by Ed Lacy
“You and Mr. Owens and the Waleses were always on good terms, weren't you?”
“Thicker than mud,” Susan put in, having finished counting and satisfied I hadn't palmed a bill. She put the money in one of the envelopes. “Only thing ever separated them was distance, we in the Bronx and they downtown.”
I took the envelope, sealed it, and wrote across the flap, “Keep this shut and don't finger the money, might still raise prints on the bills.” I gave it back to Susan. “I'm not kidding, don't open this envelope and don't lose it.” I took the second envelope and using my nails, peeled the remains of the tape from the drawer, dropped them in the envelope and pocketed it. “Might get prints from this too, if you haven't smudged it too much.” I took the drawer, looked around, and put it behind the piano, “Leave this here, don't let anybody touch it. More possible prints.”
“And whose prints do you expect to find?” Susan asked.
“If I knew I wouldn't bother taking them. Remember, don't touch the money and—”
“You've told us all that,” Susan said. She pulled a card from her pocket. “You're so busy being a hot-shot cop, you forgot this. Pa used to be a joiner, this is one of his lodge cards, with his signature.”
I said thanks as I put the card in my wallet. There was a moment of awkward silence which the old lady broke with, “I was making supper. We'd love to have you join us, Mr. Wintino.”
“Thank you but my wife is waiting supper for me,” I said, anxious to get going. “It may be the police will be up tonight or tomorrow, routine questions about Wales. An official visit. If they come, tell them exactly what you told me, give them the money if they want it.”
“We certainly will,” Mrs. Owens said. “And I'm grateful for your interest in us. So much has happened today, I'll be glad to get supper over with and take to my bed. I'll be able to sleep now, with Susan home.”
“I'll see Wintino to the door,” Susan told the old lady. At the door she slouched against the wall and was still tall enough to look down at me as she said, “Ma was right about you, you're okay in my book.”
“Why, because I told you to shut up?”
“You're the way I like people—hard. If you weren't married I could spend the night telling you about Venezuela. There's a country—all one big angle.”
“Maybe some other time,” I said, patting her hand as I went out.
On the bus going downtown I kept feeling the bankbook in my pocket like it was uranium, and thinking about Susan Owens. I've never been much of a lover boy. I wasn't shy, but about the time I was old enough to get real interested I was training for the ring, then the army kept me on ice for a couple of years, and then marrying Mary when I was nineteen took me out of circulation. So it was a surprising shock knowing I could spend the night with Susan; even gave me a kind of reverse-English bang... because I didn't want to in the least.
Thursday Night
After a fast shower I put on an old silk ring robe and fried the hamburger, and then had a bowl of cereal because there wasn't anything else to eat in the house. I considered trying to get prints on the hunks of tape, but put the envelope away in my shirt drawer. I'd only mess the tape up and spoil it for the lab. Besides, I knew whose prints I'd find.
I stretched out on the couch and waited for Mary, trying to juggle the pieces of the Owens-Wales puzzle till they made even a hazy picture.
Guess I was damn tired—all I came up with was a headache. Trouble was, nothing made sense. Owens wouldn't tape four grand under a drawer unless there was something wrongo about the money. Or was he merely hiding it from his wife? Hell, it wasn't a few bucks, it, was four grand. Where did he get it from? And Wales with eleven grand on him. One thing was certain, the money had to be the key to the murders. Suppose the two of them had a racket? But what kind of a racket would pay off fifteen grand? Could it be hooked up with a man who was electrocuted a quarter of a century ago? With an old garage torn down years ago?
Above all, why would Wales shoot Owens? Or was I screwy on the garage angle: maybe this was some brand-new racket they were working with the bond house? That didn't add, if they were swiping bonds the loss would be known immediately. Could be that Owens was carrying the eleven grand and Wales wanted it. They could have argued over a payoff and Wales gunned Owens when he refused to split? But hell, a payoff for what? Or was there a third joker in the deck who used Wales' gun, maybe without Wales even knowing it? Still, you don't let a guy take your gun like that, even borrow it. But if there was a third party, could Wales have killed Owens and then was shot himself when he brushed off the third guy? Then why was the dough left on Wales—another “amateur” who panicked at the sight of a stiff? Nuts, no “amateur” would come with a silencer. Still, it had to be somebody who knew Wales' habits, knew he'd be sleeping off a toot—or was the killer plain lucky?
Odd the four grand showed up after Susan Owens came home from South America. Maybe it had nothing to do with Owens? Then why was she talking, or was this a front for another deal? A hard doll like Susan with a mind like a knife could be involved in almost anything. Ought to find what she's really doing down in S.A. And there must be more dough around the Owens house. Damn, I couldn't do this alone; somebody should be digging into Owens' past, another team working on anybody and everybody who ever knew Wales, and then there was a check needed on all safe deposit vaults.... If they'd only put the whole force on this we'd have it licked in a day. The big brass downtown in Central hadn't even searched Owens' house!
Wales and his sick wife... must be tough living all your life with a sickly woman. Crazy thing about these murders, seems to be so many loose ends, you'd think if we keep pulling something will give and unravel the whole mess. You'd pass Owens or Wales on-the street and you'd never make them for anything but a couple of half-dead codgers waiting for a pine box, and all the time they were hip-deep in something shady. And ex-cops too. Damn, how do I know it was shady? They were cops, why should I judge them? For all I know they might have got some market tips while delivering bonds, made a killing. Have to check that.... But why would Owens keep it from his wife, open a phony account? Round and round we go....
Mary came in. She put the ginger ale and ice cream on the table, turned on the TV as she started to undress. She acted as if I wasn't there, never even asked if I wanted to see TV or not. As she undressed and watched some crummy cowboy movie, she talked.
“Dave, it was kicks to be even typing up the reports of this sales conference. Fantastic the way some people make their minds pay off. This wasn't a routine sales talk, mostly it was concerned with a new promotion idea, and oh so clever—a nationally televised quiz program and in certain boxes of this soap powder there will be parts that form a jigsaw puzzle, which in turn gives a strong clue to the jackpot question on the TV quiz. You see the tie-up, the sensational audience participation level? After the jackpot question is reached, anybody at home can phone in the answer— if they've found the clue in the soap boxes—and win a fortune, a double jackpot. Otherwise the studio audience gets a crack at the jackpot. Make the sodas while I wash up, Dave. There's a show on at nine-thirty I want to catch. Don was talking about it. Very literary.”
I made a couple of sodas and she came out of the bathroom and sat beside me. “I was so absorbed in my work, didn't realize how tired I am. What happened to your face, Dave?”
“I was running in the park and slipped.”
“Running in the park! Honestly, Dave, you act like a kid. Think I'll open the bed and we can watch TV laying down. It amazes me how those idea men and women can come up with such wonderful things. Out of thin air they dream up a show that...”
I finished the soda and got the couch into a bed and we stretched out. Mary was still on this cleverness kick. Then she got interested in some junk on TV about a movie star who realizes that despite his thousands of fan letters he's a lonely, lonely man....
About then I dozed off, thoughts flashing through my noggin like a newsreel. I saw Owens dead in the al
ley, Al Wales sitting shriveled up in the muster room, an empty wreck of a garage in Brooklyn, Susan Owens arching-her back as she leaned against the wall, the bankbook waiting like a surprise package, and Rose's faint perfume, the touch of her fingers on my cheek.
Friday Morning
I awoke before Mary, showered and shaved, shook her awake as I put the coffee on. In a one-room apartment the order of getting dressed is important if you have to make time. The cut on my face looked better and I covered it with a Band-Aid.
Toweling herself after her shower Mary called out, “Where are you off to so early?”
“Checking on a few things.”
“Checking, digging, checking! It's your day off. Why don't you go to a movie?”
“Maybe I will. Want any eggs?”
She pinched her belly. “One egg, no toast or bacon—I'm beginning to spread. I suppose during the course of your being a busybody you won't have time to see Uncle Frank? You promised you would.”
“I plan to see him. I've got news for you, I'm a big boy now, know how to handle my off days.”
Mary gave me what could have passed for a tiny sneer. “Are you a big boy, Dave?”
I was too interested in the bankbook to get excited. I poured the juice and coffee as she slipped into her underwear and stockings, came over to the bridge table I'd set up. I stopped her, ran my hand over her thin shoulders. “Don't you kiss your husband anymore?”
“I don't see you rushing to kiss your wife. I'm in a hurry.”
“Oh, come on, Mary.”
“Oh, for... Stop acting like a jerk,” she said, pushing me away. “Grow up.”
“Would I be real grown if I invented a transparent box top or a postal-card box top, something to delight your Madison Avenue scouts?”
“Don't start... That postal-card top makes sense, built-in consumer response. Merely tear off and mail in... have to tear off the top of the box anyway. Never heard of it being done before. I'll suggest this the next time we have a box-top campaign.”
I gave up: sat down and started eating. I borrowed a couple of bucks from Mary before she left, washed the dishes. Then I dressed, wearing a plain conservative tie. I found Dr. Di Maggio on Park Avenue in the phone book and walked up there.
It was a ground-floor apartment in a swank building. A neat-looking brunette nurse opened the door and said, “Dr. Di Maggio's hours are from eleven to—”
“Is he in?” I asked, flashing my badge.
“Why... uh... please have a seat. He doesn't like to be disturbed now, studying his patients' charts and... One moment.” She went into another room, closing the door.
Nothing like a badge to make people jump. The waiting room was like most such rooms: the chairs looking as if too many people had sat on them, the magazines worn from impatient fingering. A few seconds later she motioned me into an inner office.
The doctor was a little man, sort of hunched over, and his thick uncombed gray hair made him look top-heavy. He had heavy features that crowded his big face and there were thick folds of skin running around his bull-neck. His voice was strong and clear, gave me an impression of youth, as he asked, “What does the Police Department want of me?”
“I'm Detective Dave Wintino, 201st Precinct Squad. Perhaps you read in the papers about an Albert Wales being killed two days ago?”
“I don't recall. I haven't time for such news. What has that to do with me, Detective Wintino? Italiano?”
I said in Italian, “Yes, my father is from Bari.”
“I like to see young Italians in such jobs,” he said. Then he switched to English and asked again, “What has all this to do with me?”
“In 1949 Wales' wife Dora was a patient of yours. I understand she was operated on, received a lot of medical treatment before she died. I'd like to know how much Mr. Wales paid for all this.”
“A doctor's records are confidential.”
“I know that,” I said in Italian. “I assume you wish to cooperate with the police.”
Dr. Di Maggio shrugged. “Enough of the old tongue. Of course I wish to help but what would a doctor's bill, assuming she was a patient of mine in 1949, have to do with a murder of several days ago?”
“A large sum of money was found on Wales. I'm interested in knowing if he had a lot of money back in '49.”
“I can see no harm. Let me look at my files,” the doctor said, crossing the room to a closet door. He was wearing old slippers. The closet was almost as large as Rose's room with several file cabinets against one wall. For a second the doctor turned and stared at me, then opened a file drawer. Maybe he figured me for an income tax snoop.
He said, “Come here, young man. No sense in my taking the file out. Yes, I did have a patient named Mrs. Dora Wales. Started treating her in September, 1948. She had a malignant growth. I gave her a course of X-ray treatments. As to her medical history, she was operated on the following April, sent to a private hospital for—”
“What did all this cost, Doc?” I asked, leaning against the doorway, my notebook out.”
“A famous specialist was brought in, at the request of Mr. Wales....” He bent over a card, trying to read something in the dim light, “Ah, yes, I see that Mr. Wales was also a member of the police force. I do recall the case now. Although I told Mr. Wales it was hopeless he insisted upon every possible treatment. The constant hope of the layman. However you are only interested in the costs.... My fees over a period of three months amounted to eleven hundred dollars.”
“How about the other expenses, hospitals, specialists, all that?”
“I cannot give you an exact amount. However with the various specialists, the private rooms and nurses, I'd say Mr. Wales spent between five and six thousand dollars.”
“Would he have to pay that all at once?”
“Yes. I note here he had Mrs. Wales taken in a private ambulance down to Baltimore for examination. That would be most expensive.”
“Thanks, Doc. That's all I wanted to know,” I said wondering if downtown had checked the banks for any other accounts Wales may have had. Hell, that would be the first thing they did. I took out the newspaper snap of Wales, showed it to the doc. “This is Mr. Wales. Can you remember anything else about him?”
“Frankly I do not remember the face, but then hundreds of faces pass through my office every month. I'm sorry I can't be of much assistance.”
“You've given me exactly what I wanted. Thank you.”
As I walked out he said “Good-by” in Italian and waved.
I walked over to Lexington Avenue and took the subway to Brooklyn, excitement mounting in me. It was a small savings bank and the manager looked as if he'd just been plucked from a fireside, a little on the sleepy side. I'd give odds he was wearing one of those old-fashioned, detachable, hard collars. He gave me the usual song and dance about it being most “irregular” to give out the info I wanted. I told him it was also “irregular” to kill ex-cops, and when I showed him the news clippings on the murders, gave him the co-operation pitch, he warmed up. I was in a small sweat that he would call Headquarters to double-check me, but he didn't.
From his records and the code number of the $4,000.75 check on the deposit slip he told me it was drawn on the Capital Exchange Bank & Trust but he had no way of knowing which branch. Without telling them why, I showed both pictures to the tellers and a tall, slick-looking colored woman said she was “pretty sure” Owens was Francis Parker, claimed she remembered him because the amount was “such a large one" when he closed out his account. That didn't mean much, Owens' picture was an old snap.
While I checked the Brooklyn address Francis Parker had given when he opened the account—and found it to be as phony as I expected—the manager compared Parker's signature card with Ed Owens' lodge card. We didn't have to be handwriting experts to see they were the same—a cramped way of writing “a” and “e.”
After thanking the manager and asking him to keep it quiet, I went back to downtown Manhattan, to the head office
of the Capital Bank & Trust, and ran into trouble. I was bucked from one stuffed shirt official to another, each insisting on a court order or a note from the D.A. But I kept repeating, “The solution of the murders of two police officers may depend upon this information,” and finally I landed in the office of the top banana. He was a plump little joker with a butterball face clear as a baby's rear, a pointed waxed mustache, and a good gray wig that took me a lot of minutes to make. I was astonished—he looked like the bankers you see in the movies.
He examined my badge as if it was a work of art, said, “I don't see any harm in helping you, Detective. However if we have such a check, perhaps we'll have to notify the signer that we have given you the information. I'll see what our legal department has to say. First we'll see if there is such a check. Four thousand dollars and seventy-five cents —that's a help, an odd amount, and drawn to a Francis Parker sometime around the first of last month.”