The call was from Regan. They had a hot tip. Foster Bentley’s on the East Side had rigged up a gent two days ago. A rush job. The guy’d come in looking like a prospector from Death Valley and they’d fitted him out in everything. From hat to shoes. He was a tall man, corpulent, white hair, red face. In his fifties…
He got over to Foster Bentley’s fast. They gave him the same information there, only with an Ivy League accent. At first they’d had doubts about doing business with the man but he’d pulled out a roll and they’d decided to go ahead. Gave his name as Smith. Said he was passing through. Looked like he was passing through on a freight. But they weren’t moralists and his money was good and…
“Did he leave his old clothes here?”
“Yes.” The salesman winced. “They’re now cinders in our furnace.”
“Will you check?"
The salesman consented icily and within ten minutes was back with a bundle. He looked crestfallen. “We usually burn this sort of thing immediately,” he apologized.
The clothes were a collection of patches — old gray jacket, faded blue trousers, and what had once been a white shirt. The shoes were held together by twine. The Lieutenant didn’t blame Foster Bentley for almost showing their owner the door. He bet they had rushed him into a dressing room away from prying eyes as soon as he waved the roll.
“Could you tell anything about him from these?” he asked.
The salesman sniffed. “Evidently he won a sweepstakes and wanted to see what good clothing was like. We get that sort now and then.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No,” said the salesman after a moment.
“Did he look like a thief or someone who’d gotten the money dishonestly?”
“No,” conceded the salesman. “He spoke rather well. Sounded like there had once been good stuff in him. Got into some kind of trouble, evidently. Happens to lots of them.”
The Lieutenant agreed, but couldn’t help noting that the salesman disapproved of people who let troubles happen to them. They weren’t Foster Bentley people.
He asked for a phone and called up the station. The boys were to forget expensive shops and hit the dives. Cheap bar, thirty-cent diners, Skid Row. They were to look for the same man, the big shot, but in a different setting. If he was among his peers he should stick out like a sore thumb, a banker among bums. It would be easy to spot him. Or he might be lying in some gutter, sleeping off a drunk. They would also check with clerks at hotels that had names like The Ace, The Elite, and The Star.
On the street he handed Rooney the bundle and told him to run it down to the lab. There might be traces of something and it was time those lazies down at the lab did some work.
Rooney drove off and the Lieutenant began to pound pavements. Along the river, east and west, he crossed and crisscrossed, through dingy alleys and deserted streets, poking through basements and old warehouses, searching cheap bars and cafeterias.
This was police work, he thought — not the dames or the dough or even the bullets, but just plain pounding the streets. Every half hour he called the station but nothing had come in. The other men were doing their own pounding and feeling their own frustrations.
Along about five he was good and tired and heading east. There was a Skid Row of sorts two blocks away; it was just beginning and only a few of the cognoscenti had drifted over. Stepping over planks and cobbles, he came into a dark gutted street that held only two brave bars and a flophouse called The Diamond.
He tried the bar first. Just bums, sprawled over the chairs watching television. No one who looked capable of going into the Bon Voyage and earning Joe’s admiration as “class, culture.”
He went down through the puddles and timbers to the other bar. It was misty and smoky but he saw his man almost immediately. His suit stood out like a stop sign; it was conservative, charcoal-colored, and discreetly tailored. The tie was understated, and the shirt, which was stained now, had been subdued and correct a few days ago. If this wasn’t his Foster Bentley, the Lieutenant thought, he would eat that thirty-dollar hat.
He brushed through the idly moving bums and went up to the man, who was rambling loudly and vaguely. As he talked, the Lieutenant noted his beet-red face — it didn’t mean good steaks, as Joe the barman thought, as much as it did grain spirits — and the area of one shoe between the sole and heel. Spotted, but not two days ago.
The man kept on talking to two derelicts sprawled against the far end of the booth. He was saying that there would always be rebels like themselves; there had been rebels in Greece, there had been rebels in Rome, but the world of antiquity treated its rebels better, much better. Here they were shunted in vile dens like this one… the Lieutenant tapped him on the shoulder.
“May I speak to you?”
The man looked at him and his face became stern. You could see why he would be mistaken for a Senator.
“You may not, sir. Can’t you see I’m discussing a matter of some importance with my friends?”
The Lieutenant showed his credentials, pulled a chair over, and sat down, blocking off the two derelicts. In answer to the Lieutenant’s question, the man said his name was Ferriston and he was a law-abiding citizen and taxpayer. “Where did you get this suit?”
The man sighed, opened his jacket, and tried to peer at the label.
The Lieutenant did it for him and announced, “Foster Bentley.”
“Attractive store. Personnel a bit distant though.”
His head was beginning to nod and his eyelids looked heavy. He was going to go to sleep soon and for a long time and the Lieutenant couldn’t wait.
“Who gave you the money to buy this?”
“Estimable gentleman,” said the other foggily.
“Why?”
“Why?” Ferriston shrugged. “Goodness of heart.” He reached for his glass but the Lieutenant pushed it away.
“That wasn’t it. He had you dress up for a purpose and you’re going to tell me about it before you have another drink.”
“Purpose, purpose?” Ferriston looked at him owlishly. Then he brightened. “Oh, yes! I was to take part in a practical joke. Did, as a matter of fact. Went о ff rather well, if I say so myself.”
“What kind of a practical joke?” the Lieutenant said.
“Very funny joke. Priceless. This singer, you see — lovely child, charms the birds out of the trees — well, she’s a great practical joker and we thought—”
“Who’s we?”
Ferriston blinked. “Did I say 'we’? I meant he thought — this man, the one who gave me the money…”
“Yes, what did he think?” snapped the Lieutenant.
“That it would be paying her back in her own coin, so to speak, to — to…” His eyes glazed over as his head swayed closer to the table.
“What was the joke?” the Lieutenant said harshly.
“That I was to go into this night club and sit down and order sherry — horrible stuff — and Little Miss Personality would skip over and sip from my glass. She was a sweet thing too.” Ferriston was mournful now. “But knew no more French than a cat. I taught French, you know, a million years ago—”
“She took your drink? That's all? Where’s the joke?”
“In her drink,” Ferriston said wanly. “I put the pill.”
“What was the pill supposed to do?”
“Put her to sleep, wake her up — I don’t remember.”
“Was it poison?”
Ferriston’s head came up with an effort. “No. No! Put her to sleep, I think it was. Yes, that was it. Very funny, don’t you see? Drinking from my glass without so much as a by-your-leave and then falling sound asleep…"
“Who gave you this pill? Was it the same man who gave you the money for new clothes?”