of money being transferred from one country to another, nor even from one city block to another. That’s one sure way of getting the Internal Revenue Service down on their asses, Snitch, witness what happened to Al Capone, and pardon the French.”
Snitch lowered his head in respect.
“Cash,” Bozzaris said. “That’s the secret of organized evil. Cash on the barrelhead. Do you want to know what I think?”
“What?” Snitch said.
“I think somebody’s going to raise fifty thousand bucks in cold hard cash, after which a trusted messenger will get on an airplane, fly to Naples, and put it right in Carmine Ganucci’s hands. That’s what I think.”
“Well, maybe,” Snitch said.
“If you can find out when and where that money will be raised and/or delivered to the man who will carry it to Italy, that might be worth twenty-five dollars to the hardworking fellows of this squad, who as you may know pay for information out of their own pockets.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s a little-known fact,” Bozzaris said, “but true. And if you can deliver this information, we might also forget the other little charge against you that’s still on the books.”
“What charge?” Snitch asked, going pale.
It was eight P.M. in Italy when Carmine Ganucci was called to the telephone at Faraglioni, where he was having dinner with Stella and a retired rhinoplastician from Jersey City. He was annoyed at being called to the phone just when the gamberoni were being served, and even more annoyed after he identified himself and heard Vito Garbugli’s voice on the other end of the line.
“What is it, Vito?” he asked.
“Did you send a cable?” Garbugli said.
“Yes.”
“To us?”
“Of course to you.”
“Is it true what you said in the cable?”
“Every word.”
“How do you wish delivery made?”
“By trusted messenger,” Ganucci said.
“When?”
“Put him on a plane to Rome tomorrow night.”
“I thought you wanted this in Naples.”
“There’s no flights from New York to Naples,” Ganucci said. “He has to transfer in Rome. Make sure you tell him to transfer in Rome.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“You always have to tell these dopes, or they forget to transfer.”
“I’ll tell him, don’t worry,” Garbugli said.
“And let me know what time he’ll arrive. I’ll arrange for someone to meet him Saturday.”
“Right, I’ll call you back later and let you know exactly . . .”
“Send a night letter,” Ganucci said.
“Right, a night letter.”
“How’s little Lewis?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to call the house and find out?”
“No, it’s twenty-five cents to Larchmont. Has Nanny been getting my postcards?”
“I don’t know. If you want me to call . . .”
“I been writing almost every day,” Ganucci said. “Airmail. It cost a hundred fifteen lira to send a postcard airmail. What else do you have to say to me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then hang up, this is costing a fortune,” Ganucci said, and hung up.
At the Twenty-third Street and Lexington Avenue branch of the First National City Bank, at 2:37 P.M., New York time, Benny Napkins was withdrawing from his savings account all but $216.00, which he thought he had better keep for a rainy day in case The Jackass goofed tonight. He did not see how The Jackass could possibly muff the play, but Benny was well aware that people sometimes make mistakes, and he figured he might just as well have enough to cover the plane fare to Honolulu in case something went wrong. The best laid schemes o’ mice an men gang aft a-gley, he quoted silently, and then said to the cashier, “I want four thousand in hundred-dollar bills, and two thousand in singles.”
“Two thousand in singles?” the cashier said.
“That’s correct,” Benny said.
The cashier began counting.
Benny knew that his plan was slightly dishonest, but on the other hand he had not asked some crazy maniac to steal Ganooch’s son, nor had he asked Nanny to call him for assistance. He was handling the entire matter professionally and coolly, he thought. At ten o’clock tonight, if all went according to plan, and if The Jackass did not goof, Benny would be in possession of the ransom money and perhaps a little bit more for his troubles. Provided Celia Mescolata had arranged for the game; he would not know about that until five-thirty. In the meantime, he picked up the stack of bills—two thousand singles and forty hundreds—asked the cashier for a rubber band, rolled the bills into an enormous wad, century notes showing, snapped the rubber band around the roll, thanked the cashier, and left the bank.
He wondered if he should call The Jackass again, just to make sure he understood the plan. The Jackass was not too bright. The Jackass sometimes had trouble remembering his own telephone number. Still, it was best not to pressure a man once he had agreed to an action. There was no sense overtraining a good horse or a good fighter. The Jackass understood very few things in life, but one thing he understood fine was larceny.
Benny walked up Lexington Avenue to his apartment. He was very nervous, so he decided to ask Jeanette Kay if she was in the mood. Jeanette Kay said she might be, so long as they were finished by four o’clock, at which time Dark Shadows came on.
Nanny looked at the picture on the front of the card and thought it highly attractive. She turned the card over and read it:
Nanny read the card again, and then another time. He had mentioned nothing about coming home, and that was good. According to the itinerary he had left on the desk in his study, he and Stella would not be leaving Italy until Sunday, August 29. Apparently nothing had yet happened to change those plans—although Nanny was quite aware of the fact that it took five or six days for his postcards to get here, and that he might just pop in the front door without any forewarning. Should something like that happen, should the Ganuccis suddenly decide to leave Italy, or (oh my God!) already be in transit from Italy, and unexpectedly walk
into the house trailing baggage and asking for little Lewis . . .
The thought was terrifying.
Nanny decided to call Benny Napkins again. She went into the study, slid the doors shut behind her even though the house was quite empty and still, went to the desk near the leaded casement windows now spilling afternoon sunshine into the room, and dialed Benny’s number in Manhattan. He took an inordinately long time to answer the phone, and then he said, rather gruffly, she thought, “Who the hell is this?”
“This is Nanny.”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, hello, Nanny. Listen, Nanny, can you call back in a little while? Like in about ten minutes? What?” he said, and Nanny got the distinct impression he had turned away from the phone for a moment. His voice came back again, a trifle louder. “Make that fifteen minutes, okay?” he said.
“I’m very worried,” Nanny said.
“Yes, I can understand, but everything’s under control,” Benny said, “and there’s nothing to worry about. Nanny, could you maybe call back in about ten, fifteen minutes, and we’ll go over the whole thing then, okay?”
“I want to discuss it now,” Nanny said.
There was a long silence on the line. Then Benny said, wearily, she thought, “What is it, Nanny?”
“What progress have you made?” Nanny asked.
“I have arranged a poker game for this evening. Or at least, I have spoken to a friend of mine about arranging one. She’ll be calling me later to let me know whether or not the game is on. Nanny, I’ve got a good idea. Why don’t you call me back at say five-thirty, six o’clock? By then I should know whether we got a game or not, and I can . . .”
“A poker game, did you say?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“How can you think of playing cards at a time like this?” Nanny asked.
“I hope to take fifty thousand dollars out of that game, if all goes well,” Benny said. “Nanny, this is not something we can discuss over the telephone, as you never know who’s listening these days.”
“Will you let me know later about the game?”
“Very definitely. Have you heard from those crazy maniacs yet?”
“Not yet. They said five o’clock.”
“All right then, I’ll call you back around six or so, and we can exchange information at that time. Does that sound all right to you, Nanny?”
“Yes, that sounds fine,” Nanny said.
“Good,” he said, abruptly she thought, and hung up.
9: Azzecca
When the telephone rang at five-fifteen, Nanny was certain the kidnaper was calling at last with the instructions he had promised. Her delicate hand trembling, she lifted the receiver.
“Hello?” she said.
“Nanny? This is Benny Napkins. Everything’s set for tonight. I’ll call you as soon as the game is over. I hope to have the money by then.”
“Good,” Nanny said.
“Have you heard from the kidnaper yet?”
“No.”
“He didn’t call?”
“No.”
“Did you look in the mailbox? Maybe he left the instructions there.”
“Nobody could be that stupid,” Nanny said.
“I would put nothing past this crazy maniac,” Benny said. “Go check the mailbox and call me back.”
“All right,” she said, and hung up.
The second note, as Benny had surmised, was waiting in the mailbox. Like the first note, it was fashioned of newspaper and magazine print clipped out and pasted to a sheet of blank white typing paper. Nanny had no way of knowing, of course, that the kidnaper had painstakingly scissored the words from reviews written by his two favorite critics. In the half-light of dusk, she stood by the mailbox and read the note out loud, the words echoing and floating away up the long driveway to Many Maples, airborne, inspired:
She went into the house and called Benny Napkins at once.
“I have another note from him,” she said.
“What does it say?” Benny asked.
“I don’t know,” Nanny answered.
At seven o’clock that evening, one of Bozzaris’ detectives picked up a man who looked suspicious for several reasons. One reason he looked suspicious was that he was a stranger to the precinct. Another reason was that he was straddling another man and pummeling him with both fists in the middle of the sidewalk outside a cafeteria not two blocks from the station house. He kept telling the detective who picked him up that he had only been acting in self-defense, but the detective knew a murderous stranger when he saw one. He brought the man up to the squadroom, whereupon it was promptly discovered that he was carrying on his person $10,000 in cash.
The man’s name was William Shakespeare.
“Do you expect me to believe that?” Bozzaris asked.
“That’s my name,” the man answered in perfect English, which was suspicious in itself.
“Where do you live, Willie?”
“Downtown. On Mott Street.”
“Why?”
“I like Chinese girls.”
“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “what were you doing up here in the confines of my precinct, aside from committing assault on that poor man who was taken to the hospital?”
“That poor man tried to hold me up,” Willie said. “I was protecting my life’s savings from him.”
“There are rarely daylight holdups in this precinct,” Bozzaris said.
“Well, there was almost one today,” Willie said. “Until I foiled it.”
“One theory of criminal investigation,” Bozzaris said, “is that the person who invites a criminal act is as guilty as the perpetrator of that act. That is an old Hebraic theory, if you are familiar with rabbinical law.”
“I am not,” Willie said.
“Be that as it may. A person who carries around ten thousand dollars in cash could be considered provocative, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I needed the money,” Willie said. “Which is why I came up here to draw it out of my savings account.”
“For what purpose did you need the money?” Bozarris asked.
“For a personal purpose.”
“Such as?”
A knock sounded discreetly on the lieutenant’s door. “Enter,” Bozzaris said, and a detective walked in and put a sheet of paper on the desk. “Thank you, Sam,” Bozzaris said, and picked up the sheet of paper. “What do you do for a living, Willie?” Bozzaris asked.
“I manufacture mah-jong tiles. I became interested in the game and also in Chinese girls when I was a resident of Hong Kong many years ago.”
“Willie,” Bozzaris said, looking up, “according to this sheet of paper here, you are a known gambler in the Fifth and also the Ninth Precinct. What do you have to say about that?”
“I sometimes play cards, yes.”
“You have also sometimes been arrested for Bookmaking, and Keeping a Gaming and Betting Establishment, and also Cheating at Gambling.”
“Yes, sometimes,” Willie admitted.
“Many times, it says here, and for the same offense a few times, in fact. An Assault charge added to this illustrious record might prove very troublesome,” Bozzaris said, “in terms of the amount of time you might have to spend incarcerated.”
“That man was attempting to hold me up,” Willie said. “He probably saw my roll when I was paying my check in the cafeteria, and decided to follow me. It’s no crime to protect yourself.”
“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said. “It’s also no crime for the District Attorney’s office to automatically assume that a known gambler with a previous and lengthy record might be at fault in an Assault case where the arresting officer had to pull him off a man lying flat on his back on the sidewalk. The penalty for Assault in the Second Degree, which is probably what the charge would be, is five y
ears. That’s even if you did not have a previous record. I see here that you are a three-time loser, Willie, and I do not have to tell you what a fourth felony conviction could mean in terms of interminable incarceration.”
“This is ridiculous,” Willie said. “The man really was trying to steal my goddamn money!”
“Why were you carrying around so much money to begin with?”
“My sister needs it.”
“For what?”
“My sister, whose name is Mary Shakespeare, and who lives on . . .”
“We are not interested in your family geniality here,” Bozzaris said.
“My sister is going out to San Francisco to organize a protest there.”
“Against what?”
“Conditions,” Willie said, “which as you know are bad all over. It costs a lot of money to organize a protest, and I agreed to lend her my meager life’s savings.”
“That is pure and simple bullshit,” Bozzaris said. “Pardon the French.”
“It is the God’s honest truth.”
“Be that as it may, why did you really withdraw ten thousand dollars from your bank?”
“It has nothing whatsoever to do with the card game,” Willie said.
“What card game?” Bozzaris asked.
“Do we forget all about the possible Assault charge, which is a bum rap anyway since I was the victim of an intended holdup?”
“I am not in a position to make promises of any nature,” Bozzaris said.
“In that case, I am not in a position to reveal anything about the card game.”
“What card game?” Bozzaris asked.
“What card game?” Willie answered.
“The card game which,” Bozzaris said, “if your information about it is valuable to me, which I doubt that it will be, I might be willing to forget that you were pounding a man into the sidewalk, provided the man doesn’t drop dead in the hospital, in which case we will have, of course, a homicide on our hands.”
“Do I walk out of here meanwhile?” Willie asked.
“Tell me about the card game,” Bozzaris said.