Police Blotter

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “Yeah. Well anyway, when we hit the stacks in the hall, we found they’re loaded. One, two, and five dollar bills stashed between the pages all over the place. Some of them are even them old horse-blanket size—you remember them?”

  “I remember them,” Clancy said. His fingers, idly scribbling doodles on his pad, had formed the profile of a woman’s body; the breasts were full and desirable. He rasped his pencil through the doodle and brought his attention back to Stanton. “How much did you find?”

  “So far we’ve come up with over four hundred bucks, and there’s lots more phone books to go through. Christ knows what we’ll end up with. And if he stuck money away in those newspapers or magazines—man, we’ll be here for a month of Sundays.” His voice had been enthusiastic; now it dropped into something more nearly resembling nostalgia. “It’s like in them dreams, Lieutenant—you know, where you start by finding a penny in the street and when you go to pick it up you see a dime alongside of it, and then a quarter, and then …”

  “Yeah,” Clancy said. He scratched out another doodle and laid aside his pencil; it was apparently determined to betray him. “How about coins? Or stamps?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Stanton said. “We found some stamps—three cigar boxes full. Down in the cellar on a shelf full of nails and screws and other junk. And empty paint cans.” His voice became dubious. “I don’t know anything about stamps, Lieutenant, but my guess is that these ain’t worth anything. They’re just regular stamps torn off regular envelopes. If stamps are supposed to be worth something they keep them in special books, don’t they? Protected by plastic or something? These are just ripped off envelopes and stuffed into cigar boxes.”

  Clancy made a note and laid the pencil down again, pushing it a bit away. “Were all the stamps U.S.?”

  “No; all sorts of countries. I’ll bring them back with me when I come in. Maybe some of the brains downtown can go through them and figure out if they’re worth anything. My guess is they ain’t.”

  “How about coins?”

  Stanton’s failure in this regard reflected itself in his tone of voice. “Not a sign so far, Lieutenant, but we got lots of places to look yet. We haven’t touched the upstairs.”

  “All right,” Clancy said. “Stay with it.”

  “Right. Oh—and Lieutenant, we found a letter. On top of the stove, of all places—I guess he used it for a writing desk. Anyway, Willie has—had—has is right, I guess—a sister. A Mrs. Henry Jorrens. She lives over on West End Avenue.”

  “I know,” Clancy said. “I didn’t know her name, but she called in when she saw the story in the papers. I’m seeing her this afternoon. Anything else?”

  “No, that’s about it, I guess.” Stanton hesitated. “You want me there when you talk to this Mrs. Jorrens?”

  Clancy thought about it a moment, doodling on the desk-top with his fingernail instead of a pencil; the results were no better. He rubbed his fingers over the desk as if to wipe away the invisible marks. “It might not be a bad idea. Be here about three this afternoon. That’ll still give you plenty of time to pick up that Martinez kid afterwards.”

  Stanton’s voice dropped a notch. It was apparent he had been hoping that Clancy would have forgotten. “Okay, Lieutenant, if you insist.”

  “I insist,” Clancy said politely, and hung up. The telephone rang again at once. Now let’s not start that business again, Clancy admonished the instrument, and picked it up. It was Kaproski.

  “Lieutenant? We got a make on one of them park muggers. Both of the guys who got rolled picked him out. It’s a young character named Warnicki.” It was evident from Kaproski’s tone that he was furious that the suspect carried a Polish-sounding name. “I checked with the desk and they’re sending Parker to meet me over at Ninety-second, about a block from this character’s last-known.”

  Clancy nodded in satisfaction. “How about the other two who were supposed to be with him?”

  “These two guys didn’t see any shots they could identify. They must be virgin. But when and if I get my hands on this Warnicki kid, he’ll tell me who was with him on it.” Kaproski’s voice was icy in his anger. “He’ll tell me in English—or he’ll tell me in Polish!”

  “O.K.,” Clancy said. “Pick him up and bring him in.” He stared at the receiver thoughtfully. “And Kap—bring him in in one piece. That’s an order.”

  “I’ll bring him in!” Kaproski said darkly. His tone of voice clearly indicated that he had purposely not heard the last part of his superior’s instructions. The phone clicked ominously.

  Tuesday–12:05 P.M.

  Clancy pushed through the door of Angelo’s Bar & Grill, paused briefly to tap a waiter on the arm and order a bottle of beer, and then walked jauntily towards the back. Porky Frank was seated in the usual booth, his well-kept hands idly turning a beaded glass of amber-colored liquid, watching the tiny bubbles rise slowly to the surface. He looked up at Clancy’s arrival. The slim lieutenant nodded pleasantly, slid onto the opposite bench, and wiped it carefully before placing his hat down beside him.

  “Good noon, Porky.”

  Porky surveyed him a moment speculatively. “You know, Mr. C.,” he said slowly, “there’s something a bit different about you today—an aura, a glint—a je ne sais quoi with which I am not familiar.” His voice became curious. “A disguise, perhaps?”

  Clancy laughed; the waiter came up with his bottle of beer, opened it with a flourish, set it on the table together with a glass, and withdrew. Clancy poured a glass full and smiled at Porky over the rim. “I’m just feeling good today; that’s all.”

  “And also,” Porky added thoughtfully, studying the man across from him, “there’s the matter of your attire. Is that a new suit? And a new tie? And a relatively new shirt? Not to mention the hat and coat … Either you have today mixed up with Sunday, or …” He held up a hand for silence, closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. “Don’t tell me—let me guess. We’re going to eat lunch at a decent restaurant today for a change.” He snapped his fingers in certainty. “The French restaurant across the street!”

  Clancy’s smile faded slightly. “You know, Porky,” he said slowly, “sometimes you frighten me.”

  “Good,” Porky said with a grin. “I like to frighten people. It’s good for their digestive juices—which is more than can be said for Angelo’s food.” He picked up his drink. “Well, if we are having a purely social lunch, let’s get our business out of the way first, shall we?”

  Clancy drank his beer and refilled his glass. “Fine.”

  “Which I’m afraid won’t take very long …”

  Clancy frowned across the table. “Do you mean you set up a meeting just to tell me you don’t have anything?”

  “I’ve got something,” Porky said, “but it’s all negative. I mean, I can give you a broad hint as to where Caper Connelly didn’t get his money, if that’s of any use to you.”

  “So where didn’t he get it?” Clancy asked a bit impatiently.

  Porky lifted one hand and began methodically ticking off points on his fingers. “One, he didn’t get it from narcotics; two, he didn’t get it from the booze rackets; three, he didn’t get it from the girls …” He hesitated a moment and then folded down a fourth finger. “And I will book good odds he sure as hell didn’t get it from pushing that hack of his around the sidewalks of New York.”

  Clancy stared at him. He didn’t for one moment doubt the truth of Porky’s statements, nor did he for one moment consider asking Porky for the sources of his information. Past experience had taught him that the one was infallible and the other inviolate.

  “That’s great,” he said at last, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. “Then where did he get it?”

  “Well,” Porky said philosophically, “if we can eliminate all the other possible crimes in the book except one, we’ll have it. That leaves arson-for-money, burglary, assault, counterfeiting and embezzlement, not to mention forgery, of course …”

&nbs
p; “You forgot barratry and purse-snatching,” Clancy said sarcastically. He finished his beer and shoved the empty glass aside with irritation, looking up at his companion with an unsatisfied frown. “So, to be serious, that’s all you found out?”

  “Well,” Porky said, his smile gone, “I found out another thing, but I can’t see where it’s of any use. However, you can have it for whatever it’s worth.” He looked up. “Of late, Caper Connelly has been inordinately interested in photography …”

  “Photography?”

  “That’s right. I hear he even joined some sort of club dedicated to the gentle art of extracting positives from negatives. And that he really took it seriously.”

  “Wait a minute,” Clancy said slowly. He frowned, remembering. “We did find a membership card to a photographic club among the other papers in his wallet, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.” He shrugged. “I forget the name of the club, but I remember it sounded sort of arty. I figured Caper joined it because maybe they had nude models, or something of that order.”

  “Possibly,” Porky said. He didn’t sound at all convinced. “Or maybe he was planning on making and selling dirty pictures on the side.” He looked across the table at his companion evenly. “I ran into the information so I’m passing it on to you. The person who gave it to me sort of threw it away, and I’m doing the same.” He finished his drink and put his glass to one side. “For whatever it’s worth.”

  “Which probably isn’t very much,” Clancy said with a sigh.

  “No,” Porky agreed equably. “Which probably isn’t very much. However, we shall continue to delve into Mr. Connelly’s past. And a good meal might also jiggle our brains.” He suddenly smiled; his eyes twinkled. “I was not mistaken? I was reading you rodger-dodger on that restaurant bit, Mr. C.?”

  Clancy smiled back. “You were reading me perfectly,” he said, and got to his feet.

  Tuesday–2:00 P.M.

  The desk sergeant looked up as Clancy came breezily through the precinct doors. “Kaproski, Lieutenant,” he said succinctly, and jerked a large thumb in the general direction of the corridor. “He’s got some character with him in the interrogation room.”

  “Right,” Clancy said, and walked down the hall, past his office, to the first door on the left. He entered, closed the door firmly behind him, and surveyed the room. Kaproski and a blond youth of about twenty years of age were seated across from each other on two of the hard chairs that, together with the plain scarred table, comprised the only furniture in the small room. The one window, barred, fronted on the driveway leading to the precinct garage; beyond it the solid brick wall of the adjoining warehouse could be seen. It did nothing to brighten up the cheerless room. Kaproski looked up at Clancy’s entrance and nodded.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “Meet Genius, here.”

  Clancy looked at the youth. Young Warnicki was dressed in faded Levi’s and a tattered sweater that was patched at one elbow and would soon need a patch at the other; his feet were shod in dirty tennis shoes and were curled about the legs of the chair as if to anchor himself to some sort of security, tenuous though it might be. His hands were locked on the edge of the chair-seat between his legs, the big knuckles white with the force of his grip. Clancy walked over and stared down at the sullen face; blue eyes watched him calculatingly, trying to estimate the potential of this new threat.

  “What’s the story, son?”

  The blue eyes remained watchful; the boy remained silent.

  “He don’t know nothing,” Kaproski said disdainfully. He amended his statement. “Except to swear. I talked words like that at his age, I got my mouth washed out with Fels-Naptha.”

  “Where did you find him?” Clancy asked.

  “In a crummy pool hall halfway down the block from where he lives.” Kaproski shook his head in disgust. “Genius here ain’t even got the brains to get out of the neighborhood after he pulls a job.”

  Clancy turned back to the youth; the boy bent his head, staring at the floor. Clancy bent lower. “Who were the other two who were with you in those muggings?”

  The boy’s jaw tightened but he remained silent. His hands shifted a bit on the chair-seat and then clamped down again, hard. Kaproski’s chair scraped as he came to his feet; the boy looked up instantly.

  “Answer the man,” Kaproski said tightly.

  The youth wet his lips. “I never had nothing to do with no muggings.…”

  “Genius here can’t even lie straight,” Kaproski said with heartfelt disgust. He reached into one jacket pocket and laid a wristwatch and a wallet on the bare table. “I took these off him. The watch has the initials K.M. on the back—the same as one of the guys who got mugged. And the billfold’s got a hundred and forty bucks in it. Which I bet Genius, here, never earned peddling papers.” He twisted, reaching into his other pocket. “And Genius had these here knucks on him, too.” He leaned over and placed the brass-knuckles on the table beside the other items.

  Clancy nodded somberly. He pulled a chair around, swung it backwards, and seated himself so that he was staring at the youth over the back. Their faces were on a level. Clancy pushed his hat further back on his head and leaned forward a bit.

  “All right, son. You’re going to tell us, so you might as well do it now. Where did you get that watch?”

  The boy turned his head away from the cold gray eyes fixed on him; the thick lips locked themselves stubbornly. Kaproski walked over, bending down. “Are you going to answer the man, or do I make you?” The very evenness of his tone was more threatening than anger would have been. “Where did you get that watch?”

  Young Warnicki wet his lips again. “I—I found it …”

  Clancy continued to stare at him. “Where did you find it?”

  “I found it …” The boy turned his head, searching for inspiration. He found nothing.

  “Well, where did you find it?”

  “I—I found it in—in an ashcan.”

  “Did you find the money in the ashcan, too? And the brass-knucks?”

  The youth clamped his jaw, determined to say no more. Kaproski bent down and grasped the sullen head by the long yellow hair, pulling it back with a sharp jerk. It was evident from his tone that he was beginning to lose his patience. “Answer the lieutenant when he talks to you!”

  The thick lips turned back with a snarl. “Get your Goddam hands off me!”

  Kaproski shook the head back and forth a few times; now he was really getting angry. “I ain’t going to tell you again, Genius—answer the lieutenant when he asks you a question!”

  The blue eyes flamed with hatred. “Yeah,” Warnicki said with a sneer. “Yeah, I found both of them in the ashcan, too!”

  “I see,” Clancy said evenly. “And who helped you find them?” He leaned closer, his face almost touching the other’s. “Who were the other two who were in on those muggings with you?”

  The youth jerked his head suddenly, attempting to free it from Kaproski’s grip. It was a mistake; despite himself tears of pain welled up in his blue eyes. “I don’t know nothing,” he said dully. “You can’t make me talk. I don’t know nothing …”

  Kaproski flung the head from him with deep disgust, and wiped his hands on his jacket as if to clean them. “You ain’t kidding when you say you don’t know nothing!”

  “Book him and lock him up,” Clancy said wearily. He got to his feet. “We’ll send him downtown for the line-up tomorrow. He ought to pick up a minimum of five-to-ten for this little job. He probably doesn’t know it, but brass-knucks are considered a deadly weapon in this town.” His eyes came down to the hard young face staring up at him. “Unless you want to tell us the names of the other two who were in this with you. I can’t promise anything, but that might help you with the judge.”

  For a split second the curtain behind those deep-set blue eyes seemed to raise; then it came down with finality. The thick lips twisted as if to spit; the boy sneered. “Screw you, copper!”

  K
aproski jerked the young man viciously to his feet; the boy’s chair went over backwards.

  “You’ll have to eat a lot more vitamins before you try it!” he said harshly. He twisted one arm tightly behind the stocky figure, locking the wrist, and walked it almost tiptoed to the door. He swung the door open with his other hand and shoved the boy through roughly. Warnicki stumbled. Kaproski curled a lip at him. “Come on, Genius! Don’t fall over your own feet!”

  “Take it easy,” Clancy said. “Just book him and lock him up.”

  “Take it easy?” Kaproski sounded honestly surprised. “I am taking it easy. What I ought to do with Genius here is take him home to my old lady. She’s sixty-eight and don’t come up to his shoulder, but she’d sure show him how to handle young Polish kids who think they’re tough.” He tightened his grip on the arm, twisting the boy about. “All right, Genius—this way.”

  Tuesday–3:00 P.M.

  Mrs. Henry Jorrens was sitting opposite Clancy; Kaproski and Stanton were pressed tightly against the wall of the small office, trying not to make it look too crowded. Their efforts were completely futile. The woman was dressed in drab, dark colors, and had a worried motherly air that almost appeared studied. Clancy judged her to be well into her fifties, a stocky woman of about five-foot-four in height and weighing in the neighborhood of one hundred and sixty pounds. The fur-piece about her neck had obviously seen better days; it suddenly reminded him of her brother’s penchant for sweaters. The whole family, he thought, likes to dress warmly.

  “… not for over thirty years,” she was saying. Her voice was low and had a pseudo-refinement to it that irritated Clancy. She hugged her purse to her ample bosom as though it represented some assurance in the non-maternal world in which she found herself. “It was a terrible shock when Henry and I read about it in the papers. Willie was—well, he was odd, you know. Papa always felt that Willie needed some sort of—well, protection—but Willie never would let us …”

  Her voice faded as she smiled at Clancy doubtfully, twitching her fur-piece to a new position where it once again assumed an obedient, shapeless slump. It had obviously been well trained.