CHAPTER ONE
Lieutenant Clancy of the 52nd Precinct dropped from his taxi in Foley Square and started slowly up the broad marble steps of the Criminal Courts Building. He was a slender man in his late forties, a bit above medium height, dressed in a drab blue suit, a cheap white shirt with blue striped tie inexpertly tied, and a dark blue hat that failed to conceal the streaks of gray that were beginning to mark his temple. The thin face beneath the shadow of the worn brim was drawn, lined with weariness; his dark eyes were expressionless.
He paused at the top of the steps, half-tempted to disregard the summons - the office he was about to visit held some rather unpleasant memories for him. And he was tired and he knew it. Six hours' sleep in the past forty-eight, cleaning up a complicated case that would appear in the afternoon papers as 'routine' - and a desk piled high with work awaiting him back at the precinct, plus the fact that his superior was sick and all work fell on him, plus assignment lists to be approved or changed, plus all the constant bickering and fighting and bloodshed that washed across his desk daily in search of possible resolution ... He stared about the green square a moment, watching the pigeons scatter to wheel in the summer morning breeze and the warm sunlight, and then return to peck disinterestedly at the offerings of the children to whom the square was all they knew of the great-outdoors. He was suddenly aware of the pleasantness of the sunlight on his shoulders. This is no day to be here, he suddenly thought. This is no day to listen to Chalmers, no matter what he has to say. This is a day to get your fishing tackle together and go out into the country. Or a day to sleep. Ah, well, he thought; nobody forced you to become a policeman ... He sighed, shrugged his shoulders philosophically, and pushed his way through the heavy doors.
The elevator deposited him easily on the fourth floor of the quiet building and he walked slowly and wearily down the wide, empty corridors, past the alcoved drinking fountains and the pictures of former State Justices hung dustily and unevenly along the high, drab walls, toward the familiar office. He paused briefly outside the frosted glass door, listening to the ragged sound of typing filtering unevenly through. With a shrug he twisted the knob and entered the office.
The secretary seated at the typewriter just inside the door was a heavy-set, no-longer-young woman with dyed hair fluffed in an extreme hair-do and short painted fingernails. She stopped her work at his entrance, her thick fingers poised like fat worms over the typewriter keys as she surveyed the Lieutenant. Her small eyes were cold, but a smile spread slowly across her puffy face, bright and false.
'Hello, Lieutenant.' The tiny eyes took in the worn hat, the shiny suit; they dropped to the badly-knotted necktie and remained there as she continued, it's been a long time since you visited us. How have you been?'
'Fine,' Clancy said woodenly.
'I understand you're at the 52nd Precinct now,' the woman said. She put one pudgy hand to her dyed hair and pulled her eyes from the necktie to glance behind her, as if to pretend concealment of some inner smile of triumph. 'I hope you like it there, Lieutenant.’
‘I like it fine,' Clancy said evenly, and stared over her head to the massive inner door that led to the Assistant District Attorney's sanctum. His eyes came back to the faintly gloating secretary, is Mr. Chalmers apt to be busy very long?'
'I'll tell him you're here.'
She swung her heavy body about almost coyly, squeezing her large bust past the typewriter; her finger found and pressed a button. There was a harsh rasping answer from the intercom, and then the tone clarified.
'Yes?'
'Lieutenant Clancy is here, Mr. Chalmers.'
'Clancy? Oh.' There was a moment's pause. 'Well, tell him to wait.'
The words were clearly audible to the tired man in the faded blue suit. He twisted his hat in his hands, his thin face unrevealing, and turned toward the leather-upholstered sofa that served as a waiting bench against one wall. There was another squawk and the intercom suddenly spoke again.
'Mrs. Green.' There was a moment's hesitation, as if the author of the unseen voice wasn't quite sure. 'On second thought we might as well get it over with. Send the Lieutenant in.'
Clancy moved from the upholstered sofa with its promise of restful comfort, going to the inner door, conscious of the slightly sardonic smile on the fat face of the secretary. He pushed his way through and closed the door behind him, resisting with effort a desire to slam it. He took a deep breath and faced the man sitting relaxed behind the wide desk. Hold your temper, he advised himself coldly. You're tired and in no condition to get angry. Don't let the bastard get under your skin; don't let him take advantage of your weariness. But don't let him ride you, either.
'You wanted to see me?'
The Assistant District Attorney nodded shortly. 'Yes. Sit down.'
'I'll stand if you don't mind,' Clancy said. 'What did you want to see me about?'
The gray eyebrows across from him quirked. 'As you wish. I asked you to stop in because there's a job to be done in your precinct and I wanted to brief you on it ...'
'I take my instructions from Captain Wise,' Clancy said quietly.
'He's home sick in bed, as you well know. But you'll get confirmation on this from the proper source. And actually, they aren't really instructions.' The pale blue eyes studied the desk and then selected an ornate letter opener. The neatly groomed hands picked it up, playing with it idly. 'This is a bit different. We have an important witness staying in your area that we want guarded day and night.' The pale eyes rose; the letter opener was discarded as having served its purpose. 'This witness has offered to testify before the State Crime Commission next Tuesday morning.' There was a slight cough. 'His testimony could be extremely important. We want him alive when the Commission meets.'
Clancy knew what was coming. Despite his resolution the anger began to gather in his dark eyes. 'Go on.'
'That's all. Just that. We don't want him killed.' The neatly-manicured hands waved negligently. The quiet voice remained bland; almost indifferent. 'We don't want him killed by anyone. And that includes trigger-happy policemen. ..'
Clancy leaned over the wide desk; the knuckles gripping his worn hat whitened. Despite his resolution his temper began to slip beyond his control. 'Look, Chalmers - are you calling me trigger-happy?'
'I? Calling you ...?' The white hands spread apart in amazement at the charge. 'You misunderstand me, Lieutenant. Completely. All I was doing…'
'I know what you were doing.' The dark eyes stared into the pale blue ones intently. 'You were giving me the needle. The business.' He took a deep breath and straightened up. 'Sure, I killed one of your witnesses, once. He was insane; he came at me with a loaded gun and I shot him. And you saw to it that I lost a promotion and got a transfer to the 52nd out of it.' The thin fingers relaxed on the crumpled hat; he forced his anger behind him, dropping his voice.
'Look, Chalmers. If you want a witness guarded and don't like the way we do it, move him to some other jurisdiction. But don't -' He stopped, aware of the uselessness of discussion.
'Please, Lieutenant. Don't get excited.' The pale eyes facing Clancy held the slightest touch of satisfaction at the other's reaction. 'As I was saying, I was merely explaining the importance of this man's safety. As a matter of fact we offered him protective custody in a downtown hotel - one of the better hotels - but our witness refused. He wants to stay in a small hotel uptown; he feels there is less movement in a place like that and therefore less chance that he might be spotted. Of course we can't force the man to do something he doesn't want to do. However, he did agree to have plain-clothes protection where he is staying - he asked for it, as a matter of fact.'
Clancy opened his mouth to retort and then clamped it shut. He laid his hat on the corner of the desk, reached into his pocket and brought out his notebook, took a pen from another and clicked it open.
'All right,' he said evenly, wearily. 'What's his name and where is he hiding out?'
The well-dressed figure across from him continued to lean back comfortably. There was a faint smile of combined anticipation and triumph on the thin lips.
'His name is Rossi,' Chalmers said softly. 'Johnny Rossi.'
Clancy's head came up with a jerk. 'Johnny Rossi? From the West Coast? He's here in New York?' 'That's right, Lieutenant.'
'And he's going to spill to the New York Crime Commission?'
'That's right. Next Tuesday.'
Clancy frowned. His fingers unconsciously twiddled the pen. 'Why?'
The pale eyes came up. 'Why what?'
'Why would he talk? And even if he did, why to the New York Crime Commission? Why not to the police out on the West Coast? Or to the proper Federal authorities?'
For the first time a faint shadow crossed the urbane face. 'To tell you the truth, I don't know.' The doubt was forced from the quiet voice; it hardened, in any event, we'll get those answers when we have him up before the Commission. As to why he chose New York, it really doesn't make any difference. His testimony will stand just as well no matter where it is given.' He shrugged, calm once again. 'Maybe he feels safer in New York. Or possibly he knows that I'll see to it that he gets a fair hearing ...'
Clancy snorted. The pale eyes across from him hardened once again.
'Do you have any comments?'
'Yeah,' Clancy said evenly, it stinks.'
'I beg your pardon?'
‘I said it stinks.'
The dapper figure behind the large desk pushed himself erect in his chair. 'Now see here, Lieutenant. You weren't called here for your opinions. You were called here -'
'You just asked me if I had any comments,' Clancy said. 'Well, here's some more. This Johnny Rossi is a guy who's guilty of every crime in the book; together with his brother Pete he runs the West Coast. Every racket out there reports to him - protection, gambling, prostitution; everything. But nobody can touch him. Then, when something slips in his little world, we're supposed to protect him. That's a joke.'
‘It may be a joke, Lieutenant, but that's the story. Your job isn't to pass moral judgment on this man; your job at the moment is simply to protect him. Whether you like him or not.'
'And here's one last comment,' Clancy said. 'So far nobody has been able to put him behind bars, or in the gas chamber out there, where he belongs; but if he talks I don't see how he can keep from incriminating himself. Unless when he talks he doesn't say anything. Or unless there's been a pretty smelly deal made ...'
There was a sharp gasp from the man across the desk. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. There was a moment's silence while the two men stared into each other's eyes. When Chalmers finally spoke his voice was low and hard.
'We won't discuss this any further, Lieutenant. If you think I'd miss the opportunity to cross-examine Johnny Rossi before the Crime Commission ...'
Clancy met the hard stare unwaveringly. Sure you wouldn't miss the opportunity, his eyes seemed to say. With all those reporters, and all those photographers? You don't really care to question why Rossi is going to testify, do you? He lifted his notebook again, flipping it open.
'All right, Chalmers,' he said quietly. 'What name is he using, and where is he hiding out?'
The other contemplated the standing man for several moments before answering. 'He's at the Farnsworth Hotel, in Room 456. He's registered under the name of James Randall.' His eyes sought a wall-clock that shared the opposite wall with a modern painting consisting mainly of sickly-looking blobs. 'Or at least he will be at ten o'clock this morning.'
Clancy marked it down, stared at his own notes for a second, and then slipped the notebook easily into his jacket pocket. He clipped the pen back into place.
'All right. We'll keep an eye on him.'
'And do it quietly.' The pale eyes, still holding anger at the implied accusation of Clancy's remarks, bored into the other's. 'Nobody knows about this.'
'We'll do it quietly.' Clancy fitted his hat squarely on his head. His dark eyes were completely expressionless. 'And we'll deliver him on time. And in one piece.'
He turned to the door. The Assistant District Attorney's voice was ice behind him.
'Deliver him alive,' Chalmers said.
Clancy bit back the first words that rose to his lips.
'Yeah,' he finally said, and pulled the heavy door closed behind him. He tramped in silent fury across the large outer office; the busty secretary leaned over her typewriter, pressing against it, smiling; her teeth were large and white.
'Good-by, Lieutenant.'
Those teeth, Clancy thought with savage disgust as he pushed his way through the door to the corridor. Like you and your smile and your boss Mr. Chalmers. And probably your chest. White, bright, and false...
Friday - 10:15 a.m.
Detectives Kaproski and Stanton sat listening to their instructions in the dingy room in the 52nd Precinct that served Lieutenant Clancy as an office. The difference between this office and that of the Assistant District Attorney in the Criminal Courts Building was impressive; here worn and stained linoleum rippled unevenly over the warped floor rather than the rich, deep carpeting that Clancy had experienced an hour before. A small battered desk that had served Clancy's predecessor, as well as several before him, took the place of the broad polished mahogany desk that graced Mr. Chalmers' office. The tiny room had bare walls and hard wooden chairs; together with the scratched and battered filing cabinets they crowded the little office. And the view gave, not on the East River with its magnificent bridges and colorful, jaunty boats cutting white check-marks across the blue surface, but on a clothesline bent across a narrow air-shaft and sagging dispiritedly under a load of limp underwear and patched overalls.
Clancy swung back from his contemplation of the window scene.
'That's the story,' he said quietly, in the room with him, twelve hours each, on and off.' His fingers picked up a pencil and he began to twiddle it. it's only until next Tuesday.'
'Sounds peachy,' Stanton said. 'Where's the Farnsworth?'
'Over on 93rd, near the river. A small residential hotel. Probably like all of them over there.'
'I never heard of it,' Stanton said.
'I wouldn't be surprised that's why he picked it out,' Clancy said. He stared at Stanton quietly. 'Do you suppose there's any possibility he picked it out for the reason that nobody ever heard of it?'
'Maybe,' Stanton said, and grinned.
'Johnny Rossi,' Kaproski said musingly. He teetered his chair back against one of the filing cabinets and slowly eased his weight back. 'That's something, ain't it? That's really something. We got to be watchdogs for a no-good hood like that.'
'Yeah, it's something.' Clancy said. If he felt any reaction at hearing his own sentiments repeated, he did not show it. 'Anyway, that's the job. Whether we like it or not.'
'I'll tell you somebody ain't going to like it,' Kaproski said sagely. 'That's his big brother Pete. And the mob the two work for.'
'Lots of people aren't going to like it,' Clancy said philosophically. 'On the other hand, lots of people are.'
'Well,' Kaproski said thoughtfully, 'when and if he spills - which I still ain't convinced he's going to do - the coppers out on the coast ought to be busy a year just picking up the pieces.'
'As long as they aren't his pieces until after he tells his story,' Clancy said, 'I couldn't care less.'
'You know,' Stanton said in a puzzled tone, 'I don't get it. Johnny Rossi . ..'
'Don't get what?' Kaproski asked, turning his head carefully so as not to disturb his equilibrium. 'Why he's blowing the whistle?'
'Not that. Though I'm damned if I get that either. What I don't get,' Stanton said, 'is that you'd think a hood like that could arrange bodyguards for himself from here to South Chigary. What's he need us for?'
'Bodyguards in that outfit work for the Syndicate like everyone else,' Clancy said flatly. 'They're day-workers, with all the loyalty of an alligator. One whisper that he was going to peep and his bodyguards would be the first to cut him down.'
'Yeah, but ...'
'I know.' Clancy sighed and ran his hand through his hair. 'The whole deal is screwy. Well, that's not our worry. Our job is simply to see that he's healthy enough to go up before the Crime Commission next Tuesday. Under his own power.'
'One thing,' Kaproski said with a reflective smile, 'at least I'll get a chance to see how the other half lives. I'll bet we have pate de foie gras and champagne for breakfast.'
Stanton eyed him and snorted. 'You've got a hope! At a fleabag like the Farnsworth.'
'They live good, these big-time hoods,' Kaproski insisted. 'You'll see.’
‘Yeah,' Clancy said dryly. 'The same as the poor people. Goose liver on rye and a bottle of dago red. Only at uptown prices.' He pushed himself to his feet, looking at his watch. 'Well, let's go. He ought to be registered in by now. Stanton, you first - you've got a short day. I'll go over with you. Kaproski, eight tonight.'
Kaproski nodded genially, nearly losing his balance. Stanton stood up, towering over the slender Lieutenant. The two men took their hats, nodded to the third, and left the office, turning down a narrow corridor that led to the police garage at the rear of the precinct. Clancy walked around an old sedan, kicking at the tires, and then crawled in behind the wheel; Stanton bent precariously to slide in at his side. He slammed the door; they swung about on the oily concrete of the dim garage, pulled through the narrow alley that led to the street, and entered the city's traffic.
Stanton leaned back comfortably against the worn upholstery, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and flipped the match out of the window. 'This Rossi…’' he began.
'Randall,' Clancy said shortly. 'From now on until next Tuesday, he's Randall. We might as well get started right.' He glanced over at the tall detective at his side. 'What about him?'
Stanton stared at the end of his cigarette. 'I was just going to say, I hope he plays gin rummy.'
'Gin rummy?'
'Yeah.' Stanton shrugged. 'After all, twelve hours together every day. We have to do something.'
Clancy was forced to smile.
'Why don't you just pass the time by watching him? That's the assignment.'
'Sure, but I mean .. .'
'Look,' Clancy said, 'I don't mind your losing a week's pay, but once that's gone, I don't want you betting your gun.' His voice suddenly sobered. 'Much as I hate this hood's guts, our job is to keep him alive, and if word that he plans to squeal ever gets out, the chances are good you'll be needing your gun.'
'Lose?' Stanton was hurt. 'Who, me? In gin rummy? Please, Lieutenant!'
‘It's a funny thing,' Clancy said reflectively, swinging the steering wheel. 'I've met a lot of people in my life, but I've never met a bad gin rummy player. All I ever seem to meet are the champs.' His eyes came up with a crinkled grin. 'The only thing I'd like to remind you of is that characters like this Rossi - Randall, I mean - wouldn't be above cheating. Not if they were only playing for matches.'
Stanton smiled. 'Lieutenant, I can see you never played cards with any of the boys around the precinct. If there is any manner, form, type, kind, or way of cheating that I'm not wise to, I'd like to know.'
'I'm sure,' Clancy said, and grinned.
They pulled around a corner into the traffic of Broadway, cut around a bread-truck almost angle-parked to the curb, and drew up before a block of shabby buildings. Cartons full of rubbish lined the curb, awaiting the street-cleaning trucks. Clancy passed them, pulled in to the curb, turned off the ignition and set the hand brake. He prepared to descend. Stanton's eyebrows raised.
'Here?' he asked, puzzled. 'I thought you said this Farnsworth was down by the river?'
‘It is,' Clancy said shortly. 'And we walk. And we go in the service entrance. Come on.'
They crossed the side street, walking quietly in the shadow of the tall apartments there. The Hotel Farnsworth was in the second block, a typical uptown residential hotel, set almost flush with the sidewalk; eight stories of dark brick and dusty windows with a few steps leading to swinging glass doors. Shades were half-drawn over the first-floor windows, like heavy-lidded eyes. A chipped enamel sign tucked in the corner of one window announced the services of a dentist. The two men passed the entrance without hesitation and turned into the driveway at the far side of the hotel. They walked the length of the narrow canyon, pulled open a door set in the side of the building at the rear, and stepped inside.
'Well, it isn't the Ritz-Carlton,' Stanton said, staring about. He pressed the button of the service elevator. 'On the other hand, I've been in worse-looking places. Including the 52nd Precinct.'
Clancy did not answer. There was a rattle and a clank; Stanton tugged at the door and it opened. They entered the small elevator and rose amidst a symphony of threatening groans from the cables, flanked in the tiny car by towel- baskets and brooms and empty cartons; an over-all odor of something resembling the men's room at Grand Central rose with them. The fourth floor was deserted when they gratefully emerged; they closed the elevator door behind them and walked down the worn carpeted hall. One turn in the narrow corridor and they faced Room 456. Clancy tapped.
There was a hesitant shuffling sound from behind the door. A throat was audibly cleared. 'Who ... who's there?'
'The name is Clancy…’
There was the sound of a chain sliding back; the door edged open and an eye surveyed them cautiously. The door swung open; the man in the opening glanced quickly up and down the deserted hallway and then stepped aside to allow the two detectives to enter. He closed the door behind them, fumbled a bit as he tried to slip the chain into place once again, and then finally managed it. He turned a bit nervously to face the two men; his hand wiped itself against his thigh and was then stretched out in greeting.
'Hi, Lieutenant. Mr. Chalmers said you'd be here.'
Clancy pointedly ignored the outstretched hand, measuring the famous figure with cold eyes. He saw a stocky, well-built man in his late thirties, with black curly hair, a high smooth forehead; a pencil mustache covered the sensual full upper lip. Large, almost liquid eyes peered at him from beneath eyebrows that had obviously been recently trimmed. He was wearing a loud, expensive dressing gown over light brown Italian silk trousers and a white silk shirt, open at the throat. Not quite the same picture as the mug-shots in the police folder down at Centre Street - the advantages of money and good grooming since the early days, Clancy thought. The large eyes began to narrow at the continued snub; the outstretched hand fell.
'Say ...'
Clancy turned away without speaking, studying the room. His eyes passed rapidly over the twin beds with their standard tan unpatterned bedspreads and lumpy pillows, took in the threadbare and stained carpeting, the skimpy desk and chair, the discouraged easy-chair set in the corner with its obvious broken springs, and the ever-present water-color depicting a bowl of wilted flowers which hung crookedly on the wall. He stepped to the window, lifted the shade, and peered downwards. 'Where's the fire-escape?'
The stocky man hesitated and then shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. I just checked in. It's probably down the end of the hall, or maybe they don't even have one. It's a small hotel, and ...'
'Yeah. Well, it's just as well. As long as it doesn't pass your windows.' Clancy looked about once more, walked to the bathroom, opened the door, and checked the interior. He swung the plastic shower-curtain to one side, glanced at the tiny window, noting it was latched, looked back of the door he had opened, and then came out, closing the door behind him. He walked to the closet, opened the door, clicked on the light, and then raised his eyebrows at its emptiness.
'Traveling light, eh?'
The other didn't answer. Clancy turned off the light and closed the door. He took one last look about the room.
'Well, I guess that's it, Randall.' He eyed the other with ill-concealed contempt. 'This is Detective Stanton. He'll stay with you from eight in the morning until eight at night. There will be a replacement named Kaproski who will stay with you the rest of the time.'
'I've got a good cover for your man,' the stocky man said. His voice seemed to indicate a willingness to assume a part of the responsibility, if anybody asks, I can say he's my cousin from the coast…’
'Very bright,' Clancy said with disgust. 'That certainly ought to fool your brother. And the rest of that west-coast mob that have known you all your life.' He shook his head. 'Look, Randall; don't complicate simple things. Nobody is going to find you. And if they do, leave everything to Stanton here. That's what he's here for.'
The broad smooth forehead wrinkled. 'Look, Lieutenant…’
'And don't leave the room,' Clancy added coldly. 'For any reason whatsoever.'
'Don't leave the room?'
Clancy looked over at Stanton. The large detective nodded. 'He won't leave the room, Lieutenant.' He cleared his throat. 'What do you do for food in this joint?'
Randall's frown deepened at this interruption. He swung around impatiently. 'The bellboy goes down to some restaurant over on Broadway. You can get anything you want.' He turned back to Clancy. 'Look, Lieutenant ...'
Clancy stared at him. 'Well?'
The stocky man searched for words. 'This deal is worth dough. I don't see where anything can go wrong .. .' He hesitated as if in admission that he could easily see where many things could go wrong. He wet his lips. 'Well, anyway, there's dough in this. And I'm no hog.' He looked at Clancy significantly.
'Save your money,' Clancy said dryly. 'Buy cemetery lots. I hear they're a good investment.'
The stocky man clenched his jaw. 'You don't understand . ..'
'All right,' Clancy said. 'Make me understand.'
The stocky man turned away and then swung back. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it.
Clancy eyed him coldly. 'Understand one thing, Randall. I'm not interested in why you're going to spill. Or how there's dough in it. I couldn't care less. That's Chalmers' problem. My job is to keep you alive until the Commission meets next Tuesday. If you have to talk, talk to Stanton here. He has to listen to you; I don't.'
Stanton had been staring about the room. 'Say, Rossi - I mean Randall - do you have any cards?'
'Cards?'
'Yeah. Playing cards. You know, to play gin rummy.'
'No. I don't play cards.'
'You don't play gin rummy?' Stanton was incredulous.
'No.' He swung away impatiently, returning his attention to Clancy, but the slim Lieutenant had already crossed the room and was sliding back the chain-bolt on the door.
'Lieutenant...'
'Let's get some up from room-service,' Stanton said. 'They must have some. I'll teach you.'
'What?'
'I said I'd teach you how to play gin rummy,' Stanton said patiently, it's simple.’
But the stocky man wasn't paying any attention. He crossed the room, grasping Clancy by the arm. Clancy shook his arm free but the man in the dressing gown grasped it again.
'Lieutenant ..
'What now?'
'Do you think - well, I know nothing can go wrong, but. .. You said I can't leave the room ... That goes for your men, too, doesn't it? They'll be here with me all the time?'
Clancy's hand was on the knob. 'One or the other will be with you all the time, so relax.' He suddenly frowned, his eyes narrowing. 'I was told that nobody knows where you are, or what name you're using. You don't seem to be so sure, yourself.'
'Oh, that's not it,' Randall said hastily. 'It's just ...'
He closed his mouth, almost as if he had already said too much. Clancy waited patiently, staring into the worried liquid eyes steadily for several seconds. Then he opened the door.
'Learn gin rummy,' he said quietly, it'll take your mind off your troubles.' He started to close the door after him and then added, 'Anyway, until Tuesday ...'