Houdini stepped aside and pointed at the hanging slate. “Carry it over and hold the spoon against the left-hand side.”
Sir Arthur did as he was told. He lifted the spoon to the black stone surface and the wet, white cork ball stuck to it by some inexplicable power. Houdini held himself erect, fierce as a falcon. Like a trained snail, the ball commenced to roll across the vertical face of the slate, leaving a cursive white trail behind.
Sir Arthur held his breath. The gravity-defying ball appeared to spell out words as it rolled. The knight pulled on his spectacles, just to be sure. The stark white letters blazed across the slate as the ball dropped free to the carpet:
MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN
7
HEEGAN OF HOMICIDE
SERGEANT JAMES PATRICK HEEGAN knew he had no cause for complaint. Ever since transferring downtown to headquarters he didn’t have to do a blessed thing all day long. A precinct desk assignment had been soft duty, but at least the department expected him to keep his ass in the chair. Not to mention occasional paperwork. In exile downtown, he felt completely useless.
The second or third day, Lieutenant Bremmer motioned him aside in the hall. “Listen, Sarge,” he said. “I don’t really care why you’re here. I know it’s politics. Some other bullshit. I don’t want it to be my problem. Far as I’m concerned, you don’t exist. You hear me?”
“Every word.”
“I’m cutting you a lot of slack, Heegan. Just don’t rub my nose in it.”
The sergeant punched in and pulled his shift, stayed reasonably sober, and kept his uniform buttoned; aside from that, no one gave a damn what he did. As the weeks drifted by, he got better at brewing coffee. The younger detectives treated him like some kind of comic strip flatfoot. He didn’t mind, accepting their teasing as a form of shorthand affection. Occasionally, he’d go out on call with them to break the monotony, but for the most part he just sat around and read the papers.
Heegan hunched inconspicuously over a late edition folded flat before him at an empty desk in the squad room, looking for all the world like a man engrossed in an official homicide report. The publication schedules of the morning and afternoon newspapers conveniently divided his day. He logged quite a few hours in local luncheonettes and coffee shops, but as the lieutenant requested, didn’t rub the department’s nose in it.
Sergeant Heegan discovered a way out of his malaise one morning while reading the New York American. As always, he started with the sports section. Beneath the comic strip “Bringing Up Father” he read a humorous Damon Runyon poem about spring training. Heegan had smiled at Jiggs and Maggie but the poem made him laugh out loud. Runyon’s byline dominated the page. Along with “Runyon’s Rhymes” and his daily column, “Says Damon Runyon … ,” there was also an article on the state boxing commission.
Heegan read every word. An interview with Giants manager John J. McGraw occupied most of Runyon’s column. The bottom paragraphs carried a bold head:
MURDER BY THE BOOK…?
Next to a championship fight or the World Series, there’s no sporting event boils the blood of your correspondent any hotter than a complicated murder mystery. Lots of recent ink slung concerning the demise of Broadway Butterfly Dot King last March 15, but hardly anybody has much to say about the more recent axe-slaying of 26-year-old hoofer Violette Speers.
Of course, the late Mrs. Speers is no former Ziegfeld girl and didn’t have $30,000 in jewels to steal. Just a second-stringer found walled-up in a cheap room at the Hotel Stanley. Entombed with a howling cat, says the back pages. Sound familiar? Only if you’re wise to the Tales of E. A. Poe.
Being a Poe fan, the death of Mrs. Speers brings to mind a double homicide I am privileged to observe from baseline seats about a month ago. The losing side is Mrs. Esp and her blond daughter. Widow Esp with her throat cut. The daughter is stuffed up the chimney. Exactly like “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
Have asked Nick the Greek, known to make a little book from time to time, what odds he offers on the Poe Connection.
“Long shot,” he says to yours truly. “But if someone spots an orangutan hanging around Broadway, all bets are off.”
Heegan read these paragraphs over and over. He knew an orangutan was some kind of big monkey. He also knew he was on to something. The sergeant tucked the paper under his arm and told the duty officer he was going out for a couple hours. No problem. Take a long lunch. Didn’t even look up from his paperwork. A stray dog would attract more attention.
Heegan headed straight for the nearest branch of the public library. He spent the afternoon with a one-volume edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. The newspaper writers the sergeant liked, guys like Ring Lardner and Runyon and Arthur “Bugs” Baer, never made him feel stupid for not knowing something, whereas Poe’s snooty ornate prose deliberately mocked his ignorance. He plodded on, page after page, slowly reading “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Black Cat,” and “The Mystery of Marie Roget.”
Around three o’clock, the sergeant brought the book to the front desk. The librarian showed him last week’s newspapers and he quickly found the story of the Violette Speers murder in a copy of the evening World. What he remembered the squad room boys telling him was all there along with a whole lot more. When Heegan got to the part about the one-eyed cat, he felt his sphincter tighten with excitement. He wasted no time finding a public phone and placed a call to the editorial offices of the New York American.
Sergeant Heegan showed up at Lindy’s on Broadway and Fiftieth Street promptly at five. The place was bright and brassy, bentwood chairs and white-tiled floors, an all-night delicatessen alive with the clatter of blue plate specials. Even in the slow of the afternoon, most tables were occupied with swells in snappy pinstriped suits and broad-brimmed fedoras. Heegan noted their sudden interest in studying the menu when a uniformed cop sauntered past.
The sergeant found Runyon in a back booth with a lean, stoop-shouldered, dark-haired man he spotted for a lunger first thing. They both drank coffee. The newspaperman didn’t recognize Heegan from the night of the Esp murders. No reason why he should. “If you’re Damon Runyon, you probably ain’t used to being in here this early.” The policeman enjoyed feeling one up on him as they shook hands.
“Sergeant Heegan, allow me to introduce my illustrious colleague Mr. Thomas Aloysius Dorgan, known to his intimates and the world at large as ‘Tad.’ “
The bright-eyed consumptive made no effort to rise. “Mr. Runyon and I are embarking upon an evening of pugilistic appreciation. The dark and dangerous Mr. Harry Wills is topping the card at the Garden.”
”I know you,” Heegan said as he sat down. “Tad … the cartoonist. ‘Indoor Sports.’ ‘Silk-Hat Harry.’ ‘Judge Rummy.’ “
“Tad is much more than a mere cartoonist.” Damon Runyon pointed a manicured finger. “This man is a great sports-writer and philosopher. He has given our language that immortal phrase: ‘Yes, we have no bananas.’ ”
“Yeah…? Well, he shoulda done the lingo a favor and kept his mouth shut.”
“Hear that, Tad? The sergeant is a harsh critic.”
Dorgan slumped in his chair. “Gotta roll with the punches …”
“Mr. Runyon, the reason I called you was on account of what you wrote in your column today.” Heegan took a couple sugar cubes out of the bowl and popped them in his mouth.
“You got something on the Esp murders?”
“The night before the two stiffs was discovered …” Heegan crunched his sugar. “I was on the desk at the Twenty-ninth and a call come in from some woman claims she sees a gorilla carrying a blond down Ninth Avenue.”
Runyon caught Dorgan’s eye. “By gorilla, I take it you’re not referring to the mugs who patronize this fair establishment.”
“She was positive it was some kind of ape.”
“What was the woman’s name?” Damon Runyon took a slim lizard-skin notebook from the inside breast pocket of his natty suit.
; Sergeant Heegan cleared his throat. “I … er, can’t recollect. I was transferred down to headquarters shortly after that.”
“You made a record of the call?”
“Why, certainly… . Everything according to regulations, that’s always been my creed.” Heegan tried to look sincere. “Go by the book and you’ll never have no regrets.”
“No problem, then …” Runyon jotted a couple numbers down and tore the page free from his notebook. “That’s where you can reach me. Top one’s my home number.” He handed the slip of paper to Heegan. “Call anytime, night or day, soon as you get that woman’s name and address.”
“You think it’s something big then?”
“Brother, if this dame is on the up and up, it’ll be the biggest thing since Lefty Louie and Gyp the Blood iced Herman Rosenthal out front of the Metropole.”
“That was before your time, wasn’t it, Al?” cracked lanky Thomas Aloysius Dorgan.
“Nope. It was 1912. I got here from Denver two years earlier.” Damon Runyon fixed Sergeant Heegan with his mirthless grin. “The cops made a bad job of the Rosenthal rubout.”
Heegan didn’t really want to hear about it, but he nodded in agreement. “Yeah… . Lieutenant Becker.”
“Charlie Becker went to the chair. That was some story.”
“I’ll get you the name of the monkey woman.” Heegan pushed out of the booth.
“Headlines, sergeant.” The sportswriter made a tent of his thin fingers. “Big fat headlines.”
“Extra! Extra!” giggled Tad.
Heegan had his work cut out for him. He paced the cracked bluestone sidewalk on Thirty-eighth Street between Eighth and Ninth. Identical six-story tenements stretched before him on either side, every building fronted by iron fire escapes. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember whether the woman said she lived on Thirty-eighth or Thirty-ninth. Maybe he’d get lucky.
When you lack manpower better use brainpower, Heegan thought, trying to save on footwork by estimating the buildings too far back for a tenant to see the corner of Ninth without sticking her head out the window. That calculation cut the block in half. For the next hour, the sergeant rang the superintendents’ doorbells. Lucky thing it was dinnertime.
All the supers gave him the same thing: a list of single women living in apartments facing the street. Heegan figured a married woman would have got the hubby to call the cops. And if the breadwinner wasn’t at home, a frightened housewife would surely have made mention of it. It had to be some nosy old biddy with nothing better to do than stare out the window at the world passing her by.
For the next three hours, Sergeant Heegan interviewed spinsters, widows, showgirls, and prostitutes. The hookers got defensive right away when they saw the badge, but he asked everyone the same questions and the part about the gorilla made them all smile. Each denied calling the police on the night of April second.
Only four names remained on his list. Heegan had resigned himself to covering Thirty-seventh Street when he came to Millicent Cooper’s apartment. He knocked with a lack of subtlety learned from twenty-plus years on the force. The sound of his pounding fist boomed inside.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” The shrill voice had a nagging familiarity. “You don’t have to break it down.” The pint-sized woman who opened the door was wrapped in an embroidered Chinese gown, her long white hair pinned above her wrinkled pug-dog face with a tortoiseshell comb. “The neighbors are going to think it’s an alky raid and you’re coming in with a sledgehammer.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” The sergeant tipped his cap. “Are you Mrs. Cooper?”
“Every inch of me.” Millicent Cooper smiled, a rictus caricaturing joy painted on her sad sagging face. “I’d invite you in, officer, but I’m having some friends over for a game of Mah-Jongg.” An arching Siamese cat pushed between her legs and stared cross-eyed up at Heegan.
“No need, Mrs. Cooper. Just procedure. Did you by chance telephone the police on the night of April second?”
She nodded, pulling the braided sash tighter. “When I saw the gorilla carry that woman. Are you the officer I spoke with?”
“No, ma’am. I’m just following up:”
“Who is it, Milly?” a female voice yelled from another room. A second Siamese appeared next to the first, rubbing against Millicent Cooper’s legs. “Pung!” shouted another voice with mock-Oriental enthusiasm.
“A policeman,” she hollered back. “About that gorilla!”
Heegan wrote on a scrap of paper with a pencil stub. “The woman was blond?” he asked.
“That’s right. Long blond hair. Hanging down unpinned. Like she was unconscious. What was that all about, anyway?”
“We’re still looking into it, Mrs. Cooper.” Heegan licked the tip of his pencil. “Would you kindly tell me your telephone number?”
“Hudson six four three four.” For a moment, youth gleamed again in Millicent Cooper’s eyes. “I’m pleased to help in any way I can.”
“That’s much appreciated.” Sergeant Heegan touched the visor of his cap. “Thank you, Mrs. Cooper. I expect you’ll be hearing from others in the department as the investigation continues.”
“What investigation…?”
Heegan started down the stairs, not wanting to tell her much more. A third voice screeched from inside the apartment: “Millicent! Your play!”
Mrs. Cooper looked confused. “Excuse me.” She glanced over her shoulder. Two more cats joined the milling pack around her feet.
“Evening, ma’am.” Heegan bounded off down the stairs, his heart light as a bird taking wing into the cool night sky.
Over at the Twenty-ninth, Eddie Hallenbeck had the desk. Heegan waited until things were quiet, grabbing a bite at Jack’s across the street from the Hipp before heading for the precinct house. It was quiet all right. Made the morgue feel like a six-day bike race. Hallenbeck seemed glad for some conversation and Heegan happily obliged, embroidering fanciful tales of headquarters high jinks.
It looked like they might jaw all night and Heegan almost offered Hallenbeck a sawbuck to take a powder for an hour. Instead, good old Eddie asked the Sarge to do him a big favor and keep an eye on the desk awhile. He’d be right back. Heegan told him to take his time.
The sergeant settled into the familiar swivel chair and waited ten minutes or so after Hallenbeck’s departure before getting out the April blotter. Turning to April 2, he saw his usual double and sometimes triple spacing between the entries.
Heegan dipped a pen in the ink well. In the appropriate spot he wrote: “9:25 p.m. “Call from Mrs. Millicent Cooper. 355 West 38th St. Hudson 6434. Saw a gorila (?) carrying a woman down the street. No manpower available.” His precise unornamented script matched all the other surrounding entries. Heegan placed the big ledger back in the desk drawer. It had been a long, long time since he felt this good.
The sergeant didn’t go straight home when Eddie Hallenbeck got back from sneaking around. Heegan went downtown to headquarters. The squad room stood empty, but a number of half-empty coffee cups indicated the crew had recently gone out on a call. He pulled the cover off a typewriter and settled down to puzzle things out.
Twenty minutes of laborious one-finger probing yielded a memorandum for Lieutenant Bremmer:
THIS ITEM FROM RUNYON’S GOLLUM. ON THE NIGHT OF THE ESP MURDERS I WAS ON THE DESK AT THE 29TH. I LOGGED A CALL FROM A WOMAN WHO CLAIMED TO SEE A GORILA CARRY A BLOND DOWN 9TH AVE. HAVE READ THE ED POE STORY. IT IS THE SAME IN EVERY WAY AS THE ESP CASE.
SCT. J. P. HEEGAN
Heegan unscrolled the page from the typewriter carriage and attached the bottom half of Damon Runyon’s column with a paper clip. He carried it into Bremmer’s office and set it square in the middle of the green blotter on the lieutenant’s desk.
Back in the squad room, the sergeant picked up a phone and gave central the newspaperman’s home number. Heegan remembered that Runyon was going to the fights, but, in his exhilaration, didn’t realize it was so close to mi
dnight.
A woman answered. “Mrs. Runyon…?” he asked.
“Speaking.”
“Is Mr. Runyon at home?
“Mr. Runyon is never at home.”
“Do I take you to mean that he’s not available for messages?”
“You can take it any way you like. If I see him, I’ll say you called.” Her voice sounded slurred. “Just who in hell exactly should I say is calling?”
“Heegan of homicide.”
The sergeant hung up grinning. He snapped a match alight on his thumbnail and set fire to the cigar he filched off Bulldog Bremmer’s desk.
8
THE GAME IS AFOOT
SIR ARTHUR SAT AT the foot of his bed shortly after dawn. A faint line of light described the edges of the heavy drapes drawn across the windows. Jean remained asleep, warm and safe beside him. He thought of Houdini, the white cork ball in the pocket of his dressing gown gone gray from constant fingering. Conan Doyle had cut the other two in half and found nothing. He knew bisecting the final ball would yield the same result. Had a magnet been involved, Houdini certainly would have switched the spurious original through sleight-of-hand.
It wasn’t how the magician made the balls behave that troubled him. Nor the slate. He’d examined the slate and by all outward appearances it was utterly ordinary. This, of course, did not rule out possible trickery. Things are often not what they seem at first glance. Conan Doyle took pride in his keen powers of observation. To his practiced, diagnostic eye all the equipment Houdini used in his “demonstration” looked to be normal everyday household items. Even so, he knew a magician’s art depended upon the assumptions of the gullible.
The impossibility of what he’d witnessed was not what puzzled Sir Arthur. How did Houdini know the secret words he had written? The knight wrestled long and hard with the mystery, finding no solution other than the one suggested by common sense and logic: the magician was a true medium, possessing unimagined powers.
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