Leopold's Way

by Edward D. Hoch

  “Oh, one thing,” Dr. Ranger said. “Could I have your health insurance number, for my secretary? She’s always after me for treating people in the middle of the night and forgetting the paper work.”

  Dr. Ranger saw them to the door, and Fletcher tried to help Leopold down the steps. “Careful here, Captain.”

  “Damn it, Fletcher, I’m not a cripple.”

  “Well, cripple or not, I’m not leaving you alone in that apartment tonight. You come home and stay in our spare room.”

  Leopold started to protest, but Fletcher was firm. “Just tonight. Tomorrow you can go back to your place.”

  “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “And in the morning I want to see the guy they arrested. I want to know what he was stealing that cost me a broken arm.”

  The morning was something of an ordeal for Leopold. The combination of a strange bed and the cast on his arm had made sleeping impossible, and he arrived at headquarters tired and not a little grouchy. After explaining what had happened, to the first dozen people he encountered, he retreated to his office and shut the door.

  It was an hour later before Fletcher ventured inside with the morning coffee. “How’s it feel?” he asked.

  “The wrist’s not bad, but this damned cast is getting me down already. A month of it and I’ll really be ready for a rest home somewhere.” He’d investigated the cast already, tapping its hard outer shell, and fingering the thin layer of cotton that seemed to line it.

  Fletcher sipped his coffee. “Want to hear about the guy you were chasing?”

  “I suppose so. Who was he?”

  “Fellow named Jimmy Duke. Three previous burglary convictions, all in New Jersey. Nothing too startling otherwise. He’s thirty years old, and he’s spent seven of them behind bars.”

  “What about the victim, Bailey? That Dr. Ranger last night said there’d been a number of robberies there.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Bailey is a stamp collector, of all things! He works out of his home, and does quite a business in selling stamps to other collectors, which explains the burglar alarm.”

  “Did this Duke get much from him?”

  “Quite a lot. All the most valuable items, unfortunately. But you saved some of them.”

  “I did? How?”

  “When you grabbed the man and ripped his pocket. That’s where he was carrying some of the loot. The boys were checking the yard with their flashlights and they found stamps all over in the mud. Luckily they’re protected in individual little glassine envelopes, so none of them were damaged. We figure the girl must have gotten away with the missing stuff.”

  Leopold sighed and tried working the fingers of his bad arm. “I guess I should leave this chasing burglars to younger men and stick to murder cases.”

  Fletcher opened an evidence envelope and showed him a collection of multicolored stamps. “These are the ones you rescued. Quite a collection.”

  Leopold, who knew very little about stamp collecting, studied them with a mixture of interest and scorn. “You mean these things are worth money?”

  “I guess collectors think they’re a good hedge against inflation, just like art.” He pointed to one reddish-brown stamp. “They tell me this U.S. five-cent one is worth $55. And here’s an airmail stamp worth around $500.”

  “There’s enough of a market for stolen stamps?”

  “Apparently, among dealers and collectors. Unfortunately, one of the most valuable stamps in Bailey’s collection is still missing.” Fletcher consulted the notes attached to the evidence envelope. “It’s a rare Hawaiian Islands stamp, two cents, issued in 1851.”

  “What’s it worth? A thousand?”

  “Bailey bought it 30 years ago for $20,000. It could be worth twice that today.”

  Leopold whistled softly and gazed at the stamps with new respect. “No wonder he needed a burglar alarm. A bank vault would have been an even better idea.”

  “Collectors don’t like bank vaults, Captain. They like to take out their collections at odd times and look them over.”

  “What’s this stamp here?” Leopold asked, pointing to a large brown one that had been partially hidden by the others. It seemed poorly printed, and showed a crude drawing of a winged demon flying over a row of houses. Across the top were the words: Jersey Devil—Ten Cents.

  Fletcher bent over to study it and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t imagine. Never saw anything like it before. It certainly can’t be very valuable, unless it’s something left over from Colonial times.”

  “No, those houses are modern. It’s no Colonial stamp.”

  “Well, anyway, we got them back for Bailey. He’s coming down this morning to look them over.”

  When Fletcher had gone, Leopold tried to busy himself with the morning reports and a batch of paper work left from the previous day, but he was not yet used to the heavy plaster cast and its intrusive presence was both annoying and frustrating. Finally he gave up the attempt and went out to the squad room to alleviate his uneasiness.

  As soon as Fletcher saw him he motioned him over to the desk where he stood with a tall, elderly gentleman. “Captain Leopold, this is Oscar Bailey. He’s the man who broke his arm saving part of your collection, Mr. Bailey.”

  They shook hands and the elderly collector said, “I thank you for your efforts, Captain. I only wish you’d rescued the two-cent Hawaiian.”

  “Any lead on the girl yet?” Leopold asked Fletcher.

  “None, but Duke will probably break down soon and tell us who she is. We’ll get your stamp back for you, Mr. Bailey.”

  “I certainly hope so. The insurance wouldn’t begin to cover its current market value.” He waved the evidence envelope full of his stamps. “And now I understand I won’t be allowed to take these until after this man Duke has been tried.”

  “I’m afraid that’s correct,” Leopold said. “They’re evidence that a theft was committed. We’ll guard them carefully, however.”

  “I hope so!”

  “While you’re here, I wanted to ask you about this item in your collection, this Jersey Devil.” Leopold pointed to the poorly-printed stamp. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. A joke. It has no value.” Oscar Bailey was suddenly ill at ease, his eyes shifting.

  “Is it from New Jersey? This Jimmy Duke has a criminal record in New Jersey.”

  “No. Forget about it.” He turned to one of the detectives and started reading the inventory of missing stamps. Leopold stood there for a moment, then shrugged and walked away. It wasn’t his case anyway; he’d just happened along in time to break his arm.

  Yet the case did bother him, because he had broken his arm. The following day he called the public library and asked if they could give him the name of some leading stamp collector in the area. They had two names for him: Oscar Bailey, and an assistant professor at the university, a fellow named Dexter Jones.

  That afternoon, driving as well as he could manage with one arm in a sling, Leopold went out to the university campus. It had been some years since he’d been called there to investigate the killing of a student by his roommate, and the place had changed considerably. New buildings were under construction everywhere, and the old ivy walls were almost obscured by workmen and steel scaffolding.

  His last visit had been on a glorious autumn day, but this one was quite different. The off-and-on drizzle of the past few days had started again, dampening sidewalks and spirits, and the sight of a muddy puddle at one construction site only served to remind him of his fall two nights earlier. He entered the Fine Arts Building grimly and sought out the office of Dexter Jones.

  Jones proved to be a graying, middle-aged man with glasses and what appeared to be a large mole on his nose. Eyeing Leopold over his glasses, he asked, “What happened to your arm?”

  “Broke it chasing a burglar.”

  There was a grunt of sympathy. “I had an accident myself this morning. Tip of a match flew off and burned my nose here.” He pointed to the mole-like mark. “Looks
terrible!”

  “I understand you’re an expert on postage stamps, Professor.”

  “It’s only a hobby, but ever since the newspaper ran an article on me two years ago, the local library recommends me as some sort of expert. What can I do for you?”

  “I want to ask you about a stamp called the Jersey Devil.”

  Dexter Jones lifted his fingers from a scratch-pad he’d been toying with. “The Jersey Devil?”

  “It was recovered after a robbery at Oscar Bailey’s house.”

  “Did you ask Bailey about it?”

  “He was quite vague. I was hoping you’d be more direct.”

  “Is it an official police matter?”

  “The robber was from New Jersey. If the stamp was from there too, it might be a connection.”

  “I see.” He thought about it some more before replying. “Very well, I have nothing to hide. The Jersey Devil is the name of a semisecret, privately-owned postal system operated in competition with the government.”

  Leopold wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “A private postal system? Isn’t that against the law?”

  “Yes. Which is why it’s secret.”

  “But who would use such a thing?”

  “Various groups who need to conduct their business without fear of mail checks and interceptions by the government. Some quite respectable banks have even been known to use it.”

  “The whole thing is a bit hard to believe.”

  “Not at all. The government today exercises an amazing amount of control over the mails. Second and third-class mail can be opened under certain circumstances, and first-class mail can be delayed and recorded. It’s only logical that criminal elements, dealers in pornography, sellers of sweepstakes tickets, drug peddlers and the like, will use some other method of communication.”

  “But who’s behind the Jersey Devil system?” Leopold insisted.

  Dexter Jones paused to light his pipe. “A man named Corflu, who runs a trucking company in New Jersey. I’ve never met him, but I understand he’s quite a colorful character.”

  Leopold stood up. There seemed nothing more to be learned about the Jersey Devil. “Thank you for your time, Professor. It’s been most interesting.”

  Jones gave him a final grin. “Always glad to help the law.”

  On the way back to his car, walking through the puddles that remained from the March drizzle, Leopold wondered about one thing. He wondered about the name Oscar Bailey which had been scrawled on the scratch-pad with which Jones had toyed.

  Nothing happened for two days, and Leopold pretty much forgot about the Jersey Devil, and tried to busy himself with as much of the office routine as possible.

  It was Friday morning when Fletcher walked into his office and dropped the bombshell. “How’s the arm, Captain?”

  “Heavy.”

  “Didn’t you say you talked to a Professor Dexter Jones about that odd stamp the other day?”

  “Sure. What about him?”

  “Nothing, except he was murdered last night. Apparently Jones was working late on campus. He left some test papers on his desk and started home around eleven. His car was in the faculty parking lot, and someone was waiting there for him. Shot him twice in the chest.”

  “Robbery?”

  “Not unless the guy got scared off.”

  “Did Jones live long enough to say anything?”

  “Not a word. Killed instantly.”

  “What about his personal life?”

  “Divorced years ago. Wife and children out on the West Coast somewhere. Apparently he was popular with the faculty and students. No sign of trouble there.”

  “Girls?”

  “Nothing there. He wasn’t one to fool around with his students, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Leopold remembered his conversation with the cheerful, pipe-smoking man, and he felt somehow as if he were partly responsible for what had happened. Was there something he could have done? Had he asked the wrong questions, or failed to ask the right ones?

  “I’ll be working with you on this one,” he announced to Fletcher. “I feel I’m part of it already.”

  “I don’t think you should, Captain, with your arm.”

  “Nonsense! I’m not going to sit here rotting away for the next month. Besides, I may have a lead that could help us.” He told Fletcher about the name on the scratch-pad. “I think it’s time I had a talk with Oscar Bailey.”

  Leopold was becoming quite skilled at one-handed driving, though he wouldn’t have liked going any distance that way. Returning to the scene of his misadventure gave him a brief moment of apprehension, and he was especially careful going up the front steps to Bailey’s house.

  The tall, elderly gentleman met him at the door, and seemed surprised. “Leopold, isn’t it? Captain Leopold? What brings you here, sir?”

  “A few questions, if you have the time. You may not have heard yet, but one of your fellow philatelists was murdered last night—Dexter Jones, out at the university.”

  “Jones! Murdered, you say?” He took a step backward and sank into a chair. Leopold stepped in and shut the door behind him.

  “Were you a friend of his, Mr. Bailey?”

  “Not especially, but at my age the death of anyone is something of a shock, a reminder of one’s own mortality. Who killed him?”

  “We don’t know. I thought you might have some ideas.”

  Bailey waved a gnarled hand. “I hardly knew the man. We met a few times at stamp shows some years back, and he phoned me once or twice to discuss special stamp issues, but really we saw very little of each other. In a sense we were rivals, and in this business it’s usually best for rivals to keep away from one another.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know if he had any enemies?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t happen to phone you during the last few days?”

  “I don’t….” Oscar Bailey hesitated, through uncertainty or design. “Yes, now that you mention it. He called to inquire about the theft, to find out what was missing.”

  “Wasn’t that unusual, if you were not close friends?”

  “Oh, he was just curious, that’s all. Wanted to gloat, I suppose.”

  “Is there any possibility the thieves might have tried to sell him your stamps? I understand the girl got away with a valuable Hawaiian one.”

  “Anything’s possible, but I doubt if they’d try to sell it this close to home. New York would be better.”

  Leopold nodded. It confirmed his own conclusion. “Then there’s the matter of the Jersey Devil. I know all about it, so there’s no need to be coy, Mr. Bailey.”

  “I know nothing about the Jersey Devil.”

  “That’s odd, since Jones told me before he was killed that it was a private postal service used for extra-legal purposes.”

  Oscar Bailey’s face reddened a bit. “That may be so. My interest is in stamps and postmarks and covers only. The stamp you mention came my way and I added it to my collection.”

  “Do you know a man named Corflu, a New Jersey trucker?”

  “I may have heard the name. I don’t remember.”

  Leopold could see he was getting nowhere. Bailey wasn’t about to discuss the Jersey Devil with any detective. “All right,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Are you going to get back my two-cent Hawaiian?”

  Leopold merely looked at him. “First, I’m going to find out who killed Dexter Jones.”

  Jimmy Duke, the stamp burglar, was out on bail, and it wasn’t until the following day that Leopold located him at his apartment in a rundown section of town. The day was sunny for a change, with the first hint of spring in the air, and Leopold felt good. Even the weight of the cast on his left arm was becoming bearable.

  Duke, a stoop-shouldered young man with straight black hair and a pencil-thin mustache, didn’t recognize him. “You another cop come to check on me? I ain’t skipped town. You can see that, copper.”

  “
I want to ask you some questions.”

  Then, seeing the cast on his arm, Duke’s forehead twisted into a frown. “Are you the guy that broke his arm trying to grab me?”

  “I’m the guy.”

  Duke thought about this, twisting his face into another unlikely shape. He reminded Leopold of nothing so much as a great rubber-faced rat. “Well, what do you want now?”

  “The girl that was with you. Where can I find her?”

  “Hell, man, they kept me up all night asking me about the girl! I don’t know no girl!”

  Leopold stepped closer to Duke. “Look, buster, I was there, remember? I heard a girl’s voice call your name. She made off with some quite valuable stamps, in case you don’t read the papers.”

  Jimmy Duke lowered his head and sulked. “I don’t know her. I met her in a bar and she came along with me.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Who put up your bail?”

  “My brother in St. Louis.”

  Leopold sighed. “Look, Jimmy, I’m trying to get some information.”

  Duke’s face twisted into something approaching a smile. “First names now, huh? The friendly copper! That’s a real gas, that is!”

  “I’m on a murder case, Duke. A stamp collector was murdered two nights ago, and it could tie in with your robbery. You were already out on bail then. How’d you like to face a murder charge?”

  “You know I didn’t kill anybody!” The words had gotten through. He was scared.

  “If you didn’t, maybe the girl did. Who is she, Duke?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If she’s such a good friend, why hasn’t she split the rest of the loot with you?” It was a shot in the dark, but Leopold had a hunch it was true.

  Jimmy Duke thought about that. He rummaged around for a cigarette and finally said, “All right, copper. Her name is Bonnie Irish. At least that’s the name she uses. She’s done some go-go dancing at clubs around town.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Rooms with a couple of other girls, but don’t waste your time. She skipped town after the other night. Probably in New York trying to peddle that stamp for 30 or 40 grand, like the papers said.”