'I didn't even know the address,' Kaproski said defensively. 'You never mentioned it to me.'
'I'm foggy,' Clancy said. 'You'll have to forgive me. What I should have done, of course, was spot a man at the apartment to catch the guy; the one she called Pop. The one from this travel agency this Renick woman thought was me.' The connotation of the name 'Pop' suddenly struck him; he pushed the thought away, returning to the problem confronting him. 'But she said he was late - there probably wouldn't have been time. And if he came later she was gone, anyway. And in the third place, it's too damn late to worry about that, anyway.'
'What guy?'
'Skip it,' Clancy said. He shook his head at his own stupidity.
'Forget it. All I can tell you now, Kap, is to keep going. I don't know what else to tell you.'
'And so we keep going,' Kaproski said philosophically. 'The book says you got to put in so many hours a day anyways.'
'But it's a shame to waste them,' Clancy said, with a touch of bitterness.
'Waste? What's waste?' Kaproski sounded brave. 'I'll be in touch, Lieutenant.'
'Fine,' Clancy said, and slipped the receiver back on the phone.
He stared out of the window, disappointed in Kaproski's lack of success. The clothesline caught his eye. One day that line had been empty and he wished he could remember when. Christmas? New Year's? St Patrick's Day? He turned back to his report, giving up on the problem. And how, he suddenly wondered, facing the pages before him, did the police department ever manage to function before the invention of the typewriter, and the pencil, and the pen? Especially the ballpoint pen? Do you suppose that before reports were invented, with multitudinous copies in blue and pink and buff and beige, that policemen had more time for catching criminals? Is that possible? Without the aid of the file cabinet, and the mimeograph, and the ballpoint pen? And the wastebasket?
Highly dubious, the thought. Very doubtful. He pushed the report away again, this time with decision. When I've had a good night's sleep and a decent meal, I'll get back to it, he promised, and then paused. The events he was attempting to outline in that report had happened less than thirty-six hours before, and the details were already beginning to fade from his memory. Maybe reports do have their place in the scheme of things, he conceded. Or maybe a good night's sleep is the real answer.
The phone rang again. He pulled his mind back from the soft bed in his apartment to his drab office with a profound sigh, picking up the receiver.
'Yes?'
'Lieutenant, it's Kaproski again.'
'Put him on.'
As he waited for the connection he dug out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, pulled the last one out and slipped it between his lips, lighting it. The empty pack was crushed and consigned to the wastebasket.
Kaproski's voice came on the line, vibrating with suppressed excitement. 'Lieutenant? I think we got a break. Same place I was calling you from before - Carpenter's Travel Agency over here on Broadway and 108th. Your idea did it. Listen; isn't this Pete Rossi's real handle Porfirio?'
'That's right,' Clancy said, remembering. 'But everybody calls him Pete. Why?'
'Well,' Kaproski said, unable to hide the triumph in his voice, 'after you suggested also checking on the name "Rossi", I figured I might as well start right here. And I found out they made a reservation in the name of Porfirio Rossi. And already delivered it.'
Clancy's eyes narrowed. 'For one or two?'
'Just one.'
'Where to?'
Kaproski's voice lost a bit of its triumph. 'That's the only thing, Lieutenant. It ain't on a steamship; it's on an airplane. And it ain't to Europe; it's to California. Los Angeles.'
Clancy stared at the telephone. 'Are you calling from the agency?'
'From a public phone they got here. A box over in the corner. Why?'
'Ask them when the reservation was requested. And when it's for. When is he flying west?'
'Hold it.'
The phone went dead, as Kaproski allowed the receiver to dangle while he walked over and made inquiries. When he came back on the line he wasn't as jubilant as before, but he had the full information.
'The request was called in here about four o'clock this afternoon, Lieutenant. Less than an hour ago. And it's for a flight tonight; ten minutes after midnight. United Airlines flight number 825, from Idlewild. He's supposed to check in at least half-hour before.'
'Where was it delivered?'
‘It was sent over to the Hotel Pendleton. It didn't take no time at all to make the reservation; they called and then wrote it up and sent it over with a kid. From what they say, Rossi was registered in there; or maybe he still is. In his own name.'
Clancy's brain was racing; he was wide awake now. This was news, and maybe of vital importance. His fingers crushed out the cigarette; he bent over the telephone. 'How far is the Farnsworth from the Pendleton, do you know?'
'The Farnsworth from the Pendleton? Say ...!' The thought had not occurred to Kaproski. it's just a couple of blocks at the most.' Kaproski paused. 'You want me to go over there and put the arm on this Rossi character, Lieutenant?'
'Not on what we've got,' Clancy said. 'I'll tell you what you can do, though. Go over to the Pendleton and see if you can find out if Rossi was in his room all of last night. And if he left the place, what time he went out and what time he got back.'
'You thinking what I'm thinking, Lieutenant?'
'I'm not thinking anything,' Clancy said evenly. 'Just get over there. And call in after you check.'
'Right. The agencies are all closing up anyways; it's just about five.' Kaproski laughed. 'And am I glad! Another five minutes on that job and I'd have bought a ticket for Europe myself.’
‘Buy a ticket for the Pendleton,' Clancy said shortly, and hung up.
He swung his chair about. Late afternoon was beginning to tinge the summer sky above the tenements beyond the window; the lowering sun was throwing the narrow air-shaft into soft shadows. So Pete Rossi had come into Clancy's office around two-fifteen in the afternoon and made his big pitch about Where's-my-little-brother, and then went right out a couple of hours later and made himself a reservation on a plane to return to California. Interesting - very interesting. His dear, gunshot little brother stashed away somewhere in the vast unknown by the big, bad Lieutenant of police, and Mr. Porfirio Rossi comes into the precinct, throws his weight around, and then proceeds to catch a plane home as if it were 'mission accomplished'. Interesting was scarcely the word for it. 'Unusual' would be closer. Even 'unusual' hardly fit the situation. Impossible. That was the world for it: Impossible.
He stared out of the window into the growing shadow. A heavy-set woman appeared at a window of a tenement, outlined against the late-afternoon sky, reeling in the clothesline, removing socks one by one and replacing them with darned undershirts. Night and Day Service, Clancy thought. Perpetual Motion. Where was I Thanksgiving Day? Or Decoration Day, or the Fourth of July? Sockless Johnny Rossi, waterboy on the 52nd Precinct squad of utter-confusion ...
He patted his pockets for cigarettes; and then recalled throwing away his empty pack. With a sigh, he began his familiar search, sliding open the center drawer of his desk to fumble under the small manila envelope, feeling about blindly in the normal mess of papers there. Nothing. Shaking his head in disgust he pushed it shut and pulled open the top right-hand drawer; it started to emerge and then stuck halfway, caught and held by something bulky within. He slid his hand into the small opening, straining his fingers to pull down whatever was wedging the drawer; his reaching fingers caught on a tennis-shoe and he pressed down firmly. The drawer rasped open, and he fumbled beneath the pile of white clothing stacked there to see if, perchance, he had left a pack of cigarettes there sometime in the past.
His exploring hand encountered a few paper-clips that scraped along against the wood under the pressure of his fingers, but nothing more. With a disappointed shake of his head he was about to ram the drawer shut and call the Sergeant to send someone out for cigarettes,
when he paused. And then froze.
His hand reached into the drawer once again, drawing out one of the tennis-shoes. He stared at it a moment and then slipped his hand within, feeling the stiff sock wedged in the toe. His eye went automatically to the window, picturing the socks that had waved there all afternoon. Sockless Johnny Rossi, left-fielder on the . .. His hand stretched for the telephone, urgently.
'Sergeant! Is Barnett around?'
'I think so, Lieutenant.'
'Don't think! See if he is, and if he isn't, find him! And rush him into my office!'
He set the phone down, his eyes glowing. Of course! That's what had been bothering him all day - socks! He closed his eyes, trying to picture the hospital corridor, the shadowy bedroom, the police guard teetering on the chair outside the door. And a dim figure walking easily, confidently, past the guard to open the door and plunge a knife into the man in the bed, and then just as easily walking out. What had Chesterton said? And the boiler-room; he'd never seen it, but he could picture it, with the modern boiler set high above the floor, and the clothes stuffed under it in plain sight. Clothes taken from a doctor away on vacation ... And a door that conveniently opened into the alley; and a faucet that conveniently required fixing on one of the upper floors . .. The little pieces began to fall into place in his mind, dragged from the recesses where he had subconsciously stored them, now lining up like obedient little soldiers on parade.
A cautious throat-clearing brought him back from the depths of his thoughts; he opened his eyes. Barnett was standing in front of his desk, eying him nervously.
'You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?'
'Yes.' Clancy sat up in his chair. 'Barnett, I want you to think - to remember. Yesterday, or rather this morning at the hospital when you were outside of that room; the doctor went in how many times?'
'Twice, Lieutenant. I told you.'
'Tell me again. What did he look like? The second one?'
Barnett looked unhappy. 'I told you, Lieutenant. He had on a regular doctor's outfit; white jacket, white pants, white shoes. He had on one of those skullcap things, and a mask ...'
'You couldn't see his hair? Or his face?'
'No, sir. And anyway, you want to remember it's pretty dark in them hospital corridors at night. They turn out the big overhead lights and just leave them little bulbs burning every so often.'
Clancy nodded. 'How about gloves? Was he wearing gloves?'
Barnett frowned, trying to remember. 'Jesus, I don't remember. What did I say this morning?'
'You said he was wearing gloves.'
Barnett shrugged. 'Then he must have been wearing gloves. The picture was a lot clearer in my mind, then. If I said he was wearing gloves this morning, then he must have been wearing gloves.'
Clancy smiled; it was an almost savage smile of satisfaction. 'All right, Barnett. That's all. And thanks.’
‘Jesus, Lieutenant. I'm sorry I can't tell you more.'
'You told me more than you think you did,' Clancy said. His smile faded; he was speaking to himself. 'You told it to me this morning at the hospital, but I just didn't hear you. I guess I was suffering a little from shock. Or just plain stupidity.' He suddenly seemed to realize he was thinking aloud. His eyes came up, cold. 'That's all, Barnett.'
'Yes, sir.' The big patrolman hesitated and then swung about hastily, glad to make his escape. Clancy's fingers had already found the telephone.
'Sergeant; I want to get hold of Doc Freeman. He may still be in the lab - try there first. I'll hold on.'
He leaned back in his swivel chair, nursing the receiver at his ear, his mind going over his case with a fine-comb. There were still a million things that didn't make sense, that didn't fit in, but at least one element of the puzzle could be eliminated. The rest would follow. Maybe. His forehead puckered in a sudden frown. You realize, Clancy, he told himself, that if you're right you'll be more confused than ever, don't you? He sighed profoundly. Well, to hell with it. Let's take it one step at a time. He was suddenly aware that the Sergeant was speaking to him and apparently had been for some time.
'Lieutenant? Lieutenant? Are you there?'
'I'm here, Sergeant.'
'I have Doc Freeman for you. Here he is.'
'Right.' Clancy dragged his thoughts back from the Uptown Private Hospital. A fit of coughing greeted him as the Sergeant switched the line. 'Doc? This is Clancy. I want you to look at a man.'
The coughing ceased abruptly. 'Dead or alive, Clancy?'
Clancy looked at the telephone with a faint smile. 'This time he's dead, Doc.'
There was a thoughtful pause. 'This time?' Clancy could almost feel the stare from the other end. is it the same man, Clancy?'
‘It's the same man, Doc.'
'Has Homicide been notified?'
'No.'
This time the pause was longer. When Doc finally spoke his tone was almost conversational. 'You know, Clancy, the police department is a lot like a small town. Everybody knows everybody else's business. Especially when you got a guy like Mr. Chalmers who's like the Town Crier, you might say . ..'
'Look, Doc; are you going to help me, or not?'
There was a sigh from the telephone. 'I'll help you, Clancy. You know I'll help you. But if the guy's dead he can wait a few minutes. I'm just staining some slides.'
Clancy's voice was tight. 'Let somebody else stain the slides, Doc. He's dead, but he can't wait.'
'He can't, or you can't, Clancy?' Doc Freeman's voice was soft. 'All right; give me time to just change my clothes and I'll be with you. Where do we meet?'
Clancy glanced down at his wrist-watch. 'Uptown Private Hospital.' There was a startled intake of breath from the other end of the line, but Clancy disregarded it. 'No - wait a minute. Make it the corner of 98th Street and West End Avenue, a block from the hospital instead.' He paused, considering. 'Kaproski and Stanton are both out on jobs; I'd like them to be there, too. I'll try and get hold of them where they are. So let's say we meet in about an hour. Make it six-thirty.'
'Six-thirty?' Doc Freeman sounded aggrieved. 'How long do you think it takes to stain slides?'
'I haven't the faintest idea. And I couldn't care less. If you have time, swell - go ahead and stain your slides. Just be at the corner of 98th and West End at six-thirty.'
'I'll be there,' Doc Freeman said.
‘Good. And by the way - thanks, Doc.'
Clancy put the receiver back on the hook and swung around to the report he had been working on, but his mind was not on his work. His ear was waiting for a ring from the telephone, for word from either Kaproski, or Stanton, or both. Fifteen minutes passed before he gave up his vigil and heaved himself to his feet. He slipped off his jacket, opened the top left-hand drawer of his desk and took out a shoulder-holster complete with service revolver. He pulled the straps over his shoulder, drew them tight, and removed the revolver, checking it. He placed it back in the leather holster and shrugged his jacket back on, buttoning the bottom button. He stared at the open right-hand drawer of the desk with its exposed pile of wrinkled white clothing, and the tight smile came over his lips once again.
Reaching over, he closed the drawer gently, came around the desk and started out of the room. A sudden thought brought him up short; he returned to the desk, fumbled in the top left-hand drawer once again, coming up with a set of keys and pick-locks. Satisfied at last that he had everything, he left the room and walked briskly down the narrow corridor.
The Sergeant looked up.
'Going out for supper, Lieutenant?'
'Just going out,' Clancy said. 'Listen, Sergeant, I've got some jobs for you to do. I want you to call the Pendleton Hotel and see if Kaproski is there. He's had ample time to find out what he went there to find out; he should have called in by now. In any event, I want him to meet me at the corner of 98th and West End at six-thirty.' He paused, reviewing his plans, if he calls in, give him the message, but tell him to get all the dope at the Pendleton before he leaves.'
'
Right.' The Sergeant was scribbling notes. He looked up. 'But what if I call there and he's been there and left?'
'He shouldn't have; he was supposed to call in. And then I want you to call the New Yorker. You'd better get hold of the house detective there. Have him round up Stanton. He's there somewhere, either on one of the floors or possibly at the mail-desk. Or maybe the reservations desk.' He thought a moment. 'Or in the coffee-shop. Get a message to Stanton to also get over to 98th and West End as soon as possible. If we've already left, he's to wait for us outside of the Uptown Private Hospital. Outside; not in the lobby. Do you hear?'
'I've got it, Lieutenant.'
'And the same thing goes for Kaproski, too, in case we miss each other at 98th Street. Outside of the hospital. Doc Freeman and I will be inside. I've a job for both of them afterward. Do you have all that?'
The Sergeant nodded. Clancy tramped toward the door as the Sergeant reached for the telephone. And then paused as the phone shrilled under the Sergeant's hand. He waited as the receiver was lifted; listened as the Sergeant replied.
'Hello? Who? No, I'm sorry, Mr Chalmers. He's not here right now. What? He didn't say, but I think he went out to supper. Yes, sir; I gave him your messages. No, sir; he doesn't eat in any particular place. Yes, sir; I'll tell him.'
The Sergeant hung up, waited a moment, and then lifted the receiver again and began dialing. He didn't even lift his eyes to the gray-templed Lieutenant standing in the doorway. Clancy smiled and walked through the swinging doors to the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Saturday - 6:35 p.m.
The cab carrying Lieutenant Clancy pulled in sharply to the curb at the corner of 98th Street and West End Avenue. As he paid his bill and descended, he could not help but note that there were four empty parking spaces available in the immediate vicinity. And if I were driving, he thought sourly, those cars would be jammed together like grapes. Or like caviar. He pushed the bitter thought away and crossed the street to the other corner.
Two men appeared, walking down the side street from Broadway side by side; Kaproski and Doc Freeman. As they approached, the large detective waved a hand in greeting.
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