Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here!

by Ed McBain

  At his desk, Meyer Meyer started to type up a report on the Gorman ghosts, and then decided the hell with it. If the lieutenant asked him where he’d been half the night, he would say he had been out cruising, looking for trouble in the streets. Christ knew there was enough of that around. He pulled the report forms and their separating sheets of carbon paper from the ancient typewriter, and noticed that Detective Hal Willis was pacing the room anxiously, waiting to get at the desk the moment he vacated it.

  “Okay, Hal,” he said, “it’s all yours.”

  “Finalmente!” Willis, who was not Italian, said.

  The telephone rang.

  The sun was up when they came out of the building and walked past the hanging green “87” globes and down the low flat steps to the sidewalk. The park across the street shimmered with early morning autumn brilliance, the sky above it clear and blue. It was going to be a beautiful day. They walked toward the diner on the next block, Meyer and O’Brien ahead of the others, Carella, Hawes, and Kling bringing up the rear. They were tired, and exhaustion showed in their eyes and in the set of their mouths, and in the pace they kept. They talked without animation, mostly about their work, their breaths feathery and white on the cold morning air. When they reached the diner, they took off their overcoats and ordered hot coffee and cheese danish and toasted English muffins. Meyer said he thought he was coming down with a cold. Carella told him about some cough medicine his wife had given one of the children. O’Brien, munching on a muffin, glanced across the diner and saw a young girl in one of the booths. She was wearing blue jeans and a brightly colored Mexican serape, and she was talking to a boy wearing a Navy pea jacket.

  “I think I see somebody,” he said, and he moved out of the booth past Kling and Hawes, who were talking about the new goddamn regulation on search and seizure.

  The girl looked up when he approached the booth.

  “Miss Blair?” he said. “Penelope Blair?”

  “Yes,” the girl answered. “Who are you?”

  “Detective O’Brien,” he said, “the 87th Squad. Your mother was in last night, Penny. She asked me to tell you—”

  “Flake off, cop,” Penelope Blair said. “Go stop a riot someplace.”

  O’Brien looked at her silently for a moment. He nodded then, and turned away, and went back to the table.

  “Anything?” Kling asked.

  “You can’t win ‘em all,” O’Brien said.

  Daywatch

  The boy who lay naked on the concrete in the backyard of the tenement was perhaps eighteen years old. He wore his hair quite long, and he had recently begun growing a beard. His hair and his beard were black. His body was very white, and the blood that oozed onto the concrete pavement beneath him was very red.

  The superintendent of the building discovered him at two minutes before 6:00 A.M., when he went to put his garbage in one of the cans out back. The boy was lying facedown in his own blood, and the super did not recognize him. He was shocked, of course. He did not ordinarily discover naked dead men in the backyard when he went to put out his garbage. But considering his shock, and considering his advanced age (he was approaching eighty), he managed to notify the police with considerable dispatch, something not every good citizen of the city managed to do quite so well or so speedily.

  Hal Willis arrived on the scene at 6:15, accompanied by Richard Genero, who was the newest man on the squad, having been recently promoted from patrolman to detective 3rd/grade. Forbes and Phelps, the two men from Homicide, were already there. It was Willis’s contention that any pair of Homicide cops was the same as any other pair of Homicide cops. He had never, for example, seen Forbes and Phelps in the same room with Monoghan and Monroe. Was this not undeniable proof that they were one and the same couple? Moreover, it seemed to Willis that all Homicide cops exchanged clothing regularly, and that Forbes and Phelps could on any given day of the week be found wearing suits and overcoats belonging to Monoghan and Monroe.

  “Good morning,” Willis said.

  “Morning,” Phelps said.

  Forbes grunted.

  “Nice way to start a goddamn Sunday, right?” Phelps asked.

  “You fellows got here pretty fast,” Genero said.

  Forbes looked at him. “Who’re you?”

  “Dick Genero.”

  “Never heard of you,” Forbes said.

  “I never heard of you, neither,” Genero answered, and glanced to Willis for approval.

  “Who’s the dead man?” Willis asked drily. “Anybody ever hear of him?”

  “He sure as hell ain’t carrying any identification,” Phelps said, and cackled hoarsely.

  “Not unless he’s got it shoved up his ass someplace,” Forbes said, and began laughing along with his partner.

  “Who found the body?” Willis asked.

  “Building superintendent.”

  “Want to get him, Dick?”

  “Right,” Genero said, and walked off.

  “I hate to start my day like this,” Phelps said.

  “Grisly,” Forbes said.

  “All I had this morning was a cup of coffee,” Phelps said. “And now this. Disgusting.”

  “Nauseating,” Forbes said.

  “Least have the decency to put on some goddamn clothes before he jumps off the roof,” Phelps said.

  “How do you know he jumped off the roof?” Willis asked.

  “I don’t. I’m only saying.”

  “What do you think he was doing?” Forbes asked. “Walking around the backyard naked?”

  “I don’t know,” Willis said, and shrugged.

  “Looks like a jumper to me,” Phelps said. He glanced up at the rear wall of the building. “Isn’t that a broken window up there?”

  “Where?”

  “Fourth floor there. Isn’t that window broken there?”

  “Looks like it,” Forbes said.

  “Sure looks like it to me,” Phelps said.

  “Hal, here’s the super,” Genero said, approaching with the old man. “Name’s Mr. Dennison, been working here for close to thirty years.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Dennison? I’m Detective Willis.”

  Dennison nodded and said nothing.

  “I understand you found the body.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just before I called the cops.”

  “What time was that, Mr. Dennison?”

  “Little after six, I guess.”

  “Know who it is?”

  “Can’t see his face,” Dennison said.

  “We’ll roll him over for you as soon as the ME gets here,” Genero said.

  “Don’t do me no favors,” Dennison answered.

  Unlike patrolmen, detectives—with the final approval of the chief downtown—decide upon their own work schedules. As a result, the shifts will vary according to the whims of the men on the squad. For the past three months, and based on the dubious assumption that the night shift was more arduous than the day, the detectives of the 87th Squad had broken their working hours into two shifts, the first beginning at 6:00 in the morning and ending at 8:00 in the evening, the second beginning then and ending at 6:00 the next day. The daywatch was fourteen hours long, the nightwatch only ten. But there were more men on duty during the day, and presumably this equalized the load. That some of those men were testifying in court or out on special assignments some of the time seemed not to bother any of the detectives, who considered the schedule equitable. At least for the time being. In another month or so, someone would come up with suggestions for a revised schedule, and they’d hold a meeting in the interrogation office and agree that they ought to try something new. A change was as good as a rest, provided the chief approved.

  As with any schedule, though, there were ways of beating it if you tried hard enough. Relieving the departing team at fifteen minutes before the hour was a mandatory courtesy, and one way of avoiding a 5:45 A.M. arrival at the squadroom was to plant yourself in a
grocery store that did not open its doors until 6:30. Detective Andy Parker found himself just such a grocery store on this bright October morning. The fact that the store had been robbed three times in broad daylight during the past month was only incidental. The point was that some detective had to cover the joint, and Andy Parker fortuitously happened to be that detective. The first thing he did to ingratiate himself with the owner was to swipe an apple from the fruit stand outside the store. The owner, one Silvio Corradini, who was sharp of eye for all his seventy-two years, noticed the petty larceny the moment it was committed. He was about to run out on the sidewalk to apprehend the brigand, when the man began walking directly into the store, eating the apple as he came. It was then that Silvio realized the man could be nothing but a cop.

  “Good morning,” Parker said.

  “Good morning,” Silvio replied. “You enjoy the fruit?”

  “Yeah, very good apple,” Parker said. “Thanks a lot.” He grinned amiably. “I’m Detective Parker,” he said, “I’ve been assigned to these holdups.”

  “What happened to the other detective?”

  “Di Maeo? He’s on vacation.”

  “In October?”

  “We can’t all get the summertime, huh?” Parker said, and grinned again. He was a huge man wearing rumpled brown corduroy trousers and a soiled tan windbreaker. He had shaved this morning before eating breakfast, but he managed to look unshaven nonetheless. He bit into the apple ferociously, juice spilling onto his chin. Silvio, watching him, thought he resembled a hired gun for the Mafia.

  “Lei e italiano?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you Italian?”

  “No, are you?” Parker said, and grinned.

  “Yes,” Silvio answered. He drew back his shoulders. “Yes, I’m Italian.”

  “Well, good, good,” Parker said. “You always open the store on Sunday?”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “I only stay open till twelve o’clock, that’s all,” Silvio said, and shrugged. “I get the people coming home from church.”

  “That’s against the law in this state, you know that?”

  “Nobody ever said anything.”

  “Well, just because somebody’s willing to look the other way every now and then, that doesn’t make it legal,” Parker said. He stared deep into Silvio’s eyes. “We’ll talk about it later, huh? Meantime, fill me in on these holdups, okay?”

  Silvio hesitated. He knew that talking about it later would cost him money. He was beginning to be sorry he’d ever told the police about the holdups. He sighed now and said, “It is three times in the past month.”

  “Same guy each time?”

  “Two of them. I don’t know if it’s the same. They are wearing—come si dice? Maschere.”

  “Masks?”

  “Si, masks.”

  “Same masks each time?”

  “No. Once it was stockings, another time black ones, the third time handkerchiefs.”

  Parker bit into the apple again. “Are they armed?” he asked.

  “If they did not have guns, I would break their heads and throw them out on the sidewalk.”

  “Handguns?” Parker asked.

  “What?”

  “Pistols?”

  “Yes, yes, pistols.”

  “Both of them armed, or just one?”

  “Both.”

  “What time do they usually come in?”

  “Different times. The first time was early in the morning, when I just opened the store. The next time was at night, maybe six, six-thirty. The last time was around lunch, the store was very quiet.”

  “Did they take anything but cash?”

  “Only cash.”

  “Well,” Parker said, and shrugged. “Maybe they’ll come back, who knows? If you don’t mind, I’ll just hang around, okay? You got a back room or something?”

  “Behind the curtain,” Silvio said. “But if they come back again, I am ready for them myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got a gun now.”

  He walked behind the counter to the cash register, opened it, and removed from the drawer a .32 Smith & Wesson.

  “You need a permit for that, you know,” Parker said.

  “I got one. A man gets held up three times, nobody argues about giving him a permit.”

  “Carry or premises?”

  “Premises.”

  “You know how to use that thing?” Parker asked.

  “I know how, yes.”

  “I’ve got some advice for you,” Parker said. “If those hoods come back, leave your gun in the drawer. Let me take care of any shooting needs to be done.”

  A woman was coming into the store. Without answering, Silvio turned away from Parker, smiled, and said to her, “Buon giorno, signora.”

  Parker sighed, threw the curtain back, and went into the other room.

  “What do you think?” Willis asked the assistant medical examiner.

  “Fell or was pushed from someplace up there,” the ME said. “Split his skull wide open when he hit the ground. Probably dead on impact.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What more do you want? You’re lucky we haven’t got an omelet here.” He snapped his bag shut, rose from where he was crouched beside the body, and said, “I’m finished, you can do what you like with him.”

  “Thanks, Al,” Willis said.

  “Yeah,” the ME answered, and walked off.

  The body was now lying on its back. Genero looked down at the open skull and turned away. Dennison, the building superintendent, walked over with his hands in the pockets of his bib overalls. He looked down at the boy’s bloody face and nodded.

  “That’s the kid in 4C,” he said.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Scott.”

  “That the first name or the last?”

  “The last. I got his first name written down someplace inside. I got all the tenants’ names written down. You want me to look it up for you?”

  “Would you, please?”

  “Sure,” Dennison said.

  “Would that be 4C up there?” Willis asked. “The apartment with the broken window?”

  “That’s it, all right,” Dennison said.

  The telephone on Arthur Brown’s desk was ringing. He lifted the receiver, tucked it between his shoulder and his ear, said, “87th Squad, Detective Brown,” and then glanced toward the slattedrail divider, where a patrolman was leading a handcuffed prisoner into the squadroom.

  “Is this a detective?” the woman on the telephone asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, Detective Brown.”

  “I want to report a missing person,” the woman said.

  “Yes, ma’am, just one second, please.”

  Brown opened his desk drawer, took out a block of wood to which was attached the key to the detention cage across the room, and flipped it to the patrolman, who missed the catch. The prisoner laughed. The patrolman picked up the key, led the prisoner to the cage, opened the grillwork door, and shoved him inside.

  “Take it easy, man,” the prisoner warned.

  The patrolman locked the cage door without answering him. Then he walked to Brown’s desk and sat on the edge of it, tilting his peaked cap back on his forehead and lighting a cigarette. On the telephone, Brown was saying, “Now, what’s your name, please, ma’am?”

  “Mary Ellingham. Mrs. Donald Ellingham.”

  “Would you spell that for me, please?”

  “E-L-L…”

  “Yep…”

  “…I-N-G, H-A-M.”

  “And your address, Mrs. Ellingham?”

  “742 North Trinity.”

  “All right, who’s missing, Mrs. Ellingham?”

  “My husband.”

  “That his full name? Donald Ellingham?”

  “Yes. Well, no. Donald E. Ellingham. For Edward.”

  “Yes, ma’am. How long has he been gone?”

  “He w
as gone a week this past Friday.”

  “Has this ever happened before, Mrs. Ellingham?”

  “No. Never.”

  “He’s never been gone before? Never any unexplained absences?”

  “Never.”

  “And you say he’s been missing since, let’s see, that’d be Friday the ninth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he go to work on Monday morning? The twelfth?”

  “No.”

  “You called his office?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And he wasn’t there.”

  “He hasn’t been there all week.”

  “Why’d you wait till today to report this, Mrs. Ellingham?”

  “I wanted to give him a chance to come back. I kept extending the deadline, you see. I thought I’d give him a few days, and then it turned into a week, and then I thought I’d give him just another day, and then Saturday went by, and…Well, I decided to call today.”

  “Does your husband drink, Mrs. Ellingham?”

  “No. That is, he drinks, but not excessively. He’s not an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Has there ever been any problem with…well…other women?”

  “No.”

  “What I’m trying to say, Mrs. Ellingham—”

  “Yes, I understand. I don’t think he’s run off with another woman, no.”

  “What do you think has happened, Mrs. Ellingham?”

  “I’m afraid he’s been in an accident.”

  “Have you contacted the various hospitals in the city?”