The Alley (12 page)

Hugsy, always impressed with money, fell over in a pretend faint again. But Billy said somberly, "That can't equalize with the family jewels in Connie's house, including a diamond ring. You've heard of the Hope diamond, haven't you? Diamonds are worth more than any old greenback money. And you know that, Ray Arp. Think you're so smart, Ray," said Billy Maloon.

Connie was grateful to Billy for putting this slant on things, for reminding the others that money is not always the most valuable thing in the world. Old watches, rings, keys for brilliance are even more important. But she said, "Anyway, they did get my seven real silver dollars, not paper dollars.... And you can't blame ... no one can blame Ray and June Arp for not paying attention to the barking. Mrs. Harrington, on the other side of us, paid no attention either, and she wasn't even playing ping-pong."

"Well, she's deaf," said Katy Starr. "You can't expect an old deaf lady ... how old is she, anyway? A hundred?"

"Ninety-four," said Connie. "Exactly the same age as our school."

"Mean to say that Morrison School is nearly a hundred?" said Hugsy. "What an antiquity!"

"It's old, but it's a very good school," Connie said to Hugsy. "And maybe it's lucky Mrs. Harrington didn't hear; she might have died of old-age fright."

"No clues from her," said Billy. He had taken out a grimy little blue notebook and had made some entries. "No clues from Mrs. Harrington, and no clues from the Arps, except they did hear Wags barking. So far we have these clues—the clue of the man who got Wags used to his smell, his appearance, bullet head; the screwdriver named 'Stanley' that was used to jimmy the door; the cigarette butt ... it's a Mura, that helps; the bone—I must remember to get that out of the garbage. Any more? Oh, yes, the piece of bloodstained curtain. Any more?"

"Not clues that we can hold in our hand," said Connie. "But maybe ... let's see..." She was reluctant to have her story over, near its end.

At this moment, Judy's father, Mr. Fabadessa, came into the yard. Evidently he had been listening to the last words himself. "I may have further clues," he said. "Is your mother in, Connie, or your father?" he asked.

Judy's eyes grew big. Her own father! What did
he
have to do with Connie's burglary? That's what they all wondered—what did Mr. Fabadessa, and he the only man in the Alley home that day, know about Connie's burglary? They listened in amazement to what he had to say to Mama and Papa when they came to the door.

"Yipes!" said Billy.

For this is what Mr. Fabadessa said he knew about the Ives's burglary.

Mr. Fabadessa said to Mama, "Jane," he said, "I'm sorry to hear about your robbery. You know something? At our house, this noon—I didn't realize it was important then—something happened that might help the police catch the burglars ..."

"The police! they went! They left long ago," said Mama. "Thank goodness!"

"Well," (Mr. Fabadessa looked rather self-conscious, ashamed—he reminded you of Wagsie.), "I did ring your back doorbell while the police were still here," he explained. "But no one heard me..."

"Yes?" said Mama.

"Anyway, exactly when did the burglary take place?" asked Mr. Fabadessa.

"Between twelve and one," said Mama.

"Yes, that's what I thought," said Mr. Fabadessa weakly, as though he had been hoping against hope that it had happened any time but that. "Well, anyway, at that time, strangers rang our doorbell. I happened to be in the living room entertaining some old friends, missionaries just back from India. We were talking and reminiscing about old times when the bell rang. My wife was in the kitchen, preparing a little collation. You know you get a good view of the front door from the kitchen where she was. She waited for me to answer the bell because her hands were wet and I was nearer. So I did; but my mind was on the conversation my friends and I had been having, rather than on who was at the door.

"However, I was rather taken aback when I opened the door, because two men were standing very close to it—right tight up against it, in fact. Well, they did rather startle me. I sort of noticed, but absent-mindedly, you know, thinking of lamas, that three more men were standing on the sidewalk, looking down the street toward Myrtle Avenue. One of the men at the door said, 'Does a Mrs. Hooker live here, sir?' He spoke briskly; he was polite and well ... he seemed to be an educated man."

"That," said Mama, "is the first question those about to rob ask. They ask, 'Does a Mrs. So-and-So live here?' Meanwhile, they are sizing up the situation."

"Yes," said Mr. Fabadessa. "But my mind, as I say, was on our old friends and saying, 'Whatever happened to good old Al?'—not on strangers and
their
questions—and I said, 'No, she doesn't,'—expecting them to leave. They didn't leave, though; they were oddly persistent. They explained that this Mrs. Hooker had a lot of children—was I sure she did not live in one of these houses? I said, 'No, never heard of her, and it must have been a long time since she lived here or I would have heard of her.' Then I closed the door and went back to the living room. However, it struck me somewhere in the back of my mind that there was something unusual about these five men, especially as my wife, who had had a good look at them from the kitchen, asked curiously, 'Bill, what did those men want?' So I went to the living-room window. I didn't see
my
two men any more—"

("Oooh!" Billy whispered to Connie. "Those were the two that got into your vestibule, between the green doors, and broke in."

"Sh-sh-sh," said Connie.)

"But the three men," Mr. Fabadessa went on, "across the street seemed to be looking up at your upstairs windows, Jane."

("Already had broken in by this time," whispered Billy Maloon. "The three across the street were the lookout men, making sure your house was empty.")

"I still didn't think too much of it—it
is
Alumni Day, you know," said Mr. Fabadessa, nervously squinting an eye, a habit of his. "I thought they must be remembering someone from some long past day, and I forgot about them until I heard the police cars outside. Then," he said sheepishly, "I realized that they must have been burglars..."

("Brilliant," said Billy in Connie's ear. No one could hear him except Connie—a good thing because there was no sense making Judy and Laura ashamed of their father. Just the same, it must have occurred to everybody that had Mr. Fabadessa been on the alert, the men probably would not have broken into Connie's or anyone else's house, at least not an Alley house, that day.)

Mama said, to make him feel better, "It was the same thing with me. I thought when I saw them—I'm sure it was the same men—from Myrtle Avenue, I thought they were old graduates."

"I'd be glad to go to the precinct," said Mr. Fabadessa, "and describe the men, at least the two at the door," he said. "My wife said she thought they looked as though there was something wrong with them. She said so afterwards. From where she was standing in the kitchen, she said she thought that those men at the door were up to no good."

("Then she is really to blame, because she had the hunch and he didn't," muttered Billy.

"Sh-sh-sh," Connie said. She felt sorry for Mr. Fabadessa. He must feel awful to think he could have saved the diamond ring and the silver dollars, the suits ... everything! Well, it was not his fault. He couldn't help it if long-ago missionary friends of his came from India the same moment burglars decided to break into one of the houses in the Alley.)

"What did the two men at the door look like?" Mama asked.

"Well, one of them, as I recall," said Mr. Fabadessa, "had a sort of a round head—a sort of bullet-shaped head. He was quiet, neat, looked almost like a teacher or something, spoke in an educated tone of voice. I think he may have had a slight mustache. The other fellows did not make so much impression on me. I think they were all rather well-dressed..."

"They're going to be better dressed than ever now," said Mama ruefully, "now they have John's three brand-new suits."

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Fabadessa, looking pensively at the ground. "Well, I'll go over to the precinct with John if he wants me to—describe them, at least the one with the round, bullet-shaped head..."

"Mama," Connie interrupted. "You remember the man who asked you and me, 'Does this dog bite?' the day of de Gaulle and the loose-stockings lady? He had a bullet-shaped head, too—you were the one who said that was what he had."

"Yes," said Mama. "That's right. He's probably been watching our house ever since. Oh, how awful!"

Mr. Fabadessa said, "Tell John I'll go to 9999 with him if he wants." And he went home.

Billy Maloon was more excited than ever. He asked for a sheet of paper. "Paper, I must have paper!" he said, like a man dying in the desert of the heat. Billy then drew a picture of a man on a piece of paper Connie furnished him. The man had a bullet-shaped head and a slight mustache. Billy was an artist, he might grow up to be a real artist ... he might even be the sort of artist who draws pictures of people he has never seen, just imagining what they look like from little bits of information gathered from here and there—a detective artist.

"He might catch all the wicked people wandering around loose, put pictures of them in post offices—" thought Connie proudly. "Get the reward." Everyone was impressed with his drawing.

Then, who should come strolling into the back yard—to hear about the burglary—but a real artist, Joe Below, alias Bully Vardeer. He had eyebrows that went up in a point, bushily in the middle, and now his face expressed real concern. There were certain people you could rely upon in time of trouble to come forth generously to help, and Bully was one of these. He had picked ancient Mrs. Harrington off the floor three times when she had fallen and gotten her to bed.

Here then, now, was Bully Vardeer, looking over Billy's shoulder. First he scrutinized Billy's drawing close to, then backing off, the way artists do, he stood and squinted at it; next he studied it with his hand on his chin—"The Thinker." Then he turned practically sideways and looked at it almost upside down. Then he took it in his own hand and, holding it at arms' length, he looked down at it, eyes half closed. He was half making fun, half not. And then he said in a good-natured way, "Hm. That's very good, Billy. Is it somebody I know? He looks familiar. Connie, don't forget, I want to paint you again."

Then, without waiting for an answer, he went to the kitchen door and said, "Jane, I hear you've had a burglary."

The children looked at each other. Was he joking? Did he really know the burglar, recognize him from Billy's drawing? The drawing was an excellent one—a real artist had said so—it was a fine addition to the collection of clues. Everyone crowded around Billy to get another look at it before he put it away. They wanted to implant this likeness of the burglar on their minds, and if they ever saw him, either run or give an alarm. With clues of this sort—cigarette butt named "Mura," screwdriver named "Stanley," piece of curtain with stains of blood, and now a perfectly drawn likeness of the main burglar, the master mind probably, not to forget the bone—the children felt as though they almost had their man. Not that
they
wanted to have their man—they wanted the
police
to have him. What would they do with their man if they had him? Fall down dead, that's what they would do, they said, if they saw the bullet-headed man a mile away or heard his brisk, well-spoken voice.

"Any more clues?" asked Billy quietly, rolling up his drawing and putting it in his bulging pocket with the other clues, including the piece of curtain.

"Imagine," thought Connie, "wearing a piece of curtain with the finger-shed blood of a criminal on it, right next to you ... in your pocket!"

Billy minded, too. He edged his body, as well as it is possible to do such a thing, as far away from what was in his pocket as he could. He told Connie the minute he got home he was going to put the clues in his safe, the one Connie had given him for Christmas. He was the only one who knew the code, how to open it. Connie was glad that he didn't recommend that
she
put them in
her
safe that Billy had given her for Christmas, the very same sort of safe. But, that's where she should have put her silver dollars. She alone knew the code to hers—and the burglars would not have been able to get them. But Billy was fair, and he was polite. He asked her if she'd rather keep the things. After all, it was her burglary, and these were her clues. Connie sort of did and sort of didn't want to keep them. Finally she said, "No, you keep them, Billy. You drew the picture."

Regardless of whose safe the clues were in, however, it was clear that Connie and Billy Maloon were the most important people in the Alley right now. The others soon respectfully left the yard. They trooped down into the Arps' cellar, all except Hugsy, who was not allowed to play with them that day—Connie didn't know why. "Not today," said Katy. "Another time," she said. In clubs they have these rules—not to play some days with someone, no one knows why.

Crestfallen, Hugsy asked Connie if he could stay and swing. "O. K.," said Connie. But Hugsy didn't stay long. He soon went home, and only Billy and Connie were left in the swings.