CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

Saturday - 10:10 a.m.

 

No. 1210 West 86th Street was one of those renovated brownstone-fronts on which - at least to Clancy's way of thinking - so much money had been needlessly wasted in an attempt to improve the already almost-perfect dwelling. Clancy had been raised in a brownstone-front on 43rd Street, down near Tenth Avenue, and while he realized the inadequacies of the neighborhood, he still had fond memories of the friendly broad steps, the cool high ceilings, and the wonderful freedom of the endless halls. That brownstone-front, he suddenly remembered, was about the only decent memory of those distant days; it had provided refuge in a rough world. He cringed at the thought of the chopping that had accompanied the so-called modernization of No. 1210.

He drove past the building slowly and parked beyond, got out, and walked back. A high-pitched shout made him look up in time to duck a rubber ball hurtling in his direction; children swarmed past him, screaming at each other; broomsticks swirled madly. Well, he thought with some satisfaction, at least they haven't changed stick-ball. Maybe there's hope for New York yet.

He walked under the striped canopy that was an integral part of every brownstone transformation, eyed the tiny rococo lobby with disgust, and pressed the bell for No. 12. There was a brief pause and then the buzzer answered, releasing the heavy downstairs door. He stared at the speaking-tube with surprise. No questions? And then shrugged, tugged the door open, and tramped inside.

A heavy-set figure brushed past him as he opened the door, taking advantage in standard New York fashion of somebody else's ring. Clancy was faintly conscious of a dark suit and a white ascot; a very Greenwich Village beard and a pair of dark glasses under a soft blue velours hat. The intruder pushed past him rudely and disappeared down the hallway leading to the rear of the building. Typical, Clancy thought sourly. When they changed brownstone-fronts from decent houses to these chi-chi dumps they should have known the kind of people they would attract in the first place.

He climbed the stairs, knowledgeable of the numbering system in these reconverted dwellings. The hallway doors to the apartments had been painted a sickly off-white, and little murals, each cutely different, decorated the doors beneath each number. No. 12, on the second floor, sported a ragged pair of uneven dice with the sixes - green splotches against mauve - up. Clancy curled his lip and rapped on the door. A cheerful voice answered immediately, barely deadened by the poor insulation of the intervening panel - a woman's voice.

'C'mon in. The door's unlocked.'

His eyebrows rose, puzzled. He turned the knob and pulled at the door, discovered it opened by pushing, and pushed. The door swung back to reveal a bright room tastefully furnished with not too many pieces and lit by daylight from the huge windows Clancy remembered from his childhood with such nostalgia. A young woman was seated on a low couch in the center of the room, hunched over a coffee-table on which an armada of small queerly-shaped bottles stood their ground. Her fingers were busy. Her dressing gown gaped alarmingly, revealing a healthy bust barely contained in a light brassiere.

As Clancy stared at her, entranced, she threw back her head, tossing blond hair over her shoulder.

'Hi. Pick a chair somewhere. I'll be finished in a minute.'

Clancy removed his hat slowly, and scratched his head. If this was a demonstration of trapped guilt, he was J. Edgar Hoover. She looked up, followed his eyes to her ample cleavage, and tried to shrug her gown into place without effect.

'Don't let it bother you, Pop. It's not for sale. It's just that my nails are all wet ...' She grinned, a cheerful, happy, friendly, gamin grin, revealing even white teeth. 'To open the door I had to push the buzzer with my elbow - you should have seen that -'

Clancy swallowed and sat down gingerly in an upholstered chair that threatened to swallow him, watching as she continued the delicate job of painting her nails. She had the tendency, he noted, of biting the tip of her tongue as she was concentrating. She shook her hair back from her eyes again, looking up.

'Say, I'm a lousy hostess! How about a drink?' She nudged her head in the direction of a corner cabinet, her motion causing her hair to tumble once again. 'This place has anything a person could possibly want. Except Aquavit, maybe ...'

'No, thanks,' Clancy said.

'I don't blame you. It's too early. I'm a sun-over-the-yardarm gal myself.' She smiled. 'I'll be through in a second - last finger.' She completed a complicated maneuver with the tiny brush, stuffed it back into one of the bottles, twisted it, and leaned back. 'There we are. How do you like it?'

She held her hand out at arm's length to study it, and then reversed it for Clancy's inspection. 'You know, they call this stuff Sun-Bay Tinge! What a name! I'd call it Tuchus Pink myself.' Now that her hands were free she pulled her dressing gown closed over her full bust and frowned at him. 'You're late, Pop.’

Not a muscle moved on Clancy's face. 'What I always say is, better late than never.'

She laughed, is that what you always say? I always say, a penny saved is a penny earned, and for want of a nail a kingdom was lost.' She leaned back, inspecting her fingernails again in a pleased manner. 'One thing I never say is, money is the root of all evil.' Her eyes came up; Clancy noted that they were a sort of violet. A very beautiful girl, he decided, and far from stupid. 'Well, Pop, I'd love to sit here and trade proverbs with you all morning, but time's a-wasting. Did you bring the tickets?'

Clancy maintained his poker face. His hand tapped his inside jacket pocket. The girl nodded, pleased.

'Good. Tell me, Pop, have you ever been to Europe yourself?'

'Twice,' Clancy said. He sat there relaxed, looking at her. 'Of course, once was with the Army, and I guess that really doesn't count.' He didn't mention that the other time was to bring back a particularly vicious murderer, and only got him as far as London Airport where the British police were holding his man.

Her eyes softened; she leaned forward almost eagerly. 'And is it really as beautiful as everyone says? You know; Copenhagen, and Paris, and Rome?'

it's beautiful,' Clancy said.

'I can't wait. Did you go by boat?'

Clancy nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the happy face of the girl. 'Once. Once by air.'

'And is it really as exciting as they say? The boat, I mean. As romantic?' She looked at him and laughed a little self-consciously. 'I suppose I sound like a real hick, but I've never been on a boat ...'

‘It can be romantic,' Clancy said.

'And I suppose they speak English - on the boat, that is ...'

'Generally,' Clancy said.

She smiled, a deep smile of satisfaction and anticipation, sighed, and rose to her feet. 'Well, fun's fun, and I admit I get a kick out of even talking about it, but I really have to run. I have a load of last-minute shopping to do, and finish packing, so if you'll let me have the tickets, Pop ...'

Clancy decided that he'd learned all he could in that direction. He placed his hat on the floor beside him and leaned back comfortably, folding his hands in his lap.

'Tickets for where? And for whom?' he asked softly.

She stared at him, puzzled for a moment; then her eyes narrowed, her lips stiffened. 'You're not from the travel agency!'

'I never said I was,' Clancy said easily. 'You haven't answered my question.'

'Who are you and what do you want?'

'My name is Clancy,' Clancy said. He seemed to be completely at ease in his deep chair, but his dark eyes were watching the girl very closely. 'I'm a Lieutenant of police.'

'Police - !' She stared at him. There was neither panic nor fear in her expression; she seemed surprised, but not particularly alarmed. Clancy frowned. Either this one was the world's most accomplished actress, or his lone clue was shaping up to be a complete dud. He shrugged; to add one more proverb to the morning's collection, in for a penny, in for a pound. He nodded.

'That's right. I'd like to ask you some questions.'

She sat down again, abruptly, her face a blank. 'Could you show me some identification?'

Clancy handed over his wallet. She studied it and handed it back.

'All right, Lieutenant. I haven't the faintest idea of what this is all about, but go ahead and ask your questions.'

'All right,' Clancy said. He tucked his wallet back into his pocket. 'Let's go back to my first one: tickets for where? And for whom?'

'I can't answer that, Lieutenant.' She saw Clancy's eyebrows raise. 'I'm sorry. There's nothing illegal involved; it's just that I'm not in a position to answer that question at this time.' She hesitated and then, as if despite herself, a small grin formed on her pretty face. 'To tell you the truth, I don't even know why I was asked to keep it a secret, but I was and I am.' The smile faded. 'And in any event, I don't believe it's any business of the police.'

Clancy sighed. 'The police prefer to determine for themselves what is or isn't their business.'

'I'm sorry.' Her voice was calm but adamant. 'I'm not going to answer that question. What else?'

Clancy looked at her and shrugged. 'All right. We'll skip that one for the time being - but only for the time being. Let's start at the beginning. Who are you?'

The violet eyes narrowed in growing anger. She gasped. 'Do you mean that you don't even know who I am and you're questioning me like - like a common criminal?'

'I'm not questioning you like a common criminal,' Clancy said patiently. 'I'm questioning you like a citizen. Would you please answer me?'

She bit back her reply, reached across the couch for her purse and opened it. She thrust a folder at him almost vehemently. He took it, studying it; it was a California driver's license issued in the name of one Ann Renick. The small form in the transparent plastic case noted that her age was twenty-nine, her sex female, her height five-six, her hair blond, her eyes violet. He turned it over, noted the absence of traffic violations on the back. His notebook came out and he made several notations, after which he politely returned the folder. The girl's jaw was clenched, her eyes stormy. She snatched it from him and thrust it into her purse. Clancy nodded and looked about the room.

is this your apartment?'

'No; it belongs to a girl-friend of mine ...' Intelligence suddenly seemed to dawn; her frown lessened and some of the tenseness left her. 'Has it something to do with the apartment?'

'How long have you been here?'

'Two days. My friend is out of town for a few weeks and she let me use the apartment. She left the key for me with the janitor. Has it something to do with the apartment?'

Clancy sighed. He seemed to be slouched lazily in the easy chair but his eyes were particularly sharp on the girl as he asked his next question. 'Did you happen to receive a telephone call from the Farnsworth Hotel yesterday morning?'

He would have sworn that the puzzled look on her face was completely genuine. 'The Farnsworth Hotel? I've never heard of it.'

Clancy frowned. He pushed himself erect with an effort, walked to the telephone and looked down at the number. University 6-7887. So either the old man at the hotel had marked the number down incorrectly when the call was originally placed, or something was completely wild-eye. Still, the girl was from California and so was Johnny Rossi - a slim enough connection, he had to admit, since the same was true of several million other people - but she also wanted to keep this trip of hers a secret. Also no great crime. You're really picking at the coverlet, Clancy, he said to himself. He turned to the girl.

'Did you get a telephone call yesterday morning from anywhere?'

She bit her lip. 'That's none of your business.'

A tiny spark kindled within Clancy, his first feeling of satisfaction. He recognized the tingle to what he called his 'hunch-buds' and pressed on, more sure of himself. 'Did you ever hear of Johnny Rossi?'

There was a sudden change in her attitude, but it still was not fear. It was merely a certain sharpness, and added alertness. 'Yes, I've heard of Johnny Rossi. What about him?'

Clancy weighed the chances of revealing too much and decided to go ahead. He walked over from the telephone stand and stood before the girl, hands clasped before him, his dark eyes on her unwaveringly.

'Did you know that Johnny Rossi registered into the Farnsworth Hotel here in New York yesterday morning under an assumed name? And that right after registering he made a telephone call from there to this apartment?' He paused for a split second and then continued. 'And that last night somebody showed up at the hotel and blasted him with a shotgun?'

For a moment the violet eyes looked into his blankly; then, as the impact of his words struck her again, Clancy got all the reaction he could have wanted. The girl's face blanched; the violet eyes that had been staring at him opened wide in horror and then closed. For a moment he thought she was going to faint. Her newly-painted fingers, set along the edge of the couch pillows, tightened spasmodically, clutching and twisting the brocaded cloth. She looked ill.

'No!' she said in a sick whisper. 'No! I don't believe it!'

'Believe it,' Clancy said cruelly, it's true.'

'No!' Her face twisted, fighting tears and shock. 'You're lying. It's a trick. He would have told me . .. It's a trick. They wouldn't!'

'Who wouldn't?' Clancy was leaning over her fiercely now, his voice beating at her. 'Who wouldn't?'

The girl leaned over in a daze, her fingers unconsciously tearing at the pillows, her hair falling unheeded over her face, her eyes fixed unseeing on the floor.

it must be a mistake. They wouldn't.' Her eyes came up blankly; her words were directed not at Clancy but at some inner image. 'They wouldn't. Why would they?'

'Come on!' Clancy said roughly. 'Who shot him?'

There was no answer; the girl seemed to be studying the pattern of the rug. She took a deep shuddering breath, fighting herself, and then began shaking her head slowly from side to side. The little moans in her throat died away; she brought her hands together clasping them tightly in her lap. She sat that way for several moments, staring blankly at the floor. When at last she looked up her face was drained of expression. 'What did you say?'

'I asked you who shot him,' Clancy said harshly, almost savagely. 'You know! Who shot him?'

She looked at him without seeing him, without hearing him. Her mind was slowly encompassing the facts, remembering, correlating, making sense of the terrible facts, seeing her own innocence, her own stupidity. Resolution slowly replaced all other emotion. She pushed herself wearily to her feet, turning from the couch.

'I have to go out,' she said a bit vaguely, looking about the apartment as if faintly surprised to find herself there, as if puzzled that so short a time ago she could have rejoiced in being here, in being happy here. Her glazed eyes passed over Clancy as if he were another piece of furniture, or a floor-lamp placed un-decoratively beside the couch.

'You're not going anywhere,' Clancy said coldly. 'You're going to answer my question. Who shot him?'

She stared at him, brought back from her thoughts by his voice. The vagueness receded; her jaw tightened a trifle.

'Are you arresting me, Lieutenant? And if so, on what charge?

And on what warrant?' She turned toward the bedroom. 'I have to get dressed and go out...'

Clancy's jaw hardened. 'I -' He paused, his mind racing. 'All right,' he said in a reasonable tone of voice. 'We'll just have to let it go, then, until later ...'

The vagueness seemed to have returned, her mind was busy with more important thoughts. 'Yes,' she said. 'That would be better, Lieutenant. Later. When I have more time .. .' She turned, frowning, and entered the bedroom in the slow fashion of a sleep-walker, her dressing gown open revealingly, unnoticed.

Clancy nodded to her back and went to the door swiftly. He ran down the steps to the street, pushed through the heavy door and trotted down to the corner. His eyes, searching, caught the window of a drugstore; telephone-booths had been shoved against the plate-glass inside, giving the user a view to the street. He pushed through the door, edged past racks of every conceivable item except drugs, and wedged himself into one of the booths. The striped canopy was visible from his position. His finger dialed the precinct number rapidly.

'Hello, Sergeant? This is Lieutenant Clancy ...'

'Lieutenant? Where you been? All hell's been breaking loose here. Assistant District Attorney Chalmers has been calling every five minutes. And also Captain -'

'Sergeant!' Clancy's voice was a snarl. 'Shut up and listen! Is Stanton there?'

'He just come in. But Lieutenant, I'm telling you -'

'Will you listen! Put Stanton on.'

There was resignation in the Sergeant's voice. 'O.K., Lieutenant. Just a second.'

Clancy waited impatiently, his eyes fixed on the rococo entrance to No. 1210. The stick-ball game had moved further along the street, accompanied by its noise; the fringe of the striped canopy waved gently in the warm breeze. Stanton's deep voice suddenly boomed in his ear.

'Hi, Lieutenant. Well, I went over that room and -' 'Stanton! Later! Right now I want you to break all speed records getting over to the corner of Columbus and 86th Street. I'm in a phone-booth in the drugstore at the corner. Southeast corner. I'll be watching for you. Make it fast!'

He hung up before Stanton could waste time asking questions, pushed himself out of the small confining booth, and moved over to the stand holding tattered telephone books. He twisted one free, opening it, but his hands were doing the job; his eyes were fixed on the entrance to No. 1210. Could she go out the back? She could if she wanted to crawl over a fence; there were no alleys or driveways there. Anyway, that was the chance he'd have to take - he couldn't be in two places at once.

There was a sharp jar on his shoulder; he turned to find a heavy-set woman in slacks and a fur stole eying him with disgust. He stepped aside, wondering at the outlandish outfit; she began leafing through the volume he had been toying with, muttering angrily under her breath. Clancy moved to the magazine rack, staring over it toward the entrance of No. 1210. Where the hell was Stanton? He didn't know how long it took a woman to dress, but it certainly didn't take all day!

A cab pulled up; Stanton climbed out. Clancy leaned over the rack precariously, tapping at the glass of the drugstore window. Stanton looked up, nodded, and slipped some change to the driver. Clancy edged his way back past the crowded stands, meeting Stanton at the door. He drew him away from the entrance toward the corner; they paused in the lee of a green newspaper-stand. Clancy spoke rapidly, his alert eyes never leaving the striped canopy.

‘It's a tail-job, Stan. I'll point her out. She'll be leaving that apartment down the street with the striped canopy. Her name is Ann Renick, age twenty-nine, height five-six, blonde, violet eyes. A real looker. Don't lose her under any circumstances. As soon as you can get a chance, give me a ring at the precinct; I'll be waiting for it. And I'll arrange a plain-clothes policewoman to meet you and give you a hand in case she tries to duck through a hat-store or a john or something ...'

'She know she's being tailed?'

'Right now she doesn't know anything. She's foggy, dazed. I gave her a hell of a shock, although I'm damned if I know how. Anyway, she may wake up and get wise. This woman is no fool, Stan.' He gripped the other's arm. 'This thing is hot. This Renick woman knows who - just a second! There she is, the one that just came out, standing waiting for a cab .. .' Clancy plunged a hand into a pocket. 'Here's the key to my car. It's just past her; you know it. Walk down to it, get in, and follow any cab she catches. And don't lose her.'

His last words were lost. Stanton had already struck out, crossing the street with his deceptively easy stride, passing the girl without a glance, and continuing on. The girl leaned over, waving impatiently from the curb, her bright blond hair glistening in the sun. As Clancy watched from his haven, a cab swooped in to the canopy; the girl bent over the driver, saying something, and then jumped into the rear seat. The cab took off; Stanton pulled away from the curb, swinging smoothly behind. The two cars disappeared around the corner.

Clancy rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. Action! Things were finally beginning to move; at least the beginnings of a case were shaping up into form from the fog surrounding him. Now back to the precinct to start checking on some of the other leads that were sure to follow. And then his face fell. Also back to the precinct to start facing the music - which was apt to be pretty much off-key. Chalmers! He grimaced humorlessly, shrugged, straightened his hat squarely on his head, and went to the curb to flag down a cab.

 

 

Saturday - 11:30 a.m.

 

Clancy pushed his way quickly through the precinct doors, his tiredness fading at the thought of work. The Sergeant looked up, his broad vein-ribbed face creased in a smile that neatly combined pleasure and relief.

'Boy, am I glad to see you in the flesh, Lieutenant! Everybody and his brother has been calling you every two minutes all morning! You want me to get Mr. Chalmers' office first? He's the one's been calling the most.'

Clancy waved the Sergeant to silence abruptly. 'No calls. Did Kaproski get back yet?'

'Yeah, he's here. But, Lieutenant, about those calls ...'

'I said, no calls! Send Kaproski into my office.' He paused, thinking, recalling the schedule his mind had mapped out during his return to the precinct. 'And have somebody go out and get me a copy of this morning's New York Times. I forgot.'

'Sure, Lieutenant. But Captain Wise has been calling, also. From his home ...'

Clancy stared at the wall. Where was that schedule he'd calculated so carefully? He rubbed his face wearily; five hours sleep in over two days just wasn't enough. 'All right, I'll talk to Captain Wise. Call him back at home. But nobody else.' He suddenly remembered another item on his mental list. 'Except Stanton. If he calls I want it and I want it fast. And line up a plain-clothes policewoman; Stanton may need her in a hurry.'

'Yes, sir.'

Clancy walked into his office, threw his hat on top of a filing cabinet and sat down, swinging his chair to stare blankly out of the window. A battery of overalls faced him, strung out on the sagging clothesline like children's cut-outs; he suddenly wondered if they were the same overalls he had seen the previous day, or different ones. He tried to remember if or when he had ever seen the clothesline there completely free from clothing; he couldn't. Possibly it was clear on Columbus Day, he thought; now where was I on Columbus Day?

There was a cough at the door; he swung around, nodding, and Kaproski came in carrying a bulky bundle under his arm. The telephone rang before they could speak; Clancy waved the large detective to a chair as he reached over to pick up the instrument.

'Hello. Who?' His face wiped away expression. 'Hello, Captain.'

The heavy voice at the other end, thickened by a bad cold, boomed at him in pure Brooklynese that Clancy normally enjoyed listening to. At the moment it grated on his ears. He closed his eyes. Let's get it over with, he prayed. Quickly. There's work to be done.

'Clancy, you black-Irish maniac! What are you, crazy or something? Here I am sick in bed, gripped up to my ears I can't even breathe good, yet, and I got to keep getting my ear bent by every big-shot in the department! What are you trying to do? Give me ulcers on top of everything else?'

'What do you mean, Captain?'

There was a sharp, suspicious intake of breath. 'And what's all this "Captain" crap? Since when did you suddenly start calling me "Captain"? Since when wasn't I "Sam" to you? Why all this sudden formality all of a sudden, if I may ask?'

'All right, Sam. What's on your mind?'

'What's on my mind, he asks! What's on my mind! He snatches the hottest bum since that bum Hitler, hides him God alone couldn't find him, and then he asks me just like this, what's on my mind!' The gravelly voice suddenly dropped, becoming persuasive. 'Look, Clancy, we're old friends. If you don't feel so good, your head hurts or something, you should tell your old friends. Who else is going to help you, huh? Who else is going to be an old friend if it isn't an old friend, huh? Answer me that.'

Clancy glanced wearily across the battered desk at Kaproski. The big detective was waiting patiently, nursing the bulky bundle as if it were a child sleeping in his arms. Clancy returned his martyred gaze to the telephone receiver.

'I feel fine, Sam.'

'You feel fine,' The deep rasping voice was outraged at Clancy's fitness. 'That's great. I'm glad you feel fine. I don't suppose that you know that Mr. High-Nose Chalmers of the District Attorney's Office has checked on every hospital, first-aid station, nursing home, and sanitarium within one-hundred miles without locating Mr. Johnny Rossi? I don't suppose you know that Mr. Big-Mouth Chalmers has been screaming to the Mayor, the Commissioner, and the Chief, do you ? I don't suppose you know, you stupid you, that your job is on the line, do you? You feel fine!' There was a groan from the telephone. 'What's the matter, Clancy; you've gone nuts all at one time?'

Clancy could picture the stocky figure gripping the telephone, a mountain looming from the crumpled covers of his big bed, flanked in his incarceration by chicken-soup and cough medicines and a fluttering wife. He took a deep breath.

'Sam, how long have you known me?'

'What's that got to do with it?' There was a pause; when the deep throaty voice continued it was softer. 'You know how long, Clancy. A long time. Since kids in the old neighborhood ...'

Yes, Clancy thought; since kids in the old neighborhood, when the fat boy moved over from Brooklyn ... Sammy Wise, who had liked Clancy on sight, admiring his quick intelligence, and who had often interposed his bulk between Clancy and the other youths of the neighborhood when they ganged up on him .. . The old neighborhood, brought back by the sight of a brownstone-front and the gravel voice of Captain Sam Wise, reminding him ... The old neighborhood; a strong humorous mother and a father who was the only Irish pants-presser in the garment district…

Clancy suddenly yawned. Christ, he thought, I'll fall asleep on myself. The rasping voice on the telephone continued.

'... And you know as well as I do that if it wasn't for that momser Chalmers I'd be calling you "Captain" instead of the other way around. That's how long I know you,' it added in complete non sequitur, and then asked suspiciously, 'So?'

'So I want twenty-four hours, Sam. Without Chalmers breathing down my neck. Can you get me twenty-four hours?'

'Do you want to tell me about it, Clancy?'

'I'd rather not, Sam. Not just yet.' Clancy sighed. 'Can you get me twenty-four hours?'

'I can try.'

'I'd appreciate it.'

Captain Wise took a deep breath. 'All right, Clancy. You never did anything meshuga before, and I know you, so you must have a good reason for doing it now. I'll hold the wolves off as long as I can, but I'm in a sickbed here, you understand, and I can't guarantee anything. And even if I do hold them off, you know it won't be for long.'

'Thanks, Captain.'

'You're welcome, Lieutenant. I just hope you know what you're doing.'

Clancy stared at the telephone.

'Yeah,' he said. 'I'll keep in touch.'

'You do that, Clancy. And I'll do the best I can.' There was a pause and then quiet affection crept into the heavy voice. 'Good luck, Clancy. Mazel.' There was a click from the telephone.

Clancy hung up and swung around to Kaproski. The big detective placed his bundle on the desk and began stripping paper from it. Clancy looked up at him.

'What's that?'

'Doctor's outfit. Complete.' Kaproski's voice revealed his satisfaction. He folded back the brown paper, disclosing a pile of white clothing. A cotton skullcap and face-mask lay on top, together with a pair of white tennis-shoes.

Clancy fingered them. 'Where did you find them?'

'They got a boiler-room in this hospital, on the first floor in the back, with one of them automatic boilers. This stuff was jammed underneath it, not even out of sight. The thing - this boiler thing - stands a couple of feet clear of the floor.' He paused, remembering. 'And there's a door there, too; leads from the boiler-room to the back alley outside. It wasn't closed.'

'You mean it was open?'

'Not open open,' Kaproski explained. 'Unlocked. Anybody could have come in or out.'

'Was it usually like that?'

'Just about always, I guess.'

Clancy frowned. 'Don't they have a maintenance man that always stays around the boiler?'

'They got a maintenance man, but he was up on one of the floors fixing a faucet or something around the time Rossi caught it, near as I could figure. He's the night man. But he ain't down there much, anyways. Like I said this boiler's one of them automatic deals. Practically runs itself.'

Clancy thought awhile. He fingered the pile of clothing. 'Anybody recognize this stuff?'

'Yeah.' Kaproski leaned over, dug into the pile and came up with a white jacket. Two letters were hemstitched in red thread over a pocket. 'There's a locker-room next to this boiler-room, where the doctors change their clothes. I checked on the lockers and this stuff come out of the locker belongs to a Doctor P. Mills. P for Paul. He's on vacation; been gone about ten days. He's due back in a couple of days.'

'Were the lockers locked?'

Kaproski shook his head in disgust. 'Naw. I'm telling you, nothing's locked in that joint.'

Clancy frowned in thought, it seems simple enough on the surface, but even so ... Even knowing from the ambulance at the hotel where Rossi was taken, it seems like a pretty chancy way to knock a guy off. It's quite a gamble, finding a doctor's outfit where you want it and when you want it. I don't know .. .'

'I'm not so sure, Lieutenant,' Kaproski said. 'Anyplace but this, maybe I'd agree with you, but this place ain't like Mount Sinai or Bellevue. There ain't hardly nobody around the place - no regular floor nurses, no nothing. And they don't lock nothing up. A guy could case the joint in perfect safety. Hell, you could probably walk out with a couple of rooms full of furniture and nobody would know.'

'Yeah,' Clancy said slowly. 'How about the knife?'

'Well, we didn't pull it out of him, of course,' Kaproski said. 'We put him down in that storeroom just as he was, but it looked like a regular bread-knife. They got a kitchen there, but the cook is out half the time, and everybody wanders in and out getting coffee or making a sandwich for themselves - and nobody knows what knives they got or don't have. I'm telling you, this place is Liberty Hall. It ain't like Bellevue or Mount Sinai.' A touch of apology for the place crept into his voice. 'Well, hell; it ain't a regular hospital, it's more a nursing ...'

'Yeah,' Clancy said. A policeman came in, laying a copy of the New York Times on the table. Clancy sat thinking for several minutes; Kaproski waited. Finally Clancy sighed, shoved the pile of white clothing to one side, and reached for the folded newspaper. 'I have another job for you, Kap. An important one.'

'Sure. What is it?'

'Just a second.' Clancy opened the paper, flipped through the pages to the one he wanted, and doubled the page over. He laid it back on the desk and ran his finger down the list he wanted; a list of daily sailing schedules covering several days. Kaproski hoisted himself to his feet, bending over the desk, watching the Lieutenant's finger. Clancy gave a snort of pure disgust.

'Hell! There must be thirty ships sailing out of here in the next few days!' He studied the list a few moments longer, his forehead puckered in a frown. 'Every line in the world going every place in the world!'

'Well, sure,' Kaproski said, it's a big port. It's the biggest port in the world.' He almost sounded proud.

Clancy stared at the newspaper bitterly. 'That's great. For once I wish it was a little smaller.' He ran his finger down the list again and then gave up, swiveling his chair to Kaproski.

'O.K., Kap - here's your job. I want you to check out all the travel agencies in the neighborhood of West 86th Street and Columbus Avenue. Make a list from the yellow pages of the phone book; check the closest ones first. Of course she may have gotten them from a downtown agency, but the chances are she picked a small one, right in the neighborhood.'

'Sure, Lieutenant,' Kaproski said. 'But who's she? And what am I checking for?'

'Somebody bought two tickets for Europe by steamer, and probably a first-class cabin for two. The name could be Renick, or it might not be.' He hesitated, remembering the happy carefree face of the girl when they first met. 'I have a feeling it is, but I could be wrong. Anyway, the woman who bought them is twenty-nine years old, blonde violet eyes, five-six in height; a real beauty. I want to know in what name the tickets were bought; and if they were bought in the name Renick, I want to know who the other ticket is for. If you locate the agency that sold them, they may still have the passports. Or they may remember.' He drummed the table a moment staring down at the newspaper. 'And where they are for and when they sail, of course.'

'Right.' Kaproski was scribbling rapidly in his notebook, his big fist dwarfing the slender pencil. He looked up. 'How about checking with the steamship lines directly?'

‘If you want to start there, you can. If the tickets were in the name Renick, they'll be able to help. But if the tickets were bought in any other name, of course, the only way to get anywhere is with the description. And only the agency can help you there.'

'Right. I'll see what I can dig out.' Kaproski hesitated. 'Do you have any idea at all when they were going to sail?'

'No. One of these days soon, I'd guess. The girl mentioned last-minute shopping, and last-minute packing, but I don't know ...' Not for the first time Clancy regretted his lack of knowledge concerning women. 'I don't know if a woman does her last-minute shopping a day before or a month before she goes somewhere.'

'But it was to Europe?'

'I'm pretty sure of that. I don't think she was giving me the magoo at that point. I'd forget any steamship line going anywhere else, at least for the time being.' He leaned over, tearing the list of sailings from the paper and handing it to Kaproski. 'Hop to it.'

Kaproski straightened up. 'Right.' He tucked his notebook into his pocket together with the list and went out. Clancy swung around, picking up the telephone.

'Sergeant; I want to talk to the I.D. man in the Los Angeles Police Department.'

'Yes, sir.'

‘I’ll hang on.'

He leaned back waiting, the telephone receiver tucked under his ear, his other hand fondling the pair of white tennis-shoes on top of the pile of clothing before him. The shoes seemed lumpy; he pushed his hand into one, brought out a stiff white sock, and then dug a second sock from the other. He tossed them to one side and patted the flat pockets of the white jacket. Nothing. He laid the jacket aside and started to unroll the wrinkled trousers, when the Sergeant's voice came through.

'Here's your call, Lieutenant.'

He sat up straighter, pushing the pile of clothing to one side. 'Hello? This is Lieutenant Clancy at the 52nd Precinct, New York City. Who am I talking to, please?'

'This is Sergeant Martin, here. I.D. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?'

'I'd like all the information you have, or can get in a hurry, on an Ann Renick, that's R-E-N-I-C-K, age twenty-nine, hair blond, height five-foot-six-inches, eyes violet ...'

‘Is that Anne with an "e"? And is it a nickname or her real name?'

‘It's her real name. No "e". A-N-N.'

'Married or single?'

'I don't know. All I had on her was a California driver's license, issued in Los Angeles County.'

'Any address?'

Clancy could have kicked himself. 'I didn't get it.'

'Any criminal record? There in New York, I mean.'

'None that we know of. We haven't checked.' In self-defense, Clancy added, 'Yet.'

'Did you notice the back of the license? Were there any violations?'

'There weren't any.’

‘Anything else?'

'That's all I've got, Sergeant. I know it's not very much…’

‘It's enough,' the Sergeant said, if she was issued a driver's license in this county we can check her out, and pretty thoroughly. How soon do you want this information?'

Clancy laughed. 'Yesterday.'

'I'll call you back.'

'I'd appreciate it. If I'm not in, leave your number with our Desk Sergeant and I'll get in touch with you right away. How late will you be there?'

'Until six, our time. That's nine, yours.'

'All right.' Clancy paused. 'Do you have all that information, or do you want me to repeat it?'

The Sergeant's voice spanned the continent with just a trifle of dryness. 'All I have to do is play back the tape, Lieutenant.'

'Oh. Yes. Well, thanks a million.'

'That's what we're here for. Good-by, Lieutenant.'

Clancy hung up, stared at the pile of white clothing on his desk for a moment, and then patted the pockets of the crumpled trousers. Also nothing. He swept them all into a drawer of his desk and leaned back, thinking. Another possibility suddenly struck him, one more thing to do; he returned to the newspaper, turning to the sports page. He ran his finger down a list of entries in the afternoon races, calculated a moment, and then reached for the telephone. His hand paused; this was a call that had to be made from outside the precinct.

He pushed himself to his feet, took his hat from the top of the filing cabinet, and walked through the corridor, pausing at the front desk. The Sergeant looked up inquiringly.

'Sergeant; I'm going out to lunch.’

‘Right, sir.' The Sergeant suddenly looked uncomfortable. 'Mr. Chalmers ... if he calls again ...' One look at the frozen face of the Lieutenant and he swallowed hastily. 'Yes, sir. I'll tell him. Out to lunch.’