Penelope Page 10
“A remarkable woman,” he said aloud.
Dr. Mannix gave no indication of knowing who was remarkable. “You’re the district attorney?”
“One of many—in Manhattan.”
“You come here for treatment?” Dr. Mannix asked, his eyes dark and cloudy, his voice so clinically ominous, so bitterly detached that those who once knew Ernie Claphorn would not have recognized him at all in this man.
“No, for information,” Larry Cohen replied.
“Information? Medical information?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Are you concerned with an insanity hearing?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell are you here for, would you mind telling me?” Dr. Mannix rasped.
“Oh, now, wait a minute, Doctor; there’s no need to pull hard front on me. I still haven’t said why I am here.”
Dr. Mannix looked at his watch. “I have already given you five minutes of my time. I charge fifty dollars for forty-five minutes—”
“Wow!” Cohen breathed.
“To those who can afford it, and you certainly can, Mr. Cohen. You owe me exactly five dollars and fifty-five cents—no, make that sixty cents. Do you desire to go on talking?”
Bristling himself now, Cohen took a clip of money out of his pocket, found a twenty-dollar bill and slapped it down on Mannix’s desk. “How about twenty dollars worth—or does the sight of money in the raw insult your finer sensibilities?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Gregory replied, pocketing the twenty. “I love the sight of money, and I have no finer sensibilities. You bought yourself a piece of my time. Go ahead and use it.”
Cohen grinned. “You know, we are both of us talking bad private eye. It does not become us. I mean, it doesn’t set well on Mannix, much less Ernie Claphorn.”
“You did your homework.”
“Homework, hell. So I had a rundown on you. You changed your name, legally, two months after you graduated from medical school. I don’t give a damn about any of that. I want to know about Penelope Hastings.”
Dr. Mannix regarded him thoughtfully, as he might regard a large insect.
“If she needs help,” Cohen went on, “then maybe we could help her.”
“How?”
“Goddamn it, Mannix—you know what I am after.”
“About fifteen dollars worth,” Gregory replied, looking at his watch.
“If she is not responsible for her actions—”
“She is a damn sight saner than you are,” Mannix said.
“Why don’t you get off your high horse and stop being a badly cast hero, and ask me to sit down? Maybe I think she’s as wonderful as you do.”
“Sit down,” Gregory said. “What makes you think I think she’s wonderful?”
“You were ready to cut my throat,” Cohen answered, dropping into a chair.
“I still am.”
“Any use asking questions?”
“Try me.”
“Is she a kleptomaniac?”
“You are a horse’s ass. What the hell do you know about kleptomania?”
“Nothing.”
“So don’t ask questions. I got a medical privilege, you ought to know that.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“What the hell business is that of yours? Tell your boys downtown to look it up. Didn’t you do your homework?”
“I did. Harvard.”
“Harvard. Go make something out of it.”
“What did they teach you there?” Cohen asked tiredly. “‘I got a medical privilege.’ Your tough-guy talk is as irrational and as ungrammatical as the rest of you. Heaven forbid that I should ever place my poor suffering psyche in your hot little hands.”
“Just try it,” Gregory whispered. “I would love that.”
“You’re not helping her.”
“But I bet it would help her if I were to belt you one.”
“Ugh,” Cohen observed.
“You’re a buck and a half overtime.”
“I’ll mail it to you, Sir Galahad,” Cohen said, opening the door, and Dr. Mannix shouted after him:
“Do that, fink, and remember to tell your pals at Internal Revenue that you handed me a twenty in green money.”
Cohen stalked past Doris Gilmore without replying to Gregory’s final display of bitterness, and when the door had closed behind him, Miss Gilmore asked her boss:
“Is he a patient? If he is, I don’t even have a card for him.”
“Patient? No, he is not a patient. He is a louse!”
Miss Gilmore, thoroughly schooled in the proposition that in therapy one loses neither patience nor control, said properly, “He did not seem like a louse. I mean, the way he sat down and began to read. You know, Doctor, I judge them by what they read. There are those who pick up Life immediately; they don’t even look at another magazine. And there are those who grab Look. And then there are those who bury their noses immediately in U.S. News & World Report. But he picked up The New Yorker, and he was actually chuckling over something in it—”
“Miss Gilmore!” Gregory interrupted.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Go soak your head!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Centre Street rumbled as Larry Cohen made his way through the corridors and elevators. A Sergeant Leary told him that this was not the day to see the commissioner, and a Lieutenant Dexter said he would sooner face a pair of caged lions. “A pride of lions,” Cohen said, but the erudition fell flat or was flattened by the muted thunder of Comaday’s voice. The uniformed police who were around froze their faces. The civilian girls stared at their desks, or typed urgently. A plainclothes detective came out of Comaday’s office, the commissioner’s voice roaring after him.
Then Cohen entered.
Commissioner John Arthur Gahagen Comaday sat at his desk, and for a small man—only in height and not in breadth—he loomed like a dark storm cloud. In front of him, on the polished surface of his desk, were five brown manila envelopes, each identical with the others, each addressed in the same impersonal block print. The envelopes were laid out in a straight line, evenly spaced; and above each envelope was its former contents, or so Cohen guessed. Above the first envelope was a wallet; above the second envelope was a small pile of bills; above the third envelope was a diamond bracelet; above the fourth envelope was a diamond brooch; and above the fifth envelope was a diamond pendant.
And behind all of them, Comaday, who said to Cohen, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just passing by,” Cohen replied.
“Well, who the hell invited you in? Who the hell wants you here? Since when the hell has the goddamn lousy D.A. office taken over the functions of the Police Department of New York City? Who the hell appointed you a special snoop? Why the hell don’t you go prosecute like you were meant to do, and leave honest, hard-working cops alone?”
“Well—” Cohen began.
“The hell with that! You know what I hate?”
Cohen shook his head and tried to smile pleasantly.
“I hate lawyers. I hate all kinds of lawyers. But most of all, I hate smart, wise-guy lawyers.”
“But, John, you are a lawyer yourself,” Cohen pointed out, as gently and as amiably as possible.
“What the hell has that got to do with it?” Comaday shouted. “I am Irish—does that mean I must respect ten thousand idiot Irish cops who let this go on as a way of life?” He pointed to the envelopes on his desk. “I am a part of this city’s operation. Does this mean that I must respect creeps like you who are also a part of this city’s operation?”
“Go ahead,” Cohen sighed. “This is get-Larry-Cohen day.”
“All right. All right. Go ahead—be brilliant.”
“Your wallet?”
“My wallet,” Comaday mimicked. “My wallet. Yes, my wallet. Go on—grin. One lousy smile, Larry, and I swear to God, I will put you away without habeas corpus and throw away the key—in the colde
st, wettest dungeon in this place.”
Cohen fought for control, but the corners of his lips twitched mirthfully. “Your money?” he said, pointing to the second envelope.
“My money. Every last dollar of it—and do you know who it was sent to?”
“Should I know?”
“You know everything else.”
“I don’t really,” Cohen replied modestly. “I only make educated guesses.”
“All right. Make your goddamned educated guess.”
“All right. I’ll try three places as the recipients of your hard-earned money. Number one—the Patrolman’s Benevolent Association—”
“That’s enough.” Comaday was staring at him somberly. “Do I look like the kind of man people play games with, Larry?”
“No. Oh no.”
“A patsy? A setup?”
“No—no. Absolutely not.”
“I ought to belt you one, Larry. You are playing games with me.”
“I am not.”
“Then how the hell did you know?”
“It fits a pattern,” Cohen sighed. “You must see that yourself—Sloan-Kettering—”
“And the Catholic Church,” Comaday said slowly. “Particularly, St. Ignatius Loyola.”
“Yes.”
“Sit down, Larry,” said Comaday. “Sit down. I’m sorry I blew my top on you. Sit down.”
Cohen sat down, watching Comaday carefully.
“I am hardly as tough as I give out,” Comaday said tiredly.
“Who is?”
“Some are. Anyway, here is the way it lines up.” He pointed to the envelopes on his desk. “Five envelopes—all apparently the same lot. Well, more than apparently. We covered every stationery store on Madison and on Lexington between Ninety-sixth Street and Fifty-ninth Street, and we turned up the one where our dark-haired lady bought the envelopes. I wanted to be in on this, because I am number one patsy in this—”
“I don’t think anyone chose you as the patsy,” Cohen put in. “Not even our Lady Bountiful. I swear I don’t.”
“Be that as it may. Anyway, they asked the man who sold the envelopes whether he would mind coming downtown to see me, and he said, with pleasure. Now, listen: first envelope, my wallet—sent to me. Second envelope, the cash that was in my wallet, sent to the PBA—and don’t you think they’ll rag me raw until I give it back as my contribution?”
“He is most blessed who gives,” Cohen said.
“The hell with your stinking philosophy! What do you think a police commissioner makes? I didn’t inherit any bundles. Now the third envelope, a diamond bracelet that was stolen from Mrs. Richard Stoneham—he is one of the vice-presidents—no, it’s the board of directors, of the City Federal Bank. Six other boards of directors. He is worth twenty, thirty million on the hoof. The bracelet is valued and was insured for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars—”
“Wow!”
“Well may you wow. That’s a tidy sum for a trinket. It just happens that Mr. Stoneham runs his affairs professionally—I imagine he was bitten at one time or another—and he put the insurance money into an escrow account, as did Mr. Frederick L. Carter and Mr. Cobey Parkinson, two other well-heeled citizens of our community. You think it is easy to be rich, Larry? Not by a long shot. Who are these other two prudent millionaires? Fourth manila envelope—diamond brooch, value about ninety thousand, property of Alice Carter of Fifth Avenue and Newport. Fifth manila envelope—contents one diamond pendant—”
Cohen picked up the pendant from the commissioner’s desk, staring at it, while it flashed and glittered and moved like a thing alive.
“Yes,” Comaday nodded, “handle it carefully, Larry. That is no less than the Rondout Pink, an internationally famous and infamous stone that you could pick up in any jewelry store for about a quarter of a million dollars.”
“Whose?” Cohen asked, unable to take his eyes off the pendant.
“One Jane Parkinson—whose husband was wise enough to put the insurance money into escrow.”
“And what, pray, does her husband do for a living?”
“Owns forty or fifty ocean-going vessels or something of the sort. Put it down, Larry. You make me nervous, the way you look at it.”
“I make myself nervous,” Cohen admitted, replacing the diamond. “Interesting envelopes. You’ve had a morning, haven’t you?”
“Have I not! By the way, the jewels were mailed yesterday, my wallet and its contents today, special delivery.”
“That’s a wide-awake post office,” Cohen nodded.
“No other comment?”
“I am refraining,” Cohen said. “Tell me more.”
“With pleasure—”
“Pleasure?”
“What goes for pleasure in my world,” Comaday growled. “You know, Larry, there are stupider men than cops, and this city happens to have one of the most efficient police forces in the world. One of our little sidelines is the collating of crime—and from that the segregation of crimes which show an inner affinity.”
“I have heard of the MO,” Cohen said. “I happen to be a district attorney.”
“The news amazes me. Well, Larry, these three jewels here on my desk were stolen, over a period of six months, some two and a half to two years ago. Each was an inside job. One was lifted at a huge party. The other two were lifted at times we cannot determine—but no breaking or entering, inside work that excludes the servants. Now in the pattern of this MO, there were ten crimes over a given period—”
“Question.”
“Okay.” Comaday nodded, staring at Cohen through narrowed eyes.
“Was Mrs. Hastings robbed?”
“Bright boy,” Comaday said nastily.
“Yes?”
“Go to the head of the class.”
“Question.”
“Be my guest.”
“How many envelopes did the black-haired Lady Bountiful buy?”
“Twelve—one dozen.”
Cohen pointed to Comaday’s desk and counted. “One, two, three, four, five—seven missing.”
“Bright boy. Suppose they went into the wastebasket?”
“Suppose?”
“Tell me something, Larry,” Comaday said. “You own a piece of Fort Knox. Your wife ever have a piece of jewelry stolen?”
Cohen nodded.
“Insured?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do with the insurance money?”
“My wife? You are seriously asking what my wife did with the insurance money?”
“All right.” Comaday spread his hands. “Now the missing jewel turns up in the mail. What do you do? Do you get in touch with the insurance company and refund the money?”
“Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“All right, let he who is without larceny cast the first stone.”
“Our three millionaires are without larceny,” Comaday said. “But they had the escrow accounts. Oh, it is a lovely mess that our Lady Bountiful is leading us into—six or seven substantial insurance frauds, and all of them in the best families. Fine, upstanding, influential citizens—just the parties for a nosy commissioner to have for enemies.”
“I’d keep my nose clean,” Cohen said. “You don’t have to do a damn thing until there’s a complaint.”
“No. No, not at all. No—you tell me, Larry. I am only the commissioner of police, that’s all. Just let the word of these three returns hit the press, and the insurance companies will be around here screaming blue murder. Anyway, I’m not a cop—Rothschild and Bixbee are the cops on this one, and they don’t need complaints. They will find the frauds and the original thief, and nothing can prevent that. They are out for blood.”
“You are sure, Commissioner?”
“I know Rothschild and I know Bixbee.”
“I sort of know the thief, in a manner of speaking.” He nodded at the desk. “Any fingerprints in the lot?”
“Are you kidding?” Comaday snorted. �
��What the hell do you mean, you ‘sort of know the thief?’”
“By their deeds, ye shall know them.”
“You’re full of quotations today, aren’t you? A regular walking Bartlett’s.”
“Sorry, but think about the thief. We don’t have a thing—not one tiny shred of evidence. And do you know something? I don’t think we will have anything.”
The man who owned the stationery store on Madison Avenue was a Mr. Herman Green. He came into Comaday’s office with his lips pursed, twisting his head, observing everything, and nodding a reluctant approval at the way the commissioner lived. Cohen helped him off with his coat, and Comaday said, “Don’t be nervous, Mr. Green. We’ll ask you some questions. Think about them if you have to.”
“Who is nervous?” Mr. Green wanted to know.
“All right.” Comaday handed him one of the manila envelopes. “Is this one of the envelopes you sold the lady with the black hair yesterday?”
Mr. Green examined the envelope, turning it over and over. “I carry this line. What else can I tell you?”
“The same size?”
“Same size.”
“Good. Now would you describe this lady?”
“Already for Lieutenant Rothschild I described her maybe five times.”
“Let’s have a sixth time for me.”
“All right—so high.” He specified with his hand. “Black hair, blue eyes, something wrong with the nose, otherwise she is a very nice-looking lady, a good figure, a mink coat—”
“If she was wearing a mink coat, how do you know what kind of a figure she had?” Comaday demanded, and Mr. Green looked at him with pity.
“Such things are apparent.”
“What kind of a mink coat?” Cohen asked.
“A mink coat—a coat.”
“Old, new, blond, fawn, brown, dark brown?”
“A mink coat—brown, I suppose. Let me tell you something, Mr. Cohen, you run a stationery store on Madison Avenue, you got mink coats in and out your doors morning to night.”
“You said something was wrong with her nose,” Cohen put in. “What was it like?”
Mr. Green inserted his forefinger into one nostril. “Like this.”