Penelope Page 5

  “Wallet?” asked Rothschild, who with Bixbee was discussing the film with the commissioner.

  “Forget it,” Comaday snapped. “I was asking you about the film, Lieutenant. You’ve seen it.”

  “I saw the rushes.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know? We got the press here.”

  Rothschild shrugged, and Captain Bixbee suggested, “Why don’t you look at it, Commissioner?”

  Comaday scowled and led his party into the reserved seats, and Penelope said to him, “You are like a gruff old bear, aren’t you, Commissioner? But I just don’t believe you. I think that under that thick old hide of yours, there’s a soft heart.”

  “Well,” Comaday replied, a long drawn out “well …” that neither confirmed nor denied; and then when James R. Hastings, moved by a tiny but growing sprig of resentment, attempted to sit beside his own wife, Comaday adroitly blocked him.

  Sergeant Moodus, in charge of the Technical Film Division, asked everyone to be seated, and then said, “For the sake of the press and certain guests we have tonight, I was asked to say a few words of explanation. This method of automatic interior photography we have developed is not quite as Buck Rogers as it sounds. We use fixed 16 mm. cameras with wide-angle lenses and black and white film. We have tried using color film, but with very poor results, since any business establishment must limit its lighting to a comfortable level—much lower than the level needed for color film. Instead, we use the most sensitive black and white film made, and accept a considerable loss of quality. For example, a man of florid complexion will lose his most prominent identification characteristic with noncolor film. We have thought of an automatic switch to step up the illumination to floodlight quality, but that would not only inform the thief that films are being made, but might panic him to the extent that death or injury to someone in the establishment might result.

  “Now in the case of the City Federal Bank, four cameras are in use, with a focus of eight feet to infinity. Among the four, the entire interior is covered, but the cameras were activated only when the teller screamed. Thus we have no film of the old-lady disguise. However, we have cut and edited what film we have, so as to give the various points of view of the various cameras. Commissioner Comaday has the controls at the panel in front of his seat, and he can stop, hold, or reverse the film when desired. The reverse is accomplished with the use of a companion print.”

  Sergeant Moodus finished, and the lights went down. Penelope sat entranced, watching the awkward, poorly lit silent film—which reminded her of silent films she had seen long ago as a child. First, there was the interior of the bank from the various angles as the alarm called the guards into action; then the focus of one camera as the guards converged on the cage of Miss Sereno; then an intercut of another camera to show the door of the ladies’ toilet; then several angles, one after another, as the guards advanced upon the toilet, their guns drawn.

  “How exciting!” Penelope burst out. “It’s like a western film—I mean the way they are with their guns drawn and heaven knows what will happen—”

  “Nothing,” Rothschild commented sourly.

  Now the door of the rest room burst open, and the young lady with the black hair emerged. Penelope could have perished with excitement—as she told Dr. Mannix afterward. Not only was it the first time she had seen herself on professional film—so to speak—but it was a crowning disappointment. Her face was screwed up in hysterical fright and half covered with one hand.

  “Take that damn hand away!” Captain Bixbee was heard to mutter.

  Then the guards closed in on the black-haired lady; then Mr. Shepson blocked her face. After that, the film was edited so that every scrap of celluloid in which the thief figured was included; but the sum of it was absolutely nothing—not one clear frame of an uncontorted face.

  The lights went up. The commissioner had been so frustrated by the nature and condition of the film that he had forgotten to make even a semblance of a pass at Penelope. She sympathized with him. “It was disappointing, wasn’t it?”

  “Now, don’t you worry, dear lady,” Comaday told her.

  Hastings himself was disappointed and annoyed. “When I think of what that film system costs us—and recommended by your department, Mr. Comaday—well, by God, I have gone through life blithely dreaming that we had police competence and police protection!”

  Whatever Comaday might have replied was cut off by Larry Cohen, who said that the stills would be ready in a few moments, and why didn’t they all go into the commissioner’s office and wait there, and the glossies would be brought to them. Comaday agreed heartily to this suggestion, and as Bixbee led the guests to his office, Comaday fell into step beside Larry Cohen and said:

  “Thank you, Larry. I was close to blowing it.”

  “Well—you know—the man’s important.”

  “The man’s a goddamn pain in the ass,” said Comaday, “but the wife is something else. Fine little woman. I like her.”

  “I imagine you do,” Cohen replied.

  “Seems to have the short end of the stick with him.”

  “It happens that way,” Cohen said.

  It was no happy little cluster of cooperative citizens that gathered in the commissioner’s office to wait for the enlarged still photos; and as she looked around from face to face, Penelope pondered upon the way of men as they went about conducting the affairs of men. Here was the head of the largest police force in the world, an out-thrust under lip turning his bulldog face into a pout; and here was the head of the third (or was it the fourth, she wondered) largest banking house in the United States, pouting right back. Here were two highly placed policemen staring glumly at floor and ceiling respectively; and here was the assistant to the commissioner examining his fingernails with profound interest and intense concentration. And here, too, was the assistant district attorney—he alone willing to watch Penelope as she said gaily:

  “I for one refuse to sit here as if I were at a wake. I just cannot see what is so dreadful about a criminal who displays enough competence not to be caught immediately. If all criminals were utterly incompetent, there would be no use for a police force—would there, Mr. Comaday?”

  “Dear lady,” Comaday began, wrestling with his thoughts and his words, “dear lady—”

  He was rescued by the entrance of Sergeant Moodus, who carried a stack of glossy photographs—stills of the bank robber. They were handed around, and everyone examined them with intensity—as if out of such fierce concentration some tangible results could emerge.

  Penelope, looking with pleasure at those passed to her, said to her husband, “James—her suit is exactly like mine! I think that is very exciting. There’s no question about it—”

  “Penelope,” Hastings began, “what difference can that possibly make—”

  “No, no,” Rothschild interrupted. “With your permission, Mr. Hastings—” Hastings nodded shortly and sat back, and Rothschild said to Penelope, “What do you mean, Mrs. Hastings—about the style? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, believe me, Commissioner,” Penelope began, but was interrupted gently by Rothschild.

  “No, Mrs. Hastings. I am not a commissioner—only a lieutenant of detectives at the Nineteenth Squad—that’s the area where the robbery took place.”

  “Really?” Penelope said. “And I thought you were all commissioners, like Mr. Comaday.”

  There was polite laughter and a very thoughtful smile from Cohen, who regarded Penelope with new interest.

  “Only Commissioner Comaday,” said Rothschild.

  “And now you are all laughing at me—I’ve been such a silly ass about all of it.” But the look on Cohen’s face made her wonder whether perhaps she had not gone a little too far; and the expression on her husband’s face was as close to hatred as James R. Hastings had ever permitted. Penelope thought to herself, “Why, I do believe James would kill me if he could—I mean,
not messily, but if he could just wish me dead in the heart of Africa—and what does that kind of thing come to when you’re married as long as we have been? And anyway, I have no idea about how I feel toward James, if I feel anything at all.”

  “I feel like such a fool,” Penelope said.

  “I think this has gone far enough,” Hastings said, rising to his feet; but Rothschild intervened with the softest and most respectful tones he could assume.

  “I assure you, Mr. Hastings—no disrespect is meant here. Mrs. Hastings’ error was a perfectly natural one. She has fortunately lived her life apart from the kind of rot that we deal with day in and day out.”

  “Exactly,” Comaday nodded. “Accept my personal apologies. Still, we must face the fact that she has come up with a most important observation. Mrs. Hastings,” he said gently, “are you sure that you have a suit identical with this one?”

  “I think so,” Penelope answered uncertainly, tears welling into her eyes. She was very moved. Usually they were alone during those moments when James let her know how unsuited she was to be his wife. Now and here, surrounded by so many competent and burly policemen, she felt not only protected but full of good feelings toward the police.

  “Just take your time, dear lady,” Comaday said gently. “We have all the time in the world.”

  Ignored, James R. Hastings seated himself.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now about the suit,” Rothschild said. “I don’t know too much about style—but I do know that one designer is supposed to take off from another. My wife tells me that on Seventh Avenue a lady’s suit can start at five hundred dollars, and then be turned out cheaper and cheaper until you can find it at Hearn’s for fifty dollars. There would be thousands of those, wouldn’t there?”

  “Mrs. Hastings does not buy her clothes at Hearn’s,” Larry Cohen said.

  “Where did you buy this suit, Mrs. Hastings?”

  “At Givenchy—that is, he made it for me.”

  “Givenchy?” Most of the faces were blank.

  “In Paris,” Penelope said. It had simply not occurred to her that there were people to whom Givenchy was as unfamiliar as Hearn’s might be to Givenchy.

  “You mean he’s a French designer, like Dior and the rest of them?” Comaday asked.

  “Only the best—but that’s only my opinion,” Penelope said apologetically. “I have no right to judge, really.”

  “Then that would mean,” Larry Cohen said, “that there is only one of a kind of this suit in the whole world—is that so, Mrs. Hastings?”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Penelope reflected. “Yet I suppose that is true. It does sound wretched and statusy when you put it that way, doesn’t it?”

  “But it is a fact?”

  “I just don’t know. I never thought of it—”

  “It could have been copied,” Rothschild said, a little impatient now with the whole direction of the inquiry.

  “I hardly think so,” Cohen said.

  “Well, that’s a hell of a note!” Hastings put in angrily.

  “Wait a minute,” Rothschild said, “what is all this? So two suits are alike—they’re clothes. It’s a coincidence.”

  “Not any more than that two Mona Lisas would be a coincidence,” the district attorney decided, and then turned to Mr. Hastings. “What color is your wife’s suit, Mr. Hastings?”

  “I don’t remember,” he mumbled.

  “Why, James,” Penelope said, smiling with excitement, “of course you remember. It is bright yellow. And it cost eleven hundred dollars, and you were so provoked. That makes it the same color, doesn’t it?” She asked this of Comaday, who nodded unhappily. “This is delicious,” Penelope said. “That means I could be the thief, doesn’t it?”

  “Penelope,” her husband said icily.

  “Eleven hundred bucks,” Bixbee said unbelievingly.

  “And where is the suit now, Mrs. Hastings?” Cohen asked casually.

  “In my closet, of course.… No. No, as a matter of fact, I left it in the pantry for Martha to give to the cleaner.”

  “Martha?”

  “Martha is our housekeeper,” Penelope explained. “Not in Sag Harbor, you know; but now that the children are grown, we use the Sag Harbor place less and less. I mean, when they are in for the holidays they just wouldn’t think of going out there, and it didn’t make much sense for James and me to go out ourselves. Still, we keep on the Chansons in Sag Harbor. I mean, James continues their wages—it is good of him—”

  “Penelope!” her husband interrupted angrily.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, again on the point of tears. “What have I done now?”

  “Dear lady,” said the commissioner gently, “it is just within the realm of possibility that something happened to your suit. Is Martha home now?”

  Penelope nodded, giving the impression that she could not trust herself to speak.

  “Do you feel up to calling her?”

  Again Penelope nodded.

  “Good. Now, if you will just give me the number, I will get it for you. Then I switch on this contraption on my desk, dear lady, and Martha’s voice will be amplified, so that we can all listen to the conversation. You simply talk into this instrument in normal tones. If you don’t mind? I mean, if you don’t feel this is an intrusion upon your privacy?”

  “I do feel it,” James said firmly. “What the devil kind of a circus is this? What can my wife’s suit possibly have to do with this robbery?”

  “Suppose we see,” Comaday said firmly.

  “Oh yes, James!” Penelope cried. “It will be such fun—like actually being a part of some exciting mystery. And just suppose it were my suit?”

  “This is damn nonsense!”

  “Suppose we see, Mr. Hastings,” Cohen said, watching Penelope quizzically. And Penelope, feeling that things had gone far enough, and amazed at her own attitude toward her husband, gave the number to Comaday. He made the call, and a moment later Martha’s voice, strangely hollow and electronic, sounded in the room:

  “This is the Hastings residence—this is Martha.”

  James looked fiercely at Penelope, who had to rummage quickly through her defects to recall that he hated to have Martha announce herself in that manner.

  “Martha, this is Penny. Yes, we’re downtown at Police Headquarters—the most fascinating place. I mean you have no idea, you just wouldn’t have any idea, from the things you read—” Penelope caught Comaday’s eye. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, Martha. Right now, everyone is interested in my yellow suit—the Givenchy.”

  “Are you going to sell it, Penny?” asked Martha. “You know, there’s this person on Madison Avenue who buys these things—but, honey, they say he doesn’t give a cent more than about a third of what you paid, and that suit cost so much.”

  “I’m not selling it, Martha.”

  “I’m so glad. I really am.” Martha was being confidante, good friend, adviser. “After all, Penny, it did cost an arm and a leg, you know—and I always feel that a man shows great forbearance when he puts out for such a thing—I mean, the way things have been between you and Mr. Hastings—and—”

  “Martha, for heaven’s sake,” Penelope interrupted, “there’s a roomful of men sitting here and listening to you, including Mr. Hastings, so I just don’t think it’s any time for—”

  “If that isn’t the most!” Martha cried, switching to crusty New England. “How can any roomful of men be listening to me when I am talking to you on the telephone?”

  “It’s this new device that the telephone company has—”

  “I just do declare!”

  “A sort of loud-speaker effect, Martha, and it turns a telephone conversation into a meeting.”

  “I told you, Penny, there’s no privacy left—there’s nothing left, nothing that a body really hews to—”

  Comaday took things in hand here and introduced himself to Martha. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Martha?”
>
  “Nope.”

  “Does she mean yes or no?” Comaday asked Penelope.

  “Martha?”

  “Yes?”

  “The police commissioner is going to ask you a number of questions, and you are to answer him as straightforwardly and truthfully as you can. Do you understand me?”

  “You mean everyone there is listening to everything, every word that I say?”

  “We have been through that, Martha.”

  “How many are there, Penny?”

  “Six. Now, for heaven’s sake, Martha, will you please answer the questions?”

  “Am I being grilled?”

  “You are not being grilled, you are being impossible,” Penelope said. “You are being questioned by a very sweet gentleman whose name is John Comaday, and please answer him.”

  “All right,” Martha sighed. “You can’t fight City Hall.”

  “Martha—this is Mr. Comaday.”

  “Yes, chief?”

  Rothschild and Bixbee bit their lips. Cohen struggled to keep his face firm, and Hastings glowered.

  “Would you please look into Mrs. Hastings’ closet and see whether this yellow suit, the Givenchy as you call it, is there? We will wait.”

  “I don’t have to look,” said Martha.

  “Why?”

  “I know it’s not there. Mrs. Hastings gave it to me this morning and asked me to have it cleaned.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “And did you send it to the cleaner?”

  “I suppose so,” Martha replied. She had fallen completely into her best, tight New England manner by now.

  “What does that mean—you suppose so? Did you, or didn’t you?”

  “When we have things for the cleaner, they are placed on a cabinet top in the pantry until the delivery boy from the cleaner picks them up.”

  “And was the suit picked up?”

  “Well, ’tain’t there now, so I suppose it was picked up.”

  “You don’t know, you ‘suppose!’” Comaday snorted. “Do you mean to tell me you are that casual about a dress that cost over a thousand dollars?”