Police Blotter

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “I see,” Clancy said. He glanced down at the notes he had taken, and then looked up again to the woman waiting with poorly concealed tenseness across from him. “The estate was evenly divided between you and your brother? When your father died?”

  The woman leaned forward, opened her mouth to speak, and then paused. A slight flush came to her full cheeks; a definite edge crept into her motherliness.

  “I’m quite sure you are familiar with the terms of my father’s will, Lieutenant,” she said sharply. Despite herself her tone was accusing. Clancy was not at all familiar with the terms of her father’s will, but no sign of affirmation or denial crossed his graven face. The woman studied him a moment and then continued almost disdainfully.

  “Fortunately, Henry and I never lacked for anything, so Papa’s will made no difference to us. When Papa left everything to Willie, we were quite pleased.” She examined her words in retrospect and found them subject to possible misinterpretation; she revised them slightly. “At least we weren’t displeased, and nobody can say we were. After all, Willie was incapable of taking care of himself, and that has never been my husband’s problem.”

  Clancy’s eyebrows went up a shade. “You say that your brother Willie wasn’t able to take care of himself? Who took care of him?”

  She shook her head impatiently at Clancy’s obtuseness. “I didn’t mean that he couldn’t button himself, or take care of himself in that way. I meant he was incapable of supporting himself; of earning a living. And, as I say, that was never Henry’s problem.”

  Clancy’s eyes tried to avoid the bedraggled fur-piece, the worn and faded blouse, the gray hair in need of a permanent, the patent-leather purse with its surface exhibiting a myriad of tiny cracks, like the age wrinkles on the face of a crone. He could imagine that beneath the chair, scuffed shoes were tucked out of sight. “I see. And your brother never tried to contact you in all those years?”

  “My brother …” She looked about and somehow seemed to find sympathy in the frozen faces of Kaproski and Stanton; she turned back to Clancy with a shrug that was almost girlish, inviting him into her confidence. “You would have had to know Willie, Lieutenant. He always felt that we didn’t understand him—that nobody understood him. When Henry and I were first married we offered Willie a room—a home with us—but he always preferred to live alone.”

  It wasn’t exactly an answer to Clancy’s question but he let it pass. “I understand, Mrs. Jorrens. And you haven’t tried to contact him either, in all those years?”

  Her eyes sharpened momentarily and then opened wide in complete ingenuousness. She shifted a bit in her chair and then forced herself to relax. “I told you, Lieutenant,” she said slowly. “I haven’t seen my brother Willie in over thirty years.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jorrens, but that’s not what I asked you.” Clancy reached into his top drawer and brought out a letter. He laid it on the desk before her and placed a finger on it. He looked at her with a glance that was patient but no less sharp for that. “This letter was found in his house. It is a letter you wrote to your brother less than three weeks ago. In which you ask for money.”

  Her cheeks turned scarlet; she looked at Clancy as if he had been guilty of the worst possible breach of manners. Her voice attempted archness, but there was barely restrained fury beneath. “Do you always go around prying into other people’s mail?”

  “When we find it necessary,” Clancy said with no expression. His finger tapped the letter. “Please answer my question. Did you write this letter, Mrs. Jorrens?”

  She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t asking for money, not in the way you make it sound. I meant it for a loan, and Willie would have understood what I meant even if I didn’t say so in so many words. Henry—some of his investments—well, a good bit of our money is tied up, and it seemed foolish to me to liquidate perfectly sound investments when a small loan for a short period …”

  Clancy didn’t press the point. To her obvious surprise and relief he opened the drawer again and disposed of the letter within. He shut the drawer and returned his attention to her. “Did Willie ever answer your letter?”

  “No.” Her lips tightened in memory. “No, he didn’t.”

  Clancy twiddled his pencil a moment, thinking. “Your husband—he always got along well with your brother?”

  “My husband? Henry?” She laughed nervously, as if secretly pleased that the subject had been changed, but a bit uncertain as to whether or not the change was something to warrant pleasure. “Actually, they hadn’t seen each other in years, but when we were all young, they were quite good friends. We did many things together. We …” She leaned forward, taking them all into her confidence. “It wasn’t all Willie’s fault, I want you to know. Nowadays my husband is a bit of a recluse himself, you see. He was wounded in the war and always felt that if younger men had assumed their proper responsibilities …”

  Her voice trailed off, aware that she was introducing a separate problem, and one that could hold little interest to the three men in the room. Clancy marked something on his pad; she glanced over as if to try and read it and then looked away in sudden embarrassment as Clancy looked up.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Jorrens, do you remember your brother being particularly interested in stamps? Or coins?”

  “Oh, yes!” She sat straighter in the hard chair, as if happy that at last she could be helpful. “He collected stamps and coins ever since I can remember—ever since we were little children. Papa started him off, you know. Papa used to travel quite a bit when he was younger and he would bring back these foreign stamps and coins and always gave them to Willie.” She could hardly keep the spite from her voice; it was evident that the years had not reduced the hurt of this. She changed her tone forcibly, looking at Clancy.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant—do you think my brother Willie was killed for his stamp and coin collection?”

  “It’s happened,” Clancy said noncommittally. “People have been killed for far less.” He looked down at the scrawled notes before him and then back to the plump taut face. He sighed. “Well, I think that’s all. Thank you very much, Mrs. Jorrens. If there should be anything else, we’ll know where to get in touch with you.”

  The woman rose hesitantly. “Lieutenant,” she said slowly, “I spoke to an undertaker this morning. He said as soon as the police release the body we can go ahead with the funeral. Is there any reason for the police to hold Willie’s body any longer?”

  “That’s not my department,” Clancy said, looking up. “However, I shouldn’t think so. If you like, I can check on the matter for you. And advise you. Or the undertaker, if you give me his name.”

  She named a well-known firm; Clancy nodded and marked it down. The woman continued to stand before his desk, frowning, as she attempted to put her thoughts into words. “There’s one other thing, Lieutenant. I’d like to offer a reward. For anyone who brings in any information that might lead to finding the person who …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Of course,” Clancy said in an understanding tone. His eyes studied her impersonally. “How much were you thinking of offering?”

  She looked at the three silent faces in the room in turn. “I don’t know,” she said at last, vaguely. “I don’t know too much about these things. Would five hundred dollars be all right?”

  “You can offer as much as you want,” Clancy said. He stared at her evenly, almost speculatively. “If you wish I can handle it for you. I can advise the people downtown and they’ll arrange the necessary publicity and tell the newspapers.”

  “That will be fine,” she said, relieved, as if the hardest part of her mission at the precinct had been accomplished. “It’s very kind of you, Lieutenant.”

  Clancy came to his feet with a self-deprecating shrug; the woman swept out, her pocketbook wincing from the tightness of her grip, her fur-piece sliding from her neck as if it had been caught unaware by her sudden move and was hurrying to catch up. There was a pause of several seconds after she left; Kap
roski took a chair, sat in it, and tilted it back. Stanton walked over, reversed the chair beside the desk, and seated himself on it with his legs straddling its back. He shoved back his hat.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Willie didn’t strike me as the kind anyone would go to to borrow money. Even his sister. Or especially his sister.”

  “I don’t know,” Clancy said. “You found that four hundred some-odd dollars in those phone books. And there’s probably more. She probably wasn’t trying to borrow a lot. And then there’s the house—that should be worth money.”

  “If it was his,” Stanton said.

  Kaproski, from his position against the wall, stared at them. “I think maybe Papa had a funny idea of how to go about protecting his son Willie,” he said softly. “Leaving his dough to only one kid.”

  “Maybe,” Clancy said. He stared at the empty doorway a moment in thought. “And then again, maybe not. At least it gives us something to work on.” He sat down again and pulled his pad toward him, tore off the top sheet and started to write. Stanton leaned over. “Now here’s what I want you two to do tomorrow …”

  He paused suddenly, checked his wristwatch, and looked over at Stanton. “It’s almost four o’clock.”

  For a moment the hatchet-faced detective attempted to portray innocence, but it was a failure before he started. He rose to his feet with a sigh and shook his head.

  “I know,” he said hopelessly. “Don’t remind me. Young Martinez.”

  6

  In Long Island City a man, preparing for his annual week’s deer hunting, went into his closet to bring his guns down for cleaning. They were stacked neatly on the shelf over a row of his wife’s frocks, and the smart thing would have been to get the kitchen stool, but the man was tall—and a bit lazy—so he reached up on tiptoe and began to bring them down. One was a bit further back than the others, and as he was bringing it down, insecurely held, he stepped on one of his wife’s shoes and allowed it to slip. The jar as it struck the floor somehow discharged the weapon, and the charge struck him squarely in the throat. According to the hospital report, his recovery was doubtful.

  His wife, horrified at the accident, later took his guns and threw them on the dump, where they were quickly rescued by a group of fifteen-year-olds from the neighborhood. They took them to their club, amazed at their good fortune. They had expected to wait years before they could afford anything better than bicycle chains as weapons.

  Tuesday–4:30 P.M.

  Young Martinez was about seventeen years old, short but quite well-built, tightly packed into his clean, faded Levi’s, with a loose-flowing black rayon shirt open at the throat and buttoned tightly at the wrists with neat rows of white buttons. His hair glistened in a curling duck-tail; his soft black eyes with sweeping lashes were expressionless in the mahogany face. He stood facing Clancy at complete ease, one hand on his hip, a slightly contemptuous smile on his full lips.

  “You wanted to see me?” he asked. He jerked his head slightly in Stanton’s direction. “It must have been pretty important, sending a real live detective out for me.”

  “It was,” Clancy said quietly. “Sit down.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stand.” The boy’s smile widened sardonically. “I got things to do when I leave here.”

  Clancy’s voice hardened without increasing in volume. “I said, sit down!”

  Kaproski moved closer; the boy’s smile faded a bit. He saved his face, at least to some extent, by shrugging lightly before slumping indolently in a chair across from Clancy. “All right, so I’m sitting down. So what’s the big idea?”

  Clancy just stared at him. The kid’s eyes tightened a bit at the corners; he turned his head to the two large detectives standing behind him. He began to work up a frown of indignation, of innocence unjustly accused. “I haven’t done anything,” he said, his smile now gone. “Not a thing. You can’t hold me. What’s the big idea?”

  “Sixteen dollars is the big idea,” Clancy said evenly.

  “What sixteen dollars?”

  Stanton leaned over him; his tone was surprised. “You don’t know what sixteen dollars?”

  The boy looked up, scowling now. “I said I don’t know!”

  “Of course you know what sixteen dollars,” Kaproski said. His face looked slightly pained at the denial; his tone indicated that everyone in the whole wide world knew what sixteen dollars.

  “I tell you I don’t know anything about any sixteen dollars,” the boy insisted. His face had become molded into a rigid brown mask; his shoulders had hunched up a bit.

  Clancy leaned forward, his tone and attitude professing amazement at this statement. “You mean you don’t know about the sixteen dollars your grandfather is missing?”

  The boy clenched his jaw and stared at his feet. Stanton bent over him again, a hard expression now on his hatchet-face. “That’s the sixteen dollars we’re talking about!”

  “He must of lost it,” the kid said stubbornly. “Keeping it in a stupid old tin can!”

  “You see?” Clancy said almost brightly. “You did know about it, didn’t you? You probably just forgot.” He leaned over the desk, staring fixedly at the boy. “When did you find out about it?”

  The kid was silent, biting his lip, his brain working at lightning speed. “I think I heard some kids at school talking about it this morning,” he said. He nodded firmly, trying his best to appear convincing. “Yeah, that was it. I heard them talking about it at school. This morning.”

  “What kids? What were their names?” Clancy became efficient, reaching for his pad and pencil, eyeing the worried face sharply.

  Stanton bent closer; his harsh voice beat in the kid’s ear. “Exactly what time did you hear it? And where? Think hard. You want to remember that if those kids you heard knew about it, they’re probably the ones that swiped the dough. Think hard—what class were you in? Who were they? What did they look like? How many were there? Think! Two? Three? Four? What did they say? Come on, think!”

  The boy stared at his feet; fear had begun to creep into his eyes.

  Kaproski moved over, getting into the act. “What’s the matter you can’t remember? What’s the matter you’re keeping your mouth shut? It’s your own grandfather, your own flesh and blood! He supports you with that dough. Don’t you want to help your own grandfather? I thought you people all stuck together in your family beefs! It’s your own grandfather!”

  The boy seemed to have shrunk on the edge of his chair; his shoulders hunched higher, as if avoiding blows. He wet his lips and swallowed convulsively.

  “All right,” Clancy said quietly. “Why did you take it?”

  The boy looked up, completely beaten. “I was only borrowing it,” he said sullenly. He looked at least five years younger at the moment. “I was going to pay it back.…”

  “When?” Stanton asked witheringly. He pushed his hat further back on his forehead. “In 1975? When you got out of reform school?”

  The kid looked at him blankly. Clancy raised a conciliatory hand.

  “Well, now,” he said in a reasonable tone of voice. “If you were only borrowing it, that’s a different matter. There’s no law against borrowing money.” The boy watched him with eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Of course,” Clancy continued, “there’s a law that says you have to pay it back. Just how do you plan on doing that?”

  The boy looked at Clancy bitterly. “I said I’ll pay it back and I will. Don’t worry.”

  Clancy shook his head. “I’m not worried. I know you’ll pay it back. And a lot sooner than you think.” He stared at the boy coldly for a moment and then rose to his feet. He motioned Stanton and Kaproski to follow him into the corridor, looking back over his shoulder. “And you, stick around. I’ll be right back.”

  He closed the door behind him, took out his billfold and extracted a bill. There was a faint smile on his face. “Kap—is the Woolworth’s on the corner still open?”

  Kaproski shrugged, puzzled. “I don’t know, L
ieutenant. I think they close at five or thereabouts. There’s a neighborhood hardware store down there stays open until ten, and a drug store stays open pretty late, if that’s any use. Why? What do you want?”

  Clancy handed him the bill. “The hardware store ought to do it. I want you to go out and buy the complete fixings for shining shoes—polish, rags, brushes, the works. And don’t forget to bring back a receipt. And the change.”

  A grin of understanding began to split Kaproski’s broad face. He took the bill. “I gotcha, Lieutenant.” He winked and went down the corridor toward the front. Clancy turned to Stanton.

  “How many men do we have in the precinct, Stan?”

  Stanton stared at him in surprise. “Full complement ninety-four. You know that, Lieutenant.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do indeed.” The faint smile on Clancy’s face broadened a bit; he brought it under control. “Well, tell the desk sergeant to advise each man as he comes in that I’m not satisfied with the appearance of this precinct. Shoe-wise. From now on, Stanton, this is going to be the shiniest precinct in the city of New York.”

  Stanton looked at him as if he had suddenly gone mad. “I know what you have in mind, Lieutenant, but personally I think a good boot in the pants would do the kid a lot more good.”

  “Personally, I think I told you to relay a message to the desk sergeant,” Clancy said equably, and opened the door to the office again. He walked around his desk, sank into his chair, and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and flipped the match away, facing the sulky boy.

  “Tell me, son, what’s your name?”

  “Paulo.”

  “Paulo Martinez?”

  The dark eyes flashed for a second. “Paulo Ignácio María de Martinez y Bertrand.”

  Clancy nodded his head pleasantly and wiped ash into the ash tray. “That’s quite a name.” The sullen face across from him remained granite-like. “Well, Paulo, tell me: have you ever shined shoes?”

  “Who, me?” The young voice was hesitant. “No.”