Police Blotter

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “O.K.,” Kaproski said with finality. “You asked for it!”

  Clancy put his hand on the big detective’s arm. “Let him alone, Kap,” he said shortly. “The judge will take care of tough guy tomorrow. Let him alone.”

  “I’ll take care of the big-mouthed bastard right now,” Kaproski growled tightly. “What the hell gives, I got to listen to a lot of crap like that?”

  The man inside the cell put a thumbnail to his teeth and clicked it outwards. “Up yours, copper!”

  Kaproski clenched his jaw. “That does it! I’m going in there and …”

  Clancy clamped him by the arm in no uncertain manner. “Come on!” he said in a tone that was an order. He dragged the large detective away and back to the steps, Kaproski still muttering balefully. Behind them the man stood glaring with hatred, his big hands locked on the cold steel of the cell bars, his knuckles white with strain. Warnicki, in the cell adjacent on one side, had watched the drama with barely concealed excitement. The silent little man on the other side sat in his nightgown with his feet tucked under him on his cot, his eyes closed, his face expressing no emotion whatsoever.

  Clancy and Kaproski entered the office with Clancy’s hand still on the large detective’s arm. He released it and dropped into his chair, rubbing his face with weariness. Kaproski took a deep breath and looked at Clancy sympathetically.

  “Tough day, Lieutenant?”

  “Like every day,” Clancy said dispiritedly. He swiveled his chair and stared at the window; the darkness of the areaway beyond made a mirror of the glass; the dismal inadequacies of the drab office were reflected waveringly in the streaked panes of glass. He swiveled back and stared at Kaproski, trying to organize his thoughts.

  “Did you come up with anything on that McFadden case that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “What I found could wait forever,” Kaproski said honestly. He shrugged. “Anyways, it can sure wait until tomorrow. You go out and have yourself a good time tonight and relax, Lieutenant.”

  Clancy stared at him. “A good time?”

  “Sure. Ain’t you got a date for dinner tonight?”

  Clancy suppressed a smile. “No, I don’t have a date for dinner tonight.”

  “Well, you sure could have,” Kaproski said almost accusingly. “Mary Kelly don’t date nobody else.” He paused, embarrassed a bit by Clancy’s sudden glare. “Well, she don’t …”

  Clancy’s sternness faded despite himself. He shook his head. “Everybody’s getting to be Cupid around here.”

  Kaproski relaxed, pleased to see the lieutenant in a better mood. “Well, we’re all here to help you, Lieutenant …”

  “Help me by doing some work,” Clancy said dryly, and then paused, remembering. “By the way, did you check on young Martinez today?”

  Kaproski snapped his fingers. “I knew there was something I had to do! I better go out and get him a sandwich, too. Hey, Lieutenant—you want one too?”

  “Make mine a Danish and milk,” Clancy said, and turned to the mountainous pile of papers that had accumulated on his desk. “Let’s see if that joint across the street can ruin those!”

  9

  At five-thirty that Wednesday afternoon, two derelicts on the Bowery managed to complete the raising of sufficient funds for the purchase of some Sterno and a loaf of rye bread through which to filter it. It was not that they required such a vast amount, but they were not particularly prepossessing of appearance, even for beggars—and also, they were not working the most affluent section of town. In any event, they finally got the money and bought their Sterno and rye bread.

  One of them, however, was impatient. He was chilled by the falling temperature, trembling from lack of stimulant, and long since convinced that the filtering of Sterno through rye bread was a legend, anyway. His partner shook his head at such philistinism, and proceeded to treat his portion of the can in the time-honored fashion.

  When the headlights of the passing patrol car happened to pick up the shadows of the two inert bodies lying in the open doorway, the impatient one was already dead. The other did not die until an hour and a half later, which proves the efficacy of rye bread.

  Wednesday–7:00 P.M.

  Stanton walked into Clancy’s office. He peeled off his gloves and removed a folded newspaper from his overcoat pocket, laying it on the desk before his superior.

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said with pride. “Did you see this? A whole article about that Willie McFadden character. The Wealthy Recluse, they call him. I didn’t know it, but his old man was a real big-shot in this town in the old days.”

  Clancy glanced down at the article. The picture of Willie McFadden which the newspaper morgue had managed to unearth must have been taken at least thirty years before; it certainly bore no resemblance whatsoever to the shots that had been taken by the police photographer in the house on the Drive the day he died. Clancy scanned the headlines and then looked up at Stanton.

  “Does it say anything of use to us?”

  “They mention my name,” Stanton said, trying to sound noncommittal about it, and then answered the question, his voice dropping a bit. “No. They don’t say nothing at all, hardly.” He took the paper from Clancy’s hand, opened it to an inside page, and refolded it. His finger pointed. “Here’s where the article goes on. Mentions me and Keller both.”

  He handed it to Clancy as the telephone rang. Clancy laid the paper to one side and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello? Is that you, Clancy?” The deep accented tones could only belong to Captain Wise. “That information you asked me to get on the delgates to the UN—well, I’ve got it. Hang on a second.” There was a pause and the captain came back on the line. “I’ve got so much junk on my desk … Anyway, here it is. Six of them are staying in the precinct area. The ones from Belgium, Cuba, Israel, Uruguay, and Argentina.”

  “That’s only five,” Clancy said, his pencil poised over his pad.

  Captain Wise shuffled some more papers. “Oh. Here’s the sixth—Bolivia. I wrote it down on a different sheet of paper.” There was another pause. “I’ve got their addresses here, but my good God, Clancy, we can’t afford to put more men on all that mob. We’re short-handed as hell as it is. Even the traffic detail—they’re predicting snow tonight. Two days ago like summer, maybe hotter, and tonight they’re predicting …”

  Clancy had run his finger down the hastily scribbled list. He swore. “Christ! Five of the six are hot-climate countries!”

  Captain Wise, interrupted in his tirade, stared at the telephone in puzzlement. “So what’s that got to do with anything if I may ask?”

  Clancy tried to sort out his thoughts, speaking more to himself than to his superior. “I’m sure that the three of them came in this morning by plane. They didn’t have overcoats or hats—they had to come from someplace warm. And they were planning on doing a fast killing and catching a plane out tonight—off and gone before the real pressure built up, while the panic and the confusion still had us running around in circles.”

  “And?”

  Clancy’s mind raced on, picturing the three men descending from a plane that morning. “They probably brought overnight bags with them, so they wouldn’t look too different from the other passengers on the plane; and they stashed them. Together with their papers and their passports and any loose stuff in their pockets. In one of the airport lockers …” He paused, thinking, frowning. “And either one of the other two has the key, or even more likely they ducked it someplace around the airport. They wouldn’t take a chance of any one of them getting caught with the key, and they didn’t know how many would be grabbed in that attempt to mug a cop.”

  “Ducked it?” Captain Wise was following Clancy’s theory tensely. “The key? Where?”

  “Hell!” Clancy said. “You can hide a key anywhere of a million places at Kennedy Airport. In the top of a flush-tank in a pay-toilet, in the dirt of a potted plant, in the upholstery of a bench in one of the smaller ai
rline terminals …”

  “That might be an idea,” Captain Wise said slowly. “If we took a picture of this character downstairs in the cell block and circulated it around the airport—hitting the airlines first that go to these six countries—maybe we’d find somebody who would recognize him. If we identified the airline, we’d have some idea …”

  “Time!” Clancy interrupted almost savagely. He brought a clenched fist down on the newspaper before him. “It’s the time—we don’t have it! If I’d have done it when we first picked him up it might have done some good, but I had so many other things on my mind …” He dismissed this excuse as being both thin and pointless. “I’m positive this thing is scheduled for sometime tonight, and two of those characters are loose with Martin’s gun!” He shook his head angrily. “What time does that special session of the UN end tonight?”

  Captain Wise’s voice became heavy with worry. “It’s already ended, Clancy. Fifteen minutes ago.” He sounded slightly ashamed, as if it were somehow partially his fault. “I got the word when they called in the last of those addresses.”

  “Damn!” Clancy said hopelessly. “Those other two are probably setting up the kill right this minute. Can’t we bum men from some of the other precincts, Sam? Everybody’s been yelling bloody murder about a possible international incident and all that crap, and this is the hottest lead we’ve had so far. I’d bet anything it’s going to be one of the delegates in our precinct. Christ—they could even pull men off some of those other delegates, at least for tonight …”

  “They’d never do it, Clancy. Not on a slim hunch like you’ve got. And neither would you if you were in their shoes. And we just can’t cover all six of them any more than they’re being covered. We don’t have the men.” Captain Wise’s voice slowed down a bit. “And even if we did …”

  “Even if we did, what?”

  “Well, even if we did, you know the chances of stopping a real determined assassin if you don’t know where he’s holed up, or when he intends to pull the trigger, or where he intends to pull it. If we don’t know anything else in this country we ought to know that. Anyway by now. And in this case we don’t even know who they’re laying for. I tell you, Clancy, it’s impossible!”

  Clancy refrained with effort from slamming the desk in pure frustration. “I know, Sam. But it burns me to think that three professional killers can come into this country cold, come over into our backyard at the Fifty-second, mug a cop to get his gun, use it to kill a man, and then calmly walk away while we’re running around like a chicken with his head cut off!” His voice was bitter. “Especially when we know …”

  His voice trailed off into silence; an almost electric shock passed through his slight frame. His hand reached out for the folded newspaper on his desk, trying to open it, attempting to thrust the sheets back one by one. His hand seemed to be governed by frenzy. Captain Wise’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Especially when we know what, Clancy?”

  “Hold it!” Clancy’s voice demonstrated his change from despair to sudden excitement. He laid down the receiver to allow him two hands to flip through the newspaper. He found the page he wanted and ran one finger down a long column of tiny print. His finger froze on a line; he closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, doing a series of rapid mental calculations. When he opened them again they were bright with assured knowledge. He picked up the telephone again.

  “Sam! I’ve got it! I’ve got it! Christ, but I’m stupid!” His fingers were locked tightly on the instrument in his excitement. “What’s the address where the Uruguayan delegate is staying?”

  “The Uruguayan?” Captain Wise sounded as if he thought the weight of the problem, added to the mounting pressures of the day, had finally carried Clancy over the edge of sanity. “If it was the Cuban I could understand, although he’s probably got such an army of personal bodyguards that you couldn’t get within …”

  “Sam! The address!”

  Captain Wise swallowed his words and delved hastily into his papers. “Here it is. His name is Hurtado—Armando Hurtado—and he’s staying at the apartment of some friends at 45 West Eighty-fifth Street. Apartment 6K. They’re away on a trip and he’s got it alone.” The information scrawled on the sheets before him left him completely puzzled. “But what makes you think it’s the Uruguayan delegate? According to the dope I’ve got here, he doesn’t even have a bodyguard. He refused one.”

  “Later! I’ll tell you all about it later!” Clancy started to slam the phone down and then brought it swiftly back to his ear. “Sam? Are you still there? Listen; get hold of the telephone number for that address and start calling. If you get hold of him, tell him to lock his doors and don’t open them for anyone. Not even me. I’m on my way there now. That’s just in case he gets home before I get there, all in one piece. If he doesn’t answer, keep calling him every couple of minutes.”

  “But …”

  Clancy had already disconnected. He turned to Stanton. He looked ten years younger and twenty years less weary.

  “Stan, I want a squad car and I want it right now! I want it in front of the precinct in exactly two minutes, and tell the desk sergeant I don’t care where it is or what it’s doing—I want it! And get hold of Kaproski. He’s somewhere in the building with that shoe-shine kid. The three of us—we’ll handle it ourselves.” He paused as a sudden possible complication struck him; he almost winced at his own sheer stupidity. “Hold it! Forget the squad car. We’ll go in my Chevy. I don’t want them scared off by seeing a police car.…”

  Stanton was staring at him. Clancy came to his feet, his eyes alive. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get Kaproski!”

  Stanton turned and left the room swiftly; Clancy stripped off his jacket, slung a shoulder holster in place, and pulled his jacket back on over it. He took his service revolver from his desk, checked it carefully, and slipped it into place. He grabbed his hat and coat on the run and dashed out toward the front.

  The three men came hurrying through the heavy doors of the precinct, shrugging their coats into place. The predicted snow had begun to fall; the road before them was white, traced with black lines where passing tires had scarred the smooth surface. Clancy jumped into the front seat of his parked Chevrolet while Kaproski and Stanton began scraping the light accumulation of snow from the windshield. The motor caught weakly, gasped, and then tried to retire once again into its icy sepulcher; Clancy turned the key again viciously, pumping desperately on the gas pedal. The motor came to life, roaring. Clancy ran down the window.

  “Stan, you drive. Kap, get in back. Let’s go!”

  Clancy slid over on the chilly seat; Stanton got in and slammed the door. The windshield wipers resisted action for a second and then sprang loose, beating quickly across the frozen glass as if anxious to get the car into movement and the case closed. Stanton shifted into gear.

  “Where we going, Lieutenant?”

  “Eighty-fifth Street,” Clancy said tersely. “Number Forty-five. It’ll be over near Central Park West; it’s one way west, so you’ll have to go up to the park and then down on Eighty-fifth.”

  “Right.” Stanton nodded and pulled out into the snowy street; there was the slightest tug at the wheels as they experienced their first slipperiness of the year. Kaproski leaned over from the back seat.

  “How do we handle it, Lieutenant?”

  Clancy thought a moment; his eyes noted the slow traffic and the snow now falling faster but his mind was busily fixed on formulating a plan. “When we get to the apartment, Kap, you get out and walk into the lobby; we’ll make it look as if you’re a guy we’re dropping off. And then we’ll cruise down the street. Slow. With our eyes open. These characters might be hanging out in one of the areaways under the stairs of one of those old brownstones over that way.”

  Stanton glanced over at him and then returned his eyes to the slippery road; his breath steamed in the cold car. He frowned uncertainly. “In weather like this, Lieutenant? And them without coats or hats? T
hey’d freeze their ears off.”

  Clancy shook his head. “I’m sure they didn’t arrange a room around there. They wouldn’t have had the time, nor would they want to make that much of a splash.” He thought a moment, trying to picture the possible moves of the two men with Martin’s gun. “They could be hiding out in the basement of the apartment building.…” He turned to Kaproski, speaking to him over the back seat. “You stay in the lobby until we get there. And put your gun in your outside coat pocket—and keep one hand on it. We’ll cruise down the street, and if we don’t see anything we’ll go around the block and come back. If we still don’t see anything, we’ll park just below the entrance. Stanton will stay in the car and I’ll come inside and join you.” His voice hardened. “That’s if we aren’t too late already …”

  There was no answer from the two men. Stanton waited for the light to change at Eighty-sixth Street, turned right into Central Park West, and slowed down to turn into the next side street. The snow was pelting down now; the sound of the windshield wipers was a steady rhythmic click-click-click in the dark and chilly car. A cab coming in the opposite direction skidded slightly as it applied its brakes at the changing light and then straightened as the driver decided to gun his car through rather than take a chance of stopping. Stanton eased into the quiet street.

  Number Forty-five was a new ten-story apartment on the north side of the street; a canvas canopy, fluttering lightly in the growing wind, connected the building with the street, protecting its small patch of sidewalk solicitously. It was one of the modern buildings, designed and constructed to avoid the necessity of a doorman. Clancy had removed his gun from his shoulder holster and slipped it into his coat pocket; the serrated butt of the weapon felt cold, but reassuring, to his touch. Stanton slowed down; the watchful eyes of all three men swept the immediate area, searching the hidden dark corners, noting the possible hiding places. Everything appeared deserted. Stanton swung the wheel, pulling before the building, shifting into neutral. Kaproski opened the rear door.