The Quarry

by Fish, Robert L. ;

Clancy sighed, and went back to his first question. “Who do you have there with you?”

  “Well, Pritchard’s out in front with a car, and some man, I don’t remember his name—a third-grade from one of the other precincts—is covering the back.”

  “Can you get the car around to the back and get the family in it without any trouble?”

  “I think so, Lieutenant.”

  “All right, then. Send the family to Mr. Kirkwood’s in-laws. They’re in Camden—he’ll tell you where. But you stay there with him. Do you happen to know if there’s any liquor in the house?”

  “I don’t know, but there probably is.”

  “Well, if there is, see that he takes a couple of stiff shots. And you stick with him, do you understand?”

  “I understand, Lieutenant.”

  “All right then. Say good night to him for me.”

  Clancy hung up and went back into the living room. Kaproski had used the time advantageously; he had discovered Clancy’s small hoard of sheets and blankets and had arranged the couch into a very creditable, well-made bed. Clancy’s eyebrows went up.

  “Mother Kaproski, eh?”

  Kaproski looked at him with a grin. “You don’t learn how to make beds in my mother’s house,” he said, “then you don’t sleep. What was the call, Lieutenant?”

  “Nothing,” Clancy said, too tired to explain. “That made-up couch gives me a great idea. I’m going to sack in. If you need anything tonight, Kap, you’ll have to find it yourself.”

  “I’ll get along fine if that damn phone don’t ring,” Kaproski said. He walked over and clicked out the overhead lights, just leaving a small lamp burning on the end table. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

  “Good night,” Clancy said, and yawned. “Pleasant dreams.”

  Thursday—6:45 A.M.

  Pleasant dreams …

  Clancy rolled over restlessly, muttering unintelligibly to himself. His mind was wandering through that nebulous world between wakefulness and sleep; his eyes were barely slitted in the direction of the window, but the growing daylight was not what registered on his dulled brain. Instead, a picture was forming there, a motion picture, flickering slightly, like an old kinescope. He made no attempt to give direction to the scene before him, but let his imagination run on, carrying him along both as a spectator and a participant in the drama …

  He was standing looking through the woven-mesh screening of a fence that surrounded a schoolyard, and a group of young children within were playing some game that required them to hold each other’s hands to form a large circle. Two of the children, however, were dressed in little suits of armor, shining blindingly in the afternoon sun. Their tilting helms were closed so that their faces could not be seen, and these two children were bounded on either side by large blue-clad patrolmen who were going through the motions of the ring-around-the-rosy with the same deliberate steps and serious expressions as the other children. None of the children seemed to find anything strange in the armor suits, or in the presence of the policemen; oddly enough, neither did Clancy.

  A commotion at his elbow made him turn from the schoolyard scene to watch a group of overalled workmen who were mounting a telephone booth on the sidewalk just a few feet from where he was standing. The fact that none of the men took the trouble to hook any outside wires to the booth did not strike Clancy as out of place in the least. He watched them set the booth down, square it with the fence, and then one of them went inside and lifted the instrument as if to check it. To his amazement Clancy found himself with a telephone on his hand, speaking with the workman inside the booth.

  “Is this Marcia?”

  “Yes,” Clancy said, convinced that he was. “Who’s this?”

  “Listen, don’t talk any more. Just keep your mouth shut and your ears open. I’ll do all the talking for both of us. I’m calling to give you a message from an old friend of yours. He wants to see you. Right away.”

  “Where?” Clancy asked curiously.

  “Damn it, I told you not to talk! Just listen! He says he wants to meet you at a place he says you’ll remember. He says it’s the place where you two first met.”

  “But …” Clancy began, and then stared in amazement within the booth; the workman had gone and an old lady was now in his place, speaking frantically, waving her free hand to emphasize her speech. But she must be speaking with someone else, Clancy thought, surprised, because all I can hear is the dial tone.

  He looked around. The blare of a horn caught his ear and he noticed that while the telephone was still in his hand, he was now driving a taxi, steering with his left hand. In the rear-view mirror of the swaying vehicle he could see his passenger in the rear seat. He bent over, disregarding the traffic, speaking into the telephone urgently.

  “It’s Blount,” he said, with no idea of who might be receiving his message. “He’s gone crazy, I think. He’s throwing money out of the window.… I’ll let you know when he doesn’t have any more. You call me back.”

  He reached over to hang the telephone up and found that he could not locate the hook, but it was unimportant for at that moment the telephone began to ring again. He brought it back to his ear.

  “Hello?” There was no answer. He stared at it and then shook it furiously in angry frustration. “Hello? Hello?”

  Clancy rolled over and stared with blurred eyes at the alarm clock on the coffee table at his elbow. Damn! he thought sleepily. Damn! Another five minutes and maybe I would have seen something in that half dream that would have made sense.…

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thursday—7:25 A.M.

  Clancy came out of the bathroom, shaved and dressed, if not particularly rested, to find that Kaproski had already located the orange juice in the refrigerator, had coffee perking merrily on the stove and toast ticking along in the toaster, and was bending interestedly over the morning newspaper which he had retrieved from the mat before the front door. Clancy stared in admiration.

  “Kap, someday you’re going to make some man a good wife.”

  “Yeah,” Kaproski said, looking up from the headlines with a grin. “Me and Mary Kelly, huh, Lieutenant?” His eyes dropped back to the front page of the newspaper. “They got a big spread here about that Blount deal last night. That was a real cute trick he pulled, meeting his wife in that cab, and holding the rod on the driver, huh, Lieutenant?”

  “Real cute,” Clancy said bitterly. “Those stupid, stupid, cops …!”

  Kaproski looked at him, surprised. “Well, hell, Lieutenant, it was cute. They couldn’t help—” Comprehension suddenly dawned on him. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” he asked solicitously. “Didn’t you sleep good on that couch?”

  “You ought to know how that couch is for sleeping,” Clancy said shortly. He shook his head. “I slept all right, I guess; at least up until just before it was time to get up. Then I had one of those half-awake, half-asleep brainstorms.…” He pulled a chair around to the front of the kitchen table and sat down, reaching for the orange juice. “A real dilly.…” He started to drink and then paused, setting his glass down again half full. And then frowned, staring at the glass of juice with narrowed eyes, not seeing it. “I wonder …”

  He pushed back from the table and walked into the bedroom, picked up the telephone, and dialed a familiar number. The phone at the other end rang endlessly, but Clancy continued to wait. At long last the receiver was lifted and a sleepy voice answered.

  “Hello? Hello? Who in hell is calling at this hour?” There was a momentary pause; when the voice continued it was charged with outraged and honest indignation. “Hey! I just looked at the clock! Who in hell is calling at this hour?”

  “Wake up, Porky,” Clancy said evenly. “I want to meet with you.”

  “Oh.” There was a deep yawn. Clancy could visualize the other in his silk pajamas eying the telephone malevolently. “Mr. C., I recognize that happy voice. Your wide-awake voice, I might mention with disgust. But it’s still the middle of the night, Mr. C. Y
ou want to remember that in my profession we don’t keep the same regular hours that you do in yours.”

  “In twenty minutes,” Clancy said.

  “Twenty minutes?” The shock momentarily deprived Porky of his vocal cords. “Mr. C., do you have any idea what time I went to bed last night? This morning, that is?”

  “And I couldn’t care less,” Clancy said, and meant it. “I have to see you right away, Porky. You know the conditions of our deal. You have to take the good with the bad.”

  “Well, all right.” There was another deep yawn. “Someday, God willing, I’ll get the good.” He paused. “At least let me pick the spot. Someplace nearby so I can get back here and get to bed, afterwards.”

  “You name it.”

  “How about Angelo’s Bar and Grill? It’s over on Second Avenue, just a block from my pad. And they’re always open.”

  “I know where it is,” Clancy said. “I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Bless you, Mr. C.” There was another pause culminating in the end of a yawn. “Whooosh! You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t shave.”

  “I’ll forgive you,” Clancy said, and hung up.

  He walked back into the kitchen, wider awake and happier now for having made at least the first step toward scratching the itch in his mind. He twitched the newspaper from beneath Kaproski’s nose. “Let’s go.”

  “Go?” Kaproski stared at him, astounded. “We ain’t eaten yet! I was going to fry you some eggs.…”

  “Fry them for yourself,” Clancy said quietly. “Because I’m going. Just make sure you clean up the dishes after yourself.…” He started back to the living room. Kaproski got up hurriedly, turned the gas off under the coffee, and moved after him.

  “You know I can’t do that, Lieutenant.…”

  “Then keep quiet and come on.” Clancy slipped on his topcoat and picked up his hat, setting it on his head and adjusting it squarely. “And when we get where we’re going, you stay in the car. I have enough trouble getting information when I’m alone.”

  “But Captain Wise said—”

  But Clancy had already opened the front door and was ringing for the elevator.

  Thursday—8:05 A.M.

  The rancid odor of stale beer hit Clancy like a blow; he suddenly wished he had not left home without eating, but the restlessness that had been building up in him as time passed without positive results was a goad that he had long since learned not to disregard. The bartender looked up with that subtle combination of pity, superiority, and cupidity that all honest bartenders reserve for customers who have the misfortune to arrive before at least ten in the morning.

  “Coffee,” Clancy said, wiping the combined expression from the other’s face. “Black with sugar. And tomato juice, if you’ve got it.”

  He spoke without slackening his pace in any way, going toward the back of the room without waiting for confirmation of his order. He came to a stop before a booth where Porky Frank was sitting, a cup of coffee before him, untouched. Clancy slipped into the booth without troubling to remove his topcoat.

  “Hello, Porky.”

  Porky nodded pleasantly, albeit sleepily. “Good morning, Mr. C.”

  A casting director for a cops-and-robbers movie, faced with the selection of someone to play the part of a stool pigeon, would not have wasted a second glance at Porky Frank. It is very likely, however, he might have gone back later and picked him for the role of the young local banker if one were needed. Porky Frank was far from unhappy that he did not look like the stereotyped picture of a stool pigeon: small, hunched, sniveling, and constantly looking over his narrow shoulders nervously. As a matter of fact, Porky Frank was not particularly unhappy about anything. Outgoing and handsome, his main occupation was running a small but honest book, and his work as a stool pigeon at best was only part time. But it gave him an outlet for some of the things he heard, augmented an income designed to allow him to live as he liked to live—which was excellently—and also enabled him to meet Lieutenant Clancy from time to time, whom he actually liked as a person.

  The two men waited silently until the bartender had placed Clancy’s order before him. Porky finally deigned to sip his coffee and smiled at the bartender benignly. Even being dragged from his rest at this ungodly hour had not noticeably diminished his good humor, and he had even dressed with his usual neatness although—true to his word—he had not shaved. When the bartender had gone back to the front, Porky spoke.

  “Mr. C., I’m always pleased to exchange ideas with you, but in all honesty if you’re going to ask me what I think you’re going to ask me, you’re losing money and I’m losing sleep.”

  “Well, that’s how it goes,” Clancy said philosophically, and drank his juice. It tasted tart and good, waking him up a bit. He set down the glass, feeling better already. “What do you think I’m going to ask you?”

  “I would guess you’re going to ask me about Lenny Cervera,” Porky said calmly. “I heard from sources that you were in charge of the case. Under Inspector Clayton, of course. But I have sad news for you—the truth is that I don’t know a thing.”

  “And what do you know about the other man who’s free? Blount?”

  “Blount?” Porky lifted his shoulders. “About him I know even less. I never heard of the man before this breakout, and all I’ve heard since then of him was what the man said last night on the late news. Television, that is.” Porky sighed. “It’s hard enough keeping track of the local bums without listening to out-of-town gossip.”

  “Well,” Clancy said, nodding his head, “I figured that would be the situation.” He looked up at the other, his eyes smiling. “Now can I ask you what I came here to ask?”

  Porky’s eyebrows went up. “Sure.”

  “What do you know about Cholly Williams and Phil Marcus?”

  Porky’s eyes opened wide momentarily and then returned to normal. It was about the maximum expression of surprise that he permitted himself. “Probably less than you do,” he answered. “What do you want to know about them?”

  Clancy reached for his coffee, sliding it closer, stirring it absently. He took a sip, made a face, and pushed it away. “How were they fixed for money, do you know?” He shrugged. “After all, Phil Marcus did a number of those loft jobs before he was caught, and I’m sure he didn’t do them for free. He must have collected a young fortune in fees before the police got wise to his little stunt with the explosive. I want to know if he still had the money as of last week, and if so where he kept it, or if anyone else held it for him. And the same goes for Cholly Williams—moneywise, I mean. Also, Williams had a brother who visited him regularly up there, took his body for burial as a matter of fact. Did his brother have any money? And if he had—or has—has he been tapping it lately? You should be able to get those answers.”

  Porky frowned. “You could get all that information downtown, Mr. C.”

  “I know I could,” Clancy said. “But it would take a lot longer, and I doubt if I’d trust it as much.”

  Porky nodded, accepting the compliment without false modesty. He finished his coffee and then withdrew a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wiped his lips carefully.

  “You know, Mr. C.,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “you have a devious mind, which is one of the things I like about you, because so do I. I think I see what you’re driving at.” He shrugged. “I don’t have the answers to your questions at the moment, but I imagine I can find out.”

  “Good,” Clancy said. “When?”

  “By this afternoon at the latest, I should judge.”

  “That’ll be fine. Where will I contact you?”

  “I’ll contact you,” Porky said.

  “Good enough.” Clancy got to his feet and slid free of the booth. “And one more thing: if you hear anything about Lenny Cervera, I’ll want that, too. Or even more.”

  “Obviously,” Porky said.

  “Just so we understand each other,” Clancy said, and reached for his
pocket. Porky raised a hand almost languidly.

  “We can wait and settle up this afternoon,” he said, and smiled. “And I’ll even buy your coffee.”

  “Thank you,” Clancy said. “And you can even drink it, too.” And walked out without a backward glance.

  Thursday—8:45 A.M.

  Stanton was sitting in Clancy’s office, waiting, when the two men walked in. He inched his chair a bit to remove it from their path and put aside the newspaper he had been reading.

  “Hi, Lieutenant. Pretty cute deal this Blount pulled last night.”

  “Yeah,” Clancy said without expression. He distributed his top clothing in his accustomed fashion between the door hook and the filing cabinet, walked back of his desk, and sat down. A pile of reports from the various men connected with the case filled the in basket. He wrinkled his nose at them and looked up.

  “What’s on tap for today, Lieutenant?” Stanton asked.

  Clancy thought a moment. “Stan, I want you to take over from Kaproski on the El Cids, Lenny’s old gang. Kap wore out his welcome yesterday, and anyway he’s on special assignment from Captain Wise to see that Cervera doesn’t kill me—and I wouldn’t want the Captain to think I was countermanding any of his orders.” Clancy suddenly grinned; it lit up his whole face. “Not that I’m complaining. I think when this is all over, I’m going to ask to have Kaproski transferred to me on a permanent basis—as my housekeeper.”

  “Sure, Lieutenant,” Stanton said, mystified by these comments, but almost used to such mystification when his superior was beginning to get ideas about a case. “What do I do with them? The gang, I mean?”

  Clancy’s smile faded; he leaned over the desk, serious.

  “Lenny had to get that car someplace, and he had to stash it someplace after he was through with it. If he is through with it. I don’t think the gang helped him get it, but they may know where he put it. And frankly, I don’t know where else to look. And even more important, he had to hole up someplace in New York these past two days.”

  His hand reached over, tapping the pile of reports awaiting his attention. “The people you heard on the telephone, talking to old Mrs. Cervera—her relatives and friends—have been identified from the tapes, and the precincts in which they live have been notified. The beat patrolmen are keeping their eyes open. The only thing left is the gang—or at least that’s the only thing left I can think of right now. It may be a waste of time, but if you can suggest a better assignment for yourself—one that will help locate Lenny faster—I’ll give you that one instead.”