The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues

by Ellen Raskin

  “And he mailed the bracelet to himself, probably to his home address. If I were you, I’d get a search warrant before Opalmeyer skips town.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks, Garson. And if you’re right, I’m coming over to congratulate you and find out how you did it. Maybe I can learn something.”

  “See you soon, then,” Garson replied confidently.

  Quinn chuckled as he hung up the telephone. “He says it’s Opalmeyer,” he reported to his assistant. “A clever man, our Garson. I’ll be going over there in a hour; see that my little surprise is ready.”

  Chief Quinn had solved The Case of the Full-Sized Midget two days ago. F. K. Opalmeyer was already behind bars.

  3

  Savoring his moment of triumph, Garson himself opened the front door. “Welcome, Chief Quinn. I assume you have apprehended the perpetrator.”

  “One half hour after you called,” Quinn lied with a big smile. “Congratulations, Garson. Or is it Sherlock Holmes? And Doctor Watson, I presume.”

  “Hello, Chief,” Dickory said, looking around to see if the hats had been left out. They were out of sight; the chief was joking.

  Garson sat down in the wing chair with a drink, but Quinn refused to join him. Casually, he toured the studio. “Out of work, I see,” he remarked, glancing at the empty easels. “And what’s this?” He stopped before one of the naked manikins. “I could have you arrested for indecent exposure, Madam, or is it Sir?” The chief certainly was in good humor.

  “I gather you not only captured the jewel thief, but recovered the bracelet as well,” Garson guessed.

  “Thanks to you, we certainly did.” The chief walked into the kitchen area. “Don’t bother, Hickory, I can pour my own coffee. I’ve been here too often to be treated as a guest.” At last the chief sat down. “Now, tell me how you did it.”

  “Professional secret,” Garson replied coolly. “But I can tell you how Opalmeyer did it. You see, there would not have been time to break the glass, then steal the bracelet after the alarm went off. Opalmeyer had a key. When someone—probably Opalmeyer himself—shouted about the President, he unlocked the case, took out the bracelet, and locked the case again. When he smashed the glass, the bracelet was already in the envelope in his pocket.”

  “Well, what do you know,” said the chief.

  “Very clever of Opalmeyer,” Garson continued. “If he had been caught taking the bracelet, he would have been innocent of any crime. He was, after all, president of the company. But no one saw him. In the pretense of running after a thief, Opalmeyer dashed into the hallway, dropped the envelope into the mail slot, then gave his loud description of the nonexistent midget.”

  “What was the motive, Chief?” Dickory asked. “Greed?”

  “No, he wasn’t going to sell it, he says,” Quinn replied. “Something came over him and he just had to have it. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he wanted to look at it for the rest of his life. Covetousness, I’d call it.”

  “That’s a fifth horseman,” Dickory said.

  “So it is. All right, change it to greed. Or maybe jealousy. Never in his life’s career had he been able to design a masterpiece like that bracelet. Tell me, Garson, you’re an artist, a creator. Is jealousy reason enough to make a man steal? Or kill?”

  “Kill?” Garson was surprised by the question.

  The phone rang. “That’s probably for me,” the chief said, rising.

  Dickory answered. It was Cookie Panzpresser in tears. Her husband didn’t like the portrait at all. In fact, he hated it and wanted it out of the house this instant. Oh dear, what was she going to do?

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Panzpresser, but Garson isn’t here right now. I’ll give him the message; I’m sure he can work something out. And Mrs. Panzpresser, Cookie, thanks again for letting me see the art collection.” Dickory hung up the phone, stamped her foot, glanced at Garson, jumped and stamped again. She smiled sheepishly at his curious look.

  “Could have sworn that phone call was for me,” Quinn said, strangely unaware of Dickory’s stomping. “The Zyzyskczuk case has got the whole department at wit’s end.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Garson offered.

  “Yes, maybe you can. The trouble is that the two Eldon F. Zyzyskczuks refuse to meet or even speak to each other,” Quinn explained, having resumed his chair. “And we still have no idea where to find number three.”

  “That’s understandable,” Garson said. “Anyone who grew up with a name like Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, thinking himself unique, can’t admit that there could be another person with the same name. Except when it comes to a wrong bill.” Suddenly he jumped, crunched his heel on the floor in front of him, then leaned back in his chair as if nothing had happened.

  Again the chief did not seem to notice. “Here’s what we have: Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the importer, is medium-sized everything: sandy hair, brown eyes, rimless glasses, a bachelor. He has a neat, slanted handwriting.”

  “Right-handed?” Garson asked.

  “All three are right-handed,” Quinn replied. “Now, Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the exporter, is a bit shorter, has dark hair and a moustache, blue eyes, a widower with one grown daughter who lives in California, and a nephew who helps in his business. He has a stiff up-and-down handwriting.”

  Dickory stamped her foot in the kitchen area.

  Quinn continued. “Six months ago, the third Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk appeared. There was such a mix-up about the first two, the third went unnoticed until he had bought and sold half the city of New York: real estate, cars, off-track betting schemes, stocks and bonds, you name it.”

  “Forgery?” Garson asked, staring at the floor.

  “That’s right. We think it was some sort of inside job; someone knew about the confusion caused by the two names and took advantage of it. That’s whose portrait I want you to paint, Garson, the third man, the impostor who forges the names of Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk. I’ll send along some of the descriptions, and the witnesses themselves, if you like. He’s about five-feet ten, heavy-set, wears sunglasses and gloves.”

  “Whose signature does he forge, the importer’s or the exporter’s?”

  “Both. Not perfectly, but good enough.”

  “Nothing else unusual?” Garson ground his foot on the floor.

  “Just one thing. He writes holding the pen between his third and fourth fingers. He may have an injured index finger.”

  This time the telephone call was for the chief. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.” The chief scrambled down the stairs without a good-bye, without even a nursery rhyme.

  Dickory stamped her foot again. “Cockroaches,” she said. “We’re overrun with cockroaches.”

  “I know,” Garson replied with disgust. “I found a few myself. Remind me to call the exterminator tomorrow. What time is it?”

  “Exactly five-thirteen.”

  Garson leaped from his chair and bounded down the stairs.

  “Wait, Garson, what should I tell Cookie Panzpresser?”

  “Tell her to donate the portrait to the Museum of Modern Art,” he said, and slammed the front door.

  Dickory remained on the top landing, trying to decide if Garson had been joking. If it was a joke, it was a bad one. Suddenly she realized that she was staring down into the ugly face of Manny Mallomar. She darted into the studio, closing the door behind her, and ran to the window to see if Garson, her protector, was still there.

  Garson had just turned beyond the bend. The derelict staggered to his feet and stumbled after him. Dickory’s eyes followed the derelict down the street. The upstairs wardrobe contained a costume similar to his, lumberjack shirt and baggy pants, although not quite as disreputable. He looked and staggered and smelled like a real bum, unlike Garson’s unsuccessful imitation, but perhaps this man was just a better actor.

  The derelict lurched out of sight. Now, in the middle of the street, stood a fat greasy ghost and his skinny black shadow. Shrimps Marinara was pointing her out to the pop-eyed Manny Mall
omar. Dickory edged away from the window. When she again looked down, the two ugly tenants disappeared around the bend, and, tapping his cane, so did the blind man. The blind man with the straight teeth and no gold earring in either ear.

  4

  “The gold earring was in his right ear,” George said. He had found a Dock on Fourteenth Street in the telephone book and called Dickory to report having seen the tattooed sailor again. “And you know who he was having dinner with? Guess.”

  “Who’s Guest?” The television set was blaring, but Dickory didn’t dare ask her brother to make another trip back and forth to lower the sound.

  “I said guess, not guest. Anyhow, it was the cook.”

  “Who?”

  “The sailor was in the café with the cook—the fat man in the white suit, who I saw in the window where you work. I listened to what they said, too. I thought you might want to know about it, because you looked so scared when the sailor handed you the letter.”

  “Listen, George, I can’t hear you very well. Why don’t you come over here and tell me about it?”

  “I can’t. My uncle is out, and I have to stay here and answer his phone.” George did not explain how he could answer the telephone when he was talking on it. “How about going to the zoo with me tomorrow to sketch?”

  After another “who” and “zoo,” it was agreed.

  Dickory returned to her assignment wondering why George was so excited about having seen the tattooed sailor with Mallomar. The note had probably set the time and place for that meeting. The sailor did not want to be seen on Cobble Lane, what with Chief Quinn popping in and out.

  In a very short time she had finished her design, a composition based on two complementary colors which, in the right proportions, would form gray. She painted a red swash between two fine black lines, then a blue-green swash between the next. The three hatched pen strokes were already on the canvas from The Case of the Face on the Five-Dollar Bill.

  At the zoo, George again insisted that the sailor’s gold earring had been in his right earlobe. And the tattoo was on his left arm. “It said ‘Potato,’ ” George reported.

  “Potato?” Dickory could hardly believe that anyone would want the word “Potato” tattooed on his arm. “Mother,” yes, or a sweetheart’s name. But “Potato”?

  “And it was upside down,” George continued. “I had to lean way over to read it.”

  “An upside-down tattoo that said ‘Potato’?” Dickory listened with some skepticism to her friend’s account of the meeting between Mallomar and the sailor.

  George had followed the sailor into the café and sat down at the next table with his back toward him. “I was afraid the fat man would recognize me, but he was too upset to notice anything. Except the tattoo. He kept looking at the tattoo, trying to read what it said.”

  “Why was he upset?” Dickory asked.

  “The sailor wanted some sort of list from the fat man. He called him—what was it—Oreo, I think.”

  “Mallomar.”

  “That’s right, Mallomar. ‘Mallomar,’ the sailor said, ‘you’re nothing but a cheap crook. The big boss don’t like your busting in on his territory. He wants the list, now; and he wants you to move out of there and leave your files,’ or something like that.” George blushed at his clumsy imitation of the sailor’s speech. “The fat man swore a lot, and the sailor threatened him. Sounded like blackmail to me.”

  “Who was blackmailing whom?”

  “I think the sailor was blackmailing the fat man. Something about a murder in a clock shop. Anyhow, the fat man said that the list was in a safe deposit box and he couldn’t get to the bank until Monday. He sure sounded scared. The sailor said, ‘Okay, Monday, but don’t try anything funny because you’re being watched every minute. There’s a contract out on you if you don’t deliver.’ ”

  George had been seeing too many movies, Dickory thought. It was all so confusing; and if true, made little difference whether Garson was being blackmailed by a little crook or a big one.

  “Did you hear the sailor’s name?” she asked.

  “Yes—no. Yes, I heard the name, but I forgot it. Something that begins with a flower.”

  “Zinnia?” Dickory guessed, thinking that was close enough to Zyzyskczuk. She wanted to solve the next case all by herself.

  “No, not Zinnia. I think it begins with an R.” That was the best George could do. He was doing even worse with his sketch of the pacing tiger. “I wish he’d hold still for two minutes,” he complained.

  “Over here,” Dickory said. “The lions are asleep.”

  “Asleep!” shouted the drawing instructor on viewing the displayed sketches. “Two drawings of sleeping lions, six drawings of people asleep on the subway, one infant asleep in a crib! This is supposed to be life drawing, not dead drawing. These were supposed to have been quick sketches, notes on movement.” Fists on his hips, he glowered at the class. “Choke-ups, that’s what you are. Afraid one line might be out of place. Maybe it’s my own fault for allowing the model to assume five-minute poses. Tomorrow she is going to move. Move, move, move. And you are going to sketch, sketch, sketch.”

  Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped, Dickory scuffed along the Greenwich Village streets. The ridicule of the life-drawing teacher had been bad enough, but Professor D’Arches had harshly criticized her three-stroke complementary-color design. “A traffic light,” he had called it, and went on to rant about his pet peeve, the incompetence and clutter of street signs.

  “I’m not much of an artist,” she confessed to George, who was shambling at her side.

  “Cheer up, Dickory. If you did everything right you wouldn’t have to go to art school. The teachers pick on you because you’re good. They don’t want you to get lazy. Besides, artists have to get used to criticism, lots of it, so better now than later. I’d be happy just to have one of the teachers notice me, no matter what he said.”

  With that sound advice and a sad wave, George left Dickory at the corner of Cobble Lane. He did not return to school to sketch, sketch, sketch.

  Neither did Dickory.

  ? ? ? ? ?

  The Case of the Disguised Disguise

  1

  Cobble Lane was deserted when Dickory arrived. There was a deathly quiet in and around Number 12. Mallomar’s door was closed. She listened. There was no sound within. Garson’s door was open. She called. No one answered.

  Suddenly an insistent doorbell shattered the silence. A stranger in a nylon jacket, carrying a square, battered case, pushed his way into the house. “Exterminator,” he announced. “From the way it sounds, I got to do the whole place. Lead the way—I’ll start from the top down.”

  Dickory led the exterminator up the two flights to the top floor. He filled his can in the bathtub, pumped it, and began to spray. “You don’t have to stay; I’ll let you know when I’m done. The fumes are bad for you, you know.”

  Dickory stayed. One of her qualifications for this job was being a born-and-bred New Yorker, and New Yorkers don’t trust anyone, not even exterminators. “You should come over to where I live. The exterminator our landlord sends around gives a squirt here and a squirt there, and is in and out in two minutes.”

  This exterminator opened every closet, pulled out every drawer. He sprayed in every corner of every room. He sprayed so much he had to refill his tank five times before he came down to the studio floor.

  There, too, not a cabinet or a shelf was left untouched. He removed drawers, lifted rugs; he even took the telephone apart and sprayed. And sprayed.

  “How do I get in downstairs?” he asked.

  “Follow me.” Dickory had to try several keys on her ring before the door to Mallomar’s apartment would open.

  The elegant rooms she had seen on the first day of her job were barely recognizable now. Newspapers and empty bottles were strewn over the Oriental rugs; dirty glasses lined the fireplace. The only clean things in the bedroom, where the exterminator was now spraying, were the white suits hanging
in the closet. He sprayed the white suits, the white shoes, and the pile of dirty white shirts; he even opened an empty suitcase and sprayed into the inside pockets.

  “You’re making me nervous,” he complained to Dickory. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

  “No,” she replied, and followed him down the short, curved steps into the living room.

  The exterminator opened a file-cabinet drawer.

  “You can’t spray in there.” Dickory slammed the drawer on his nozzle. Papers incriminating Garson might be in there. Perhaps, after the exterminator left, she would return and. . . .

  “I gotta spray in there,” the exterminator insisted, opening the drawer again. “I just saw a roach crawl out.”

  Once more Dickory slammed it shut. The exterminator tried another file drawer; it was locked.

  “I can’t guarantee this job,” he complained.

  Dickory led the grumbling exterminator under the balcony into the kitchen, where he sprayed halfheartedly, into the furnace room, which he sprayed even less.

  “Here’s where the roaches are coming from.” He stood before the padlocked storeroom door.

  “I don’t know the combination,” Dickory said. “Why don’t you ask the man in there if he knows it?” She pointed to the guest room.

  The exterminator knocked on the guest-room door and walked in without waiting for an answer, followed by the curious Dickory.

  Blue-checked curtains hung on the windows of the neat and spacious room, matching the spread on the brass bed. There was evidence of woodworking on the workbench, but not a shaving was to be found on the blue rug, not a trace of sawdust hung in the air. Isaac Bickerstaffe, seated in an overstuffed chair, was staring at a large framed painting on the wall.

  “Hey, buddy, can you open the padlock?” The exterminator poked the immobile deaf-mute on the arm. “Hey buddy—Awww!” Isaac’s awful one-eyed glare sent the intruder dashing out of the room.