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
