Police Blotter

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Clancy shook his head regretfully. “No. The witnesses—there were two of them, the motorman and some young kid riding up front next to him—both say there wasn’t a soul near him at the time. No; he jumped.”

  Porky frowned, puzzled. “But then exactly what do you want of my talents? Unless you want me to organize a celebration, since of course it would be most unseemly for the police to do so …”

  Clancy was not amused; his eyes held those of the other man. “I want to know why he jumped. Call it stubbornness, or call it curiosity, but I knew Caper and you knew Caper and we both know he wasn’t the type to do something like that without a damned strong reason. And I want to know what it was.” He took a deep breath. “Especially since you say he was in the dough. I want to know what this new-found wealth consisted of, where it came from, and who was involved in it. I want to know everything about Caper I don’t already know.”

  “I see.” Porky sounded as if he really did. “In other words, you want to know because you want to know. Which for me is reason enough.” He slid back a neatly cuff-linked sleeve and consulted the thin gold watch that lay exposed; he looked back at Clancy. “I assume you weren’t actually serious in suggesting that we lunch together in this crumb-joint.”

  “Not necessarily,” Clancy said.

  “In that case I’ll take a rain-check on your hospitality and get to work.” Porky pushed himself to his feet, brushed an invisible bit of lint from the sleeve of his jacket, edged out into the aisle, and stood looking down at the still seated man. “I’ll be in touch. When I’ve got something to be in touch about.”

  “Do that,” Clancy said politely.

  Porky’s face broke into a smile. “And if you’re going to stay and eat here,” he said, “at least let me talk to the bartender and explain to him that you’re a friend of mine. Otherwise I should hate to warrant the condition of your stomach tomorrow. Strangers in this place automatically get served left-overs.”

  Clancy sounded surprised. “You mean they have something else?”

  “Of course,” Porky said, amazed at such ignorance. “Even left-overs have to have an origin.”

  He winked and walked easily toward the front. Clancy leaned back; he had to eat someplace, and since he was already here he might as well get it over with. I wonder, he suddenly thought, how it would be to come home at noon for a hot lunch, pleasantly served on a clean tablecloth and with silver that didn’t look as if it had been used on off-hours to pry open beer bottles? And by someone with a pleasant smile, and nice curves, and a soft smile …?

  He wiped the thought almost angrily from his mind and raised an arm for the slow waiter.

  3

  At two o’clock that afternoon, in the stiff breeze that had suddenly sprung up from the north, a policeman on his beat in the Bronx noticed a flower pot teetering dangerously from a window ledge on the third floor of a tenement. He entered the building and started to climb the steps. On the second-floor landing, as he prepared to make the turn, he ran into Charles Campbell, a fugitive from justice who had been hiding out in the building for several weeks, and who had been about to take some air on the roof. Campbell understandably thought the officer was after him; he drew a gun and shot the officer twice before making a dash for the stairway. The patrolman, from his position on the floor of the landing, thrust his service revolver through the railing and shot Campbell when he was about halfway down. The momentum carried the criminal to the bottom in a shuddering crash, his neck broken. The policeman’s wounds were relatively superficial, but in a Bronx precinct the duty roster was short the services of still another man for a period of over a month.

  The flower pot later fell, shattering itself on the sidewalk. It did not strike anyone, but it frightened two bystanders half to death.

  Monday–2:15 P.M.

  Stanton was sitting in Clancy’s office, his hat thrust back on his head, his collar unbuttoned, his notebook spread open in his big hands. Like everyone else who reported to Lieutenant Clancy, he seemed to find the task easier if he tilted his chair back on two legs, angling it against the wall. Clancy had often thought that if he ever nailed the four legs of that chair to the floor, ninety per cent of his staff would merely sit in his office, tongue-tied.

  Stanton was a tall man, as tall as Kaproski, but there the resemblance between the two men ended. Stanton’s hair was coal-black, dropping sharply to a pointed widow’s peak; his face was a series of wedged interposed planes, with a hatchet nose that separated wide-spread sharp black eyes. His voice was deep and slightly harsh. At the moment there was a frown upon his face that marked his forehead with deep V-shaped furrows.

  “The damnedest thing you ever saw, Lieutenant,” he said wonderingly. “You’d have to see it yourself to believe it. Newspapers piled up in stacks all through the place, even in the bathroom. You can’t hardly walk through the halls. Junk? My good God! Telephone directories from the year one, from a dozen cities, plus tin cans, barrels, magazines, old stacks of flattened-out cartons he must get from the corner grocer, plus rags, cigar boxes.… You name it, he had it. Even the rooms that used to be bedrooms, upstairs. Jammed solid. One of them was even filled with empty orange crates—you know, them slat things they use for shipping oranges. It’s the truth. I’m telling you, you’d have to see it to believe it.” A faint smile crossed his thin lips. “I’ve seen it, and I still don’t believe it.”

  Clancy was taking notes. “What was his name?”

  “Willie McFadden.”

  “How old?”

  Stanton shrugged. “Hard to say. My guess, offhand, is middle or late fifties. Maybe older.”

  Clancy glanced down at his notes. “You say even the bedrooms were crammed with junk. So the old man didn’t live there?”

  “Oh, he lived there,” Stanton said. “Slept in the kitchen. He had an old couch there with the ends ripped off, and half a mattress with the stuffing sticking out all over. And a couple of blankets I bet ain’t been washed since he got them.” He thought about the kitchen a moment, repicturing it in his mind. “And he probably had to climb over a pile of junk to get to sleep every night, too.”

  Clancy nodded and leaned back, twiddling his pencil idly. “Whereabouts on the Drive is it?”

  Stanton named a cross street. “I didn’t even know they had any of them old houses left anymore,” he said. “Place looks like something out of a horror movie. I must have passed the place a hundred times since I’ve been in the precinct—hell, I drive by there every day—and I’d have sworn all them old houses had been torn down for apartments. But this one’s still there.”

  Clancy marked something else down and then got down to the main business. “How was he killed?”

  Stanton didn’t refer to the notebook in his hand; he closed his eyes a moment and then reopened them. “He was lying on the floor with his arms wrapped around his stomach, like he had a bad gut-ache, and his legs all pulled up. If he didn’t have that bloody nose—busted—we’d of probably figured he’d had himself a heart attack or something. But like I said, his nose was broken, smashed; blood all over his chin. Doc Freeman said he’d call you when he comes up with something.”

  “Any chance he may have broken his nose falling? If he had had a heart attack, say?”

  Stanton shook his head. “Not a chance. His nose was really smashed. Anyway, Doc will get the story.”

  Clancy nodded. “So he was killed. Was there anything to show how the killer might have gained access to the house?”

  “He could have broke in,” Stanton said. “The back door looked like it might have been pried open. Or it may have been like that since the place was built, for all we know. The windows weren’t touched; anyways, they’re all boarded up with planks that’ve been there a long, long time. All nailed shut. And not a sliver of glass in any one of them. But nobody came in that way.” He thought a moment. “Some tramp might have figured the place was deserted and bust in through the back. The old man could have started a fuss and the tramp coul
d have popped him to shut him up. And popped him too hard.”

  “A tramp?” Clancy’s eyebrows raised. “In that neighborhood?”

  Stanton shrugged; the movement nearly unseated him. He caught his balance, leaning back again against the wall. “Hell, Lieutenant; after dark there ain’t any decent neighborhoods in this town anymore. You know that.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Clancy said. He referred to the notes he had been scribbling. “Did he have any family?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Stanton said. “But we will.”

  “And was anything missing?”

  Stanton’s shoulders went higher this time, his shrug more impressive. “To tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I don’t see how you could even tell in that joint. It’s a real junk heap; you’d have to see it to know what I mean. I went over next door and talked to the janitor of the apartment there, and he told me the old man was screwy. Harmless, but a real nut. He used to pick up any piece of junk he saw and cart it home. The janitor didn’t know the old man too well—I guess nobody did—but he said one day the old man was over there picking some empty tin cans out of the garbage, and I guess he was feeling friendly that day because he started to brag about a coin and stamp collection he had …”

  “A coin and stamp collection?” Clancy sounded interested.

  “Yeah,” Stanton said, “but so far we haven’t found a sign of either one.” He stared at his superior evenly. “Which doesn’t mean too much—they could be hidden in a million places in a joint like that. Plus which, we haven’t really looked yet.”

  “Nobody’s looked around?”

  “Not really,” Stanton said. “At least not yet. Timmons—he’s the beat patrolman—found the old man. The front door was open, first time since Timmons has been on the beat, so he figured he’d better check.” He thought a moment, his dark eyes half-closed. “Of course, the front door being open, maybe the old man let his killer in himself. Which means it could be a friend, except it sounds like he never had a friend. Or maybe the killer walked out that way afterwards.…”

  “Maybe,” Clancy conceded, and waited.

  “Anyway,” Stanton went on, “the boys from downtown are all through; I left Keller there until I get back. I figure to catch something to eat, because I haven’t had time up to now, and then bring back a sandwich for Keller and start hitting up some more of the neighbors while Keller goes through the place.” He shrugged. “For whatever good talking to the neighbors will do—they’re all pretty swanky apartments up that way. Probably don’t even know who lives in the flat next to them.” He glanced at his wristwatch and let the chair ease to the floor; he stood up, straightening his hat. “Anything special you want us to do up there, Lieutenant?”

  Clancy laid down his pencil and swiveled his chair to face the drab canyon of the areaway. The afternoon sun, peeking over the parapet of the furthest roof, glanced in through the tall old-fashioned window of the small office, reflecting itself from the enamel of the worn filing cabinet; it gave the crowded room an almost cheerful look.

  “Keep Keller there with you,” Clancy said. “I wouldn’t waste too much time on the neighbors—I’d be more interested in the house itself. Go over everything there. The old man had to live somehow—he didn’t eat out of the tin cans he picked up in the garbage. And see if you can find any trace of that stamp or coin collection.” A sudden thought struck him; he swung his chair back again, staring up at the tall man waiting beside his desk. “How about dust?”

  “Dust?” Stanton frowned at him. “What about it? There’s plenty there, if that’s what you mean.”

  “So if somebody knocked off the old man in order to go through the place looking for anything,” Clancy said patiently, “you may be able to see it in the dust. Or rather, in any marks he left in the dust.”

  “It’s a thought,” Stanton said. He didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “The place is such a mess, I don’t know. Anyways, we’ll keep our eyes open.” He moved to the door, closing his notebook. “I’m catching a bite to eat at the Greek joint across the street, Lieutenant. Can I bring you something?”

  “Yeah,” Clancy said evenly. “Bring me the guy who killed that old man. Toasted. On rye.”

  “Huh?”

  “You might bring me a cup of black coffee,” Clancy said wearily, remembering his lunch. “No cream, but plenty of sugar.”

  “Oh. Right, Lieutenant.” Stanton raised one hand in a half-salute, tucked his notebook in his pocket, and walked from the room.

  Monday–2:50 P.M.

  Kaproski stuck his head in the doorway. “I got that cab out here in the garage, Lieutenant. I had a little trouble getting her started without the key—I had to jump the ignition, and on these new jobs that ain’t as easy as it used to be. Plus the fact that I had to keep proving to the loafers that come up that I carry a badge and that I wasn’t trying to swipe the damned thing …”

  “Good,” Clancy said, interrupting the explanation a bit brusquely. “Let’s go out and take a look at it.” He started to push his chair back from his desk, preparatory to rising, when the telephone rang. He settled back; one hand went up to hold Kaproski in place while the other picked up the instrument.

  “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant? This is the desk. I’m sorry to bother you, but I got a customer here won’t talk to anybody but the chief salesman. I don’t think Captain Wise would want to see him, and anyway,” the sergeant continued, in no way conscious of being illogical, “he ain’t here. He’s downtown at a meeting. What do I do?”

  Clancy stared at the telephone and sighed. “Send him in.” He put the telephone back on the hook and motioned Kaproski to a chair. “Sit down and wait a moment, Kap. Somebody wants to see me.”

  An old man appeared in the doorway, carrying a battered homemade shoe-shine box. There was great dignity to the deep-lined brown face; his clothes were old and worn, with leather knee-patches, but the attempt at neatness could be discerned in the clean shirt buttoned to the throat, and the highly polished wrinkled shoes. A mass of snow-white hair was combed evenly back from the broad forehead, framing large sorrowful eyes. He hesitated uncertainly in the doorway as if he were suddenly sorry he had come, but the weight of his problem drew him further into the room despite himself. His soft eyes went from Clancy to Kaproski and then returned to settle gravely on the man behind the desk.

  “You boss?”

  “Yes,” Clancy said, equally grave. “What’s the trouble?”

  The old man looked about the small room carefully before returning his eyes to Clancy’s. He seemed to be subtly judging the chances of receiving help in this place.

  “I been stole,” he said simply.

  Clancy nodded his head, sliding his pad into position and picking up a pencil. “How much?”

  The old man hesitated once more, as if fearful that the sum he was about to mention might not be believed, might even invoke jeering laughter. He swallowed nervously. “Seesteen dollar,” he said at last. The honesty of his black eyes staring straight at the man before him challenged anyone to doubt him.

  Clancy merely nodded again. “Where did you keep it?”

  This time the hesitation clearly showed the fear of revealing his hiding place to complete strangers, but memory that this hiding place could never again serve broke down his reserve. He lifted his shoe-shine box a trifle higher, his hand steady.

  “Here. Ol’ empty can polish.”

  “When did you miss it?”

  “Now. I look. I don’ know why. Money gone.”

  “I see.” Clancy glanced down at his pad and then back up again. “Do you have any idea who might have taken it? Or when it might have been taken?” This was received with a steady metronome-like shaking of the head. Clancy frowned. “Has the box been out of your hands at any time?”

  “No. I sit on her when I work. Else I hold her.” The brown hand lifted the box again as if to demonstrate.

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Wit’ gran’
son.” A shadow of alarm crept across the old man’s face as he foresaw the possible direction the interview might take. He shook his head violently. “But he’s no take it. He’s good boy, never in trouble …”

  “How old is he?”

  “I tell you he’s no take it! Somebody else he’s take it.” He swung his head away as if by breaking the common glance with Clancy he might also somehow break the ugly fabric of suspicion that was being woven. He swallowed. “He’s go school, study hard. Someday he’s grow up be big man. He’s no take it.”

  “Yeah.” Clancy sighed. “Sure. Your name?”

  “Martinez. Raúl Martinez.”

  “And where do you live, Mr. Martinez?”

  “Hunnerd and two Street. Twel’hunnerd seesty, wes’ side. Nom’er B.”

  Clancy marked it down. His eyes came up to those of the old man standing rigidly in front of him, his hands locked on the handle of his shoe-shine box. Clancy hesitated a moment. “All right, Mr. Martinez. We’ll look into it. We’ll try and find your sixteen dollars. Try not to worry about it.”

  The old man shrugged with a fatalism that had been ingrained for years. He hadn’t really expected any help from these strangers; it was only his sudden panic at discovering his colossal loss that had brought him in a rush to the precinct house. He stood for a moment, seeing nothing of the room or its occupants, seeing only the size of his loss and the things he needed the money so desperately for; then he turned and walked from the room almost blindly.

  Stanton, coming in, pulled his bulk to one side to let the old man pass, stared after him a moment in frowning thought, and then came in, carrying a damp paper bag. He set the bag gingerly on one corner of the desk and jerked his head curiously toward the door. “What’s old Martinez doing here?”