“Now you see him tomorrow and no more stalling. I'm glad you called. Dave, I have to type up the minutes of a big sales conference. I won't be home till nine. There's enough in the box for your supper.”
“I'll manage. Mean you get stuck on your job too?”
“Indeed I do,” Mary said in an oversweet voice. “But I get time and a half for it and two dollars for supper money. Drop that in the suggestion box—if your wonderful Police Department has such a thing.”
“I'll pass it on to the Commissioner at once—maybe he's on the gate.”
“Davie, there really isn't much in the box, just hamburger. Better bring in something for yourself.”
“I'll eat,” I said, not wanting to tell her I was broke.
“Want me to bring anything in?” Mary's voice was just plain sweet now.
“Some ice cream and ginger ale, Babes. We'll watch TV and have sodas.”
“Will do. See you at nine.”
She hung up and I counted my change. All the fares and phoning left me with seventy cents. I could go up to the station and maybe borrow a buck, along with a lot of ribbing.
Instead of calling Mrs. Owens back I walked six blocks to the crosstown bus and rode over to the Bronx, then up Third Avenue and walked to their house. It was almost six when I rang their bell after drying my sweaty face and combing my hair and straightening my shirt, using the window of a parked car for a mirror. A tall young woman wearing corny black and gold toreador pants that proved she had thin legs, and an interesting suede beach jacket, opened the door. Her face was tanned and kind of horsy, with brown hair combed straight back and down to her shoulders. Susan Owens didn't look much like the photo I'd seen: her face was still plain but she was paying a lot of attention to it, and there wasn't a trace of plumpness about her. I got the feeling she'd done about the best she could with what she had. There was another change from the picture: everything about her, the eyes, the thin figure, even the clothes and the odd sandals on her big feet gave me a feeling of cunning—a sharpshooter all the way.
I said, “I'm Dave Wintino, Miss Owens.”
“Oh—I thought you were going to call. Well, they must be making detectives from a different mold this season. Come on in. Ma, your detective is here.”
I grinned at that “your detective” as I followed her into the living room and those long legs sure took big steps. There was a pigskin overnighter covered with plane stickers against one wall. Mrs. Owens' moon face looked a little tense as she came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “Mr. Wintino, I hope we didn't put you to no trouble by... What happened to your face?”
“Bruised it horsing around.”
“Put a hot piece of raw potato on it soon as you get home. This is my daughter Susan. Came in from South. America by plane this morning.”
“I recognized her from the picture on the piano,” I said politely.
“I hope not,” Susan said. “I looked like a freshly stuffed yokel when that damn thing was taken.” She had a fast way of talking, like a pitchman.
“Do sit down,” Mrs. Owens said. “This has been such a hectic day for me. Susan coming in before daybreak, and then hearing about poor Al. I don't understand it, killed in his own bed. And the papers said he had a large amount of money on him. Do you think it was the same robber?”
“Hard to say. Downtown is handling both cases now.” I sat in one of the old leather chairs. Mrs. Owens sat on the couch and the daughter leaned against-the wall, studying me. When I looked at her she sort of arched her chest as if to prove she wasn't skinny all over. She said, “That robbery angle sounds like a lot of pure slop to me.”
“Susan! I don't know where you've picked up such language. Third time I've had to call you on your speech.”
“Ma, stop stalling. You want me to tell him?”
Mrs. Owens rubbed her hands on her apron again. “I thought... that is, you see, Mr. Wintino, a most surprising... well... we...”
“You look like a dancehall John to me, Wintino,” Susan cut in, her voice flat and hard, “but you're a detective and so was Pop. And Ma has confidence in you. There's something damn fishy about a pinch-penny like Al Wales having a bankroll on him... and then what we found today. I'm going to be frank with you, because Ma liked your face, she thinks you'll understand.”
“What do you want me to understand?”
“It's like this, we don't want to do anything shady, or that might hinder you in finding the killers. At the same time four grand isn't anything to toss away and if it turns out we can keep the dough, I don't want it tied up as evidence for the next hundred years.”
“What four—” I began.
“Hold still for a hot second,” Susan told me, darting out of the room, and I mean darting: those long stems could move.
Mrs. Owens gave me a sickly smile. “We want to do the right thing, what poor Ed would have wanted us to do. I wanted to take it to the local station house at once, but Susan thought it would be just as well to ask your advice. Goodness, that girl has changed so I hardly knew her, but then, I suppose being away, on her own in a strange country, well, there have to be some changes. She has a smart head about these things and four thousand dollars is quite a sum. We found it this afternoon.”
“You found four thousand bucks?” I asked as Susan came bounding into the room carrying a large dresser drawer. It was an old plain one, cracked in several places. She placed it upside-down on the living room table as Mrs. Owens reached over to yank a lace covering out of the way. Susan put a small pile of fifty-dollar bills on the drawer and a savings bankbook with the word “canceled” cut across it. Hunks of dirty white tape were clinging to the bottom of the drawer. I had a feeling they were setting up a show for me.
“I was going through Pop's things, you know, getting them ready to throw out or sell. I had this drawer out too far and it nearly fell. When I grabbed it, I felt the money and bankbook taped to the bottom. I didn't know it was money—it was in a plain white envelope—till I tore the envelope open and saw the green. This is what we want to see you about—four grand and this bankbook. It's a Brooklyn savings bank and in the name of Francis Parker. As you'll see the account was opened this March with five bucks. A week later there was a deposit of ten dollars. On April first there's a withdrawal of four dollars, and on April fifth a deposit of four thousand dollars and seventy-five cents. The entire account was closed out on April twenty-second, about two weeks ago. Take a look at the bankbook.”
She handed me the book as she nervously lit a cigarette. I said, “You shouldn't have touched things. Where's the envelope?”
“I got so excited when I saw the money, I tore the envelope open. It was all in pieces, so I threw it away.”
“Where did you throw it?”
“In the garbage can. It's gone.”
“Great!”
“What's so important about an old envelope? At first I thought it was a letter, but when I saw the bills, well, naturally I ripped it open. Told you the envelope tore. Nothing on it, a plain white envelope.”
“I was thinking of prints,” I said, opening the book. There was a “ck” next to the $4,000.75 deposit, meaning it had been made by check. It was a downtown Brooklyn bank. “Ever hear of Francis Parker before?”
“Never. Neither has Ma and she's sure Pop never mentioned such a name,” Susan said, blowing twin clouds of smoke out of her sharp nose. “Now look, we don't have one idea where this came from and we're not trying to hide anything—that's why you're here. At the same time we don't want this folding money lost in the shuffle. It was found here and possession is nine-tenths' ownership.”