“You had Leo Marcus as a patient for some time, didn’t you?”
“I thought that was all over.”
“Other pertinent details have come up.”
His head jerked in a curt nod. “Mr. Marcus was a patient for some years. I extracted all his teeth and made the plates for him. There was no doubt about it. They were specially made and quite expensive. In fact, I made two sets for him.”
“Oh?”
“Very common procedure. A lost or broken set can be very embarrassing.”
“No difference?”
“They were identical.”
“Thanks, doctor.”
I left him and went back outside. One thing I knew. I had seen all of Leo Marcus’ personal effects when they escorted me through his house to have me reconstruct my actions as far as possible, and there were no other plates among them.
Regardless of George’s advice, I contacted Walter Milcross at the run-down hotel he called home, a four-story corner building on Eighth Avenue that was due for demolition soon. He was in and working on the junk jewelry he palmed off to the tourists as hot merchandise worth a lot more than the asking price, trading on people’s naturally larcenous instincts. From the color TV and the new suits hanging in his closet he was doing pretty well at it.
A long time ago I had gotten him out from under a bum rap with a lot of off-duty work and he never forgot it. When I told him I wanted him to go through Argenio’s apartment he looked a little startled, but figured that it would be an easy job as long as nobody was there. A quick check with headquarters got me the information that Al was out in Freeport, Long Island, processing some detail of the Scipio case and wouldn’t be back for a few hours. That was enough for Walter. I told him what to look for and if anything else turned up that didn’t look kosher, to hang on to it. Walter dropped his tools, picked a jacket from the closet, tucked a pair of gloves in his pocket and walked me downstairs to the corner where we split up.
I looked at my watch. It was almost one o’clock.
Overhead the grey sky that seemed to cut the taller buildings off at their middle rumbled like a tank being split and the rain filtered down to wash the arena clean enough for the slaughter to begin. I walked across town to George’s building and went up to his office. He hadn’t come back yet, so I went into his office and picked up his phone.
But Jerry Nolan had gotten back. The tiredness had gone out of his voice, replaced by a guarded tone. “Got something this time, Regan. Guy from Jersey City who answers the description is missing. He was an itinerant stevedore who went heavy on the booze. Just before he disappeared he was flashing a big roll around, but never said where he got it”
“How close does it fit?”
“Perfectly. He had a medical record on file with a local doctor, but no identifiable physical characteristics. His prints were in the F.B.I., file from having worked the shipyards during the war. There are police photos in the mug books and some newspaper full-length shots taken when he was arrested in a barroom brawl over there.”
“It’s coming, Jerry.”
“You know what I feel like?”
“I know.” I said softly. “It stinks. It always does.”
Whatever it was, it rose up in me, that hot, tingling feeling that was pure hate. My hands were wrapped into tight knots that would hardly come loose to dial another number. It was me they wanted, but it wouldn’t be me they’d get. The whole skein was coming unraveled, laying itself out so you could see it in its entirety and not hidden inside a tight ball of fluff.
Ted Marker answered my ring and I knew that he had come up with it even before he said, “It checked, Regan. I found the gimmick where you said it would be and the chemical analysis nailed it. The detail assignments were in the files and he was there, all right. Do I pass this on?”
“Not yet, Ted.”
“Why, Regan? Damn it, we can’t let him go roaming...”
I stopped him. “Because that doesn’t get me out, that’s why.”
“Hell, they can’t try you again. They...”
Once again, I cut him off. “One more call to make. I have to find that stuff I collected on Leo Marcus. It’s the only thing to shake off the negligence angle they’ll slap me with at the trial. I want it all straight and in the record.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Safe enough. In George Lucas’ office.” I hung up.
George Lucas came through the door and piled into his chair behind the desk. He saw my face and drew back at what was written there. “Regan...”
“It was Al Argenio who took that shot at me. He got the silencer from one of the exhibits of confiscated weapons at the Police Academy and tried to pot me.”
“Proof?” he asked simply.
“Availability. He was seen coming out when he returned it to the case.”
“But he probably wasn’t seen doing it. He’d make a point of that.”
I shook my head and looked out the window. “He was assigned to the detail that searched the warehouse where the FS-7 and the Sentol was uncovered. He got hold of some of the stuff and delivered it to the right people for a price.”
“Conjecture, Regan.”
Slowly, I turned my head and looked at him. “He had made a broad a gift of stocks worth twenty grand.”
George leaned back, not wanting to get too close to me for some reason. “He was on the force long enough to save that much if one of his investments did pay off. It’s not impossible and it’s damn near unprovable. He could claim that money came from anywhere.”
He was saying things that put a sour taste in my mouth. “It was a vice with him. Some have it for gambling... cards, the ponies... some have it for dames or liquor... he was one of the funny ones who got eaten alive by playing the stock market. It was a joke around headquarters. His paper was always turned back to the financial page.”
George shook his head. “If he wore gloves when he shot you a paraffin test would show nothing. Loose stock investments would show nothing. It won’t hang together, friend.” He cleared his throat and went on. “If he boobytrapped your place with that sleep gas you’d need witnesses. Argenio is as much a pro as you are. He knows all the angles. He wouldn’t let himself be seen. No, Pat, the only thing that will save your tail is finding that Marcus evidence in his possession.”
“I’m waiting for something on that,” I said. But that sinking feeling was there nevertheless. George was right. It wasn’t enough, after all. I got up and stared out the window peering through the rain at the little people going to their seats to see the circus, not knowing what show was about to play and not caring either. Any show was good enough. Tomorrow the papers would headline it and they’d have a vicarious thrill at having been in the same locale where it had happened.
The phone rang sharply and George picked it up. He said something then turned to me. “For you, Pat.”
I said, “Hello?”
“Walter Milcross, Mr. Regan. I’m down the street from his place. Easy job, but I didn’t find nothing. Couple of stock certificates I lifted, but none of them papers. The place was clean. I would of spotted any place he stashed them only nothing showed.”
All the life seeped out of me. “You’re sure now, Walter?”
“You know me, Mr. Regan. Nothing in that place that even was off color outside the finger in the ink bottle.”
“What?”
“Yeah, crazy, ain’t it? I poked in this here inkwell... people stash keys in them for safe-deposit boxes sometimes thinking nobody wants to get dirtied up with ink and I pulled out a finger. A real one. Damndest thing I ever saw.”