Mute Witness

by Robert L. Pike

  'Yes, sir.'

  ‘I’ll hang on.'

  He leaned back waiting, the telephone receiver tucked under his ear, his other hand fondling the pair of white tennis-shoes on top of the pile of clothing before him. The shoes seemed lumpy; he pushed his hand into one, brought out a stiff white sock, and then dug a second sock from the other. He tossed them to one side and patted the flat pockets of the white jacket. Nothing. He laid the jacket aside and started to unroll the wrinkled trousers, when the Sergeant's voice came through.

  'Here's your call, Lieutenant.'

  He sat up straighter, pushing the pile of clothing to one side. 'Hello? This is Lieutenant Clancy at the 52nd Precinct, New York City. Who am I talking to, please?'

  'This is Sergeant Martin, here. I.D. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?'

  'I'd like all the information you have, or can get in a hurry, on an Ann Renick, that's R-E-N-I-C-K, age twenty-nine, hair blond, height five-foot-six-inches, eyes violet ...'

  ‘Is that Anne with an "e"? And is it a nickname or her real name?'

  ‘It's her real name. No "e". A-N-N.'

  'Married or single?'

  'I don't know. All I had on her was a California driver's license, issued in Los Angeles County.'

  'Any address?'

  Clancy could have kicked himself. 'I didn't get it.'

  'Any criminal record? There in New York, I mean.'

  'None that we know of. We haven't checked.' In self-defense, Clancy added, 'Yet.'

  'Did you notice the back of the license? Were there any violations?'

  'There weren't any.’

  ‘Anything else?'

  'That's all I've got, Sergeant. I know it's not very much…’

  ‘It's enough,' the Sergeant said, if she was issued a driver's license in this county we can check her out, and pretty thoroughly. How soon do you want this information?'

  Clancy laughed. 'Yesterday.'

  'I'll call you back.'

  'I'd appreciate it. If I'm not in, leave your number with our Desk Sergeant and I'll get in touch with you right away. How late will you be there?'

  'Until six, our time. That's nine, yours.'

  'All right.' Clancy paused. 'Do you have all that information, or do you want me to repeat it?'

  The Sergeant's voice spanned the continent with just a trifle of dryness. 'All I have to do is play back the tape, Lieutenant.'

  'Oh. Yes. Well, thanks a million.'

  'That's what we're here for. Good-by, Lieutenant.'

  Clancy hung up, stared at the pile of white clothing on his desk for a moment, and then patted the pockets of the crumpled trousers. Also nothing. He swept them all into a drawer of his desk and leaned back, thinking. Another possibility suddenly struck him, one more thing to do; he returned to the newspaper, turning to the sports page. He ran his finger down a list of entries in the afternoon races, calculated a moment, and then reached for the telephone. His hand paused; this was a call that had to be made from outside the precinct.

  He pushed himself to his feet, took his hat from the top of the filing cabinet, and walked through the corridor, pausing at the front desk. The Sergeant looked up inquiringly.

  'Sergeant; I'm going out to lunch.’

  ‘Right, sir.' The Sergeant suddenly looked uncomfortable. 'Mr. Chalmers ... if he calls again ...' One look at the frozen face of the Lieutenant and he swallowed hastily. 'Yes, sir. I'll tell him. Out to lunch.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Saturday - 12:45 p.m.

  Clancy dropped from his cab at the corner of 39th Street and Tenth Avenue, paid the driver, and entered a bar on the corner. He walked quickly through to the telephone in the rear. He hated to waste the time to come this far from the precinct, especially when there was so much to do, but there just wasn't any other way. He couldn't afford to pass up any possibility. He crowded himself into the narrow booth and dialed a number.

  The voice that answered was a harsh counterpoint to the obbligato of pool-ball clicks. 'Yeah?'

  'Porky,' Clancy said.

  'Hang on.' There was no attempt to cover the mouthpiece at the other end; a shout almost shattered Clancy's eardrums. 'Hey, Porky! Somebody wants to talk to yah!'

  The voice in the receiver changed, a quieter main theme to the same pool-ball melody. 'Yes?'

  'Porky, I'd like to place a quick bet on Bar-Fly.' There was the briefest of hesitations. 'How much?' 'One and a quarter.' 'That's all?' 'That's all.'

  ‘It's pretty late - for a bet that small.'

  Clancy's voice hardened. He gripped the receiver tighter and stared at it, as if his piercing eyes could fix the other through the wire, it's never too late for an old friend.'

  His threatening tone made no dent in the other's insouciance. 'Well, O.K. then, old friend. You're covered.'

  'Thanks,' Clancy said dryly. He clicked down the phone, glanced at his watch, and walked deeper into the shadows of the narrow bar. He selected an empty booth with empty booths on either side; he slid into it, pulled his hat from his head and wiped his forehead. I suppose I ought to eat something, he thought; there's time enough. But the thought of food was oddly unappetizing. An aproned figure appeared from the front of the bar, leaning on the table casually.

  'Buttermilk,' Clancy said. 'A big glass.'

  'Right.' The aproned figure straightened up and padded back towards the front. Clancy rubbed his face wearily, and then closed his eyes, preparing to wait.

  Saturday -1:15 p.m.

  The popular idea that stool-pigeons are slight, scrawny, cringing, dirty little men is, of course, ridiculous. Stool-pigeons, like professionals in other walks of life, come in all sizes, shapes, and forms, but the successful ones are usually quite extroverted, popular, and friendly. Slight, scrawny, cringing, dirty little men would have trouble getting the right time from people, let alone important information. And important information is what stool-pigeons collect and sell.

  A perfect example was Porky Frank, a heavy-set, well-dressed, handsome, happy fellow who ran a book for a livelihood. His book was small, but good - which is to say, honest. The success of his book did not in any way make Porky want to give up stool-pigeoning; he enjoyed the contacts it afforded him, and it gave him a profitable outlet for the information that came to his attention, often unbid, which otherwise would have been wasted. And wastefulness, as Porky had been properly taught by a rather strict mother, was a vice.

  He came into the bar walking easily, almost jauntily, strode through the gloom to the rear with a pleasant smile and nod for the waiter, and slid into the booth across from Clancy with a pleased glance at his expensive wrist-watch.

  'Not bad. One-fifteen on the button. Considering that you don't give a man too much notice, Mr. C. Fortunately I was free.' He looked up and then stared in amazement at the glass before the slumped Lieutenant. 'What on earth is that?'

  'Buttermilk.'

  Porky drew back. 'You mean you people really go for that jazz about not drinking on duty?'

  Clancy grinned. 'Do you want to know the truth?'

  'Certainly,' Porky said, it's the only information worth handling.'

  'Well, the truth is that I've had about five hours sleep in the past forty-eight, and I'm so bushed that one beer would probably put me flat on my face.'

  'Oh. Well, thank God I had my regular eight-hours last night. That's the nice part about my racket - you can keep decent hours. So if you'll pardon me . ..' He waved his hand at the waiter, gave his order, and settled back. Clancy sipped his buttermilk until the waiter had set a glass before his companion.

  Porky drank deeply, set his glass down, and glanced at Clancy.

  'Well, Mr. C., what's on your mind?'

  'Rossi. Johnny Rossi.'

  The heavy, handsome face across from him tightened perceptibly. It was obviously not a subject Porky had expected. He stared at the Lieutenant reflectively a moment and then dropped his gaze to his glass. When he looked up again he had forced his face into an expressionless mask. Hi
s fingers played with his glass.

  'What makes you ask about him? He's pretty far out of your territory, isn't he?'

  Clancy frowned. This was a very odd question from a stoolie. Particularly a stoolie he knew as well as Porky Frank. 'Since when do you worry about things like that?'

  'Me?' Porky shrugged. His fingers continued to twist his glass idly. 'I never worry about anything, except maybe long-shots. And welchers, of course. It's just odd that you should be asking about him.'

  'Why?'

  Porky lifted his glass to drink and then set it down. When he spoke it was almost as if he were changing the subject. 'There are a lot of funny rumors floating around.'

  Clancy maintained his patience. 'Such as?'

  Porky raised his eyes to meet Clancy's significantly. 'Well, such as that the Syndicate are a bit unhappy with Mr. Johnny Rossi. Displeased. Maybe with the whole family.'

  'Over anything in particular?'

  'Finances, is the story I hear. And I hear they might have good reason. They think Johnny Rossi should have studied harder when he went to school. Principally arithmetic .. .'

  'A fast shuffle?'

  'The way I hear it,' Porky said softly, 'you could hardly call it a shuffle at all; not in the accepted sense of the word. If the rumors are true, he cut the deck and simply forgot to put about twenty-six cards back on the table.'

  Clancy nodded. The story made sense, combined with what he already knew. It might explain a lot of things. He looked up. 'How can a man get away with anything like that in the organization? Don't they usually have checks and balances?'

  'The bookkeeping is out in Chicago,' Porky said, it takes time.' He shrugged. 'How does a man embezzle dough from a bank and get away with it?'

  'They usually don't,' Clancy said.

  'Well,' Porky said. 'The way I hear, Johnny Rossi may or may not.'

  Clancy frowned at this cryptic statement. 'And just how good do you hear?'

  Porky looked at him and shrugged. 'You know how it is. In this business you hear a lot, but none of it comes with signed affidavits. Personally, I wouldn't take book against it, though.'

  Clancy thought a moment. 'You say the Syndicate may be unhappy with the entire family. Is his brother Pete in with Johnny on this?'

  'I don't know.' Porky Frank seemed a bit unhappy at having to admit this hiatus in his knowledge. 'I hear there's nothing to indicate he is, but you know the Rossie boys. Those two have been closer than a photo-finish since they were kids. My guess is that the Syndicate accountants are checking pretty hard right now, trying to find out.'

  'I see. And where's Johnny Rossi now?'

  This was one question that took Porky by surprise. He looked over at Clancy queerly. And then took a long pull of his drink and set his glass down on the table again.

  'You wouldn't bull an old bull-artist, would you, Mr. C?'

  Clancy froze. 'What do you mean?'

  Porky stared at him without expression. 'That's why I thought it odd you wanted to discuss the Rossies. I thought that Johnny Rossi's new address was one of the things you might be able to tell me.'

  Clancy's eyes bored into the other's. His jaw was rigid, is that the story going around?'

  Porky lifted a hand. 'Not you, Mr. C. Just fuzz, that's all.

  Empire State buttons.' He looked at Clancy curiously. 'You have secrets where you work, too?'

  'Yeah.' Clancy was thinking.

  Porky raised his thick eyebrows comically. 'Any statement for the boys of the press?'

  Clancy stood up, his face a hard mask. He didn't bother to answer the question. He put his hat squarely on his head and edged from the booth. 'I'll see you around.'

  'Oh, Mr. C.' Porky Frank looked truly apologetic. 'That Bar-Fly - he was a real dog. He ran out.'

  'Oh.' Clancy dug into a pocket, unfolded and counted some money, and placed it on the table.

  'Thank you.'

  Porky tucked the money carelessly into his pocket and remained staring thoughtfully into his glass. Clancy pushed his way through the semi-darkness of the bar, walked to the curb, and flagged a cab.

  Damn that Chalmers and his big mouth! So the word was out that the police had Rossi tucked away somewhere. Great! As he climbed into the cab that drew up for him, he pushed aside the thought and tried to assess the value of what he had learned. Not much more than he had already guessed, but at least it was partially confirmed. Actually very little. Just one more loose end, he thought bitterly. And the trouble with loose ends is the more you unravel them, the looser they get. He sighed and leaned back against the cushions, closing his eyes.

  Saturday - 2:05 p.m.

  The Desk Sergeant looked up as Clancy tramped wearily through the door of the precinct. One look at the lined, fatigued face and he knew it would be pointless to mention the continuing telephone calls from Mr. Chalmers. Pointless and possibly dangerous. I only hope the Lieutenant knows what he's doing, the Sergeant prayed.

  Clancy caught the look in the other's eyes and correctly interpreted it. He smiled, is Chalmers still calling?'

  The Sergeant looked relieved, but also slightly guilty, as if he were somehow partially at fault for the endless calls from the Assistant District Attorney. 'Yes, sir.'

  Clancy shrugged it away. 'Anyone else?'

  'Stanton called about ten, fifteen minutes after you left,' the Sergeant said, happy to get off the subject of Chalmers. 'I sent Mary Kelly out to meet him. He was at the New Yorker Hotel when he called. I guess Mary Kelly must have made it on time, because I haven't heard from either one of them since then.'

  Clancy nodded, satisfied. 'How about Kaproski?'

  'He hasn't called in yet.'

  'All right,' Clancy said. He turned toward his office and then paused. Like it or not, he had to eat if he wanted to keep going. 'And, Sergeant, do me a favor, will you? Send somebody down to the restaurant at the corner and get me a ham on rye, with pickles and mustard. And coffee - black, with sugar.'

  ‘I thought you just went out for lunch,' the Sergeant said, surprised.

  ‘I forgot dessert,' Clancy said shortly, and went down the corridor to his office. He scaled his battered hat expertly onto a file cabinet and dropped into his chair, staring out of the window at the clothesline hung across the air-shaft. In his absence the overalls had been replaced by a dangling file of limp socks; he studied them morosely. Maybe it was Yom Kippur when those clotheslines were empty, he thought wearily. Where was I on Yom Kippur?

  The phone rang and he reached over to pick it up, aware of how tired he was and how stuffed with cotton his brain felt. My advice to me is either wake up or go to sleep at one time, he thought. The way I am right now, nothing makes any sense.

  'Yes?'

  'Lieutenant,' the Sergeant said apologetically, 'I forgot. When Stanton called before, he said to tell you he left the personal effects of that man at the Farnsworth Hotel in the top center drawer of your desk this morning. He left a note with it, too. He said he didn't have a chance to tell you when he saw you on 86th Street.'

  'Thanks,' Clancy said. 'I'll take a look at the stuff.'

  He hung up, pushed his swivel chair back from the desk and opened the center drawer. A small manila envelope lay on top of the usual junk that cluttered the drawer; he lifted it out, surprised by its lightness. He pushed the drawer closed, hunched closer to the desk, and up-ended the envelope. A billfold slipped out, and nothing more. Clancy frowned and puckered the envelope, peering within. No loose change? No keys? No handkerchief? He shrugged, thinking of the stuff he carried in his own pockets, and picked up the billfold.

  It was new, cheap; a standard plastic imitation-leather wallet sold by the thousands in every five-and-dime in the country, and completely unidentifiable. He slipped his fingers into the little pockets, encountering nothing. Not a card, or a photograph, or a slip of paper, or even the usual cardboard identification card that normally came with all billfolds.

  He opened the lips of the wallet; there were bills inside and a
piece of paper. He drew out the money, counting it. Two one-hundreds, four fifties, four twenties, three tens, and two ones. Five hundred and twelve dollars. He wrote the amount on the manila envelope automatically, and then turned to the slip of paper, opening it. A brief smile crossed his lips as he read the opening words scrawled in pencil in Stanton's large hand:

  This is just as I found it. I didn't touch it, but sixty bucks of this is mine, or would be if there was any justice. Which there isn't. Anyway, there wasn't any identification of any kind. Nowhere in the room. Pockets completely empty except for this. No labels, no marks, no nothing. One small airplane-type bag, the kind you carry aboard, with no ID and marked SAS. He probably used it to carry his dressing gown and pajamas. Outside of that, nothing. Not even a clean shirt in the room. No extra shoes; not even a clean pair of socks. Nothing; but nothing. I left everything as was, in case you want to recheck. Stan.

  Clancy fingered the billfold, his smile fading, his forehead wrinkling. If Stanton said there was no identification, then there wasn't any. But such complete anonymity was hard to understand, particularly in a man who carried his identification on his face. Not even a spare pair of shoes, or even a clean shirt - or even a pair of socks for a change. Sockless Johnny Rossi, Clancy thought; first-baseman on the San Quentin Nine.

  He studied the billfold once again, and then tucked the money back into place, slid the wallet into the envelope and the envelope into the center drawer. Later it would have to go into the safe, but that was later. No help there in any event. No help anywhere, he thought bitterly; maybe if I weren't so bushed I could see something that's probably right in front of my nose. A good night's sleep would probably do more toward solving this case than a hundred clues.

  The phone rang again, breaking into his thoughts. He reached over, picking up the receiver, stifling a yawn. 'Yes?'

  'Lieutenant; there's a man here says he wants to see you.' The Sergeant hesitated, his voice dropping, it's Pete Rossi . ..'

  Clancy sat up, his eyes narrowing in thought, his weariness falling from him. 'Send him in.'