Nightmare Town: Stories (49 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Thin,” he said idiotically, “I did. Mr. Glenn here saw him.”

“I was standing on the corner,” said Mr. Glenn, a plump man with what might be called the air of a successful salesman.

“Pardon me, Mr. Glenn, what corner?”

“The corner of Powell and O’Farrell,” he said, quite as if I should have known it without being told. “The northeast corner, if you want it exactly, close to the building line. This bandit came up the street and got into a coupe that was driving up Powell Street. I didn’t pay much attention to him. If I heard the shot I took it for an automobile noise. I wouldn’t have noticed the man if he hadn’t been bare-headed, but he was the man Mr. Barnable described – scar, pushed-in mouth, and all.”

“Do you know the make or license number of the car he entered, Mr. Glenn?”

“No, I don’t. It was a black coupe’, and that’s all I know. I think it came from the direction of Market Street. A man was driving it, I believe, but I didn’t notice whether he was young or old or anything about him.”

“Did the bandit seem excited, Mr. Glenn? Did he look back?”

“No, he was as cool as you please, didn’t even seem in a hurry. He just walked up the street and got into the coupe, not looking to right or left.”

“Thank you, Mr. Glenn. Now can anyone amplify or amend Mr. Barnable’s description of the bandit?”

“His hair was gray,” Mr. Glenn said, “iron-gray.”

Mrs. Dolan and Mr. Knight concurred in this, the former adding, “I think he was older than Mr. Barnable said – closer to fifty than to forty – and his teeth were brown and decayed in front.”

“They were, now that you mention it,” Mr. Knight agreed.

“Is there any other light on the matter, Sergeant Hooley?”

“Not a twinkle. The shotgun cars are out after the coupe, and I reckon when the papers get out we’ll be hearing from more people who saw things, but you know how they are.”

I did indeed. One of the most lamentable features of criminal detection is the amount of time and energy wasted investigating information supplied by people who, through sheer perversity, stupidity, or excessive imagination, insist on connecting everything they have chanced to see with whatever crime happens to be most prominent in the day’s news.

Sergeant Hooley, whatever the defects of his humour, was an excellent actor: his face was bland and guileless and his voice did not vary in the least from the casual as he said, “Unless Mr. Thin has some more questions, you folks might as well run along. I have your address and can get hold of you if I need you again.”

I hesitated, but the fundamental principle that Papa had instilled in me during the ten years of my service under him – the necessity of never taking anything for granted – impelled me to say, “Just a moment,” and to lead Sergeant Hooley out of the others’ hearing.

“You have made your arrangements, Sergeant Hooley?”

“What arrangements?”

I smiled, realising that the police detectives were trying to conceal their knowledge from me. My immediate temptation was, naturally enough, to reciprocate in kind; but whatever the advantages of working independently on any one operation, in the long run a private detective is wiser in cooperating with the police than in competing with them.

“Really,” I said, “you must harbour a poor opinion of my ability if you think I have not also taken cognizance of the fact that if Glenn were standing where he said he was standing, and if, as he says, the bandit did not turn his head, then he could not have seen the scar on the bandit’s left cheek.”

Despite his evident discomfiture, Sergeant Hooley acknowledged defeat without resentment.

“I might of known you’d tumble to that,” he admitted, rubbing his chin with a reflective thumb. “Well, I reckon we might as well take him along now as later, unless you’ve got some other notion in your head.”

Consulting my watch, I saw that it was now twenty-four minutes past noon: my investigation had thus far, thanks to the police detectives’ having assembled all the witnesses, consumed only ten or twelve minutes.

“If Glenn were stationed at Powell Street to mislead us,” I suggested, “then isn’t it quite likely that the bandit did not escape in that direction at all? It occurs to me that there is a barber shop two doors from here in the opposite direction – toward Stockton Street. That barber shop, which I assume has a door opening into the Bulwer Building, as barber shops similarly located invariably do, may have served as a passageway through which the bandit could have got quickly off the street. In any event, I consider it a possibility that we should investigate.”

“The barber shop it is!” Sergeant Hooley spoke to his colleague, “Wait here with these folks till we’re back, Strong. We won’t be long.”

“Right,” Detective Strong replied.

In the street we found fewer curious spectators than before.

“Might as well go inside, Tim,” Sergeant Hooley said to the policeman in front as we passed him on our way to the barber shop.

The barber shop was about the same size as the jewellery store. Five of its six chairs were filled when we went in, the vacant one being that nearest the front window. Behind it stood a short swarthy man who smiled at us and said, “Next,” as is the custom of barbers.

Approaching, I tendered him one of my cards, from perusal of which he looked up at me with bright interest that faded at once into rather infantile disappointment. I was not unfamiliar with this phenomenon: there are a surprising number of people who, on learning that my name is Thin, are disappointed in not finding me an emaciated skeleton or, what would doubtless be even more pleasing, grossly fat.

“You know, I assume, that Barnable’s store has been robbed?”

“Sure! It’s getting tough the way those babies knock ‘em over in broad daylight!”

“Did you by any chance hear the report of the pistol?”

“Sure! I was shaving a fellow, Mr. Thorne, the real estate man. He always waits for me no matter how many of the other barbers are loafing. He says – Anyhow, I heard the shot and went to the door to look up there, but I couldn’t keep Mr. Thorne waiting, you understand, so I didn’t go up there myself.”

“Did you see anyone who might have been the bandit?”

“No. Those fellows move quick, and at lunchtime, when the street’s full of people, I guess he wouldn’t have much trouble losing himself. It’s funny the way -“

In view of the necessity of economising on time, I risked the imputation of discourtesy by interrupting the barber’s not very pertinent comments.

“Did any man pass through here, going from the street into the Bulwer Building, immediately after you heard the shot?”

“Not that I remember, though lots of men use this shop as a kind of short cut from their offices to the street.”

“But you remember no one passing through shortly after you heard the shot?”

“Not going in. Going out, maybe, because it was just about lunchtime.”

I considered the men the barbers were working on in the five occupied chairs. Only two of these men wore blue trousers. Of the two, one had a dark moustache between an extremely outstanding nose and chin; the other’s face, pink from the shaving it had just undergone, was neither conspicuously thin nor noticeably plump, nor was his profile remarkable for either ugliness or beauty. He was a man of about thirty-five years, with fair hair and, as I saw when he smiled at something his barber said, teeth that were quite attractive in their smooth whiteness.

“When did the man in the third chair” – the one I have just described – “come in?”

“If I ain’t mistaken, just before the hold-up. He was just taking off his collar when I heard the shot. I’m pretty sure of it.”

“Thank you,” I said, turning away.

“A tough break,” Sergeant Hooley muttered in my ear.

I looked sharply at him.

“You forget or, rather, you think I have forgotten, Knight’s gloves.”

Sergeant Hooley laughed shortly. “I forgot ‘em for a fact. I must be getting absent-minded or something.”

“I know of nothing to be gained by dissembling, Sergeant Hooley. The barber will be through with our man presently.” Indeed, the man rose from the chair as I spoke. “I suggest that we simply ask him to accompany us to the jeweller’s.”

“Fair enough,” the sergeant agreed.

We waited until our man had put on his collar and tie, his blue jacket, gray coat, and gray hat. Then, exhibiting his badge, Sergeant Hooley introduced himself to the man.

“I’m Sergeant Hooley. I want you to come up the street with me.”

“What?”

The man’s surprise was apparently real, as it may well have been.

Word for word, the sergeant repeated his statement.

“What for?”

I answered the man’s question in as few words as possible.

“You are under arrest for robbing Barnable’s jewellery store.”

The man protested somewhat truculently that his name was Brennan, that he was well-known in Oakland, that someone would pay for this insult, and so on. For a minute it seemed that force would be necessary to convey our prisoner to Barnable’s, and Sergeant Hooley had already taken a grip on the man’s wrist when Brennan finally submitted, agreeing to accompany us quietly.

Glenn’s face whitened and a pronounced tremor disturbed his legs as we brought Brennan into the jewellery store, where Mrs. Dolan and Messrs. Barnable, Julius, Knight, and Strong came eagerly to group themselves around us. The uniformed man the Sergeant had called Tim remained just within the street door.

“Suppose you make the speeches,” Sergeant Hooley said, offering me the centre of the stage.

“Is this your bandit, Mr. Barnable?” I began.

The jeweller’s brown eyes achieved astonishing width.

“No, Mr. Thin!”

I turned to the prisoner.

“Remove your hat and coat, if you please. Sergeant Hooley, have you the cap that the bandit dropped? Thank you, Sergeant Hooley.” To the prisoner, “Kindly put this cap on.”

“I’m damned if I will!” he roared at me.

Sergeant Hooley held a hand out toward me.

“Give it to me. Here, Strong, take a hold on this baby while I cap him.”

Brennan subsided. “All right! All right! I’ll put it on!”

The cap was patently too large for him, but, experimenting, I found it could be adjusted in such a manner that its lack of fit was not too conspicuous, while its size served to conceal his hair and alter the contours of his head.

“Now will you please,” I said, stepping back to look at him, “take out your teeth?”

This request precipitated an extraordinary amount of turmoil. The man Knight hurled himself on Detective Strong, while Glenn dashed toward the front door, and Brennan struck Sergeant Hooley viciously with his fist. Hastening to the front door to take the place of the policeman who had left it to struggle with Glenn, I saw that Mrs. Dolan had taken refuge in the corner, while Barnable and Julius avoided being drawn into the conflict only by exercising considerable agility.

Order was at length restored, with Detective Strong and the policeman handcuffing Knight and Glenn together, while Sergeant Hooley, sitting astride Brennan, waved aloft the false teeth he had taken from his mouth.

Beckoning to the policeman to resume his place at the door, I joined Sergeant Hooley, and we assisted Brennan to his feet, restoring the cap to his head. He presented a villainous appearance: his mouth, unfilled by teeth, sank in, thinning and aging his face, causing his nose to lengthen limply and flatly.

“Is this your baby?” Sergeant Hooley asked, shaking the prisoner at the jeweller.

“It is! It is! It’s the same fellow!” Triumph merged with puzzlement on the jeweller’s face. “Except he’s got no scar,” he added slowly.

“I think we shall find his scar in his pocket.”

We did – in the form of a brown-stained handkerchief still damp and smelling of alcohol. Besides the handkerchief, there were in his pockets a ring of keys, two cigars, some matches, a pocket-knife, $36, and a fountain pen.

The man submitted to our search, his face expressionless until Mr. Barnable exclaimed, “But the stones? Where are my stones?”

Brennan sneered nastily. “I hope you hold your breath till you find ‘em,” he said.

“Mr. Strong, will you kindly search the two men you have handcuffed together?” I requested.

He did so, finding, as I expected, nothing of importance on their persons.

“Thank you, Mr. Strong,” I said, crossing to the corner in which Mrs. Dolan was standing. “Will you please permit me to examine your shopping-bag?”

Mrs. Dolan’s humorous brown eyes went blank.

“Will you please permit me to examine your shopping-bag?” I repeated, extending a hand toward it.

She made a little smothered laughing sound in her throat, and handed me the bag, which I carried to a flat-topped showcase on the other side of the room. The bag’s contents were the celery and lettuce I have already mentioned, a package of sliced bacon, a box of soap chips, and a paper sack of spinach, among the green leaves of which glowed, when I emptied them out on the showcase, the hard crystal facets of unset diamonds. Less conspicuous among the leaves were some banknotes.