what she's really doing down in S.A. And there must be more dough around the Owens house. Damn, I couldn't do this alone; somebody should be digging into Owens' past, another team working on anybody and everybody who ever knew Wales, and then there was a check needed on all safe deposit vaults.... If they'd only put the whole force on this we'd have it licked in a day. The big brass downtown in Central hadn't even searched Owens' house!
Wales and his sick wife... must be tough living all your life with a sickly woman. Crazy thing about these murders, seems to be so many loose ends, you'd think if we keep pulling something will give and unravel the whole mess. You'd pass Owens or Wales on-the street and you'd never make them for anything but a couple of half-dead codgers waiting for a pine box, and all the time they were hip-deep in something shady. And ex-cops too. Damn, how do I know it was shady? They were cops, why should I judge them? For all I know they might have got some market tips while delivering bonds, made a killing. Have to check that.... But why would Owens keep it from his wife, open a phony account? Round and round we go....
Mary came in. She put the ginger ale and ice cream on the table, turned on the TV as she started to undress. She acted as if I wasn't there, never even asked if I wanted to see TV or not. As she undressed and watched some crummy cowboy movie, she talked.
“Dave, it was kicks to be even typing up the reports of this sales conference. Fantastic the way some people make their minds pay off. This wasn't a routine sales talk, mostly it was concerned with a new promotion idea, and oh so clever—a nationally televised quiz program and in certain boxes of this soap powder there will be parts that form a jigsaw puzzle, which in turn gives a strong clue to the jackpot question on the TV quiz. You see the tie-up, the sensational audience participation level? After the jackpot question is reached, anybody at home can phone in the answer— if they've found the clue in the soap boxes—and win a fortune, a double jackpot. Otherwise the studio audience gets a crack at the jackpot. Make the sodas while I wash up, Dave. There's a show on at nine-thirty I want to catch. Don was talking about it. Very literary.”
I made a couple of sodas and she came out of the bathroom and sat beside me. “I was so absorbed in my work, didn't realize how tired I am. What happened to your face, Dave?”
“I was running in the park and slipped.”
“Running in the park! Honestly, Dave, you act like a kid. Think I'll open the bed and we can watch TV laying down. It amazes me how those idea men and women can come up with such wonderful things. Out of thin air they dream up a show that...”
I finished the soda and got the couch into a bed and we stretched out. Mary was still on this cleverness kick. Then she got interested in some junk on TV about a movie star who realizes that despite his thousands of fan letters he's a lonely, lonely man....
About then I dozed off, thoughts flashing through my noggin like a newsreel. I saw Owens dead in the alley, Al Wales sitting shriveled up in the muster room, an empty wreck of a garage in Brooklyn, Susan Owens arching-her back as she leaned against the wall, the bankbook waiting like a surprise package, and Rose's faint perfume, the touch of her fingers on my cheek.
Friday Morning
I awoke before Mary, showered and shaved, shook her awake as I put the coffee on. In a one-room apartment the order of getting dressed is important if you have to make time. The cut on my face looked better and I covered it with a Band-Aid.
Toweling herself after her shower Mary called out, “Where are you off to so early?”
“Checking on a few things.”
“Checking, digging, checking! It's your day off. Why don't you go to a movie?”
“Maybe I will. Want any eggs?”
She pinched her belly. “One egg, no toast or bacon—I'm beginning to spread. I suppose during the course of your being a busybody you won't have time to see Uncle Frank? You promised you would.”
“I plan to see him. I've got news for you, I'm a big boy now, know how to handle my off days.”
Mary gave me what could have passed for a tiny sneer. “Are you a big boy, Dave?”
I was too interested in the bankbook to get excited. I poured the juice and coffee as she slipped into her underwear and stockings, came over to the bridge table I'd set up. I stopped her, ran my hand over her thin shoulders. “Don't you kiss your husband anymore?”
“I don't see you rushing to kiss your wife. I'm in a hurry.”
“Oh, come on, Mary.”
“Oh, for... Stop acting like a jerk,” she said, pushing me away. “Grow up.”
“Would I be real grown if I invented a transparent box top or a postal-card box top, something to delight your Madison Avenue scouts?”
“Don't start... That postal-card top makes sense, built-in consumer response. Merely tear off and mail in... have to tear off the top of the box anyway. Never heard of it being done before. I'll suggest this the next time we have a box-top campaign.”
I gave up: sat down and started eating. I borrowed a couple of bucks from Mary before she left, washed the dishes. Then I dressed, wearing a plain conservative tie. I found Dr. Di Maggio on Park Avenue in the phone book and walked up there.
It was a ground-floor apartment in a swank building. A neat-looking brunette nurse opened the door and said, “Dr. Di Maggio's hours are from eleven to—”
“Is he in?” I asked, flashing my badge.
“Why... uh... please have a seat. He doesn't like to be disturbed now, studying his patients' charts and... One moment.” She went into another room, closing the door.
Nothing like a badge to make people jump. The waiting room was like most such rooms: the chairs looking as if too many people had sat on them, the magazines worn from impatient fingering. A few seconds later she motioned me into an inner office.
The doctor was a little man, sort of hunched over, and his thick uncombed gray hair made him look top-heavy. He had heavy features that crowded his big face and there were thick folds of skin running around his bull-neck. His voice was strong and clear, gave me an impression of youth, as he asked, “What does the Police Department want of me?”
“I'm Detective Dave Wintino, 201st Precinct Squad. Perhaps you read in the papers about an Albert Wales being killed two days ago?”
“I don't recall. I haven't time for such news. What has that to do with me, Detective Wintino? Italiano?”
I said in Italian, “Yes, my father is from Bari.”
“I like to see young Italians in such jobs,” he said. Then he switched to English and asked again, “What has all this to do with me?”
“In 1949 Wales' wife Dora was a patient of yours. I understand she was operated on, received a lot of medical treatment before she died. I'd like to know how much Mr. Wales paid for all this.”
“A doctor's records are confidential.”
“I know that,” I said in Italian. “I assume you wish to cooperate with the police.”
Dr. Di Maggio shrugged. “Enough of the old tongue. Of course I wish to help but what would a doctor's bill, assuming she was a patient of mine in 1949, have to do with a murder of several days ago?”
“A large sum of money was found on Wales. I'm interested in knowing if he had a lot of money back in '49.”
“I can see no harm. Let me look at my files,” the doctor said, crossing the room to a closet door. He was wearing old slippers. The closet was almost as large as Rose's room with several file cabinets against one wall. For a second the doctor turned and stared at me, then opened a file drawer. Maybe he figured me for an income tax snoop.
He said, “Come here, young man. No sense in my taking the file out. Yes, I did have a patient named Mrs. Dora Wales. Started treating her in September, 1948. She had a malignant growth. I gave her a course of X-ray treatments. As to her medical history, she was operated on the following April, sent to a private hospital for —”
“What did all this cost, Doc?” I asked, leaning against the doorway, my notebook out.”
“A famous specialist was brought in, at the request of Mr. Wales....” He bent over a card, trying to read something in the dim light, “Ah, yes, I see that Mr. Wales was also a member of the police force. I do recall the case now. Although I told Mr. Wales it was hopeless he insisted upon every possible treatment. The constant hope of the layman. However you are only interested in the costs.... My fees over a period of three months amounted to eleven hundred dollars.”
“How about the other expenses, hospitals, specialists, all that?”
“I cannot give you an exact amount. However with the various specialists, the private rooms and nurses, I'd say Mr. Wales spent between five and six thousand dollars.”
“Would he have to pay that all at once?”
“Yes. I note here he had Mrs. Wales taken in a private ambulance down to Baltimore for examination. That would be most expensive.”
“Thanks, Doc. That's all I wanted to know,” I said wondering if downtown had checked the banks for any other accounts Wales may have had. Hell, that would be the first thing they did. I took out the newspaper snap of Wales, showed it to the doc. “This is Mr. Wales. Can you remember anything else about him?”
“Frankly I do not remember the face, but then hundreds of faces pass through my office every month. I'm sorry I can't be of much assistance.”
“You've given me exactly what I wanted. Thank you.”
As I walked out he said “Good-by” in Italian and waved.
I walked over to Lexington Avenue and took the subway to Brooklyn, excitement mounting in me. It was a small savings bank and the manager looked as if he'd just been plucked from a fireside, a little on the sleepy side. I'd give odds he was wearing one of those old-fashioned, detachable, hard collars. He gave me the usual song and dance about it being most “irregular” to give out the info I wanted. I told him it was also
