The Alley (22 page)

"You don't think there are lots of pencils with J. I.'s on them, the way there are lots of screwdrivers with 'Stanley' on them?" asked Billy. "We have to be sure of everything."

"No-o," said Connie hesitantly. How could she be sure? Then a dreadful thought occurred to her. "Oh, Billy. You know what? The name of one of the policemen is Ippolito. His first name might be
John.
John Ippolito, same initials as Papa's—J. I."

"Yes," said Billy. "Or Joseph."

"M-m-m," said Connie. "Then we can never prove anything. Well, that's life. Ts. Oh, well ... what happened to you today?" she said.

"Well," said Billy. "Mine's good, too. I was going to take Atlas for a walk. We're trying to keep him on the leash all the time so he won't go away. He just loves to go across Brooklyn Bridge! Someone else saw him trotting along yesterday over the Brooklyn Bridge. He'll get killed yet. So, I had just gone out the front door with Atlas, and I had stopped a minute to make sure the doors were locked. Then—I smelled Muras! I know the smell of Muras by now, all right, my stubs—the old one and the new one. So, I stopped and looked out from under my eyelids ... this way..." Billy showed Connie how he looked out from under his eyelids so that no one would know he was looking at them. He had very long sweeping eyelashes, and this helped to throw people off the track. Billy's glance of deception was on the order of Connie's sidewise look. Both were excellent.

"And," said Billy, "coming up the street—he was about in front of Arnold's house—there was the..."

"Bullet-head man!" Connie could not help but interrupt.

Billy did not mind the interruption. "Yes!" he said. "The bullet-head man!"

Connie gasped. She was speechless! Imagine! Her over there on Morrison Avenue with the second pair of robbers, the policemen pair! And Billy over here on Larrabee with a real, right original robber, the chief caser, the
brain
probably! "That's even scarier than my day," she said at last.

"Both are scarey," said Billy. "Well, he was headed
away
from me, going toward Gregory. But when he heard Atlas's chain and license jingling, 'A dog!' he probably thought. 'A dog to find out about.' And he stopped dead in his tracks. He scratched his head as if to say, 'Oh, darn! I forgot something,' and he wheeled around and came toward me."

"Yikes!" said Connie.

"So, I went slowly down the steps and walked toward him ... I wouldn't want to have my back to him, you know ... I walked toward him and he came toward me. We met ... we passed ... we walked a step or two—he in his direction, I in mine. He stopped again ... he turned around ... so did I ... and he said (he spoke in good English, the way he always does)...he said..."

"Oh, no," gasped Connie.

"Yes," said Billy. "He said, 'Does this dog bite?'

"I said, 'Yes, he is vicious. I'm on my way to get a muzzle for him now.' I gave Atlas a tug on the leash. He knows what that means—Growl! Bare teeth!"

"Good old Atlas," said Connie. "Think of Wags! She would have been ... she
was
scared of the man."

"But the man," said Billy, "was not scared of Atlas. He gave a smile, and he said he could make friends with any dog, including vicious ones. Then he held out his hand, the right way, you know, for making friends with a dog, and he said, 'Nice doggie.'"

"Gosh!" said Connie, overwhelmed at the nerve of the man.

"I yanked Atlas back, and I said, in a menacing way, 'Better not pet this one; he might have rabies. He was bit by a rat in the churchyard.' And I began to back up the street. He took a little dog biscuit out of his pocket..."

"Must have quite a supply," put in Connie.

"And he said, 'Oh,' he said. 'Some day he'll be my friend. Won't you, puppy?' he said. And, 'What's his name?' he said. I didn't want to tell him 'Atlas' because..."

"The nerve! I mean it!" said Connie.

"So I said ... the first thing that come into my head... 'His name is Agamemnon.'"

"Agamemnon!" screamed Connie. "Imagine little Atlas with a big name like that!" Still, there was no denying Atlas was brave. A heart like Agamemnon's, that's what he had—heart of a hero.

Connie and Billy couldn't help laughing. "Here, Agamemnon, here, Agamemnon," Connie said. "Can you imagine calling him with a name like that? Worse than, 'Here, Heathie.'"

"He'd be over the bridge before we got it all out," said Billy. "Anyway, the guy said, 'H-m-m, a rather unusual name for a dog. What does it mean—Hercules?'"

"Not as educated as we thought," said Connie.

"A coincidence that he would say that, though," said Billy. "Because Hercules took the weight of the world off Atlas's (my dog's) shoulders. Anyway, he lighted another Mura, and he went down the street, the other way from the way he was going in the beginning. He began to whistle. And you know what he was whistling?"

"Oh. Oh, no! Not—'On the Street Where You Live,'" said Connie.

"Right," said Billy triumphantly.

"Oh-oh-oh," said Connie. "So now we know that both your house and Bully Vardeer's house are being cased by the main caser. Mama and Papa should call the police."

"No sense in that. The man's gone, and the police would just laugh if we told them our suspicions. Anyway, you don't arrest a man because you
think
he's going to rob you and whistle 'On the Street Where You Live' before he does rob you."

"But we know he robbed our house," said Connie.

"Pretty certain. But ... Connie ... have you ever thought how it would feel for you and me to be the ones to catch the burglars in the act somehow?"

"Ourselves?" said Connie. "Hey, yeah," she said. "I often dream," she said, "not dream,
imagine,
that I would catch a burglar. Think what Katy would say to that! She has never caught a burglar!"

"Well, Connie," said Billy. "We must think of a trap to catch this bullet-head man. Then the case will crack..."

"Will what?" asked Connie. Sometimes she did not understand Billy's language. Billy watched "The Defenders," as well as Perry Mason, and knew a great deal of burglar language.

"Crack ... be solved!" he explained.

"Ah," said Connie. "It's already solved," she said.

"Yes, but now we have to think of a way to trap this fresh guy, him and his dogs and his love of all dogs, vicious or not!"

"That's right," said Connie with a sigh. "We have to prevent the two future burglaries, yours and Bully's."

"That's right," said Billy. "So think."

He and she swung quietly for a while, thinking. But it's a funny thing about plans. They really have to come to you; you can't always just think one up when you need one. They thought of a few, and they were either too dangerous or too simple. They hit on nothing. Then Connie had to go in to dinner, and Billy said he would see her later. He went home to case from the front window of his second story; his burglar alarm was all set, and he had a paper bag to fill with water and drop on any suspect. But he saw no suspect and he smelled no Mura.

After dinner, Connie practiced the piano until Mama came home. Then Connie told her the story of the buffalo nickel and the pencil. She ended up with what had happened to Billy that day. Mama could hardly chop up the onions—she was preparing a rare and fancy recipe for tomorrow—she was so interested. She cried from the onions, and she cried from fear. She said that if Connie or Billy saw anything suspicious, they must come and tell her right away and she would telephone Papa and de Gaulle. De Gaulle might as well be good for something besides chasing imaginary little boys off great big ball fields. That was what Mama said indignantly. "And she's right," thought Connie.

For a number of days after that great one, nothing happened in regard to burglaries, dog lovers, casing. Connie began to forget about it all.

"After all, Billy," she said. "You know we wouldn't have had a burglary if we hadn't had an Alumni Day, and there isn't going to be another Alumni Day for one year. They only really like to burgle—
these
burglars, anyway—on a day of importance. And what day of importance is coming up soon? None. Just plain none." That's what Connie thought and said.

The warm days of early June dawdled along to vacation time. Connie spent a great deal of time practicing the piano—she loved playing the piano and she liked to practice. But she neither loved nor liked taking lessons. Nor did she like piano recitals. Her teacher gave three little recitals a year, so that each pupil could see how the others were faring—not to laugh at them but to be heartened knowing that others make mistakes, too. So far, Connie had been in two recitals this year. Another was coming soon. That recital would end up the lessons for this year—at least that was something—and there would be Dixie Cups for those who liked them, and cookies and lemonade.

Connie had been taking lessons for a year and a half. Her teacher, Miss Fannie Moore, still gave her little pieces—"Indian Drum Song," for example, and said that Connie was not ready for "The Moonlight Sonata," not quite yet. Ts. One day, while practicing, Connie thought, "Here I am—practicing the piano, wasting my time
practicing,
when I should be
giving
piano lessons!" Connie had been
taking
lessons for a year and a half; she could play the piano now. "Why take lessons when you can play?" she asked herself. "Why not
give
lessons, instead."

In the Alley there was no piano teacher, no music teacher, not one. The Alley needed a music teacher. She might as well be it—Connie Ives, the music teacher of the Alley, the way Bully Vardeer was its portrait painter. Some children might like to take lessons but couldn't, because there was no teacher. Consider the Carrolls. Four children in the same family and not one taking lessons. How much should she charge for a lesson? Connie's father often said, "Professors are not made of money." Well, she, Connie, would not charge as much as Miss Fannie Moore did for a lesson—four dollars! She would charge only twenty-five cents. Mama, when asked, had suggested five.

"Five!" exclaimed Connie. "You think a piano lesson is not worth any more than a popsicle?"

"Oh, do excuse me, darling," said Mama. "Of course. You are right."

"Now to round up the pupils," said Connie, going out. Fifteen minutes for each lesson would be enough, she thought. Hers lasted a half an hour, though they seemed ar hour. The four little Carrolls were all in their yard, playing, yelling, screaming. Connie knew that they would all be very musical, every one of them, even the littlest—Notesy. Look at their mother! The lady from Nebraska! She could play any musical instrument, the piano, the recorder, the organ, and how she wanted to own bagpipes! (Her mother stemmed from the Scots.) "If you ever go to Europe," she said to Connie's mother, "please bring me home some bagpipes." She also played taps on an ancient bugle when it was time for her four children to come in.

But Connie decided not to ask the Carrolls first. She was somewhat afraid of Mrs. Carroll and had to muster courage. She decided to ask Winifred first. Winifred was a new girl in the Alley, and if anyone needed piano lessons, it would probably be she, for she was very musical. Billy needed them, too, but he was too busy casing. He didn't want to stop casing a minute, scarcely even to eat or sleep. He crawled around the Alley on his stomach all the time and wormed his way into Bully Vardeer's Japanese garden; and he climbed up the Bernadette's tree. He didn't care about Mr. Bernadette's bellowing at him—he just went anywhere in the Alley, just so it was casing.

"The trouble with people," Billy said to Connie—and Connie felt he meant her—"is that they let a case drop. They forget to be on guard."

"That's right," Connie agreed. "Billy, you go on casing, and you let me know when you need me. Otherwise, I have to give piano lessons. And that is going to keep me pretty busy."

"Give!" he exclaimed. "Lessons?"

"Yes," said Connie. "Yes. How would you like to take?" she asked.

"From who?" he asked.

"Me," said Connie. "Me." She blushed. Billy was looking at her with admiration. That was the way with Billy Maloon. He thought that everything Connie did was fine. And she thought that everything he did was fine. That was fair.

"No, thanks," he said. "Some other year. Right now I have too much to do."

"O.K., Billy," said Connie. "See you later. By."

"By," said Billy. He crawled off.

Connie could see that Billy was a little dejected, because she wasn't coming casing with him. Casing is a lonely life. But he had chosen it. She, Connie, just could not case every minute. Life had to go on—piano lessons ... giving them and taking them ... reading, drawing, swinging, everything—casing or no. She planned to give a recital in a few weeks, less ... in days, if her pupils did well. There was a great deal to do. She hadn't even asked anybody to take lessons yet, and here she was planning the recital—the recital of her pupils! "What pupils?" she asked herself sarcastically.

As things turned out, Connie had no trouble rounding up pupils. The new girl, Winifred, a very pretty girl with black glossy hair and deep dark eyes, accepted with alacrity. She was coming at four o'clock for a lesson. Connie got out some of her old pieces. How easy they were! Winifred should soon be able to do these.

The piano was in the dining room, a funny place for a piano, perhaps, but the only place where it would fit in their little house. Anyway, Connie liked having the piano there because Mama could hear her from there while she was at the stove, cooking. And so could Nanny, when it was Nanny who was doing the cooking ... if Connie could get the lesson in before Lyle Van.

"You know, Mama," said Connie, "that Winifred is a very timid and shy girl—very, very. She is afraid of many things. I'll teach her to play the piano, and that will be one thing that she will be able to do. She won't ever climb to the top of the jungle gym, says she is scared of high places."

"Lots of people are scared of high places," Mama said.

"That's no excuse. I'll teach her to
not
be afraid. I taught Hugsy to walk the fence. He used to be scared to walk the fence. But now, he
can
walk it. Why? I gave him courage, that's why. He used to manage to get up on the fence, but then he would crouch down, be afraid to stand up. 'Stand up,' I'd say to Hugsy. 'Stand. First just learn to stand up straight. Then, take a step or two. Go easy. You can always jump off if you think you are about to fall.' That's what I said to Hugsy."