“I doubt it,” she said. “Why not call him at Headquarters?”
“All right,” I said. “I will.”
“Who shall I say—” she said, and I hung up.
See? Simple. Now I knew where to find him, the particular Patrick Mahoney out of the general class of Patrick Mahoneys. His home address, according to the telephone company, was 169-88 83rd Avenue, in Queens.
The success of this stratagem filled me with confidence, partially restoring a faith that had been slipping badly. I hurried onward, while the momentum lasted.
A bookstore tucked away in an echoing corner of the terminal sold me a street map of Queens, on which I found that the corner of 169th Street and 83rd Avenue was in the section called Jamaica, and only a few blocks from a station on the Independent subway line. So it was back into the subway for me, quite a letdown after riding around in that soft if felonious Packard all yesterday.
The IRT Flushing line clattered me into Queens and a junction with the IND, which took me the rest of the way to Hillside Avenue and 169th Street in Jamaica. I came out to pleasant sunlight, walked up the hill along 169th Street, and turned right on 83rd Avenue.
The neighborhood was pleasantly residential, middle-class, quiet. Most of the houses had been built before the Second World War, most were one-family, most were on fairly good-sized lots. Number 169-88 was similar to its neighbors, a two-story broad gray clapboard house with attached garage. Slightly unkempt shrubbery lined the front of the house, the lawn was somewhat dried out but had been recently mowed, and a sign with reflector letters on the lawn read: MAHONEY.
Was this the right man? Accepting bribes from the syndicate and living in a place like this?
Well, where would he live? I suppose up till then I hadn’t really thought about it much, where a crooked bribe-taking policeman would live. I guess I’d supposed he’d live in a night club somewhere, with Merry Anders on one knee and Barbara Nichols on the other. Balloons in the background. Everybody laughing coarsely as the champagne is poured.
But he lived here, in a moderately neat one-family clapboard house on a quiet residential side street in the Jamaica section of Queens. That was a little scary.
I slowed as I passed his house, but I didn’t stop. It was barely three o’clock now, and Inspector Mahoney wasn’t expected home until sometime after six. So I walked on to the next corner, and turned right, and went back down to Hillside Avenue and went for a stroll.
Hillside Avenue went from bad to worse. The first couple of blocks was banks and delicatessens, but then there came several blocks of store-front real-estate offices, one right after the other, small and gaudy and chiseler-looking. Some of them, to give you the idea, had signs up reading, “We specialize in repossessed houses.” I mention this in case you ever wondered what those old-time Scottish body snatchers Burke and Hare have been doing since Dr. Knox laid them off.
After the real-estate offices came the used-car lots. I stopped and turned around, because I didn’t want to know what came next.
Back by the subway entrance I went into a luncheonette and sat at the counter and had coffee and cheese danish. Munching danish, I tried to work up a plan.
I might as well admit right now I didn’t yet have one. I’d had the plan for finding out where Mahoney lived, but after that everything was still a blank. I knew I wanted to talk to Mahoney, I knew I wanted to find some way to force him to tell me what I wanted to know, and I knew I wanted to accomplish all this without falling into the hands of Trask and Slade, either or both of whom were probably keeping close to Mahoney night and day.
So. I could wait some place where I could see Mahoney’s house, and after he got home go straight to the front door and start talking. I assumed he was married, and there was a good chance his wife didn’t know the full story of his perfidy, so maybe I could work the same threat that had helped with Uncle Al.
On the other hand, maybe I ought to go to the Mahoney house right now, tie up anybody I found there, and be already inside when Mahoney got home. That way Trask and Slade wouldn’t know I was around. Unless they came in with Mahoney, that is.
Or, maybe I should wait till he was home, then phone him and give him some reason for leaving the house again, and then hide in his car and not brace him till we’d left the neighborhood.
I didn’t really like any of those plans, but I still had three hours or more to think, and I kept telling myself I’d be sure to come up with something good pretty soon.
The luncheonette had a phone booth. Just for something to do, I went over and looked in the directory for Queens Police Headquarters. The address was 168-02 91st Avenue.
Hey! That was right nearby. Five blocks away, that’s all.
So I decided to go take a look at it, just to kill some time. I left the luncheonette, walked down 169th Street to 91st Avenue and turned right. A big municipal parking lot was on one side of me and a department store on the other.
Police Headquarters was small than I’d expected, a squarish five-story building down at the far corner. The first two floors were done in gray stone and the top three in brick. The ground-level windows were tall and wide, with arched tops; inside, green shades were pulled all the way down.
The double-doored entrance — wooden doors with little windows clustered in the upper part — was flanked by the traditional green lights, and white lettering over the doorway read: 103rd Precinct.
Police Headquarters in Queens wasn’t such a much, in other words.
I strolled on by, looking at the building, up at the windows on the upper floors. Deputy Chief Inspector Patrick Mahoney was behind one of those windows, I supposed, at this very moment.
I went on around the corner, and down to the next street, which was Jamaica Avenue. I turned left and walked all the way around the block and pretty soon I was coming to Police Headquarters again. Or the precinct house, which is what it really was.
This time, though, I didn’t keep on by. With no plan at all in my head, with nothing there in fact but impatience and nervousness and a hearty desire to have it all over with, I made a sharp left turn and pushed open the double doors to Precinct One Hundred and Three and stepped inside.
A uniformed patrolman was standing just inside the door, in a little airlock sort of arrangement between outer and inner sets of doors. He looked at me with a startled face and said, “What do you want?” He really acted astonished that anyone would come in here.
Hand-lettered notices on the inner doors told police officers they must without fail show identification to the patrolman at the door, and civilians — that’s what the sign said: civilians — civilians had to tell this man their business before going any farther.
I was taking too long to read the signs and think of something to say. The patrolman glared with increasing suspicion and said, “Well? What do you want here?”
I had to say something. The space between outer and inner doors was small, keeping us close together. I opened my mouth and stammered a little and finally blurted, “Mahoney.”
He lowered suspicious eyebrows. “What?”
Well, this was wrong, all wrong. It was at his home that I intended to meet Mahoney, in silence and privacy, not here in the crowded danger of this police station.
But it was done, and no going back now, so, “Mahoney,” I fatalistically repeated. “Deputy Chief Inspector Patrick J. Mahoney.” The middle initial I’d picked up from the telephone book.
Comprehension was seeping into the gatekeeper. He said, “You want to see him?”
No, I didn’t, not at all, but what I said was, “Yes. I want to see him.”