CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

Saturday - 9:10 p.m.

 

Clancy pulled into his white-lined slot in the garage of the 52nd Precinct, locked the gears by shifting into reverse, and turned off the ignition. He sat there a moment back of the wheel, savoring the quiet of the nearly-deserted garage, smelling the familiar mustiness, relaxing; and then reached forward and switched off the headlights. Beside and behind him the car doors opened as the others climbed out. He shook his head, staring about him. The drive back had been completely automatic; his mind had been elsewhere. He couldn't even remember turning from the street into the narrow driveway leading down the alley to the garage entrance, and that had only been a moment before. He sighed, rubbed his face, opened the door at his side, and stepped down. The others were waiting for him silently, patiently, on the dim, oily concrete.

They walked together down the corridor that led to the front of the old building. As they passed the darkened entrance to his office, Clancy paused; he reached in with one hand and flicked on the lights. He nodded to the others.

'Go in and sit down. I'll be right there. I just want to check with the front desk.'

Kaproski cleared his throat self-consciously. 'How about asking the Sergeant to send somebody out for some sandwiches, huh, Lieutenant? It's after nine ...' 'We'll eat later,' Clancy said shortly. 'When this is cleared up.'

'Sure,' Kaproski said willingly. 'But I'm not talking about eating. I mean just a sandwich ...'

'Later,' Clancy said in a tone of finality that closed the subject. He continued down the corridor to the front desk. The Night Sergeant looked up as the Lieutenant walked up.

'Evening, Lieutenant,' he said pleasantly. He reached over, picking up some slips, bringing them closer for inspection. 'Mr. --.'

'... Chalmers called three times,' Clancy said wearily.

'That's right,' the Sergeant said, amazed as always at Clancy's ability. 'He said for you to call him whenever you got back here. He said it was real urgent. Want me to get him for you? He left a number.'

'No,' Clancy began; at that moment the telephone at the Sergeant's elbow rang. Clancy waited as the large man behind the desk picked up the phone. There was a brief conversation and the Sergeant hung up.

'That was Doc Freeman calling from your office,' the Sergeant said. 'He said to send somebody out for four coffees.'

'All right,' Clancy said disinterestedly.

'And then how about Mr. Chalmers?'

'No! Don't call him. And I don't want to take any incoming calls from him, either. Anything else?'

'Los Angeles,' the Sergeant said, checking one of the slips in his hand. 'The I.D. branch out there called for you personally. A Sergeant Martin.'

'I'll take him as soon as you can get him back,' Clancy said. His sunken eyes stared at the Sergeant. 'But nobody else.'

'Right, Lieutenant.' The Sergeant's fingers were already dialing.

Clancy went back down the corridor to his office, tossed his hat neatly onto a filing cabinet, and peeled off his jacket. As the others watched silently, he unstrapped the holster from his chest, tossed the gun into the top drawer of his desk, and replaced his jacket. He pulled it neatly about his sparse frame, buttoned the bottom button, and fell into his chair. Doc Freeman lifted his eyebrows in surprise; Clancy had a reputation in the department for eschewing guns.

'A gun?'

'I knew that young doctor was desperate,' Clancy said, really not interested. 'Desperate people get panicky, and I never try to second-guess panicky people.' He swung around, dismissing the subject, staring through the window; the airshaft beyond was black with night. I wonder if there are any clothes hanging there now? he thought. Maybe at night it's free; maybe that's when I saw them. Or do I mean didn't see them? He turned back to the others.

'All right,' he said, his voice tired and flat. 'Let's get to work. You first, Kaproski. What happened at the Pendleton?'

Kaproski, advised during his absence of the events at No. 1210 West 86th Street - and properly impressed - already had his notebook out. He licked a finger and flipped a page.

'Well, like I told you on the phone from Carpenter's, Lieutenant, this Rossi character had a room there at the Pendleton. He checked out just before I showed up - four-fifty this afternoon, to be exact, according to their records - but he'd been there all the day before. I already told you about his reservation on the United flight to the coast. Well, he checked out about fifteen minutes after the agency delivered the tickets to him.'

'Tickets?'

'Ticket, I mean. There was just one. I mean, just for one.'

Clancy stared at him. 'Tickets . .. She said "tickets". But a person refers to "tickets" even if they're traveling alone, if they're going to a whole list of places. And she was ...’ He shook his head, clearing it. 'Skip it. Go ahead. When did he check into the Pendleton?'

Kaproski looked down at his notes. 'Thursday afternoon, late. After four o'clock.'

'Much luggage?'

'Two bags; that's all.'

'Well, he doesn't sound like he was going to Europe, anyway.' Clancy shrugged. I'm so tired, he thought, I don't even know what questions to ask. 'How about last night?'

'That's the main thing I went there to check,' Kaproski said, ^ shifting about on the hard chair. 'Last night he was in his room the whole night.'

Clancy stared at him. 'Who says so?'

'Lots of people.' Kaproski leaned over his scribbled notes, checking them once again. 'Enough, anyways.' He looked up. 'The way I figured it, you was more interested in the time element; the time this Rossi - Johnny Rossi, I mean - was getting the blast. That was almost three o'clock in the morning, on the button. I figured at first it was going to be hard checking on a guy at that hour. I mean, usually characters are asleep at that hour, and who's to say different? But not this Rossi character -1 mean this Pete Rossi character. He calls down for a drink from the bar about every half-hour from' - he checked his notes - 'from about one in the morning until nearly four a.m.'

'From the bar? They have a bar?'

'Yeah. Though for my dough it ain't much of a bar.' Kaproski's words seemed to come back to him; he looked up guiltily and cleared his throat. 'Well, I had to check, of course ... Anyways, there doesn't seem to be much doubt.'

'Who brought him his drinks?'

'The same waiter every time,' Kaproski said, happy to change the subject. He frowned, if Rossi left his room, it would have to be between drinks, and frankly, that don't seem possible. Between ordering his drinks, and waiting for them to get upstairs or at least being there in his room when they arrived -' He shook his head. 'The Farnsworth is nearby, but it ain't all that nearby. Of course we could check on cabbies, but they don't have a stand at the Pendleton, and to walk to the corner would take time. Even to run. And to depend on the chance of picking up a cruiser at that hour…’

Clancy frowned. 'They have a bar - open all night, apparently but they don't have a cab-stand?'

'Well, it ain't open all night,' Kaproski said, it closes at four-thirty, but sure. Bar but no cab-stand. Hell, Lieutenant, lots of these small hotels got liquor licenses but no cab-stand.'

'Let's get on with it,' Clancy said. He inched his pad closer to him and picked up a pencil, preparing to take notes. 'So he didn't leave his room all night. Or at least not during the time we're interested in.' He looked up suddenly. 'You're sure about the waiter?'

Kaproski looked a bit embarrassed. 'I thought of that, Lieutenant. He wasn't lying to me. I made sure.'

Clancy eyed the other closely but passed on. 'Do they know if he had any visitors?'

Kaproski smirked, triumphant.

'Yeah,' he said softly. 'He did, indeed.'

'Well? Talk! Who?'

Kaproski shrugged. 'I don't know who, but somebody come to see him about three-thirty in the morning, I figure.'

'You figure? How ?'

'The waiter,' Kaproski explained. 'From the bar. All night long he's bringing one drink at a time up to this Rossi's room, but about three-thirty he says he took up a couple of drinks.'

Clancy thought a moment. 'Same drink?'

Kaproski grinned. 'I thought of that too, Lieutenant. No different kinds of drinks.'

Clancy nodded shortly, marking it down on his pad. 'What makes the waiter so sure of the exact time?'

'They punch slips in the register when they leave the bar; we dug them out.'

'Did he see anyone when he was delivering the drinks?'

'No. He says Rossi met him at the door and paid him and took the tray himself. He didn't think nothing of it - it ain't uncommon at a joint like the Pendleton. They get visitors in them rooms all night long, and not all of them are dressed for company.'

'How about the bellboy? Did he remember anything? Or the elevator operator - did he remember taking anyone up to that floor at that hour?'

Kaproski shook his head. 'Bellboy says no. And the elevator is self-service. My guess is the guy took the steps; that would be the surest way not to be seen.'

Clancy studied the notes he had taken: they consisted of the one word, 'drinks', and nothing else. Stanton cleared his throat.

'Sounds to me like this Rossi was just trying to establish an alibi,' the big detective said. 'Calling for drinks that way every half-hour all night long.'

'I don't know,' Clancy said thoughtfully. 'I doubt it. If he didn't leave the hotel to go anywhere, he could have established an alibi simply by sitting in the lobby. You'd think if he were doing it purposely, he would have been more careful about ordering that extra drink at three-thirty.'

Doc Freeman had been listening closely. He raised his hand.

'I don't know what this is all about,' he said, 'but from Kaproski's story, it sounds to me like the man simply liked to drink.' He thought a moment. 'He had to stay up all night, apparently - to meet this visitor, it appears - and he simply passed the time by drinking.’

‘That's the way it sounds to me, too,' Clancy said. A uniformed patrolman came in, carefully balancing four cardboard containers of coffee in his big hands. He set them on the desk carefully and withdrew; Clancy slid one over, lifted the lid, and brought it to his lips. Steam rose in his face, hot and somehow refreshing; he blew on the coffee, sipped, and then made a face at the taste. He set the cup back on the desk, pushing it away.

'All right, Stan,' he said, and dragged his pad closer. He turned to face the large detective. 'Let's have your story.'

Stanton hurried a sip of his coffee, set it down, and pulled his notebook from his pocket; but before he could begin his report, the telephone rang. Clancy shook his head at Stanton and reached over, picking up the instrument.

'Los Angeles on the line,' the Desk Sergeant said, and switched the call.

Clancy clenched the receiver. 'Hello?'

'Hello, Lieutenant Clancy? This is Sergeant Martin in Los Angeles I.D. again. You boys work long hours.'

Clancy didn't bother to comment. He pulled his pad closer and pressed the receiver tighter to his ear. 'What do you have for me, Sergeant?'

'Ann Renick,' the Sergeant said. He sounded official, as if he were reading his data. 'Born Ann Powalovich in Denver, Colorado, in 1934; came to Los Angeles with her parents in 1943 - her father got a job in a war plant here as a welder. She graduated from Hollywood High in 1952. Married Albert Renick in 1959. No criminal record, either of them. No prints on file; not with us.' The mechanical tone softened; the voice became conversational. 'Not very much on her, Lieutenant, I'm afraid. From the little we could get they seem to be a nice average couple.'

'What did she do for a living?' Clancy asked. 'Housewife?'

'Did you say "did"?' 'That's right,' Clancy said. 'What did she do for a living?'

'She just started working as a manicurist in a hotel beauty parlor in Hollywood. What she did before that we don't know. You said "did." Has something happened to her?'

'She was killed. How about her husband? What's he do?'

'Salesman - sells cars for a used-car lot. They seem to be doing fairly well ...' The Sergeant hesitated, suddenly aware of how ridiculous his words sounded in view of the information he had just received. 'How was she killed?'

'Stabbed.' Clancy was thinking. 'Any known enemies out there?'

'We didn't check on that basis,' the Sergeant said slowly. 'We sent a man over to their apartment - they only live a couple of blocks from here, which is a minor miracle in this town - and he talked to some of the neighbors. Everybody had a good word for them. And our man went and talked to the owner of the hotel beauty parlor; she's asked for time off. Said she was going to visit friends.' He paused. 'Now that I think of it, it does seem a little odd, starting work on a new job and less than a week later asking for time off.' The Sergeant sounded a bit plaintive. 'You didn't say anything this morning about her being dead.'

'She wasn't dead this morning.'

'Oh.' There was a brief apologetic pause on the line. 'Well, we'll check into it further, now. Anything else we can tell you at this time?'

Clancy thought. 'How about Johnny Rossi?'

'Johnny Rossi? The hood?'

'That's the one.'

'What about him?'

'Any connection with the Renick woman?'

There was a surprised silence for a moment. 'Nothing in the information we turned up so far. Of course, we weren't looking for anything like that. You didn't ask . . .' The Sergeant paused. 'Wait a second. Hold the line.' There was silence for several moments; when the Sergeant came back on his voice held a touch of satisfaction. 'I thought the name of that hotel where she worked sounded familiar! I don't know if you can call it a connection or not, but the beauty parlor she worked in is in the same hotel where Johnny Rossi lives.'

Clancy felt the old familiar tingle run along his spine like barefoot mice. He gripped the receiver tighter. 'Can you find out if they ever met, Sergeant? And in what circumstances - assuming they did?'

'I don't know if I can today.' Sergeant Martin sounded dubious. 'I doubt it. It's after six, here; the beauty parlor in the hotel is probably closed at this hour, but we'll do the best we can. If I can't get it tonight I'll check it out first thing in the morning. And I'll have somebody go back and talk to the husband tonight if he's home; although of course he could have gone with her, you know. I'll have the used-car lot checked on tomorrow, too. And I'll have someone talk to the neighbors again. Tonight, I mean.'

'The sooner the better,' Clancy said. 'Call me anytime; as soon as you have anything. This thing is heating up, and you might just have the answer out there.'

'We'll get right on it. Now that we know the story we can do a lot better job. Anything else?'

'That's about it for now. No, wait - how about a picture?'

'We'll ask the husband for one. If he's home, that is.' The Sergeant hesitated. 'We'll have to break it to him, anyways . ..'

'I'd hold on that,' Clancy advised. 'Afta all, the only identification of the dead woman we have is a sketchy description taken from a driver's license. We could be wrong, you know. It might not even be her. A picture, of course, would help a lot.'

'You may be right.' Sergeant Martin sounded relieved. 'The man who went over to talk to the neighbors said they said Renick has been nervous as hell lately, anyway. No sense in upsetting him if there isn't any good reason…’

'But you'll get me a picture?'

'We'll get one for you somehow,' the Sergeant said. 'I'll have it out on the teletype inside of half-an-hour. Like I said, they only live a couple of blocks from here. We'll handle the husband somehow. Or he may not even be there.'

'As long as I get a shot,' Clancy said. 'And thanks a lot.'

'We'll get right on it,' Sergeant Martin said, and broke the connection.

Clancy hung up slowly, his mind nibbling at the thought that the dead woman had worked at the same hotel where Rossi had lived. In California. And now the two of them were dead, murdered, in New York; both killed within a day of each other. Coincidence? Hardly ... And then there was the fact that Pete Rossi was in town, and preparing to go back very soon. But he hadn't made any plane reservation until after he had discovered his brother was dead. Why? Could he have been the trigger? That didn't sound very much like the stories he had heard about the Rossi brothers and their closeness to each other. Nor did it seem very logical if their Syndicate was suspicious of both of them. Unless, of course, the Syndicate had given Pete the job just to prove he was clean, and he couldn't leave until he knew he hadn't slopped up the job at the Farnsworth. But he had been at the Pendleton, in his room, when the shooting took place, unless Kap was wrong. And Kap was seldom wrong on things like this. None of it made any sense…

He was suddenly conscious of Stanton talking. He looked up.

'What did you say?'

'I started to give my report,' Stanton said.

'Oh.' Clancy moved his pad closer, picked up his pencil and nodded. 'Well, start again. I wasn't listening.'

'O.K.,' Stanton said agreeably. He referred to his notes. 'Well, like you told me, I went back to the New Yorker and checked on that elevator operator and the starter, too, but neither one of them remembered anything about the blonde. The operator ...'

'Was it the same crew?'

'Yeah. The shift hours there are twelve hours on and twelve off, four days. They got a screwy setup.' He paused, considering. 'But nowhere near as screwy as the police department. Anyways, this operator tells me he don't remember a thing. He says all passengers look alike to him. He don't know it, but all elevator operators look alike to me. Anyways, that was no soap, but I got an idea. You know the bellhops in those big hotels punch a ticket every time they take somebody upstairs - to make sure they don't goof off, I guess. I figured maybe a bellhop might have been on the same elevator; when I come into the hotel that first time she was just getting into the elevator and I couldn't see if it was full or not. Or who was on it. So I got hold of the bell-captain and we started checking the slips.'

'Good thinking,' Clancy said approvingly. 'Any luck?'

'Well, yes and no,' Stanton said. 'It depends on what you call luck. It was eleven-forty as near as I can figure, when I trailed her into the hotel. We went through the slips and found six stubs punched for the times between eleven-thirty and eleven-fifty. I talked to the boys who handled those trips and one of them said he was sure he rode up with this blonde in the elevator.' He frowned. 'The only thing is, I'm not so sure you can trust his word.'

Clancy raised his eyebrows. 'Why not?'

'Well,' Stanton said, wrinkling his nose, 'he was a sort of a drooly little goon. Anything in skirts probably looks like a gorgeous blonde to him. A real twerpy guy, probably chases the maids half the time. And he couldn't remember if she got off at the fifth or sixth floor but he says he knows it was one of them. He says he was watching her because he was sort of hoping she'd ride to a high enough floor for some of the other passengers to get off so he could get a real good look at her.' Stanton shook his head in disgust. 'I'm telling you - a real creep.'

'I'm not so sure,' Clancy said thoughtfully. 'I don't mean about him being a creep - I mean, that's just the kind of testimony I have a tendency to believe. Well? Did you check on the fifth and sixth floors?'

'Sure,' Stanton said. 'I didn't have any other leads. The floor-maids on those floors don't remember any blondes walking around at that hour. One of them, on the fifth floor, said she had a couple of guests who were blond, but the descriptions she gave didn't sound like the Renick woman, or even close.' He shrugged. 'I guess they must see so many different faces they don't even notice them after a while.'

'Did you get a guest-list for those two floors?'

'Yeah, from the desk.' Stanton reached into an inner jacket pocket, pulling out some papers. He sorted through them and then placed two mimeographed sheets before Clancy and then leaned over the desk, pointing, explaining. 'The ones with circles around the room-numbers are checkouts. Before I got back there the second time.'

Clancy picked up the sheets, running his eye rapidly down the top one. It was for the fifth floor; his eye automatically stopped at the R's. The sheet listed four: Reed, H.B.; Reinhardt, P. & Wife; Roland, J. & Wife; and Rykind, J.M. & Wife. He slipped the sheet in back of the other and ran his eye down the page for the sixth floor. Only one R faced him: Rhamghay, N.D. No circles appeared before any of the names.

His eyes came up. 'Did you check on any of these names beginning with an R?' i didn't have time,' Stanton said. 'I was just finishing up at the desk when the house man comes along and says you want me to meet you right away. Over on West End.'

'Yeah.' Clancy laid the sheets down, studied them a moment, and then circled the last two names listed for the fifth floor under the initial R. He turned to Kaproski, sliding the papers across the desk.

'Kap, call the house detective at the New Yorker. I want to check on these two names. Anything he can get me, but quickly. Descriptions if possible, when they checked in - stuff like that. And do it from another phone. I want to keep this one clear.'

'Right.' Kaproski heaved himself to his feet, reaching for the lists.

'And tell him I don't need their life-histories,' Clancy added. 'Just the stuff he can get in a few minutes.' He thought a moment. 'Maybe you ought to hang on the phone until he gets it.'

'Right,' Kaproski said. He picked up the sheets and went out.

Doc Freeman cleared his throat. 'Do you have anything, Clancy?'

'I don't know,' Clancy said wearily. 'Probably not. I'm just picking at straws now.' He stuck a hand in his pocket, searching for a cigarette, remembered once again he had none. Doc Freeman slid a pack across the desk to him. Clancy pulled one out, held a match to it, and then flicked the match in the general direction of the wastebasket.

'Thanks, Doc.' He turned back to Stanton. 'All right, let's go on. How did you make out at the mail-desk?'

'A complete flop,' Stanton said. 'They don't remember her, or her letters, or anything.'

Clancy stared at him. 'That's all?'

'That's all.'

Clancy leaned over the desk. 'Did you find the right clerk?’

“I found the right clerk. It was the same one, and I seen her when I was there the first time. But it's a big hotel,' Stanton said a bit apologetically. 'They get a lot of mail in and out over that counter, Lieutenant. All day long.' He shrugged. 'Personally I don't think they even see faces; just hands.'

'Yeah,' Clancy said. He knocked the ash from his cigarette, frowned at it, and then crushed the almost-complete cigarette out in the ashtray viciously. Silence fell in the small room. Stanton finally broke it, clearing his throat.

'What do we do now, Lieutenant?'

Clancy stared at him broodingly. 'That's a good question. That's a very good question.' He swiveled his chair around to look at Doc Freeman. 'Doc; why don't you go home?'

Doc Freeman smiled at him.

'Because I'm going to stick with you for about another hour at the most, and then I'm going to take you by the scruff of the neck and put you to bed if I have to give you an injection first. You don't know it, but you're falling asleep on your feet.'

'I'm falling asleep in my head,' Clancy said sourly. He leaned forward, picking up his pencil, staring at his pad of notes. Other than the notation 'drinks,' the name Renick, and the name New Yorker, the paper was covered with a mass of meaningless doodles. He leaned back, twiddling the pencil. 'God knows I've got a lot of facts; too many, as a matter of fact. Only they don't fit; they don't make sense. Just about the time I think I'm seeing some light in the mess, something else comes along to screw up the detail.'

'Sleep,' Doc Freeman said. 'That's what you need.'

'And a good meal,' Stanton added earnestly. 'When's the last time you ate, Lieutenant?' He paused, trying not to sound personal. 'When's the last time any of us ate?'

'Clancy,' Doc Freeman said imploringly, 'why don't you give it up? Call Captain Wise and tell him the whole story.

Everything.

Then let Homicide take over. And then come out with me and have a couple of good strong drinks, and I'll see to it you're tucked in bed for the night. You're too good a man to kill yourself this way.'

'Yeah,' Clancy said, staring at his pad of notes. 'I'm a good man, all right. I'm a holy wonder.' He twiddled the pencil, frowning at it. 'Maybe if I'd have called in Homicide right off the bat, when Rossi was found in the hospital, we would have been farther ahead ...'

His fingers suddenly tightened on the pencil; he flung it from him in anger. 'No! Not with Chalmers involved in the deal. He would have managed to see that the thing was screwed up even worse than it is .. .'

'Clancy, listen to me…'

'You're all right, Doc, but the answer is no.' Clancy forced a smile. 'Give me another cigarette.' Kaproski came into the room as he was lighting up; he shook out the match and glanced up at the large detective.

'Well?'

'The house dick knows this Rykind character,' Kaproski reported. 'Everybody at the hotel does; he's been living there for the past six months or more. An old guy with a tall, skinny wife bigger than him. He does something at the UN, the house dick thinks.' He frowned. 'This Roland character is a new one, though. He just checked out, by the way.'

'When?'

'Just now. Inside of the last fifteen minutes. Him and his wife, both.' Kaproski glanced down at the paper in his hand. 'The cashier still remembered him; she said he was a musical-type guy. Beatnik, you know. Beard, dark glasses, all that stuff. The wife was blonde; short but stacked, if you want to take the cashier's word for it.' He looked at the paper again. 'They had six pieces of luggage between them.'

A memory was itching at the back of Clancy's mind. Where had he seen a man with a beard and dark glasses? Somewhere…and in connection with the case. At the hospital? No…his eyes suddenly narrowed; that was the description of the man who had pushed past him into the reconverted brownstone when he had first visited Ann Renick; the rude bastard. He sighed deeply. It was probably also the description of half the inhabitants of reconverted brownstone-fronts all over New York City. He turned back to Kaproski.

'Did the doorman hear where they were going?'

'No; he was too busy loading the trunk. And he didn't recognize the driver, either. It was a Yellow, but that's all he noticed.' Kaproski leaned over the desk. 'We can find the cab easy enough, Lieutenant. From his route-sheets when he checks into the garage tonight after work. It's simple.'

'Yeah,' Clancy said bitterly. 'Or tomorrow.' He banged his fist on the desk. 'Time! That's the problem, don't you understand? We don't have time to wait for cab-drivers to check into garages; or for anything else, either! Time . ..' He sighed, fighting off his feeling of depression and frustration. 'You're right, of course, Kap. Well; if we don't get anything else tonight, we'll check on the garage.'

Doc Freeman frowned. 'Who's this Roland?'

Clancy looked at him. 'Probably the first violinist of the Philharmonic catching a train from Penn Station for Philadelphia. Or a sign-painter from Weehawken. With his short but stacked wife. I told you I was catching at straws.' He pulled himself to his feet, reaching over to the filing cabinet for his hat. 'Well, let's get on our way.'

'Where?' Doc Freeman asked.

'To eat?' Stanton asked.

'Down to Centre Street,' Clancy said. 'That picture ought to be coming in on the teletype by now.' He looked at the others evenly. 'Unless somebody has a better idea?' There was utter silence.

'That's what I thought,' Clancy said flatly, and led the way from the room.