The Union Club Mysteries

by Asimov, Isaac

  One time he said, "Look, fellows, it don't do me any good to be seen with you. It ain't just me. I got a sister who works hard, and she's married and got a little kid. I ain't no credit to her and just my being alive does her enough harm. I don't want to bring her anything worse. I don't want her hassled and she'll be hassled if anyone thinks I'm with the cops too much."

  And that, of course, is one reason why people are so closemouthed even when you would think that it would be to their interest to talk. It never is. Talking is the unforgivable sin and the strikeback is not only at the talker, but at those near to him.

  So the police let him alone, because they saw his point and knew he wouldn't talk and that he didn't have anything to talk about anyway.

  Which made it sad when he was knocked off.

  He was found with a knife in his back in an alley. When the police got there he was still alive, because for once the knifing was reported. At least someone called in to say there were cries of help from the alley. Whoever called didn't leave his name, of course, and hung up quickly, but we don't usually get even that much in that neighborhood. Generally, the corpse is found only well after the fact, after which everyone in the neighborhood gets glassy-eyed when questions are asked and a surprising number of them turn out not even to speak English.

  The police never found out why Eighty-eight was knifed. Anyone would have thought he was harmless enough. On the other hand, there are internal politics in gangs, as anywhere else, and some errand that Eighty-eight had run might well have discomfited a gang member in some way.

  The policeman who was on the scene knew Eighty-eight well, and once he found the poor fellow alive, sent out the call for an ambulance at once. Eighty-eight stared at the policeman peacefully, with no look of concern in his eyes.

  The policeman said, "We'll get you out of here, Eighty-eight. You'll be all right."

  Eighty-eight smiled. "What are you talking about, cop? I'm dying. I'll be all right? When I die, I'll be all right. I'll be down in hell with my friends and my hopes, and if they've got a red-hot piano down there, I'll manage."

  "Who did this to you, Eighty-eight?"

  "What's it to you, or to anyone?" "Don't you want to get the rat who did this to you?"

  "Why? If you get him, does that mean I heal up? I die anyway. Maybe he did me a favor. If I had guts I'd of done this to me myself years ago."

  "We've got to get him, Eighty-eight. Help us out. If you're dying, it won't hurt you. What can he do to you? Dance on your grave?"

  Eighty-eight smiled more weakly. "Probably won't find no grave. I'll just be dumped on the garbage heap— with the other garbage. They won't dance there; they'll dance on my sister. Can't have that. I'd appreciate it if you'd just let it be known I didn't say nothing."

  "We'll say that, Eighty-eight, don't worry. But make it a lie. Just give us a name, or a hint, or a sign with your head. Anything. Look, Eighty-eight, it could help me out on my job and I won't let on you did anything."

  Eighty-eight seemed faintly amused. "You want help? All right, how's this?" His fingers moved as though they were tapping on invisible piano keys and he hummed a few notes of music.

  "What's that?" asked the policeman.

  "Your hint, cop. I can't talk no more."

  Eighty-eight closed his eyes and died en route to the hospital.

  They called me in the next day. It was getting to be a habit with them and I didn't like it. I had work of my own to do and helping them brought me thanks, but nothing tangible. I couldn't even get a traffic ticket fixed out of it.

  I said, "A gangland killing? Who cares? What's the difference if you solve it or not?" The natural reaction, in other words.

  I was talking to Carmody, a lieutenant in the homicide division.

  He said, with a growl, "Do I have to get that from you? Isn't it enough we get it from idiots in general. For one thing, the guy who got it was a poor bastard who harmed no one but himself and who deserved better of life—but let's not be sentimental. Look at it this way—

  "If we can pin this on someone, we shake up the organization he belongs to. That might amount to nothing. We might not get a conviction, or, if we do, the gang carries on without him. But there's a chance—just a chance— that the shake-up will work cracks in the organization. We might be able to take advantage of those cracks and bust it wide open and pick up the pieces as far as Newark. We've got to play for that, Griswold, and you've got to try to help us."

  "But how?" I asked.

  "We've got a lead to the killer. I want you to talk to Officer Rodney, who was with Eighty-eight Jinks—he's the dead man—before he died."

  Officer Rodney did not look happy. Having a lead he could neither understand nor communicate was no road to advancement.

  Painstakingly, he told us of the conversation with Eighty-eight, the same conversation I myself have just described. I don't know how accurate his account was, but, of course, it was the tune that counted.

  I said to him, "What kind of tune?"

  "I don't know, sir. Just a few notes."

  "Did you recognize it? Ever hear it before? Can you name it?"

  "No, sir. I never heard it before. It didn't sound like it was part of a popular song or anything like that. Just a few notes that didn't sound like anything."

  "Can you remember it? Can you hum it or sing it?"

  Rodney looked at me rather horrified. "I'm not much of a singer."

  "We're not holding auditions. Just do your best."

  He tried several times and then gave up in complete misery. "I'm sorry, sir. He only sang it once and it was like nothing I ever heard. I can't come up with anything."

  So we let him go, and he looked relieved at the chance of getting away from questioning that made him seem helpless.

  Carmody looked at me anxiously. "What do we do? Do you suppose we could have him put under hypnosis? He might remember then."

  I said, "Suppose we did, and he remembered the tune and we recognized it and saw the relationship to a suspect. Could we introduce it all as evidence? Would Rodney survive cross-examination? Would it be convincing to a jury?"

  "No, to all three. But if we were satisfied we knew who it was, we could try to break him down—find motive, means and opportunity."

  "Do you have any suspects at all?"

  "There's a neighborhood gang, of course, and they include three men we have good reason to think have been involved in past killings."

  "Get after all three, then."

  "Not convincing. If you're after all three, none are scared, since we're clearly in the dark. And it might be someone else altogether, too. If we knew one man and zeroed in on him and him alone—"

  "Well," I said, "what are the names of the three suspects you just mentioned."

  He said, "Moose Matty, Ace Begad and Gent Diamond."

  "In that case," I said, "we may not have a problem. Get Officer Rodney and get us both to the nearest piano."

  We located a piano in the studio across the street and I said to Rodney, "Listen to this, officer, and tell me if this is what Eighty-eight hummed." I tapped out several notes.

  Rodney looked surprised. "It does sound like it, sir! Could you do it again?"

  I did it again. "Just this one more time, officer," I said, "or you'll start believing it to be the tune no matter what I play. Now is this it?"

  "Yes it is," he said in excitement. "That's it exactly."

  "Thank you, officer. Good job and I'm sure you'll get a commendation for it.—Lieutenant, we know who the murderer is, or at least we know who Eighty-eight said it was."

  Well, I don't know whether there were repercussions as far as Newark, because I didn't follow the case thereafter, but I understand they got the murderer and even put him in prison, which is a happy ending. Officer Rodney got a commendation; Lieutenant Carmody got the credit; I got back to my own work; and all of you, of course, see what happened.

  * * *

  "No, we don't," roared Jennings, "and don't go to s
leep on us. This time, Griswold, you have gone too far and you're simply putting us on. How could you reconstruct the notes and how could you use them to spot the murderer?"

  Griswold snorted. "Where's the need for explanation? There are only seven notes and then the eighth starts the series over again—do, re mi, fa, sol, la, ti, and then do starts it over. Well, they are also expressed as letters: C, D, E, F, G, A, B, and then C again. You've heard of 'middle C and the 'key of G' or 'D minor and so on.

  "Very well. It is possible, though not usual, for a name to consist only of the note letters of A through G. Ace Begad is an example, and as soon as I heard it, I felt sure he was the murderer. I spelled the name in musical notes: la, do, mi, ti, mi, sol, la, re or A, C, E, B, E, G, A, D, with a short pause between the third and fourth notes and Rodney recognized the combination when I played it—and that's all there was to it."

  To Contents

  Hide and Seek

  "I see," said Baranov, peering slyly in the direction of Griswold, "where two agents have been convicted of searching a place without a warrant."

  He paused and neither Jennings nor I said anything. Griswold was at right angles to us, facing the fireplace in which a log smoldered, for it was a rather chilly fall evening. For a wonder, he wasn't asleep, for his scotch and soda moved slowly to his lips and then away again. But he said nothing.

  Baranov tried again. "This sort of thing makes it hard for law-enforcement agencies to do their work; especially if they must work in secrecy and in the interest of national security."

  Another pause. Jennings said in a slightly higher voice, "On the other hand, you can't let law-enforcement agents break the law they are sworn to defend. That puts the liberties of the people in direct jeopardy."

  At that point, Griswold swiveled his chair, faced the three of us with his eyebrows hunched over his china-blue eyes and his white mustache twitching. He said, "You're trying to get a reaction out of me and you're wasting your time. It is not so much a question of law as of prudence. They could have done what they did with impunity, if they had been given a direct mandate by those who were entitled to judge when something was a matter of national security. They did not obtain the proper authority, and not merely a search warrant. Let me tell you. What can hold back an organization far more than just legal constraints is its own set of mind— which can be foolish. For instance—"

  He took another delicate sip at his scotch and soda and then went on.

  For instance [said Griswold] back in the days when the agency was run by you-know-who, there wasn't an agent who dared lift his voice against any ukase, however ridiculous. After all, senators threw themselves over mud puddles so the chief could use them to avoid getting his shoes muddy, and presidents cowered in the corner when he frowned.

  You could tell an agent a mile away by their chief-imposed uniforms. No one else had shirts so white, so glossy, so buttoned-down, or ties so narrow and so neatly centered, or suits so subdued, or waistlines so carefully flat, or hair so short and so neatly parted, or was scented in so masculine a fashion, or seemed so much younger and callower than his years. Well, they might just possibly have been mistaken for Mormon missionaries, but for nothing else.

  And of course, they were all in a state of constant terror. It was not so much that they might make a mistake. That might be forgiven. The real fear was that they might make the agency, and the chief, look foolish. For that it was evisceration the first time. There was no forgiveness and the agents knew it.

  Naturally, I could never make it with the agency in any official capacity. I wouldn't shave my mustache, which was dark in those days but almost as impressive as it is now, and I wouldn't wear the uniform, and worst of all, I once chose to look over the head of the chief, which was easy to do, and to pretend I didn't see him. He might forget anything else, but he never forgot a slur on his height, however indirect.

  It didn't matter. I made out. When things got tough there was many an agency official who came to me for help.

  Jack Winslow came to me once, I remember, with an ingratiating smile on his face and some telltale beads of sweat on his forehead, despite the rule that no agent must perspire. Jack Winslow was his real name, by the way, which helped him a lot at the agency. The only better name would have been Jack Armstrong.

  He said, "Listen, Griswold, the damndest thing happened today and I'd appreciate it if you would let me have your thoughts on it."

  "Tell me what happened," I said, "and I'll tell you if I have any thoughts about it. And I won't tell the chief you asked me."

  He thanked me very sincerely for that, but, of course, there was no way I could tell the chief if I wanted to. We were not on speaking terms—which suited me fine.

  There's no point in telling you Winslow's story in full detail because he's an awfully tedious fellow. Still is, I understand, though he's retired now. I'll give you the essentials in brief.

  The agency had gotten on to the fringes of an operation it was important to stop. They had located a pawn in the game. They could pick him up any time they wanted to, but it would have done them no good. He wouldn't know enough and he could be too easily replaced. If he were left at large, however, he might be used as a wedge that could pry out something far more useful than himself. It was tedious and delicate work, and sometimes this sort of thing was fumbled and no agent was ever allowed to enjoy that fumble—so Wins-low was in a difficult position.

  The goal at this particular time was to spot a relay: the passage of something important from one person to another. Two items of information were desired: the manner of the surreptitious passage, because that could be an important clue to the system of thought being used by these people; and the identity of the pickup, that is, the one who received the item, for the pick-up was likely, but not certain, to be more important than the transmitter.

  The pawn had been maneuvered into accepting something to put through the relay. It was something that was legitimately important; though not as important as the others had been led to believe. Still, they were not fools and had to be fed something in order to make them bite. It was important enough, at any rate, to make the agents prefer not to lose it without having gained something at least equally important.

  The real coup was the shape of the object to be transferred. Somehow the opposition had been persuaded to order their pawn to pick up a package which, while not heavy, was six feet long and about four inches wide. It looked like a packaged fishing rod and there was no way in which it could be disguised or made to look inconspicuous. Winslow was proud of this and wouldn't tell me how the trick had been turned, but I didn't care. I knew that, as a general rule, the people we fight against are as vulnerable as we are.

  There were five agents at various places and in various forms watching the progress of the pawn or, rather, of the very conspicuous package. They didn't stay close; they couldn't have, or they would have been easily spotted by their white shirts and beautiful gray fedoras in a neighborhood in which neither was ever seen on the inhabitants.

  The pawn walked into a crummy restaurant in this slummish neighborhood. He had to maneuver the package to get it through the door, and Winslow held his breath lest he break it, but he got it into the restaurant in one piece. He stayed there about five minutes—four minutes, twenty-three seconds, Winslow told me, since he had stupidly been watching his watch instead of the restaurant—and then he came out. He didn't have the package with him, or anything that could possibly have held it.

  They expected that. Somehow, though, they expected that it would come out in the hands of someone else, or in some fashion, and it never did. After two hours, Winslow got very uneasy. Could they have frightened off the pick-up by being insufficiently clandestine in their surveillance? They couldn't help that as long as they wore their uniform, but that wouldn't protect them against the chief's wrath.

  Worse yet, could they have allowed the package—six feet long, four inches wide—to be slipped out under their noses somehow? If so, their
careers were finished. Finally, Winslow could stand no more. In desperation, he ordered his men into the restaurant, and then came the final blow.

  "It wasn't there," said Winslow desperately. "It wasn't such a damned big place and the package just wasn't there. As soon as I could see that was the situation, I came here. I remembered you lived only a mile away and hoped you might be in." He looked decidedly grateful I was in.

  I said, "I suppose I can trust your agents to find it if it's there. Something six feet long isn't exactly a diamond or a piece of microfilm."

  "It's not there."

  "Could it have been dismembered, taken apart, hidden in parts, or, for that matter, taken out in parts?"

  "No, it would then be broken, useless. It had to be intact.—I'm not telling you what it is, mind you."

  "I'm not asking and you probably don't know yourself. —Did you look over the people in the restaurant?"

  "Certainly. They were the type who were completely uncooperative, who turn sullen and resentful at the least sign of the law. But there's no way something like that could be hidden on anyone's person."

  "By the way," I said, "do you have a search warrant?"

  Winslow reddened a bit. "We have a sort of catchall search warrant for safety violations. Never mind about that."

  I'm sure it wouldn't have held up in court, but in those days such things weren't questioned.

  I said, "Maybe it was taken upstairs."

  "There is no upstairs. It's a crummy little one-story greasy-spoon restaurant, between two tenements."

  "Well then," I said, "there must be an entrance into one of the adjoining tenements, or both."

  "Not a chance. Solid wall, both ways."

  "Cellar?"

  "We looked through it. A junkyard with some food staples. What we wanted wasn't there."

  "Entrances into the adjoining tenements through the cellar?" "No. Damn it, Griswold, give us some credit for brains."

  "Kitchen?"

  "Plenty of cockroaches; nothing of what we wanted."