The “store” was actually one enormous, high-ceilinged loft with pipe racks, a few glass showcases, and with no attempts made at fashionable merchandizing. Most of the stock was piled on the floor, on unpainted wooden shelves, or hung from hooks driven into the whitewashed walls.
As Langley had said, it was a fascinating conglomeration: rucksacks, rubber dinghies, hiking boots, crampons, dehydrated food, kerosene lanterns, battery-heated socks, machetes, net hammocks, sleeping bags, outdoor cookware, hunting knives, fishing rods, reels, creels, pitons, nylon rope, boating gear-an endless profusion of items ranging from five-cent fishhooks to a magnificent red, three-room tent with a mosquito-netted, picture window, at $1,495.00.
Outside Life seemed to have its devotees, despite its out-of-the-way location; Delaney counted at least 40 customers wandering about, and the clerks were busy writing up purchases. The Captain found his way to the mountaineering department and inspected pitons, crampons, web belts and harnesses, nylon line, aluminum-framed backpacks, and a wide variety of ice axes. There were two styles of short-handled axes: the one purchased by Langley and another, somewhat similar, but with a wooden handle and no saw-tooth serrations under the spike. Delaney inspected it, and finally found “Made in U.S.A.” stamped on the handle butt.
He halted a scurrying clerk just long enough to ask for the whereabouts of Mr. Appel. “Sol’s in the office,” the departing clerk called over his shoulder. “Downstairs.”
Delaney pushed open the heavy door on the second floor and found himself in a tiny reception room, walled with unfinished plywood panels. There was a door of clear glass leading to the open space beyond, apparently a combination warehouse and mailing room. In one corner of the reception room was a telephone operator wearing a wired headset and sitting before a push-pull switchboard that Delaney knew had been phased out of production years and years ago. Outside Life seemed to be a busy, thriving enterprise, but it was also obvious the profits weren’t going into fancy offices and smart decoration.
He waited patiently until the operator had plugged and unplugged half-a-dozen calls. Finally, desperately, he said, “Mr. Appel, please. My name is-”
She stuck her head through the opening into the big room beyond and screamed, “Sol! Guy to see you!”
Delaney sat on the single couch, a rickety thing covered with slashed plastic. He was amused to note an overflowing ashtray on the floor. The single decoration in the room was a plaque on the plywood wall attesting to Mr. Solomon Appel’s efforts on behalf of the United Jewish Appeal.
The glass door crashed back, and a heavy, sweating man rushed in. Delaney caught a confused impression of a round, plump face (the man in the moon), a well-chewed, unlit cigar, a raveled, sleeveless sweater of hellish hue, unexpectedly “mod” jeans of dark blue with white stitching and a darker stain down one leg, and Indian moccasins decorated with beads.
“You from Benson amp; Hurst?” the man demanded, talking rapidly around his cigar. “I’m Sol Appel. Where the hell are those tents? You promised-”
“Wait, wait,” Delaney said hastily. “I’m not from Benson amp; Hurst. I’m-”
“Gatters,” the man said positively. “The fiberglass rods. You guys are sure giving me the rod-you know where. You said-”
“Will you wait a minute,” Delaney said again, sighing. “I’m not from Gatters either. My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney. New York Police Department. Here’s my identification.”
Sol Appel didn’t even glance at it. He raised his hands above his head, palms outward, in mock surrender?
“I give up,” he said. “Whatever it was, I did it. Take me away. Now. Please get me out of this nuthouse. Do me a favor. Jail will be a pleasure.”
“No, no,” Delaney laughed. “Nothing like that. Mr. Appel, I wanted-”
“You’re putting on a dance? A dinner? You want a few bucks? Of course. Why not? Always. Any time. So tell me-how much?”
He was already reaching for his wallet when Delaney held out a restraining hand and sighed again.
“Please, Mr. Appel, it’s nothing like that. I’m not collecting for anything. All I want is a few minutes of your time.”
“A few minutes? Now you’re really asking for something valuable. A few minutes!” He turned back to the opened glass door. “Sam!” he screamed. “You, Sam! Get the cash. No check. The cash! You understand?”
“Is there any place we can talk?” the Captain asked.
“We’re talking, aren’t we?”
“All right,” Delaney said doubtfully, glancing at the switchboard operator. But she was busy with her cords and plugs. “Mr. Appel, your name was given to me by Calvin Case, and I-”
“Cal!” Appel cried. He stepped close and grabbed Delaney’s overcoat by the lapels. “That dear, sweet boy. How is he? Will you tell me?”
“Well…he’s-”
“Don’t tell me. He’s on the booze. I know. I heard. I wanted him back. ‘So you can’t walk,’ I told him. ‘Big deal. You can think. No? You can work. No?’ That’s the big thing-right, Captain-uh, Captain-”
“Delaney.”
“Captain Delaney. That’s Irish, no?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. I knew. The important thing is to work. Am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Sol Appel said angrily. “So any time he wants a job, he’s got it. Right here. We can use him. Tell him that. Will you tell him that?” Suddenly Appel struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I should have been to see him,” he groaned. “What kind of
“Captain.”
“Captain. Will you tell him that?”
“Yes, certainly, if I speak to him again. But that isn’t the-”
“You’re taking up a collection for him? You’re making a benefit, Captain? It will be my pleasure to take a table for eight, and I’ll-”
Delaney finally got him calmed down, a little, and seated on the plastic couch. He explained he was involved in an investigation, and the cigar-chomping Sol Appel asked no questions. Within five minutes Delaney had discovered that Outside Life had a mailing list of approximately 30,000 customers who were sent Summer and Winter catalogues. The mailings were done with metal addressing plates and printed labels. There was also a typed master list, and Sol Appel would be happy to provide a copy for Captain Delaney whenever he asked.
“I assure you, it’ll be held in complete confidence,” the Captain said earnestly.
“Who cares?” Appel shouted. “My competitors: can meet my prices? Hah!”
Delaney also learned that Outside Life kept sales checks for seven years. They were stored in cardboard cartons in the basement of the loft building, filed by month and year.
“Why seven years?” he asked.
“Who the hell knows?” Appel shrugged. “My father-God rest his soul-he only died last year-I should live so long-Mike Appel-a
“Yes. I know. My father was an Irish
“Good. So he told me, ‘Sol,’ he said a hundred times, ‘always keep the copies of the sales checks for seven years.’ Who the hell knows why? That’s the way he did it, that’s the way I do it. Taxes or something; I don’t know. Anyway, I keep them seven years. I add this year’s, I throw the oldest year’s away.”
“Would you let me go through them?”
“Go through them? Captain, there’s got to be like a hundred thousand checks there.”
“If I have to, can I go through them?”
“Be my guest. Sarah!” Sol Appel suddenly screamed. “You, Sarah!”
An elderly Jewish lady thrust her head through the switchboard operator’s window.
“You called, Sol?” she asked.
“Tell him ‘No’!” Appel screamed, and the lady nodded and withdrew.
Now that Delaney wanted to leave, Appel wouldn’t let him depart. He shook his hand endlessly and talked a
