The Nine Mile Walk

by Harry Kemelman

  “A woman—”

  Nicky smiled. “You are incurably romantic. You were about to suggest that some woman had sent Blodgett a key to her apartment for an assignation. Somehow our friend Blodgett doesn’t seem the type. And why would Erik be interested in his roommate’s amours? No, no, a locker key is more likely than a house key.” Nicky nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, a locker key is the most likely thing. And a locker key implies something small, at least portable, and probably valuable.”

  “But where would Blodgett get a locker key?”

  “He’d purchase it just like anyone else. He gets off the train in a strange town. It is dark and he is going to a boardinghouse—not a hotel with a safe, mind you. What more natural than to put the valuable object he is carrying into one of the lockers at the depot?”

  I nodded thoughtfully.

  “Now we have to rely on our imagination. Why didn’t he just pocket the key instead of enclosing it in an envelope and addressing it to himself here at the boardinghouse?” He shrugged his shoulders. “He is a nervous, edgy sort of man. Perhaps just as he finished putting the object away, he noticed someone watching him, or thought he noticed. Just putting the object away in a locker would not do much to ensure its safety if a few minutes after leaving the depot he were waylaid and robbed of the key.”

  “He could have taken a cab at the station,” I objected.

  “Monday night? With dozens of strangers coming into town and only one full-time cab available? He probably asked for a cab and was told there was none. Then he in turn was asked where he was going. When he tells them his destination is the Keefe House, he learns, perhaps for the first time, that it is a boardinghouse rather than a hotel. And his informant goes on to tell him that it is only a couple of blocks away and that he can easily walk it.

  “All right, I’ll grant you that he might have been nervous and thought someone was watching him, but—”

  “And I should like to point out,” Nicky cut in, “that seeing the envelope addressed to Blodgett in his own hand, and postmarked yesterday from this very town, in conjunction with the feel of the key—all that would set our friend Erik thinking along precisely these lines.”

  “But hang it all, Nicky, why does it have to be a valuable object? It could be that he had two valises and didn’t feel up to carrying both, especially if he was going to walk. What more natural than to put one in a locker and carry the other, the one that contains his shaving kit?”

  “He’s only going to be here for a couple of days. Two bags are most unlikely. Besides, if it were only a valise that contained a change of underwear and a couple of extra shirts, he would not bother to mail himself the key. He would just pocket it.”

  “I suppose you are suggesting that it is the Adelphi Bowl that he left in the locker. What did he say it was worth?”

  Nicky nodded with relish. “He didn’t say, except that it was priceless. Of course, what he had in mind was that it was unique and hence no price could be set on it. But even if it were broken up, I fancy the gold and the gems would come to many thousands of dollars.”

  “Dammit all, Nicky, a man doesn’t go lugging something like that around with him and then leave it in a railroad locker.”

  “Why not?” Nicky demanded. “If it’s small and portable, what better way of transporting it from one place to another than by having someone carry it there? I imagine it has its own fitted carrying case with a handle and looks like an overnight bag. Is it your idea that it should be transported in an armored car with a guard? That would be dangerous. It would be alerting every thief in the area. It’s natural for you to think that way since your work does not call for handling valuable objects. But those who normally do are a lot more matter-of-fact about it. I knew a diamond merchant who used to travel about a great deal. He carried a fortune in unmounted stones in little folds of paper—parcels he called them—and these he carried in a wallet in his inside breast pocket.”

  “Then your idea is that Erik sees an envelope addressed by Blodgett to himself—”

  “And postmarked from here,” Nicky interjected.

  “All right, and postmarked from here, and he feels a key inside it and knowing that Blodgett is going to display the Adelphi Bowl, comes to the same conclusion that you have, that it is at present resting in a locker in our modest little depot, instead of in the Bursar’s safe at the university, having been previously sent down by the museum authorities.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then why does he bother to steam open the envelope?” I asked triumphantly. “Why doesn’t he just tear it open and take out the key and go down to the depot and get it? Or isn’t he as sure as you are and intends to examine the contents of the locker first and then if it is not the Bowl, seal the key up in the envelope again?”

  “No—no—no,” said Nicky testily. “He’s sure enough, but he can’t just go down there and take it. There’s no train out of here at this time for one thing. For another, Blodgett will miss the letter. We know it came in. Suspicion would point—Suspicion?—no, certainty would point to Erik. And how far do you suppose he would get? Look there.”

  He was standing near the window and I joined him there. On the sidewalk just beneath our windows stood Erik. He stood a moment looking in either direction, and then with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, for there was still a bite to the air, he turned to the right and headed toward the depot at a brisk walk.

  Nicky turned away. “No danger,” he said. “He will go down to the depot and deposit a quarter in one of the lockers and put that in the envelope. No, he won’t. Blodgett might remember the location of his locker. He’ll remove the Bowl from Blodgett’s locker to another and then put the original key back in the envelope.”

  “And what do we do about it?” I asked. “Shall I call the police and have them—”

  “Call the police?” Nicky stared at me in disbelief. “For what?” he demanded. “Because a young man chooses to boil some water in order to make a cup of instant coffee rather than go to the trouble of preparing a percolator?”

  “But going down to the depot—”

  “To get a timetable, I imagine,”

  It suddenly came to me that I had been had, that Nicky was merely paying me back for my foolish little wager, and that indeed nothing had happened except that Erik had boiled a kettle of water.

  Nevertheless, I was uneasy, and the next morning, after Nicky had left, I called my office to tell them that I would not be in that day. I sat near the window where I could command a view of the street. Shortly after ten, I saw Erik leave and head for the university. I put on my topcoat and followed him, keeping about a block behind him, but being careful to keep him in sight all the time. As we approached the university, I quickened my pace and drew nearer to him so as not to lose him in the crowd. I kept him in sight all morning. When he went into a meeting room and took a seat in front, I followed and found a seat in the rear. At noon, I saw him enter the cafeteria and only then did I leave him and head for home. Nicky was in the room when I arrived.

  “Didn’t you go to your office today?” he asked with a little smirk of amusement on his vinegary face.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said shortly.

  I took a seat near the window and stared moodily at the street below while Nicky continued the perusal of his interminable blue books. Presently I saw Erik striding along and a moment later I heard him taking the steps two at a time. He was evidently in high spirits. We could hear him moving around in his room and I assumed he was packing.

  A quarter of an hour later he knocked at our door. “I’m so glad you’re both in,” he said. “I am leaving now. I’m taking the one-thirty out. It was nice meeting you.”

  “We’ll walk you down to the depot,” said Nicky. “There’ll be quite a few leaving on this train. I ought to say good-bye to some of them.”

  “And did you profit from the Convocation?” Nicky asked as we walked along.

  The young man grinned. “I had one of
fer of a job,” he said, “but it’s in India.”

  Although we were early, there were a number already at the depot waiting for the train. We stood there, engaged in desultory conversation. A number of people whom we had met nodded to us and one or two came over to shake hands and say good-bye. It was while we were thus engaged that Erik drifted away toward the news counter. He purchased a magazine to read on the train and then sauntered on to the bank of lockers just beyond. I was about to follow him when Nicky signaled me to remain where I was. Then he followed him.

  The train pulled in and the crowd surged forward to get on. I waited, wondering what was happening. Finally the conductor shouted, All Aboard, and it was only then that I saw Erik, running to get aboard the train. I was about to intercept him, when I saw Nicky. He was sauntering and looked smug and self-satisfied.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  For answer Nicky held out his hand and there was a locker key on his upraised palm.

  “What did he say?”

  “I asked him for the key and he saw that I knew,” said Nicky. “He asked me if someone had seen him, and I said, ‘No, but I heard you boiling up some water.’ Then he gave me the key.”

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “I think as County Attorney you ought to have enough influence with the station master or whoever is in charge here to open Locker 518 so that we can transfer the Bowl back to it.” He sounded testy.

  As we walked back to the boardinghouse I said, “Do you think we were right in letting him go, Nicky? After all, we are compounding a felony.”

  “Would it have been better if it had all been made public and the university involved in a scandal, not to mention that Blodgett would have lost his job?”

  I did not press the matter.

  When we got back to the boardinghouse, Blodgett was there. “I guess I missed Erik,” he said. “I planned to get back in time to see him off, but there were some last-minute arrangements that I had to make for my paper tonight.”

  “Has the Bowl arrived yet?” asked Nicky gravely.

  “Arrived? Why, I brought it with me. I checked it in one of the lockers at the railroad station.”

  “At the railroad station?”

  Blodgett laughed. “It’s quite safe, I assure you. By far the best place. I’ll pick it up on my way and then cab over to the university. Will you be coming to the meeting tonight?”

  “We have an engagement,” said Nicky, “but we’ll try to get in if only for a few minutes.”

  We did not go to the meeting. Instead, we spent the evening playing chess at the Faculty Club. By this time the visitors had all gone and the place was quiet and peaceful. At nine o’clock Professor Richardson came in. There had been photographs and he was carrying his academic gown and hood in the crook of his arm. He sat down heavily and fanned himself with his mortarboard.

  “Thank God, that’s over,” he said.

  “Successful Convocation, Professor?” I asked.

  “All right, I guess, as these things go,” he said. “Of course, Prex would have liked a little more publicity than we got. I gather he would have liked something really dramatic to make headlines, a murder perhaps, or the theft of the university uranium supply.”

  “You should have told us earlier,” said Nicky. “We might have arranged it.”

  The Bread and Butter Case

  On Wednesday nights when I dine at the Faculty Club I am there as Nicky Welt’s guest, presumably to balance the Friday nights that he comes to my house for an evening of chess.

  When Ellis Johnston, County Attorney for Suffolk, dropped in on me late one Wednesday afternoon in January on a matter of business, I invited him to join us for dinner. Frankly, I was not certain how Nicky would take my presumption in burdening him with another guest—Nicky can be quite sensitive about such things—but it went off very well. He remembered having met Johnston at my house and was pleased to see him again. He shepherded us into the dining room like an indulgent uncle taking a couple of favorite nephews out of school for a treat. He sat us on either side of him and urged the richest dishes on us when the waiter came to take our orders.

  We talked about the weather of course. Our winter that year was setting meteorological records. We had had three major snowstorms during the month of December unrelieved by any perceptible thaw. The pattern had continued into January with a ten-inch snowstorm on New Year’s Day, a blizzard three days later that had left sixteen inches of snow, and a cold spell which had kept the thermometer around zero for a fortnight. And when at the end of that period the temperature did go up somewhat, it was only to deposit more snow.

  Johnston said, “Driving through the streets of the city is like running a bobsled course. The snowbanks on either side of you are so high, you can’t see the people on the sidwalks. Why only yesterday we found a man buried in the snowbank. It was on Holgate Street. That’s not a main traffic artery to be sure, but it’s a fairly well-traveled street. He had been there since the big blizzard on the fourth. That’s three weeks. Imagine the hundreds of people who walked past him in that time and no one the wiser.”

  “I heard the item on the news broadcast last night,” I said. “There is a suspicion of murder, isn’t there?”

  “No suspicion,” said Johnston grimly. “It’s definitely murder. His head was bashed in and he had been laid out with his hands by his sides as neatly as you please. It’s hardly the way a man would fall accidentally.”

  “It sounds as though it might be interesting,” I said.

  Johnston shrugged. “Just another bread and butter case.”

  “And what is a bread and butter case?” asked Nicky.

  Johnston laughed shortly. “My brother-in-law has a hardware store,” he said irrelevantly, “and any time you go in there you are apt to see a woman buying a frying pan or a man buying a garden hose. Now, even if they are regular customers of his, he still may not see them again for a couple of months. So he regards those sales as jam. In a sense, they’re almost accidental. But the carpenters, plumbers, and electricians who trade with him—they’re his bread and butter. He can count on seeing them several times a week right through the year. Now in the city we have a sizable population of professional criminals. We can depend on them to give us work week in and week out. So they’re our bread and butter.”

  “And is your procedure any different in bread and butter cases?” asked Nicky.

  “Well, we usually know who is responsible for a particular job almost as soon as it’s done, by the way it’s done, or by way of rumor through the grapevine, but mostly because we make it a point to know these people. We know how they think and how they feel. We know what pressures are at work and what balance of forces obtain at any particular time. By the same token, these people being professional are adept at covering their tracks. So we are usually in the position of knowing who committed a particular crime, but we have no proof. Your kind of reasoning and analysis would be useless in these cases, Professor. You’d have no clues to start with. Frankly, there’s nothing subtle about our methods in bread and butter cases. We don’t knock them around, although quite a bit of it was done under my predecessor a few years back. We question those involved—at length. You see, we’re looking for a chink in their armor, so we can get a wedge into it and open them up. We may have to put pressure on one person in order to get him to put pressure in turn on another who may have given the suspect an alibi. Once the alibi is broken, we have our case. Take this present business for example. When the police lieutenant notified me that John Reilly had got his lumps, I suggested immediately that he pick up Tommy Jordan for questioning, and he grinned at me and told me that they already had.

  “Strictly speaking, John Reilly was not of the underworld. At least we were never able to pin anything on him. He was on the fringe, you might say. He owned some slum tenement houses and a bunch of sleazy boarding-houses, and he did some bail-bonding and some money lending. A bachelor, about fifty, he was a little jockey of a man, always dr
essed to the nines, with an exaggerated sense of personal dignity. If you called him John or Reilly, he’d correct you. ‘It’s Mister,’ he would say. So he was known around as Mister John.

  “He had a little box of an office in the Lawyers’ Building right in Courthouse Square. He was never there, but you could leave a message for him with his clerk, Cyrus Gerber, and it would reach him. That was where the people who owed him money left it, and the janitors of his properties left the rents they collected. As I said, we make it our business to know about these people, and we knew that Terry Jordan had it in for Mister John.

  “Terry Jordan is a big broth of a lad, goodhearted, but not overly endowed with brains. He graduated from juvenile delinquency to small-time crime, but was never very successful at it. He is what is known in his circle as a born patsy—you know, always the last one over the fence. He finally got a job as assistant manager, which is polite for bouncer, at the Hi-Hat Café. There was a waitress there, a big blond amazon of a girl, called Lily Cherry. He’s a good-looking boy, so it’s not surprising that after a while she became his girl.”

  “You mean, they became engaged?” asked Nicky.

  Johnston smiled at him affectionately. “No, Professor, they didn’t become engaged, and neither did they get married when he moved into her apartment. It was just a convenient arrangement and they both continued to work at the Hi-Hat. Then Terry got restless again. We picked him up on a burglary charge and he got a year in the pen. There was no question about his guilt, you understand, and it was only his own stupidity that enabled us to pin it on him, but somehow, perhaps from something the police detective said, he got it into his head that Mister John had had something to do with his arrest. There was nothing to it—just an overzealous policeman hoping to get a lead. It happens all the time. It’s hard to imagine even a light-brain like Terry Jordan taking it seriously.”