“Do you know what it is?”
“I guess it’s a kind of a will or legacy or something. But I don’t know.”
“When did your uncle tell you this?”
“In a letter I got from him this past Tuesday.”
“Do you have the letter with you?”
She took a new grip on her handbag, which was answer enough. “As I say, I thought it was crazy—until I was notified yesterday that Uncle Jeff had been killed. Then I thought I’d better do what he said. So after I checked in at my hotel I came straight here to the library to look for the book.” Impatience or some other emotion roughened her smooth voice. “And now it’s not even here! So what do I do now?”
“In your place, I’d tell the police about your letter,” I began, just as Lieutenant Randall walked into the room. “Speak of the devil,” I said. “Miss Elmore from Minneapolis, this is Lieutenant Randall of our very efficient Police Department. He’s in charge of investigating your uncle’s death.”
Randall put his sleepy-looking, unblinking yellow eyes on her. “If she’s really Nancy Elmore from Minneapolis,” he said ungraciously.
Then to her. “Are you?”
Her answering smile took all of the official starch out of Randall. He appreciates a good-looking woman as well as the next man. “I’m sorry,” he apologized gruffly, “but I have to be sure, you know.” He checked the driving license and credit cards she handed him. Then, satisfied, he said to me, “What about the letter, Hal?”
I told him, making it short.
“Do you mind showing the letter to us, Miss Elmore?” he asked her, as bland as coffee cream now.
She dug in her handbag and came up with it. I read it over Randall’s shoulder:
Monday
Dear Nancy,
This is to tell you that the fishing trip of which I wrote you in my last letter went off very well. You’ll be glad to hear that my ailing heart performed splendidly throughout.
I must tell you, however, that upon returning home this morning, I have noted certain disquieting signs that my spell of good fortune may be nearing an end. I won’t go into detail but I’ll be frank with you: I feel I may suffer an attack at any time now. An attack which might even prove fatal.
I don’t want to frighten you, Nancy. But I do want you to be aware that you are my sole heir. Hence this hasty letter, just in case.
You see, my dear, there are reasons, which I won’t go into, why I can’t just draw up a will in the usual way. So if anything happens to me, I suggest that you visit the main branch of our local public library and ask for a book written by Eugene Stott called The Henchman. In it, you will find my legacy to you for what it’s worth. It will puzzle you, I’m afraid. So I further suggest that you consult our local police about it, showing them this letter. I am confident they will help you locate my estate, and will see to it, I trust, that you get what is coming to you.
Affectionately, as always, Uncle Jeff
Randall didn’t say anything for a few seconds after he finished reading. Instead he looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
I nodded. “I think she ought to know the score,” I said.
Randall gave her the story: the attempted robbery, the murder, the memo-pad writing, the whole thing. Including where copy number two of The Henchman was at the moment.
She listened quietly. At the end of his recital, she sighed. “Poor Uncle Jeff. I honestly thought he might be turning senile when I read that letter. But he wasn’t, was he? The ‘disquieting signs’ in his letter was the attempted robbery. And the ‘attack’ he feared wasn’t a heart attack, but an attack on him by the people who killed him. Do you think he knew who they were?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he tell the police?”
“I don’t know,” said Randall, brooding. He tapped the letter with a forefinger.
I put my oar in, just to avoid being forgotten. “So what do we do now? Wait till Miss Seaver gets home from the shore with The Henchman?”
“No.” Randall was emphatic. “You two are interested primarily in what’s in the book. I’m interested in catching a murderer. So we put copy number one of The Henchman back on the shelves, Hal. And its file index card back in the cabinet. And we hope very hard that the murderer will still come in today and try to get the book.” He reached for my phone. “I’ll put a man in the library to nab anybody else who shows interest in it.”
* * * *
When I got back, Randall and Nancy Elmore were leaving. “When we hear from Miss Seaver,” Randall was saying to her, “I’ll be in touch.”
She thanked him and gave him the name of her hotel. He said he’d drop her off there on his way back to Headquarters. Then she thanked me too, and they left.
“Jimmy Coogan is on his way over to babysit with the book,” Randall said over his shoulder. “Will you watch it until he gets here?”
“Sure,” I said.
I went to the reading room and took a seat to the right of the double-door entrance. From there I could see the shelf where I’d put The Henchman, could even make out the crimson cover of the book itself.
It was just as well I took up my vigil when I did, because it wasn’t five minutes after Randall left that the action started.
A massive chunky man with shaggy hair and a drooping mustache hove into view at the far end of the aisle of bookshelves I was watching. He had the muscular sure-footed look of a pro fullback. His big shoulders strained the seams of the windbreaker he wore. As he came toward me, I caught a brief glimpse of his face: blunt features, small eyes sunk in deep sockets, a thin slash of a mouth under the mustache. Unlike the beautiful Miss Elmore, I thought, this specimen would be capable of breaking a man’s ribs and beating him to death. He carried a battered black briefcase in one hand.
He moved unhurriedly up the aisle of bookshelves, his eyes turning from side to side as he scanned the numbers on the spines of the books, obviously seeking a certain number and a certain book.
It was warm in the reading room, but cold fingers touched my spine.
I got the tight feeling in my stomach I used to get at the start of action when I was a real cop. After my relatively peaceful time as a library detective, the old sensation, oddly enough, was almost pleasant, a reminder of more exciting times. From behind a copy of Newsweek, I watched the man.
Suddenly he halted, reached out a hand, and plucked a book from the shelf. The book with the crimson cover. The Henchman. At the same time he gave a nod of satisfaction, as though congratulating himself on a stroke of good luck.
He raised his eyes to look around him. I dropped mine to the magazine. Evidently he saw nothing to alarm him, because when I risked a surreptitious look he was in the act of opening the book.
While I watched, he gave the book a superficial examination, first leafing rapidly through it, then holding it upside down by its covers and shaking it to dislodge anything that might be lying loose between its pages. Finding nothing, he pried up with his fingernail one corner of the card envelope in the front of the book and peered beneath it. Again nothing. He paused, considering his next move.
I was fairly sure what that move would be—a more thorough inspection of the book in a more private place. And I was right. After another quick survey of his surroundings, he casually opened his briefcase, put The Henchman in it, and turned to leave.
I stood up and followed him toward Ellen’s check-out desk, knowing with absolute certainty that he didn’t intend to stop for Ellen to check out the book in the usual way. Ellen, busy with a half dozen customers, didn’t even look up as he strode past her desk.
I caught up with him in the lobby before he was able to push through the glass doors of the exit. I tapped him on the shoulder from behind.
For the space of half a breath, he kept going. Then he halted and swung around, his eyes mean. “What?”
“You’ve forgotten something, haven’t you, sir?’ I asked in my smoothest library voice.
“Fo
rgot what?” His knuckles tightened on the handle of the briefcase.
“I believe you forgot to check out the library book in your briefcase.”
He blinked. “Who the hell are you?”
“A member of the library staff. I must ask you to check out your book in the usual way before removing it from the library.”
“I don’t have any book of yours, buster. Get lost.” He began to turn away.
“I saw you put it in your briefcase,” I said. I was beginning to sweat. What was I thinking of, bracing him before Jimmy Coogan arrived to back me up? For I knew after tapping that iron-solid shoulder that I couldn’t take this gorilla alone the best day I ever lived.
He gave me a tight grin, displaying yellow teeth with a gap between the upper fronts. “You got it all wrong,” he said. “I’ll tell you one more time. I don’t have a book of yours. So drop dead.”
“Let’s just have a look in your briefcase,” I suggested mildly. “That ought to settle it.”
“Not a chance, pal. This briefcase is private property. My private property. That means it ain’t open to the public. So goodbye.” He turned his back and started for the exit doors again.
I let him go, deciding with a feeling of immense relief that discretion in this case seemed the better part of you know what. That is, I let him go until I caught a glimpse of the cheerful Irish countenance of Jimmy Coogan climbing the library steps. It was a heartening sight—so heartening that I grabbed the book thief by one arm—the arm with the briefcase—and whirled him around again. I said sternly, “I can arrest you, you know. So why not cooperate?”
“Arrest me?” He laughed out loud. “You and who else, junior?”
“Me and Detective Coogan of the Police Department,” I said with a touch of smugness, “who is now coming through the door behind you.” I raised my voice. “Hey, Jimmy! Here’s a customer for you.”
The man snarled like an animal and swung around, poised for flight. Coogan blocked his way. “Hold it!” he advised in a quiet tone that snapped like a whip. “What’s going on here?”
“This guy’s stealing one of our books,” I said, giving Coogan a meaningful look. “It’s in his briefcase.”
“Is that so now?” Coogan murmured. “Would you mind opening the case, sir?”
“Why should I? There’s no book in it.”
“Yes, there is,” I insisted. “A book called The Henchman.” Another meaningful glance at Coogan.
Coogan clicked his tongue reprovingly. “In that case, sir,” he said cheerfully, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come downtown with me until we straighten this out. I’ll just take charge of your briefcase in the meantime.” He held out his hand, giving his prisoner a flash of his ID.
I could almost see the wheels going around in the thief’s head. This is no big deal, he was telling himself. At the most they’ve got me for book theft—a crummy misdemeanor that I can settle by returning the book or paying for it.
After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded sullenly and handed the briefcase to Coogan. I said, “Get him out of here, Jimmy, O.K.? Before we upset the whole library. I’m glad you showed up when you did.” I winked at Coogan. “I don’t think I could have handled him alone.”
Coogan beamed at the thief. “But you won’t give me any trouble, will you now?” he asked politely. Coogan can afford to be polite. He stands six feet five and weighs in at 260 on the police scales.
* * * *
At four o’clock, Randall called me. “Thanks for Slenski,” he said.
“Slenski? Is that his name?”
“Yeah. Truck driver based in Detroit. He could be our man, Hal. Although he denies it, of course.”
“Both for the break-in and the murder?”
“We’ve already checked him out in Detroit. The trucking outfit he works for says his schedule put him here in town both last weekend and this.”
“But he has airtight alibis for both nights, no doubt.”
“Certainly.” There was a shrug in Randall’s voice. “When he’s in town, he always stays with a waitress at the Radio Bar, name of Ellie Slack. And Ellie Slack tells us that Slenski was with her both of the nights in question. All night.”
“Lying in her teeth?”
“Probably. Slenski also claims she recommended The Henchman to him as a good yarn to kill time with between runs.”
I said, “That ought to prove she’s a liar. Even a bar waitress would know it’s no kind of book for a truck-driver.”
“Slenski says he thought he’d just ‘borrow’ it from the public library and return it the next time he hits town—less trouble than all the red tape of applying for a non-resident library card and so forth. Obviously a crock. But we can’t prove he’s lying. At least not yet.”
“He’s lying,” I said. “Take my word for it.”
Randall laughed. He seemed in high good humor. “He’s offered to pay for your damned book, so don’t bad-mouth him.”
“Well, that’s generous. You’re holding him all the same, aren’t you?”
“Sure. At least until we find out what’s in Miss Seaver’s copy of The Henchman. I’m hoping that’ll point us toward some sort of a connection between Slenski and Cuvier. So far, we can’t find any.”
“How about Miss Seaver?” I said. “Is she home yet?”
“That’s why I called. She’s home. Are you free to go with us to pick up the book?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, I said.
“We’ll meet you at the library’s main entrance in twenty minutes.”
* * * *
Miss Seaver didn’t mind in the least giving up her copy of The Henchman. “I didn’t even finish it,” she said. “It’s a poorly written, predictable story, and I can’t imagine how it could possibly be connected with a crime…
Randall suggested that she watch the newspapers to see if it actually was connected with a crime, and we left.
The Lieutenant pretended to be calm and properly official about the book, but he was just as anxious to learn its secret, if any, as Miss Elmore and me. Or else Miss Elmore’s Christmas-morning look of anticipation won him over. He handed me the book as we settled into the police car for the ride back to town and said, “Here, Hal, you’re the book expert. Give it a look while I drive.”
I obliged. And of course, once you knew there was something to find in the book, finding it proved to be easy. What we were looking for wasn’t in the book at all, as it turned out; it was behind the book. When I bent the covers back on themselves and held the book up against the light and peered through the opening between the spine and the binding, I could see it plainly. “There’s something here, Lieutenant,” I said, keeping my voice level for Miss Elmore’s benefit, although I felt excitement quickening my pulse.
Randall took his eyes off the road briefly. “What is it?”
“It looks like a key,” I said. I shook the book hard. “It’s glued, I guess—to the inner surface of the spine.”
“Well, get it out,” Randall directed.
Easier said than done. The key must have been cemented to the inside of the spine cover with epoxy or something of the sort, because it stubbornly refused to be pried loose. In the end, I cut the book cover through with my pocket knife and jimmied the key loose with the screwdriver from the toolkit of the police car.
When I had the key free, Lieutenant Randall pulled over to the curb and parked, leaving the motor running. “Let’s see it,” he said.
I handed the key to him. Flat, about two inches long, with a rounded head, it looked something like a standard safe-deposit-box key; yet the notches cut into only one edge of the flat shank were far too simple and uncomplicated for that. The number 97 was stamped into the head.
Randall grinned at Miss Elmore. “Well, here’s your legacy,” he said.
“What do you suppose it’s a key to?
Randall turned the key in his fingers. “A locker of some sort, I’d guess.”
I thought he was right.
“Bus station, maybe?” I suggested.
He shrugged. “Could be. Or bowling alley, country club, railroad station, city club, almost anywhere. So all we’ll have to do is try the key on number 97 of every bank of lockers in the city.”
I didn’t say anything because I knew he wasn’t serious. Miss Elmore said, “But I know poor Uncle Jeff didn’t belong to any kind of club, so that should narrow it down, shouldn’t it?”
“How about the YMCA?” Randall asked.
“Yes!” Miss Elmore cried. “He did belong to the YMCA! He went swimming twice a week in the YMCA pool. How did you guess that?”
“Just routine police work,” Randall answered, deadpan. Then, “Look under the cement.” He handed her the key.
Peering over her shoulder, breathing her carnation scent, I could see too, through the hardened gob of transparent cement still adhering to the key head, four small letters stamped into the metal: YMCA.
When Randall and I went into the locker room of the YMCA fifteen minutes later, Miss Elmore remained in the police car outside. All she said as we left her was, “Please hurry! I’m dying of curiosity!”
The locker room was sparsely populated: maybe a dozen men, mostly young, dressing or undressing, none of them in the aisle of lockers we wanted. We stopped in front of locker 97 and had our first surprise.
Locker 97 wasn’t locked. What’s more, there wasn’t even a keyhole in the door to show that it could be locked. “Ouch!” I murmured.
Randall swore under his breath, grabbed the door handle, tripped the latch, and pulled the locker door open wide.
We breathed easier. The lower left segment inside was a locker within a locker—a little built-in safe in which you could leave your valuables, I guess, while you were swimming, playing basketball, or working out in the gym. The inner locker was locked. It had a keyhole. And Uncle Jeff’s key slid into it smooth as grease.
Randall took a breath, raised his eyebrows at me, turned the key, and opened up.
We found ourselves looking at three bulging canvas bags crammed together into the three cubic feet of locker space. The bags had the words “Crane Security Express” stenciled on them. And they contained, as Randall told me later, three hundred and eleven thousand dollars in cash.
The Library Fuzz Page 16
