The Fabulous Clipjoint Read online

  “Unlisted number,” he told me. “I thought it would be.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  He sighed. “Work from the other end. Find out what’s known about this Harry Reynolds. Bassett’ll know something about him, or be able to dig it out of the morgue. Only thing is, I was hoping that phone number would give us an up on Bassett. Well, tomorrow we can try a couple more razzle-dazzles. We can be a phone-quiz radio program giving a hundred-buck prize to whoever answers a phone number picked at random if he can tell us the capital of Illinois and his address. Or we can be —”

  “Listen,” I said, “I can get the listing on that phone number for you.”

  “Huh? How, kid? Those unlisted numbers are hard to get.”

  “Bunny Wilson’s sister-in-law, his brother’s wife, works for the phone company, in the office where they handle those numbers. He found out one for Jake, the foreman at the plant, once. Just so we don’t get his sister-in-law in trouble for it, he can get it for us.”

  “Kid, that’s great. How soon could we get it?”

  “If I can find Bunny tonight,” I told him, “we can have itby tomorrow noon, I think. He could see his sister-in-law before she goes to work; then she could phone him when she goes out to lunch. She couldn’t call from work, about that.”

  “Bunny got a phone?”

  “His landlady has — but he can use it only daytimes. I can go over there, though. He lives on Halsted Street.”

  “He’s home from work by now?”

  “He should be. If he isn’t, I’ll wait.”

  “Okay, kid. We’ll split up for a while, then. Here’s ten bucks. Give it to Bunny to give his sister-in-law to buy herself a new hat or something. I’m going to hunt up Bassett and find out what gives on the inquisition. He’ll go easier when I tell him we blew Kaufman open. Or maybe he’s convinced by now that he was on the wrong street.”

  “Where’ll we meet?”

  “Come back here. I’ll tell the desk clerk to give you my key if I’m not in. You run along; I’ll try to find out where Bassett is by phone before I go chasing after him.”

  I walked down to Grand, and was lucky enough to see an owl car coming, so it was only a few minutes before I got to Halsted and walked south to the place where Bunny roomed.

  His light was off, which meant he was either out or asleep, but I went upstairs anyway. This was important enough to wake him up about.

  He was out; I knocked till I was sure.

  I sat down on the stairs to wait, and then I remembered that he was usually careless about locking his door, and sure enough it was unlocked. So I went in and found a magazine to read.

  When it got to be four o’clock I made coffee in his little kitchenette. I made it plenty strong.

  He came home, stumbling up the stairs, just as I got the coffee made. He wasn’t too drunk, just an edge on. But I got two cups of coffee down him before I told him what I wanted. I didn’t give him the whole story, but enough of it that he knew why we needed the listing on that phone number.

  He said, “Sure, Ed, sure. And t’hell with the ten bucks. She owes me a few favors.”

  I stuck it in his pocket and told him to give it to her anyway.

  “Can you talk to her before she goes to work this morning?” I asked him.

  “Sure, easy. She lives way out — gets up at five-thirty. I’ll stay awake till I can phone her then. Then I’ll set my alarm for eleven so I’ll be awake when she phones me back. You can phone me any time after noon — I’ll stick around till you do.”

  “That’s swell, Bunny. Thanks.”

  “Skip it. You going home now?”

  “Back to the Wacker.”

  “I’ll walk part way with you.” He looked at the clock. “Then by time I get back here, it’ll be time for me to phone from the all-night drugstore on the corner.”

  We walked over Grand Avenue, over the bridge.

  He said, “You’re different lately, Ed. What’s changed about you? You’re different.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s the new suit.”

  “Nope. Maybe you grew up, or something. Whatever it is, I like it. I — I think you could go places, Ed, if you want to. Not get stuck in a rut, like I am.”

  “You’re not in a rut,” I said. “I thought you were going to have a shop of your own.”

  “I don’t know, Ed. Equipment costs like hell. I got a little saved, yeah, but when I think what it takes — Hell, if I had sense enough to stay sober I could save more, but I haven’t. Here I am forty, and I got maybe half enough saved up for what I want to do. Rate I’m going. I’ll be old before I even get started.”

  He laughed a little, bitterly. “Sometimes I feel like finding one of these big-time gambling games you hear about, where there’s no limit, and betting my little bankroll on one blackjack hand, quit win or lose. Then either I’d have enough, or nothing.And nothing wouldn’t be much worse than half enough. Maybe better.”

  “Better, how?”

  “Then I could quit worrying about it. Then every time I spent a quarter for a shot of whiskey or a dime for a glass of beer, it wouldn’t hurt me. I’m not worried about going to hell, Ed, but I begrudge the money the ticket costs.”

  We walked in silence a little while and then he said, “It’s my own fault, Ed. I got no kick coming, really. A guy can have anything he wants, damn near, if he wants it bad enough, if he’s willing to give up other things to get it. Hell, on my income, and living alone, I could save thirty bucks a week, easy. I could have had enough money years ago. But I wanted fun out of life, too. Well, I’ve had it, so what the hell am I squawking about?”

  We were almost to the el now, and he said, “Well, guess I’ll turn back here.”

  We stopped walking. I said, “Come up to the flat some afternoon, Bunny, or your next evening off. Mom — Mom hasn’t got many friends. She’ll be glad to see you.”

  “I’ll do that, Ed. Thanks. Uh — say, how about having one drink with me? Across the street there.”

  I thought a minute, and then I said, “Sure, Bunny.”

  I didn’t want the drink, really, but I could feel that, for some obscure reason, he really wanted me to drink with him. There was something in the way he said it.

  We had it, just one, and then we parted in front of the tavern. I crossed over under the el and walked toward Clark Street.

  I got to wondering about Mom and Gardie, whether they were home or not, so I turned north on Franklin and then cut through the alley back of our flat. When I got into the alley I could see our kitchen windows, and there was a light on in the kitchen.

  I didn’t know whether it was the police, still searching, or Mom home again, so I stood there and watched awhile until I saw Mom cross the window. She was still dressed, so I knew she hadn’t been home long. I saw Gardie, too. Mom was going to and from the stove, and I guess they’d just got home and were getting something to eat before they turned in.

  I didn’t want to go upstairs. Bassett would have told Mom I was staying with Uncle Am and she wouldn’t be wondering about me. She’d worry, maybe, if she knew I was still chasing around.

  I walked on through the alley and over to Clark Street. The sky was turning light with dawn.

  At the Wacker, I asked the desk clerk if a key had been left for me. It hadn’t been, so I knew Uncle Am was back.

  Bassett was there with him. They’d swung out the writing table so one of them could sit on each side of it and they were playing cards. There was a bottle on the table between them. Bassett’s eyes looked glassy.

  Uncle Am asked, “Feel better with the tummy full, kid?”

  I knew he was tipping me off what he’d told Bassett about where I was, so I knew the phone number was still a s
ecret.

  I said, “I ate three breakfasts. I’m set for all day now.”

  “Gin rummy,” Uncle Am said. “Penny a point, so be quiet.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and watched the game. Uncle Am was winning; he had a lead of thirty points and two boxes. I looked at the paper they were scoring on and saw it was their third game; Uncle Am had taken the first two.

  But Bassett won that hand. He took a long pull out of the bottle and turned around to face me while Uncle Am dealt the next hand. His eyes were owlishly wide. He said, “Ed, that sister of yours — somebody oughta —”

  “Pick up your hand, Frank,” my uncle said. “Let’s get the game over with. I’ll bring Ed up to date later.”

  Bassett picked up his cards. He dropped one of them and I got it for him. He finally got his hand arranged and took another pull at the bottle. It was a quart, and it was almost empty.

  Bassett won that hand, too, but Uncle Am went gin on the next one and that put him over a hundred, and out.

  Bassett said, “That’s enough. Add ’em up. Jeez, I’m tired.” He reached for his wallet.

  Uncle Am said, “Skip it. It’s about ten bucks for the three games; add ’em onto the expense account. Look, Frank, I’m going to get something to eat now. Whyn’t you rest awhile? Ed might as well go home. When I get back, if you’ve gone to sleep, I’ll wake you up.”

  Bassett’s eyes were plenty glassy now, and half shut. All of a sudden the whiskey was hitting him, and he was very drunk. He sat on the edge of the bed, swaying.

  My uncle put the table back where it belonged. He looked at Bassett and grinned, and then gave him a slight push on his left shoulder. Bassett fell back and sideways and his head landed on the pillow.

  Uncle Am picked up his feet and put them on the bed, too. He untied Bassett’s shoes and took them off. He took off Bassett’s shell-rimmed glasses and his hat and put them on the dresser. He loosened the detective’s tie and opened the button at the collar of his shirt.

  Bassett opened his eyes then. He said, “You son of a bitch.”

  “Sure,” said my uncle, soothingly. “Sure, Frank.”

  We turned off the light and went out.

  Going down in the elevator, I told him about Bunny and the phone number and that we could get the listing any time after noon.

  He nodded. He said, “Bassett knows we’re holding out something on him. He’s a smart boy. I wouldn’t put it past him to go see Kaufman himself and turn on a little heat.”

  I said, “You had Kaufman plenty scared. It’ll take a bit of heat to crack him again. I think he’s more scared of us now than he was of this Harry Reynolds.” I thought a minute, then asked, “Say, what would we have done if that alarm clock had gone off before he broke?”

  Uncle Am shrugged. “Looked pretty silly, I guess. How’s about some breakfast — for real?”

  “I could eat a cow,” I told him.

  We went to Thompson’s at Clark and Chicago, and while we got outside ham and eggs, he told me what he’d learned from Bassett.

  Gardie had admitted giving the billfold to the Reinhart boy. Her explanation had been just about what Uncle Am had suggested. Pop had an extra wallet — an old one. I’d known that. What I’d not known, and Gardie had known was that recently, whenever he’d gone out drinking, he’d left his good wallet and part of his money at home. He’d dropped it back of a row of books in the bookcase, and had taken only part of his money, in the old wallet.

  I said, “I guess that would date from the time he got held up before. He lost his social security card and union card and everything and a good billfold. I guess he figured if he got held up again, or his pocket picked, he wouldn’t lose anything but the money. It’s plenty easy, I guess, to get rolled on Clark Street.”

  “Yeah,” said Uncle Am. “Anyway, Gardie’d seen him hide the wallet once, and knew about it. So she looked, and it was there in the bookcase, with twenty bucks left in it. She figured it wouldn’t hurt anybody if she kept it.”

  I said, “Finders keepers, sure. I don’t mind that, that’s what I figure she’d do, but why did she have to give the billfold away — and make me make a damn fool of myself? Oh, well, skip it. It was an off chance that I happened to see the billfold Reinhart was carrying. Did Bassett believe her?”

  “After he’d looked in the bookcase. There was dust back of the books, and marks in the dust where the billfold had been, just where she’d said.”

  “And — about Mom?”

  “I guess he pretty well convinced himself she didn’t do it, kid. Even before I got hold of him and told him about the Reynolds angle. Also they searched the flat pretty thoroughly. They didn’t find any insurance policy, or anything else of interest.”

  “What did Bassett know about Reynolds, if anything?”

  “He knew of him. There is such a guy, and everything Kaufman told us about him fits with what Bassett knows. Bassett thinks there’s a pick-up order out for the three of them — Harry Reynolds, Dutch, and the torpedo. Bassett’ll look into it and get their names and histories. He thinks the three of ’em are wanted for bank robbery in Wisconsin. A recent one. Anyway, he’s more interested now in that angle of the case than in heckling Madge.”

  “Did you get Bassett drunk on purpose tonight?”

  “A man’s like a horse, Ed. You can lead him to whiskey but you can’t make him drink. You didn’t see me pouring any whiskey down him, did you?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I didn’t see you grabbing it away, either.”

  “You got a nasty suspicious mind,” he said. “But just the same, we got the morning free. He’ll sleep till noon, and we’ll be ahead of him with the insurance company.”

  “Why do you care about that — now that we got a lead on Reynolds?”

  “Kid, we don’t know why this Reynolds was interested in your dad. I got a hunch if we find out the inside story of why Wally carried that much insurance — and kept it secret that he was carrying it — we might get an idea. I’d just as soon have some idea what it’s all about before we go up against Reynolds. Also we can’t make a move till we get the listing on that phone mumber, so what have we got to lose but sleep?”

  “The hell with sleep,” I said.

  “Okay. You’re young; you’ll live through it. I ought to have more sense, but I guess I haven’t. Shall we get some more coffee?”

  I looked at Thompson’s clock. I said, “We got over an hour. before the offices open downtown. I’ll go get the coffee, and then you can tell me more about what you and Pop did when you were together.”

  The hour went pretty quick.

  | Go to Contents |

  Chapter 10

  The central mutual turned out to be a moderate-sized branch office of a company whose headquarters were in St. Louis. It was a break for us; the smaller the office the more likely they were to remember Pop.

  We asked for the manager and were taken into his office. Uncle Am did the talking and explained who we were.

  The manager said, “No, I don’t recall him offhand, but I’ll have our records checked. You say the policy hasn’t turned up yet. That won’t matter, if it’s on our records, and paid up.” He smiled slightly, deprecatingly. “We’re not a racket, you know. The policy is merely our client’s record of a contract that exists and will be kept, whether or not his copy is lost or destroyed.”

  Uncle Am said, “I understand that. What we’re interested in is whether you recall any circumstances about the policy — for instance, just why its existence was kept a secret from his family. He must have given a reason, some reason, to the agent who sold him the policy.”

  The manager said, “Just a minute.” He went out into the general office and came back a few minutes later. He s
aid, “The head clerk is looking up the file. He’ll bring it in personally, and maybe he’ll be able to recall the insured.”

  My uncle asked, “How unusual is it for a man to keep a policy secret that way?”

  “It’s not unique. It is highly unusual. The only other case I can recall offhand is that of a man who had a touch of persecution complex. He was afraid his relatives might do away with him if they knew he was insured. Yet, paradoxically, he loved them and wished to provide for them in case of his death. Uh — I didn’t mean to imply that in this case —”

  “Of course not,” Uncle Am said.

  A tall gray-haired man came into the office with a file folder in his hand. He said, “Here’s the Wallace Hunter file, Mr. Bradbury. Yes, I recall him. Always came into the office to make his payments. There’s a notation clipped to the file that no notices were to be sent out.”

  The manager took the file folder. He asked, “Ever talk to him, Henry? Ever ask him why the notices were not to be mailed, for instance?”

  The tall man shook his head. “No, Mr. Bradbury.”

  “All right, Henry.”

  The tall man went out.

  The manager was leafing through the file. He said, “Yes, it’s paid up. There are two small loans against it — made to meet premium payments. They’ll be deducted from the face of the policy, but they won’t amount to much.” He turned another couple of pages. He said, “Oh, the policy wasn’t sold from this office. It was transferred here from Gary, Indiana.”

  “Would they have any records on it there?”

  “No, aside from a duplicate of this file at the main office in St. Louis, there are no other records. This file was transferred here from Gary at the time Mr. Hunter moved to Chicago. I see by the dates that was just a few weeks after the policy was taken out.”

  Uncle Am asked, “Would the policy itself show any details not given in that file?”