by Ed Lacy
“Out checking a few things.”
“That's ginger-dandy! On your day off you have to—”
“It's my day off so what diff does it make to you if I'm checking, sleeping, taking in a movie, or watching pugs in a gym?” I asked.
“It would be just too bad if you spent a few minutes of the afternoon seeing Uncle Frank. I suppose you were too busy for that.”
You suppose right. I'll see him tomorrow. You alone in the office, talking so loud?”
“Now you see him tomorrow and no more stalling. I'm glad you called. Dave, I have to type up the minutes of a big sales conference. I won't be home till nine. There's enough in the box for your supper.”
“I'll manage. Mean you get stuck on your job too?”
“Indeed I do,” Mary said in an oversweet voice. “But I get time and a half for it and two dollars for supper money. Drop that in the suggestion box—if your wonderful Police Department has such a thing.”
“I'll pass it on to the Commissioner at once—maybe he's on the gate.”
“Davie, there really isn't much in the box, just hamburger. Better bring in something for yourself.”
“I'll eat,” I said, not wanting to tell her I was broke.
“Want me to bring anything in?” Mary's voice was just plain sweet now.
“Some ice cream and ginger ale, Babes. We'll watch TV and have sodas.”
“Will do. See you at nine.”
She hung up and I counted my change. All the fares and phoning left me with seventy cents. I could go up to the station and maybe borrow a buck, along with a lot of ribbing.
Instead of calling Mrs. Owens back I walked six blocks to the crosstown bus and rode over to the Bronx, then up Third Avenue and walked to their house. It was almost six when I rang their bell after drying my sweaty face and combing my hair and straightening my shirt, using the window of a parked car for a mirror. A tall young woman wearing corny black and gold toreador pants that proved she had thin legs, and an interesting suede beach jacket, opened the door. Her face was tanned and kind of horsy, with brown hair combed straight back and down to her shoulders. Susan Owens didn't look much like the photo I'd seen: her face was still plain but she was paying a lot of attention to it, and there wasn't a trace of plumpness about her. I got the feeling she'd done about the best she could with what she had. There was another change from the picture: everything about her, the eyes, the thin figure, even the clothes and the odd sandals on her big feet gave me a feeling of cunning—a sharpshooter all the way.
I said, “I'm Dave Wintino, Miss Owens.”
“Oh—I thought you were going to call. Well, they must be making detectives from a different mold this season. Come on in. Ma, your detective is here.”
I grinned at that “your detective” as I followed her into the living room and those long legs sure took big steps. There was a pigskin overnighter covered with plane stickers against one wall. Mrs. Owens' moon face looked a little tense as she came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “Mr. Wintino, I hope we didn't put you to no trouble by... What happened to your face?”
“Bruised it horsing around.”
“Put a hot piece of raw potato on it soon as you get home. This is my daughter Susan. Came in from South. America by plane this morning.”
“I recognized her from the picture on the piano,” I said politely.
“I hope not,” Susan said. “I looked like a freshly stuffed yokel when that damn thing was taken.” She had a fast way of talking, like a pitchman.
“Do sit down,” Mrs. Owens said. “This has been such a hectic day for me. Susan coming in before daybreak, and then hearing about poor Al. I don't understand it, killed in his own bed. And the papers said he had a large amount of money on him. Do you think it was the same robber?”
“Hard to say. Downtown is handling both cases now.” I sat in one of the old leather chairs. Mrs. Owens sat on the couch and the daughter leaned against-the wall, studying me. When I looked at her she sort of arched her chest as if to prove she wasn't skinny all over. She said, “That robbery angle sounds like a lot of pure slop to me.”
“Susan! I don't know where you've picked up such language. Third time I've had to call you on your speech.”
“Ma, stop stalling. You want me to tell him?”
Mrs. Owens rubbed her hands on her apron again. “I thought... that is, you see, Mr. Wintino, a most surprising... well... we...”
“You look like a dancehall John to me, Wintino,” Susan cut in, her voice flat and hard, “but you're a detective and so was Pop. And Ma has confidence in you. There's something damn fishy about a pinch-penny like Al Wales having a bankroll on him... and then what we found today. I'm going to be frank with you, because Ma liked your face, she thinks you'll understand.”
“What do you want me to understand?”
“It's like this, we don't want to do anything shady, or that might hinder you in finding the killers. At the same time four grand isn't anything to toss away and if it turns out we can keep the dough, I don't want it tied up as evidence for the next hundred years.”
“What four—” I began.
“Hold still for a hot second,” Susan told me, darting out of the room, and I mean darting: those long stems could move.
Mrs. Owens gave me a sickly smile. “We want to do the right thing, what poor Ed would have wanted us to do. I wanted to take it to the local station house at once, but Susan thought it would be just as well to ask your advice. Goodness, that girl has changed so I hardly knew her, but then, I suppose being away, on her own in a strange country, well, there have to be some changes. She has a smart head about these things and four thousand dollars is quite a sum. We found it this afternoon.”
“You found four thousand bucks?” I asked as Susan came bounding into the room carrying a large dresser drawer. It was an old plain one, cracked in several places. She placed it upside-down on the living room table as Mrs. Owens reached over to yank a lace covering out of the way. Susan put a small pile of fifty-dollar bills on the drawer and a savings bankbook with the word “canceled” cut across it. Hunks of dirty white tape were clinging to the bottom of the drawer. I had a feeling they were setting up a show for me.
“I was going through Pop's things, you know, getting them ready to throw out or sell. I had this drawer out too far and it nearly fell. When I grabbed it, I felt the money and bankbook taped to the bottom. I didn't know it was money—it was in a plain white envelope—till I tore the envelope open and saw the green. This is what we want to see you about—four grand and this bankbook. It's a Brooklyn savings bank and in the name of Francis Parker. As you'll see the account was opened this March with five bucks. A week later there was a deposit of ten dollars. On April first there's a withdrawal of four dollars, and on April fifth a deposit of four thousand dollars and seventy-five cents. The entire account was closed out on April twenty-second, about two weeks ago. Take a look at the bankbook.”
She handed me the book as she nervously lit a cigarette. I said, “You shouldn't have touched things. Where's the envelope?”
“I got so excited when I saw the money, I tore the envelope open. It was all in pieces, so I threw it away.”
“Where did you throw it?”
“In the garbage can. It's gone.”
“Great!”
“What's so important about an old envelope? At first I thought it was a letter, but when I saw the bills, well, naturally I ripped it open. Told you the envelope tore. Nothing on it, a plain white envelope.”
“I was thinking of prints,” I said, opening the book. There was a “ck” next to the $4,000.75 deposit, meaning it had been made by check. It was a downtown Brooklyn bank. “Ever hear of Francis Parker before?”
“Never. Neither has Ma and she's sure Pop never mentioned such a name,” Susan said, blowing twin clouds of smoke out of her sharp nose. “Now look, we don't have one idea where this came from and we're not trying to hide anything—that's why you're here.
At the same time we don't want this folding money lost in the shuffle. It was found here and possession is nine-tenths' ownership.”
She was staring at me with cool eyes. I could see Mrs. Owens mentioning Ed had said something about getting that place in California soon and Susan Owens going to work like a ferret. This fitted in with Wales hunting around the abandoned garage for dough... except that was ten years ago and this account was less than ten weeks old. I asked, “Where's the other bankbooks?”
“This is the only one,” Mrs. Owens said. “Except a joint account Ed and I have over on Third Avenue. We have $567 there.”
“Mr. Owens have a safe deposit vault, did you see any odd keys about?” I asked.
“Look, look, Pa rarely had one buck to rub against another. That I know. And I looked carefully, under everything. This is all I found,” Susan said.
“I know you did. Mrs. Owens, you told me your husband said he might be able to get a farm in California soon. Are you positive he didn't have any money hidden away, never spoke of any money?”
“He didn't. Why poor Ed could just about make ends meet since he retired and—”
“This might be the string to your husband's killing. I have to know the truth about this money,” I said, making my voice hard.
“Do we look like rich people?” the old lady asked, her eyes beginning to water.
“Looks don't mean a thing. Did Ed at any time in the last dozen years talk about striking big money?”
“No. Never!” The tears came.
“What you doing to Ma?” Susan barked. “I told—”
“Shut up!” I bent toward Mrs. Owens, said softly, “I'm not trying to be rough, but in light of other things I know about Wales, this can be a real lead. Tell me again that Ed Owens never had or ever mentioned any big money.”
“He never did. We were always counting each dollar. Ed never gambled unless he had an extra dollar.”
“Sorry I blew up. I believe you,” I said. And I did. While she was drying her face with her apron I stared at Susan, who gave it right back to me, eye-to-eye stuff. I asked, “What do you want me to do? Don't expect me to go on the hook, this is evidence and I won't—”
“How do we know if it's evidence or not?” Susan asked evenly. “It may have nothing to do with the case. The only fact we know for sure is we found four grand and a canceled bankbook in Pa's dresser.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked.
“I thought you'd—” Mrs. Owens started.
“We're playing it straight with you, Mr. Wintino,” Susan cut in. “You were one of the detectives on the case—we're telling you about it. But Ma felt that since you're new and not boiled in oil like some of the old-timers, you'd understand what four grand means to a cop's widow scrimping along on a lousy pension.”
“Sure I understand. But I'm not going to hang myself. I have to turn this in.”
“Nobody is asking you not to; if you have to turn the money in, you have to. Suppose we hold on to it till tomorrow? I have a list of the bill numbers. You take the bankbook, see what you can find out. For all we know maybe one of Pa's nags finally came in. We're not leaving town—if we didn't want to play straight we could have kept mum about all this. If by tomorrow afternoon you feel this has something to do with the case, we'll hand it over. If you ask for it now, we'll get tough too, force you to get a court order. There, that gives you an out.”
I grinned at her with admiration—she was real smart, used her dome for more than growing hair. This could put me in the saddle, if it was the break in the case. It might be what I needed. Not only was I holding out the dope I learned this morning, but those Data clowns might be melting my badge by now. Of course if this turned out to be a wrongo, or if the Owenses were playing me for a sucker... Hell, they could only hang me once.
“What's it going to be?” Susan asked.
“I'll play along till tomorrow afternoon. But I want a list of the bills, the bankbook, and a sample of your father's writing, his signature if you have it handy. I'll have to call the precinct, tell them something. If my lieutenant is there, you're out of luck. If not, I called and covered myself—sort of. You'll have to take that gamble.”
“If you want it that way. I'll tell anybody about a court order.”
“They won't need a court order,” I said, looking around for the phone.
“Out there, on the hall table,” Susan said, pointing a skinny finger. “You tell them they'll sure need something good to get this four grand out of my hands. And don't forget the part about I'm not trying to obstruct justice but neither am I going to play potsy with our dough or—”
I told her to shut up again, and dialed the squad room. Landon answered, said Reed was gone for the day. I told him, “I'm over at Mrs. Owens' house. She's found something that might be a lead, a canceled savings bankbook that—”
“Will you never stop playing detective?” Landon asked, I tried not to sound relieved over the phone as I said, “Well, Reed knows I'm here. Tell him I'll check on it in the morning and be in touch with him. It may be important.”
“Everything is important to you except your own time. When will you learn this isn't our case anymore?”
“You know Mrs. Owens phoned me What am I supposed to do, tell her to ask the switchboard to connect her downtown? Just leave a message for Reed that I called and will be in touch tomorrow.”
“I'll do that, Mr. Holmes,” Landon said, hanging up.
Susan smiled. “What's the matter, the lads afraid they'll overwork themselves?”
“Busy on routine stuff. But I'm not busy, that's why I'm doing this. I'll work it my way. You know I won't be able to move till morning, when the bank opens I'll phone you as soon as I can. If the money is evidence, I don't want any tears or arguments about it.”
“I'm a cop's daughter, I wouldn't be so stupid as to beat the law. And if this will help in any way to find who did Pa in, I wouldn't hesitate a second to—”
“I know, you're a doll.”
Her eyes seemed to laugh at me as she said, “That's not nice talk, Buster. I might give you a box of cigars if things come out right.”
“Now you're talking out of turn. I don't smoke,” I said, as we stepped back into the living room. I pocketed the bankbook. “Get me something with Mr. Owens' signature, and the list of bill numbers. Also an envelope. Make it two envelopes.”
“Have the list in my room—some job copying them all down,” Susan said, dashing out of the living room.
I was about to say it must have been a labor of love but kept my trap shut and asked Mrs. Owens, “Do you remember much about the time Mr. Owens and Mr. Wales arrested Sal Kahn, sent him to the chair?”
“I remember they were promoted for it, made detective second grade. Ed and Al had their pictures in the papers. My, that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah. Did Mr. Owens ever mention that collar, say anything at all about it, during the last couple of years?”
She shook her fat head. “No. He rarely talked about police work. Always said a good cop left his work at the station.”
Susan came back like a nervous wind, handed me the list of serial numbers and dropped two large envelopes on the table. I picked a couple of fifties from the pile for a spot check as Susan said, “You have a real trusting nature.”
“Just careful.” The bills checked with the list. “Put the money in one of the envelopes and don't play with it. Speaking of money, Mrs. Owens, did the late Mrs. Wales ever mention money? Did she seem well fixed?”
“Indeed not. They lived on the upper West Side in a cheap apartment house. On the top floor. Not having children they should have been able to live better but Dora Wales was always in poor health. A wonderfully kind woman. She and Al were very happy. He never once complained about her delicate condition or the doctor bills.”
“That's a fact,” Susan said, picking up the money and giving it a silent count. “She was no bargain, always in bed sick, but they seemed to blend toge
ther.”
I thought of Rose and her little man-and-wife private world.
“Never saw them have a fight,” the old lady went on. “And when poor Dora took real sick back in 1949, Al saw to it she had only the best, even though he knew it was hopeless. They must have saved during the years—like I said they never lived well, and all their savings went for these big doctors.”
“Recall the name of any of them?” I asked, keeping an eye on Susan's hands and the money.
Mrs. Owens turned her moon puss toward the ceiling in thought. “Yes, I do. Because I once had to take Dora over to Park Avenue for X-ray treatments when Al was stuck on a case. It was Seventy-ninth and Park and I remember because it was the first time I was ever in that rich section, and the doctor, he had the same name as the ballplayer, Di Maggio.”
