Thefts of Nick Velvet

by Edward D. Hoch

  “You’re smart,” Simon conceded.

  “But if it’s that valuable he wouldn’t just throw it away.”

  “He’d throw away the envelope. That’s what we need.”

  “I see.”

  “Since you’ve guessed that much, Velvet, I may as well tell you the rest. It was Ronnie’s work, really, that uncovered as much as we already have. Remember Carter Malone?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Carter Malone had been one of the figures in the Watergate investigation, a man who jumped bail and deserted his family rather than face the prospect of prison. He’d been missing for six months, despite an intensive search by police and press.

  “You probably know that a few people have hinted from time to time of White House involvement in his disappearance. I think I’m on the verge of proving it.”

  “The President?”

  “No, not the President, but the one closest to him—General Norman Spangler. Ronnie’s information is that Spangler is in direct contact with the missing man. In fact, Malone writes him every week or so. Naturally the letters can’t go to the White House, so they’re addressed to the general’s apartment. That’s one reason he waits for the mail each morning before going to work. The letter goes into his pocket, and the envelope goes into the garbage bag which he personally drops into the incinerator.”

  “The mood this town is in, that information would finish Spangler at the White House. The President would have to fire him.”

  “Better men have already gone down.”

  “All right,” Nick said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Gloria rolled over in the bed, feeling the sudden movement as he slid out. “What time is it, Nicky?”

  “A little before seven.”

  “Not again this morning!”

  “Maybe I’ll wind it up today. Then we can take that tour of the White House.”

  “I hope so.”

  He went back to the Potomac Arms, using the same key ruse that had worked so well the previous morning. General Spangler, a man of military habit, picked up his mail exactly at nine and repeated his routine of the first two days. Nick was waiting with outstretched arms to catch the trash bag as it dropped down the chute.

  He was just pulling it in when the door of the incinerator room opened. “Oh!” a woman said, startled by his presence.

  “I—” Nick straightened, holding the bag of garbage. “The chute seems to be clogged. We’d better call downstairs.”

  “Clogged?” She was studying his face uncertainly. “Perhaps we can poke it with a broom.”

  “It’s too far down. Let the super worry about it.”

  “Who are—” He was already pushing past her. “Do you live on this floor?”

  “Down the other end,” he mumbled.

  “Which apartment?”

  He ignored her and kept walking. He knew if she investigated the chute for herself she’d see it was clear. As soon as he was out of sight he took the fire stairs at the other end of the building, then went out the side door to his car. It had been a close call. He didn’t think he could risk it another day.

  But when Sam Simon went through the morning’s garbage bag he shook his head sadly. “Nothing here. Not a thing.”

  Nick pointed to one crumpled envelope, with a California address in the corner. “How about this one?”

  “From his brother.”

  “Shall we give it up?” Nick asked, turning to Ronnie Arden.

  Ronnie twisted at his mustache. “We can’t—not with thirty grand invested in you already.”

  “Ronnie’s right, Velvet. We have to keep on now, for the rest of the week.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Spangler’s schedule will be different.”

  Simon shook his head. “He’s been working Saturdays lately when the President’s in town. He’ll leave at the usual time.”

  “All right,” Nick agreed. “Another five thousand.”

  “Give us a break, Velvet. We’ve paid you and you haven’t delivered yet.”

  “I’ve delivered three bags of garbage, which is exactly what you ordered. But I’ll give you a break. Let me try one more day and see what I get. If I strike out, it’s free. If I come up with the envelope, you pay me another five thousand.”

  “Fair enough,” Sam Simon agreed, and they shook hands on it.

  On Saturday morning Nick encountered trouble from the beginning. He’d had no trouble pausing at the door, his own key in hand, to wait for someone hurrying out to work. But this day everyone was staying in or sleeping longer. The first one out might well be General Spangler himself, and then it would be too late. Then he remembered the mail pickup and went around to the front of the apartment.

  At about ten minutes to nine a car pulled up and a young man yanked two mail sacks from the front seat. “Need a hand with those?” Nick asked.

  “Thanks, I’ve got them.”

  Nick hurried to open the unlocked front door before the uniformed doorman had a chance. Then, smiling a friendly greeting at the doorman, Nick calmly walked in beside the youth with the mail.

  When the sorting began, Nick took the elevator to the third floor. And encountered more trouble.

  The woman from the previous morning was standing in front of the incinerator-room door, chatting with a neighbor. If she saw Nick, she’d surely question his presence again.

  He pushed the elevator button and descended to the floor below.

  The incinerator room there was identical with the ones above, but it presented a problem to Nick. He was now two floors below the general. He could not watch him leave his apartment, because there would not be enough time to run down two flights of stairs. Also, the dropped bag of trash would hit his waiting arms with much greater force, and an especially heavy bag might even escape his grip or split open. But he’d have to gamble on General Spangler sticking to his routine, gamble on holding on to the bag as it slid down the chute.

  At ten minutes after nine he heard one of the upper doors open onto the chute. He braced himself and quickly plunged his arms into the darkness. Almost at once the bag landed safely in his arms. He drew the bag in, hardly breathing. Of course it might have, been someone else’s trash, not the general’s, but the paper bag looked the same and that gave him hope. He suspected many tenants used plastic garbage bags these days. He opened it enough to make sure, saw some empty envelopes on top, addressed to Spangler, relaxed, and headed for the stairs.

  Once in Simon’s office, the columnist and his assistant pounced on a coffee-stained envelope. “This is it,” the little man said. Nick glanced at the return address. It was a post-office box number in Towers, Delaware.

  “I know the place,” Arden said. “It’s a small town on the shore of Delaware Bay. We can be there in ninety minutes.”

  “Good luck,” Nick said, rising to leave. “Do you want to pay me the balance now?”

  “You’d better come along,” the columnist said. “Till we check this out. If Carter Malone is there, you’ll get the money.”

  Nick didn’t argue. His curiosity had got the better of him. “May I use your phone?” he asked, and then dialed the number of the hotel to tell Gloria he’d be delayed.

  They went in Ronnie Arden’s car, taking the highway across the bay near Annapolis, then continuing east until they reached the coast. Arden’s estimate of time had been correct. It was ten minutes after noon when they pulled up a block away from the tiny post office building in Towers.

  “I’ll park back here,” Ronnie said, “in case he shows up for his mail.” But when no one came he decided finally, “I’d better go check on who rented that box.”

  Simon agreed. “Flash your press card with a ten-dollar bill under it. I’ve found it does wonders.”

  They sat in silence while Arden went down the street to the post office. Finally Nick said, “Nice little town. But why would Malone stay this close to Washington? If I’d jumped bail I’d get as far away as possible.”

  “He still has contac
ts in Washington—General Spangler for one. And maybe he figures the police won’t look for him quite so close to home. He’s probably disguised himself, anyway.”

  Nick decided to drop a small bombshell. “General Spangler certainly has reason to mistrust his wife, doesn’t he?”

  Sam Simon’s mouth fell open, “What do you mean?”

  “You and Ronnie knew that was the right envelope even before you examined it. How? Obviously, because it was coffee-stained. She’s the only one who could have spilled the coffee on it to tip you off.”

  “Getting smart again, Velvet?”

  “Smart? Not really. It’s obvious Ronnie must have learned about the letters from Malone and the general’s routine from his wife. And just as obvious that Spangler doesn’t trust the lady, or he wouldn’t wait for the mail every day and empty the rubbish himself before she can see the return address on the envelope.”

  Ronnie Arden came out of the post office and headed back to the car. He slid into the driver’s seat and said, “That was easy. The box is rented to a Charles Martin of 122 Bayside Lane.”

  “Same initials,” Simon snorted. “He’s not an experienced fugitive.”

  Bayside Lane was a narrow winding street that hugged the shore of Delaware Bay. Its houses were mostly small-cottage types, just old enough to be showing signs of wear and neglect. Number 122 was like the others, with peeling paint on the clapboards and shingles missing on the roof.

  “It’s a rented car,” Arden said, checking the compact in the carport. Sam Simon nodded and rang the bell.

  When the second ring brought no answer, Nick moved around to the side door, in the carport. It was unlocked, as he’d expected it would be. “This way,” he called to the others.

  They found the sole occupant of the little cottage slumped in a chair in front of a desk with a portable typewriter open on it. He’d been shot once in the right temple, and a small automatic pistol lay on the carpet near his right hand. In the typewriter was a sheet of paper with the words: I’m tired of running.

  The dead man wore a recent growth of beard, but there was no doubt as to his identity. “It’s Carter Malone, all right,” Sam Simon said. “No doubt about it.”

  “Who would have thought he’d have the guts to kill himself?” Arden mused, half to himself.

  Simon was looking around frantically. “Isn’t there a phone in this place? This is the biggest story of my life!”

  “The phone’s over by the window,” Nick informed him.

  Simon bounded toward it.

  “But maybe we’d better talk a bit before you call anyone.”

  “Talk? About what? Your money?” Simon snorted. “Pay him his money, Ronnie.”

  “It’s not the money. It’s something else.”

  “What else?” Sam Simon asked.

  “Post offices close at noon on Saturday.”

  “Huh?”

  “The post office was closed when Ronnie went to it.”

  “If it was closed, how in hell could he have gotten this address?”

  “Exactly,” Nick said, looking at Ronnie Arden.

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Simon said. “Let’s sit down and talk this over.”

  “I think we’d better,” Nick agreed.

  But Ronnie Arden remained on his feet. “Are you going to listen to him, Sam? You’ve got the hottest story of the year right in your lap. Carter Malone, linked to General Spangler, a suicide!”

  “Sit down,” Nick ordered. “The corpse can wait a few more minutes.”

  Ronnie Arden grudgingly obeyed. “Do you believe this guy, Sam?”

  “He’d better believe me,” Nick said. “Because the question immediately comes to mind—once you found the post office closed, Ronnie, why did you lie about it? Why was it so important to get us out here today—so important that you couldn’t simply tell us the post office was closed and we could come back Monday? No, it had to be today, with the side door left conveniently unlocked. You knew he was dead, Ronnie, and that raises the question whether it’s really a suicide.”

  “It’s a suicide,” Arden insisted.

  “I think you’ll have to prove it.”

  “You’d better tell me what you know,” the columnist said. “Tell me, Ronnie.” His voice was deceptively soft.

  “He shot himself last night. Mrs. Spangler was with him when it happened.”

  “I see. And she called you.”

  “She called me, yes! How do you think I’ve been getting this information from her? I guess she thought it was great fun to be cheating on her husband with two men—one a fugitive and the other a reporter who was looking for him.”

  Sam Simon stirred on the edge of his chair. “Ronnie, there’s no way I can break this story without implicating you.”

  “Why not? Tell the police you got a tip he was here. You don’t have to say where the tip came from.”

  “In a case like this I’d have to go further than that, Ronnie. Suicide or not, the papers would be hinting at murder.”

  Ronnie Arden glanced at Nick and said, “Then let’s close up the house and go away. Nobody knows we were here except Velvet, and he’s not likely to talk.”

  “What about Mrs. Spangler?”

  “She’s not about to say anything. Before he killed himself, Malone told her he’d written the general that final letter, hinting at a suicide. But he didn’t confess to an affair with Mrs. Spangler. If she admitted knowing about the suicide, she’d have to tell her husband everything—not only about Malone but about me as well.”

  “At least we know why Malone still stayed close to Washington,” Nick observed. “Mrs. Spangler had to remain there and he wanted to be close to her.”

  “How do we know Mrs. Spangler didn’t kill him?” Sam Simon asked, gesturing at the body.

  “She had no reason to! After her affair with me began, she told me about Malone’s letters to her husband. She knew it was only a matter of time before we found him and he went off to prison. He was no danger to her.”

  “Why didn’t she simply give you his address? Why this whole business of our stealing the envelope?”

  Ronnie Arden dropped his eyes. “She didn’t want me to know of her affair with him. She didn’t tell me till last night, when she phoned me in a panic. I wanted us to break the suicide story, so I had to pretend I got the address from the post office.”

  Sam Simon rose to his feet. “There’s no reason why this should all come out. I’ll cover for you, Ronnie. Your affair with Spangler’s wife could only ruin your usefulness to me, if the word got out, and you’re too good a man to lose.”

  But Nick said, “The coverups keep on, don’t they? Just like Watergate.”

  “This isn’t the same thing.”

  “Isn’t it? This may be suicide or it may be murder, but the truth’s not going to come out unless all the facts do, unless everyone tells the truth, unless Spangler reveals that letter he got from Malone this morning.”

  Sam Simon gazed out across the bay. After a moment he said, “Yes, you’re right.”

  “You’re going to tell everything?” Arden asked in a panic. “I’ve got a family—”

  “Everything,” Sam Simon said, and there was more than a trace of sadness in his voice. “Velvet is right. No coverup this time.”

  Nick left them there waiting for the police. He walked into the center of town and caught a bus back to Washington. He had only one regret about the whole affair—he had collected his last $5,000 before leaving, but he’d never got to meet Mrs. Spangler.

  Gloria was up early the next morning and was scanning the Sunday paper as they ate breakfast in their room. “Did you see all this, Nicky? About Malone killing himself, and General Spangler’s wife, and this columnist fellow?”

  “I saw it all.”

  “Washington is an exciting place to visit. There’s always something going on.”

  “There certainly was this week,” he agreed.

  “Did you get your job done, Nicky?�
�

  “All finished. We can spend the whole day together.”

  “I’m glad. I was worried about you.” She smiled across the table. “It’s dangerous being a spy, isn’t it?”

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. She would never change, and that was why he loved her. “Well, I’m something like a spy, but not exactly. These government assignments—”

  The Theft of the Bermuda Penny

  “NICKY?”

  Nick Velvet had been far away in some private dream world when Gloria’s voice summoned him back. He put down his beer and asked, “What is it?”

  “Nicky, how can a person vanish from the back seat of a car that’s traveling sixty miles an hour on an expressway?”

  “He can’t,” Nick answered, picking up the beer again.

  “But it’s right here in the paper, Nicky! People along the New York State Thruway report picking up a young longhaired hitchhiker dressed all in white. He gets into the back seat, fastens his seat belt, and talks to the people about God. Then, suddenly they look around and he’s gone! And the seat belt is still fastened!”

  Nick grunted, only half hearing her. “If I was a detective I could solve it.”

  “Don’t you get any cases like that in your government work, Nicky?”

  “Not often.” Gloria’s mistaken impression of his government service helped cover his awkward absences, so he did nothing to correct it.

  “What about—?” she began, but the telephone interrupted her.

  It was for Nick, and he took it in the little den out of Gloria’s hearing. The voice was that of a man for whom he’d worked on two prior occasions. “Velvet? I have someone with an urgent assignment. Can you handle it?”

  “If it’s in my line.”

  “It is. The client is a young woman. Her father was a dear friend of mine. Could you meet her at the marina, where you keep your boat?”

  It was a good place for a meeting. On a summer’s weekend one or two more people would attract no attention. “How soon?”

  “One hour?”

  “Make it two,” Nick said.

  As he’d expected, the Saturday sailors were lounging on the grass in their trunks and bikinis, sipping beers or gin-and-tonics. No one noticed him as he worked around his cabin cruiser. He’d been there less than half an hour when a young woman in white slacks and a blue shirt approached him. “Nice boat,” she said.