'Hello? What's that again? Yes, I've got it. 1210 West 86th Street. Apartment what?' He was scribbling rapidly as he spoke. 'Twelve. One, two. Right, I've got it. Thanks a million. Yes, we'll have to do that one of these evenings. Right. Thanks.' He hung up, staring at the paper in his hand, and then folded it and tucked it into his pocket. His eyes were bright as he swung to Stanton.
'Stan, you'll have to go over that room alone; I want to check out this phone number. Give it the full treatment - labels, luggage, clothes; everything. Linings and the works. Clear out his pockets and bring everything with you.'
Stanton nodded. The possible lead contained in the telephone number made him feel better as well. 'Sure, Lieutenant. I won't miss anything. Where do we get together afterwards?'
'I'll either be at the precinct, or I'll call in and leave a message. You wait for me there.'
'O.K.' Stanton hesitated, if you go back to the precinct, Lieutenant, Chalmers will be on your neck in a minute.' Clancy patted his pocket with the slip of paper in it. 'Maybe I'll have something for him by then.' He swung around to the little man hunched over the switchboard. 'Thanks very much for your help. And if any reporters, or anyone else, start asking questions ...' He saw the blue eyes begin to cloud.
'I'm not going to ask you to lie,' Clancy said gently. 'Just tell them that the police have asked you not to say anything.'
The old man nodded, the blue eyes clearing. Clancy turned toward the door, raised a hand in a salute, and trotted out. The old man looked at Stanton.
'He seems to be a very pleasant man, too.' 'Yeah,' Stanton said, turning in the direction of the elevator. 'He's pleasant enough. I just hope he's lucky enough…’
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday - 10:10 a.m.
No. 1210 West 86th Street was one of those renovated brownstone-fronts on which - at least to Clancy's way of thinking - so much money had been needlessly wasted in an attempt to improve the already almost-perfect dwelling. Clancy had been raised in a brownstone-front on 43rd Street, down near Tenth Avenue, and while he realized the inadequacies of the neighborhood, he still had fond memories of the friendly broad steps, the cool high ceilings, and the wonderful freedom of the endless halls. That brownstone-front, he suddenly remembered, was about the only decent memory of those distant days; it had provided refuge in a rough world. He cringed at the thought of the chopping that had accompanied the so-called modernization of No. 1210.
He drove past the building slowly and parked beyond, got out, and walked back. A high-pitched shout made him look up in time to duck a rubber ball hurtling in his direction; children swarmed past him, screaming at each other; broomsticks swirled madly. Well, he thought with some satisfaction, at least they haven't changed stick-ball. Maybe there's hope for New York yet.
He walked under the striped canopy that was an integral part of every brownstone transformation, eyed the tiny rococo lobby with disgust, and pressed the bell for No. 12. There was a brief pause and then the buzzer answered, releasing the heavy downstairs door. He stared at the speaking-tube with surprise. No questions? And then shrugged, tugged the door open, and tramped inside.
A heavy-set figure brushed past him as he opened the door, taking advantage in standard New York fashion of somebody else's ring. Clancy was faintly conscious of a dark suit and a white ascot; a very Greenwich Village beard and a pair of dark glasses under a soft blue velours hat. The intruder pushed past him rudely and disappeared down the hallway leading to the rear of the building. Typical, Clancy thought sourly. When they changed brownstone-fronts from decent houses to these chi-chi dumps they should have known the kind of people they would attract in the first place.
He climbed the stairs, knowledgeable of the numbering system in these reconverted dwellings. The hallway doors to the apartments had been painted a sickly off-white, and little murals, each cutely different, decorated the doors beneath each number. No. 12, on the second floor, sported a ragged pair of uneven dice with the sixes - green splotches against mauve - up. Clancy curled his lip and rapped on the door. A cheerful voice answered immediately, barely deadened by the poor insulation of the intervening panel - a woman's voice.
'C'mon in. The door's unlocked.'
His eyebrows rose, puzzled. He turned the knob and pulled at the door, discovered it opened by pushing, and pushed. The door swung back to reveal a bright room tastefully furnished with not too many pieces and lit by daylight from the huge windows Clancy remembered from his childhood with such nostalgia. A young woman was seated on a low couch in the center of the room, hunched over a coffee-table on which an armada of small queerly-shaped bottles stood their ground. Her fingers were busy. Her dressing gown gaped alarmingly, revealing a healthy bust barely contained in a light brassiere.
As Clancy stared at her, entranced, she threw back her head, tossing blond hair over her shoulder.
'Hi. Pick a chair somewhere. I'll be finished in a minute.'
Clancy removed his hat slowly, and scratched his head. If this was a demonstration of trapped guilt, he was J. Edgar Hoover. She looked up, followed his eyes to her ample cleavage, and tried to shrug her gown into place without effect.
'Don't let it bother you, Pop. It's not for sale. It's just that my nails are all wet ...' She grinned, a cheerful, happy, friendly, gamin grin, revealing even white teeth. 'To open the door I had to push the buzzer with my elbow - you should have seen that -'
Clancy swallowed and sat down gingerly in an upholstered chair that threatened to swallow him, watching as she continued the delicate job of painting her nails. She had the tendency, he noted, of biting the tip of her tongue as she was concentrating. She shook her hair back from her eyes again, looking up.
'Say, I'm a lousy hostess! How about a drink?' She nudged her head in the direction of a corner cabinet, her motion causing her hair to tumble once again. 'This place has anything a person could possibly want. Except Aquavit, maybe ...'
'No, thanks,' Clancy said.
'I don't blame you. It's too early. I'm a sun-over-the-yardarm gal myself.' She smiled. 'I'll be through in a second - last finger.' She completed a complicated maneuver with the tiny brush, stuffed it back into one of the bottles, twisted it, and leaned back. 'There we are. How do you like it?'
She held her hand out at arm's length to study it, and then reversed it for Clancy's inspection. 'You know, they call this stuff Sun-Bay Tinge! What a name! I'd call it Tuchus Pink myself.' Now that her hands were free she pulled her dressing gown closed over her full bust and frowned at him. 'You're late, Pop.’
Not a muscle moved on Clancy's face. 'What I always say is, better late than never.'
She laughed, is that what you always say? I always say, a penny saved is a penny earned, and for want of a nail a kingdom was lost.' She leaned back, inspecting her fingernails again in a pleased manner. 'One thing I never say is, money is the root of all evil.' Her eyes came up; Clancy noted that they were a sort of violet. A very beautiful girl, he decided, and far from stupid. 'Well, Pop, I'd love to sit here and trade proverbs with you all morning, but time's a-wasting. Did you bring the tickets?'
Clancy maintained his poker face. His hand tapped his inside jacket pocket. The girl nodded, pleased.
'Good. Tell me, Pop, have you ever been to Europe yourself?'
'Twice,' Clancy said. He sat there relaxed, looking at her. 'Of course, once was with the Army, and I guess that really doesn't count.' He didn't mention that the other time was to bring back a particularly vicious murderer, and only got him as far as London Airport where the British police were holding his man.
Her eyes softened; she leaned forward almost eagerly. 'And is it really as beautiful as everyone says? You know; Copenhagen, and Paris, and Rome?'
it's beautiful,' Clancy said.
'I can't wait. Did you go by boat?'
Clancy nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the happy face of the girl. 'Once. Once by air.'
'And is it really as exciting as they say? The boat, I mean. As romantic?' She l
ooked at him and laughed a little self-consciously. 'I suppose I sound like a real hick, but I've never been on a boat ...'
‘It can be romantic,' Clancy said.
'And I suppose they speak English - on the boat, that is ...'
'Generally,' Clancy said.
She smiled, a deep smile of satisfaction and anticipation, sighed, and rose to her feet. 'Well, fun's fun, and I admit I get a kick out of even talking about it, but I really have to run. I have a load of last-minute shopping to do, and finish packing, so if you'll let me have the tickets, Pop ...'
Clancy decided that he'd learned all he could in that direction. He placed his hat on the floor beside him and leaned back comfortably, folding his hands in his lap.
'Tickets for where? And for whom?' he asked softly.
She stared at him, puzzled for a moment; then her eyes narrowed, her lips stiffened. 'You're not from the travel agency!'
'I never said I was,' Clancy said easily. 'You haven't answered my question.'
'Who are you and what do you want?'
'My name is Clancy,' Clancy said. He seemed to be completely at ease in his deep chair, but his dark eyes were watching the girl very closely. 'I'm a Lieutenant of police.'
'Police - !' She stared at him. There was neither panic nor fear in her expression; she seemed surprised, but not particularly alarmed. Clancy frowned. Either this one was the world's most accomplished actress, or his lone clue was shaping up to be a complete dud. He shrugged; to add one more proverb to the morning's collection, in for a penny, in for a pound. He nodded.
'That's right. I'd like to ask you some questions.'
She sat down again, abruptly, her face a blank. 'Could you show me some identification?'
Clancy handed over his wallet. She studied it and handed it back.
'All right, Lieutenant. I haven't the faintest idea of what this is all about, but go ahead and ask your questions.'
'All right,' Clancy said. He tucked his wallet back into his pocket. 'Let's go back to my first one: tickets for where? And for whom?'
'I can't answer that, Lieutenant.' She saw Clancy's eyebrows raise. 'I'm sorry. There's nothing illegal involved; it's just that I'm not in a position to answer that question at this time.' She hesitated and then, as if despite herself, a small grin formed on her pretty face. 'To tell you the truth, I don't even know why I was asked to keep it a secret, but I was and I am.' The smile faded. 'And in any event, I don't believe it's any business of the police.'
Clancy sighed. 'The police prefer to determine for themselves what is or isn't their business.'
'I'm sorry.' Her voice was calm but adamant. 'I'm not going to answer that question. What else?'
Clancy looked at her and shrugged. 'All right. We'll skip that one for the time being - but only for the time being. Let's start at the beginning. Who are you?'
The violet eyes narrowed in growing anger. She gasped. 'Do you mean that you don't even know who I am and you're questioning me like - like a common criminal?'
'I'm not questioning you like a common criminal,' Clancy said patiently. 'I'm questioning you like a citizen. Would you please answer me?'
She bit back her reply, reached across the couch for her purse and opened it. She thrust a folder at him almost vehemently. He took it, studying it; it was a California driver's license issued in the name of one Ann Renick. The small form in the transparent plastic case noted that her age was twenty-nine, her sex female, her height five-six, her hair blond, her eyes violet. He turned it over, noted the absence of traffic violations on the back. His notebook came out and he made several notations, after which he politely returned the folder. The girl's jaw was clenched, her eyes stormy. She snatched it from him and thrust it into her purse. Clancy nodded and looked about the room.
is this your apartment?'
'No; it belongs to a girl-friend of mine ...' Intelligence suddenly seemed to dawn; her frown lessened and some of the tenseness left her. 'Has it something to do with the apartment?'
'How long have you been here?'
'Two days. My friend is out of town for a few weeks and she let me use the apartment. She left the key for me with the janitor. Has it something to do with the apartment?'
Clancy sighed. He seemed to be slouched lazily in the easy chair but his eyes were particularly sharp on the girl as he asked his next question. 'Did you happen to receive a telephone call from the Farnsworth Hotel yesterday morning?'
He would have sworn that the puzzled look on her face was completely genuine. 'The Farnsworth Hotel? I've never heard of it.'
Clancy frowned. He pushed himself erect with an effort, walked to the telephone and looked down at the number. University 6-7887. So either the old man at the hotel had marked the number down incorrectly when the call was originally placed, or something was completely wild-eye. Still, the girl was from California and so was Johnny Rossi - a slim enough connection, he had to admit, since the same was true of several million other people - but she also wanted to keep this trip of hers a secret. Also no great crime. You're really picking at the coverlet, Clancy, he said to himself. He turned to the girl.
'Did you get a telephone call yesterday morning from anywhere?'
She bit her lip. 'That's none of your business.'
A tiny spark kindled within Clancy, his first feeling of satisfaction. He recognized the tingle to what he called his 'hunch-buds' and pressed on, more sure of himself. 'Did you ever hear of Johnny Rossi?'
There was a sudden change in her attitude, but it still was not fear. It was merely a certain sharpness, and added alertness. 'Yes, I've heard of Johnny Rossi. What about him?'
Clancy weighed the chances of revealing too much and decided to go ahead. He walked over from the telephone stand and stood before the girl, hands clasped before him, his dark eyes on her unwaveringly.
'Did you know that Johnny Rossi registered into the Farnsworth Hotel here in New York yesterday morning under an assumed name? And that right after registering he made a telephone call from there to this apartment?' He paused for a split second and then continued. 'And that last night somebody showed up at the hotel and blasted him with a shotgun?'
For a moment the violet eyes looked into his blankly; then, as the impact of his words struck her again, Clancy got all the reaction he could have wanted. The girl's face blanched; the violet eyes that had been staring at him opened wide in horror and then closed. For a moment he thought she was going to faint. Her newly-painted fingers, set along the edge of the couch pillows, tightened spasmodically, clutching and twisting the brocaded cloth. She looked ill.
'No!' she said in a sick whisper. 'No! I don't believe it!'
'Believe it,' Clancy said cruelly, it's true.'
'No!' Her face twisted, fighting tears and shock. 'You're lying. It's a trick. He would have told me . .. It's a trick. They wouldn't!'
'Who wouldn't?' Clancy was leaning over her fiercely now, his voice beating at her. 'Who wouldn't?'
The girl leaned over in a daze, her fingers unconsciously tearing at the pillows, her hair falling unheeded over her face, her eyes fixed unseeing on the floor.
it must be a mistake. They wouldn't.' Her eyes came up blankly; her words were directed not at Clancy but at some inner image. 'They wouldn't. Why would they?'
'Come on!' Clancy said roughly. 'Who shot him?'
There was no answer; the girl seemed to be studying the pattern of the rug. She took a deep shuddering breath, fighting herself, and then began shaking her head slowly from side to side. The little moans in her throat died away; she brought her hands together clasping them tightly in her lap. She sat that way for several moments, staring blankly at the floor. When at last she looked up her face was drained of expression. 'What did you say?'
'I asked you who shot him,' Clancy said harshly, almost savagely. 'You know! Who shot him?'
She looked at him without seeing him, without hearing him. Her mind was slowly encompassing the facts, remembering, correlating, making sense of the
terrible facts, seeing her own innocence, her own stupidity. Resolution slowly replaced all other emotion. She pushed herself wearily to her feet, turning from the couch.
'I have to go out,' she said a bit vaguely, looking about the apartment as if faintly surprised to find herself there, as if puzzled that so short a time ago she could have rejoiced in being here, in being happy here. Her glazed eyes passed over Clancy as if he were another piece of furniture, or a floor-lamp placed un-decoratively beside the couch.
'You're not going anywhere,' Clancy said coldly. 'You're going to answer my question. Who shot him?'
She stared at him, brought back from her thoughts by his voice. The vagueness receded; her jaw tightened a trifle.
'Are you arresting me, Lieutenant? And if so, on what charge?
And on what warrant?' She turned toward the bedroom. 'I have to get dressed and go out...'
Clancy's jaw hardened. 'I -' He paused, his mind racing. 'All right,' he said in a reasonable tone of voice. 'We'll just have to let it go, then, until later ...'
The vagueness seemed to have returned, her mind was busy with more important thoughts. 'Yes,' she said. 'That would be better, Lieutenant. Later. When I have more time .. .' She turned, frowning, and entered the bedroom in the slow fashion of a sleep-walker, her dressing gown open revealingly, unnoticed.
Clancy nodded to her back and went to the door swiftly. He ran down the steps to the street, pushed through the heavy door and trotted down to the corner. His eyes, searching, caught the window of a drugstore; telephone-booths had been shoved against the plate-glass inside, giving the user a view to the street. He pushed through the door, edged past racks of every conceivable item except drugs, and wedged himself into one of the booths. The striped canopy was visible from his position. His finger dialed the precinct number rapidly.
Mute Witness Page 6