Me? I was someone released from a chamber filling with lethal gas into crystal-pure Alpine air. Boy, I even loved that Emil Yurka for clearing the atmosphere. “My name’s Halper,” I said, “Bernard W., and I live on Waverly Place. I’ve some identification cards in my wallet—”
“No, just tell me what you’re doing here. And I want the truth. You turned green when you saw me watching you lying on the floor. If I hadn’t shown a gun, you’d have lit out like a scared rabbit. Why?”
Well, I was only too happy to oblige. Until it suddenly hit me that it might mean a plunge from the frying pan right smack into the fire. It would be sheer madness to tell those hard-eyed detectives that I was checking on crooks tunneling toward the bank on Sheridan Square. Why, even if I convinced them, I’d be off on a fast trip in a straight jacket.
“Well?” the Lieutenant prompted.
Desperate, I said, “I saw Mr. Yurka’s sign and came in merely to inspect his work. If my subsequent behavior seemed peculiar, it’s because I have this unfortunate nervous condition I can’t help.”
The Lieutenant regarded me with an expression I can only describe as one of pure loathing. “I’ll get back to you later,” he promised grimly. “Now, damn it, I want to think this through.”
He lit a cigarette. Brady did likewise. A breather as I envisioned blinding lights, rubber hose. I vowed right there and then that if I ever got out of this mess alive, I’d spend the rest of my life as a dedicated isolationist. Absolutely. I come home and see a chimp smoking a cigar in Pop’s chair, and I peacefully go right on to my own room. Let Mom cope with it. None of my business.
A muttering sound made me glance at Yurka. He had shifted the scratching operation to his other ankle. And I felt my own ankles begin to itch. The basement must be infested with fleas. Yet they didn’t seem to bother old Lena, though I could see bite marks all over her suety legs.
“Let’s play this back, Brady,” the Lieutenant said. “From the beginning. Slow and easy. And work over the cuties as they come along.”
“Okay,” said Brady. “Slow and easy. Frankie Millard. Lena’s brother. Held for armed robbery while convalescing from a gun wound at Bellevue. And Frankie makes a break for it. Slugs a male nurse called Weimar. Puts on Weimar’s clothes. Gets out of the hospital okay. But has only a few minutes start before we hustle down here for a stakeout.”
“Yeah, smart police work,” Lena boomed in a foghorn voice. “I’m only Frankie’s loving sister and Emil is his best pal. And Frankie is too damn stupid to realize this is the first place where cops would come looking for him.”
“Knock it off,” the Lieutenant rasped. “Frankie could telephone for delivery of clothes, money, a gun. He can’t get far in Weimar’s hospital uniform and the few bucks in Weimar’s wallet. Also there’s a bullet hole in his chest that still needs care. He’s got to get under wraps, quick, and stay put. You used to be a nurse before you were sent up on a narcotics rap. And Frankie is still supposed to have seventy grand stashed away from the Wentworth heist. It all could figure — if there’s a gimmick. What are you nodding your head for?”
I jumped as I realized he’d snapped the question at me. “Why, it’s just that I’m impressed by your reasoning, Lieutenant,” I said.
The truth, stated in a respectful manner, yet it only evoked from him a Dracula-like glare. I mean, that big cop hated me. Then he said, “Where the hell were we, Brady? Oh, at our first cutie. We no sooner get here and park across the street when Emil pops out carrying a small suitcase. Scoots up the street and you tag after him. Now could he have pulled a fast one on you somewhere along the line?”
Brady shrugged. “Well, let’s trace it through. I tail Emil to Plotkin’s apartment. Nail him as he’s about to unlock the door. Open the suitcase. Surprise, surprise! A folded plastic sheet, scissors, hammer, thumbtacks. That’s all. Emil explains the apartment belongs to a guy called Plotkin, somebody Lena works for, and he’s using Lena’s key to deliver a mural that Plotkin ordered. Where is Plotkin? Out of town on his vacation, says Emil, and he can prove it’s all on the level if I just give him the few minutes it’d rake to put the thing up on the wall.”
“You checked what Emil might be carrying under that butcher coat?”
“I sure did. Nothing Frankie could use. We go in. He pulls a sofa away from the wall, takes down some pictures above it, fetches a metal stool from the bathroom. Gets up on the stool. Proceeds to tack on those crazy birds. Plastic sheet precut to fit the section of wall there. Then back to the wall goes the sofa. Back to the bathroom goes the stool. And out we go. So, Lieutenant, where and how could he have pulled some gimmick on me?”
Another pause as the Lieutenant and Brady brooded. And I held one of my own. A documented explanation, at last, of how the toucans appeared on Plotkin’s wall. But how account for their disappearance?
Maybe, I thought, Lena feels sorry for Emil because he isn’t selling his paintings. Knows Plotkin is out of town. Tells Emil that Plotkin ordered a mural — to give old depressed Emil a shot in the arm. Later she gets rid of the mural — before Plotkin could make a how-come stink about it. Yes, that’s it, and I get myself in this awful mess because of something as dopey simple as all that. Honestly!
“All right, let’s move on to cutie Number Two,” the Lieutenant said. “You march Emil back here. We move into the studio. Search the joint. No Lena. No Frankie. A half hour passes, then the phone rings. I sit on the extension as Emil answers. A woman’s voice that sounds like Lena’s says, ‘Sam’s Delicatessen?’ ‘Wrong number,’ says Emil and hangs up. Maybe a minute later, Lena comes ambling in. I play a hunch and look for the nearest place from where she might have phoned. Drug store around the corner. Sure enough, man there says Lena was just in to use a pay booth. It figures that she made a prearranged check-up call. But checking — what?”
Brady looked unhappy. Ditto the Lieutenant. Ditto Bernie Halper, now anticipating his turn as cutie Number Three. Emil muttering again attracted another glance from me. And then it happened!
Emil was back at his ankle-scratching routine, only now his fingernails crawled farther up his leg, lifting for a moment his trouser cuff. And I caught a glimpse of the hairy growth on his leg. My heart began to pound. Black hair on his leg. A red beard on his kisser. Fleas don’t bother Lena because she’s used to them. But they bother him.
“Lieutenant,” I said, “I may be able to help you see through this smoke screen of obfuscation. Would Emil Yurka and Frankie Millard both answer to the same general physical description of being tall skinny guys?”
“Yes,” he replied, “and stop talking like you’re reading from a book. So?”
“So,” I said, “one tall skinny guy wearing a beret, dark glasses, and a red beard would look pretty much like another tall skinny guy wearing a beret, dark glasses, and a red beard. If Frankie disguised himself to trick you into thinking he’s Emil—”
“He’d have to get rid of the bandaged wound in his chest,” Brady cut in. “The very first thing I looked for when I frisked Emil. Lieutenant, every time this kid opens his mouth I want to shake him until his teeth rattle.”
“Me, too,” the Lieutenant said.
And my teeth already were practically rattling without any assistance from them. Bernie, stop antagonizing these guys. You’re digging your own grave.
“Oh, I know,” I told Brady, “a trained police officer like yourself would instantly suspect some such deception. But I thought it might have happened later elsewhere.”