“Forget it, I talk too much. I'm keeping you from your writing and I'm due at my mother's for supper and she'll be sore enough without my being late. If you'll let me have that can of coconut milk, I'll scram. And don't worry about Wren ever bothering you again, he told me he's given you up. Tell me, when these calls and the shadowing first started, did you ever notice a plump, middle-aged man asking around about you? Shabby dresser. Have you ever heard the name Francis Parker?”
“No. I never saw anybody except those men who pushed me on the street. First time I didn't see who pushed me. Then the time before you saw them, they had reversed things—the tall one did the jostling. My curiosity is eating me up. What... ?”
“When did the calls first start, when did you first think you were being shadowed?”
“About a week ago.”
“Only a week ago?” That could still figure. Once Owens gave him the dope it might have taken Wren time, to find the right private eye. Only the woods were full of starving private badges, why should it take him a month to find one? And even if Wren was The Bird, why should he kill Owens and Wales twenty-five years after Sal Kahn burned? Still it was a hell of a lead to look into. I glanced at my watch. “I'm late. Where's my coconut?”
She took a can down from the shelf, even put it in a bag for me. “But you can't leave me hanging like this. What's it all about?”
“Honey, that old saying about what you don't know won't hurt you may be terribly true in this case. We're dealing with a killer. And if I told you the wild idea batting around In my noggin, the least might happen to you would be a rough libel suit. Forget I ran my big mouth. I'll let you know what Ma thinks of this coconut milk. Good-by now.” I winked at her and opened the door.
Rose looked astonished, then laughed, deep real laughter. “I never had anybody wink at me before.”
“Then you're long due. I'll drop in again.” I waved and ran down the steps.
I walked slowly up to the corner, not sure what to do. Crime cases follow set patterns. If it had been a killing done in a moment of anger it could be anybody. But both these were obviously carefully planned killings. And a successful businessman isn't a gun for hire, doesn't go to a man's room and kill him, or gun a guy in an alley. If anything, he hires a goon and a guy like Wren would have to be out of his mind to hire a killer, be paying off the rest of his life. Actually, the only real link Wren had to the case was the job he gave Owens to do on Rose and that wasn't much of a link. As for his being The Bird, the phone book was full of Eagles and Robbinses. And if Wren was involved it sure wasn't a one-man job nailing him down. A dozen men should be digging into his past, his home Me, his neighbors, his plant should be staked out. And the same thing went for the Owens family. And the Data jerks.
I'd given myself a deadline and it was past that. Although they might hand my head to me on my badge for not reporting all this sooner, I headed for the precinct.
Lieutenant Reed was out but Captain Lampkin was sitting behind his desk, his blue and gold coat open like a drape, his white shirt bunched up over his belt. He was reading a teletype and after a moment he turned his big puss up at me and asked slowly, “You on duty, Wintino?”
“No, sir. But I have something that may help on the Owens-Wales murders,” I said, placing the bankbook on his desk. “This was found taped under Owens' dresser drawer by his daughter Susan, along with four thousand dollars in fifty-buck bills. I have a list of the bills, Susan Owens has the money in a sealed envelope. I also have the tape home-might raise some prints. I've checked with the bank and from the signatures, Francis Parker was Ed Owens. The check for $4000.75 was paid to Owens by a manufacturer named Edwin Wren. He claims he agreed to pay Owens a grand for doing some private work in connection with a case our squad is handling: a writer named Rose Henderson is—was—being annoyed by strange phone calls, pushed around and rough-shadowed on the street. She's doing an article that exposes Wren's and several other companies as a monopoly. I took care of that, Wren has agreed to stop it. But he says he hired Owens about six weeks ago and that Owens then blackmailed him for the four grand.”
“When did you learn about the money and bankbook?” Lampkin asked, his slow voice reminding me of a funeral-mine.
“Late last night. Mrs. Owens phoned here yesterday that she wanted to see me. She wasn't exactly holding out, but she wanted me to check this morning and see if it was evidence or not.... Four grand isn't carfare.”
“And too much to pay for private work.”
“Yes, sir. Seems Owens was using a phony name, according to Wren, to avoid paying tax. I figure it might be a motive for Owens' death, although it seems pretty farfetched. As for Wales, he doesn't fit in, but I have a hunch, a theory, about an old collar Wales and Owens made, that should be looked into. Has some odd angles.”
“Seems like both Owens and Wales had something going for themselves.”
“That's what I think, Captain. I wasn't trying to solo on this, just wanted to check before I turned it over to you.”
“Nice of you to do this on your own time, Wintino. I'll send the dope down to Central Bureau. This Wren in the phone book?”
“Yes sir, Edwin Wren & Company, they make electrical gadgets. I'd like to work with Central on this, or at least talk over my theory with them,” I said, almost high with relief. And I wasn't going to let the glory hounds downtown get the credit on this if anything broke. “When are you due in?” “Tomorrow midnight.”
“This theory of yours, does it require immediate action?” “I don't think so. You understand, Captain, I'm not sure of anything, just a strong hunch that may blow up.”
“They haven't even got a weak hunch working on the Wales killing, so might be worth looking into yours,” Lamp-kin said, picking up his phone. He asked for an inspector at Central Bureau and after they called each other by their first names and asked about the family, Lampkin told him about the bankbook and the inspector must have put on the detective who was handling the case and Lampkin repeated what I'd told him about the bankbook and Wren and that I had a theory about Wales. Then he said, “Dave Wintino, Detective Third Grade... Yeah, yeah, he made that maniac arrest. The Owens family called him last night and told him about the money.... Why? Maybe because he has a trusting face.... What? Come off it, Wally. On his own time he found out who gave Owens the check and why, saved you fellows a lot of legwork.... Yeah, he's a real beaver. 'You know these young studs—all pistols. Says he has something on Wales, an idea, he wants to talk over.... Midnight tour tomorrow.... Sure, that's okay, he won't mind.... What? You out of your mind? The Giants have it in the bag. You should live that long.”
Lampkin hung up and stared at the phone for a moment as if in deep thought, then he looked up at me. “Call Detective Shavers at Central Bureau in the morning, around ten. He'll arrange to meet you. What's the matter with your face? Haven't you outgrown boils yet, or don't you know how to shave right?”
“Why, I... uh... well, sir, I was in a fight.”
“I hear you're handy with your dukes. Remember we have several posts here in need of a tough beat cop,” Lampkin said, drawing out each word the way he always talked, like it was an effort. He picked up the teletype report.
I started for the door, then asked, “Anything new on Wales?”
He shook his big head. “Nothing, haven't even found anybody to question. Yeah, they found he sometimes got himself one of these expensive young call girls, holed up in a hotel room with her and a couple of bottles, knocked himself out. About every three months. Told the girls he was a buyer from Chicago. A guy his age doing that, don't know where he got the juice. Certainly can't tell about people nowadays.”
I said “Yes, sir” and walked out. Downstairs, I remembered I'd left my bag on his desk. I went back to his office, told him, “Excuse me. I left my coconut milk on your desk.”
As I picked up the bag he asked slowly, “Your what?”
“Coconut milk,” I said, half- taking the can out of the bag so he could see.
Lampkin looked sad and when I walked out I heard him mutter, “I'll be a sonofabitch if I know what the world is coming to.”
Friday Evening
I was feeling tops when I reached the old apartment. I'd been so damn sure Lampkin was going to bust me for working alone. I don't know why but soon as I kissed Ma and hugged Pa the high feeling left. Then I was sore at myself for being restless in my parents' home.
First it was the fuss Ma made over the cut on my face, crying I was back in the ring again. Then there were the unsaid comments about Mary. She had phoned her excuses, said she had to work late, but both Ma's and Pop's eyes asked me, “What kind of a wife have you got that she is ashamed of us?”
Ma brushed off the can of coconut milk and despite it being a warm night, she gave me the full treatment—minestrone, gefullte fish, lasagna and boiled chicken. Whenever I said I had enough she would give me another helping as she asked, “You sick, Dave, or don't you like my cooking anymore?”
He kept right up with me, even had room to pack away the dessert—noodle pudding in fruit sauce. The old boy looked good. As Ma gave me the latest family gossip Pa, full of his usual sly humor, smoked one of his strong black Italian cigars and made snide remarks about both sides of the family.
I sat and half-listened, my heavy gut making me sleepy, thinking they certainly had the happy little world of their own Rose had talked of. Because of the difference in their religions they hadn't married till they were in their late thirties. When I came along a year later—almost killing Ma— both families made up and had been on fair terms ever since. But it must have been rugged to have been “engaged' for nearly ten years. Did Wales have any family troubles—angry in-laws? That needed checking.
Pop turned on the TV while Ma did the dishes and we sat like a couple of slugs, dozing off at an old movie.
