The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues (11 page)

“That leaves him out,” Dickory continued. “Angus Stumpf couldn’t have been riding up in the elevator and stealing the bracelet at the same time. But he was standing next to the mail slot—maybe he’s an accomplice.”

“I doubt that, Sergeant. It would be too dangerous a caper for more than one person. No, I’m quite certain my clever thief did it alone. Next?”

“HORTENSE FREEMARTIN, bookkeeper at the S & S Sausage Company.

Reason for being on premises: to look at the Empress Fatima bracelet.

Location at time of robbery: looking at the Empress Fatima bracelet.

Testimony: I was looking at the Empress Fatima bracelet. I glanced up when the President of the United States came in. Then the alarm went off, right next to me. I nearly had a heart attack I was so scared. The next thing I saw was a midget run by. I’m sure I saw him, red hair, harelip, and all.

Attitude of witness: Nervous.

“The President of the United States?” Dickory reached for the haystack of rejected photographs.

“Obviously a diversionary tactic by my thief to draw attention away from the glass display case. Go on, Sergeant.”

“This is the young guy in the zippered jacket and no tie.

“JOACHIM NESSELRODE, delivery boy for the Quickee Coffee Shoppee.

Reason for being on premises: delivering six cofees—five regular, one black; and four Danishes—three cheese, one prune.

Location at time of robbery: can’t remember.

Testimony: First I see the President of the United States. Then I hear a loud alarm, like a fire, I think. Then I look for a midget with red hair and a hairy lip. Then I see him, then I don’t.

Attitude of witness: Cooperative. Possibly mentally deficient.

“What a perfect disguise,” Dickory added.

“Too perfect.” Noserag waved at her to continue.

“F. (Frederick) K. (Kurt) OPALMEYER, owner of Opalmeyer Jewelers.

Reason for being on premises: owns the place.

Location at time of robbery: checking on the Empress Fatima bracelet.

Testimony: I went to the display case to check on the bracelet. It was still there when someone shouted, “Good afternoon, Mr. President.” I looked up, since I’m the president of Opalmeyer Jewelers. Suddenly, I heard glass breaking and the alarm went off. I looked down at the case; the bracelet was gone. Gone, oh me, oh my! (blows nose, wipes eyes) . Excuse me. Then I thought I saw the thief dodging through the crowd. I ran after him, but he disappeared. Red hair. Harelip. A midget, he must have been a midget, else how could he steal the bracelet without being seen? The bracelet, the beautiful bracelet. It was my dumb brother-in-law’s idea to borrow it in the first place. Free publicity, he said. Some publicity, I could do without such publicity. A two-million-dollar bracelet, stolen in my own shop, under my very nose. Why did it have to happen to me. What have I done to deserve such a fate?

Attitude of witness: Depressed.

Note: brother-in-law in Europe on business.

“I still think the delivery boy did it,” Dickory said. “And I live in a tenement, so it’s not class snobbery.”

Inspector Noserag accepted the fact that a police sergeant could live in a tenement. He puffed and puffed and hmmmed and hmmmed. Suddenly he sprung from his chair. “I must call Quinn immediately.”

Dickory grabbed the deerstalker hat from his head just in time. “Hello, Chief? Garson here. I’ve got your man. I know who stole the Empress Fatima bracelet.”

“Who?”

“Hang on to your chair, Chief. It was F. K. Opalmeyer.”

“Really?”

“And he mailed the bracelet to himself, probably to his home address. If I were you, I’d get a search warrant before Opalmeyer skips town.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks, Garson. And if you’re right, I’m coming over to congratulate you and find out how you did it. Maybe I can learn something.”

“See you soon, then,” Garson replied confidently.

Quinn chuckled as he hung up the telephone. “He says it’s Opalmeyer,” he reported to his assistant. “A clever man, our Garson. I’ll be going over there in a hour; see that my little surprise is ready.”

Chief Quinn had solved The Case of the Full-Sized Midget two days ago. F. K. Opalmeyer was already behind bars.

3

Savoring his moment of triumph, Garson himself opened the front door. “Welcome, Chief Quinn. I assume you have apprehended the perpetrator.”

“One half hour after you called,” Quinn lied with a big smile. “Congratulations, Garson. Or is it Sherlock Holmes? And Doctor Watson, I presume.”

“Hello, Chief,” Dickory said, looking around to see if the hats had been left out. They were out of sight; the chief was joking.

Garson sat down in the wing chair with a drink, but Quinn refused to join him. Casually, he toured the studio. “Out of work, I see,” he remarked, glancing at the empty easels. “And what’s this?” He stopped before one of the naked manikins. “I could have you arrested for indecent exposure, Madam, or is it Sir?” The chief certainly was in good humor.

“I gather you not only captured the jewel thief, but recovered the bracelet as well,” Garson guessed.

“Thanks to you, we certainly did.” The chief walked into the kitchen area. “Don’t bother, Hickory, I can pour my own coffee. I’ve been here too often to be treated as a guest.” At last the chief sat down. “Now, tell me how you did it.”

“Professional secret,” Garson replied coolly. “But I can tell you how Opalmeyer did it. You see, there would not have been time to break the glass, then steal the bracelet
after
the alarm went off. Opalmeyer had a key. When someone—probably Opalmeyer himself—shouted about the President, he unlocked the case, took out the bracelet, and locked the case again. When he smashed the glass, the bracelet was already in the envelope in his pocket.”

“Well, what do you know,” said the chief.

“Very clever of Opalmeyer,” Garson continued. “If he had been caught taking the bracelet, he would have been innocent of any crime. He was, after all, president of the company. But no one saw him. In the pretense of running after a thief, Opalmeyer dashed into the hallway, dropped the envelope into the mail slot, then gave his loud description of the nonexistent midget.”

“What was the motive, Chief?” Dickory asked. “Greed?”

“No, he wasn’t going to sell it, he says,” Quinn replied. “Something came over him and he just had to have it. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he wanted to look at it for the rest of his life. Covetousness, I’d call it.”

“That’s a fifth horseman,” Dickory said.

“So it is. All right, change it to greed. Or maybe jealousy. Never in his life’s career had he been able to design a masterpiece like that bracelet. Tell me, Garson, you’re an artist, a creator. Is jealousy reason enough to make a man steal? Or kill?”

“Kill?” Garson was surprised by the question.

The phone rang. “That’s probably for me,” the chief said, rising.

Dickory answered. It was Cookie Panzpresser in tears. Her husband didn’t like the portrait at all. In fact, he hated it and wanted it out of the house this instant. Oh dear, what was she going to do?

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Panzpresser, but Garson isn’t here right now. I’ll give him the message; I’m sure he can work something out. And Mrs. Panzpresser, Cookie, thanks again for letting me see the art collection.” Dickory hung up the phone, stamped her foot, glanced at Garson, jumped and stamped again. She smiled sheepishly at his curious look.

“Could have sworn that phone call was for me,” Quinn said, strangely unaware of Dickory’s stomping. “The Zyzyskczuk case has got the whole department at wit’s end.”

“Maybe I can help,” Garson offered.

“Yes, maybe you can. The trouble is that the two Eldon F. Zyzyskczuks refuse to meet or even speak to each other,” Quinn explained, having resumed his chair. “And we still have no idea where to find number three.”

“That’s understandable,” Garson said. “Anyone who grew up with a name like Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, thinking himself unique, can’t admit that there could be another person with the same name. Except when it comes to a wrong bill.” Suddenly he jumped, crunched his heel on the floor in front of him, then leaned back in his chair as if nothing had happened.

Again the chief did not seem to notice. “Here’s what we have: Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the importer, is medium-sized everything: sandy hair, brown eyes, rimless glasses, a bachelor. He has a neat, slanted handwriting.”

“Right-handed?” Garson asked.

“All three are right-handed,” Quinn replied. “Now, Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the exporter, is a bit shorter, has dark hair and a moustache, blue eyes, a widower with one grown daughter who lives in California, and a nephew who helps in his business. He has a stiff up-and-down handwriting.”

Dickory stamped her foot in the kitchen area.

Quinn continued. “Six months ago, the third Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk appeared. There was such a mix-up about the first two, the third went unnoticed until he had bought and sold half the city of New York: real estate, cars, off-track betting schemes, stocks and bonds, you name it.”

“Forgery?” Garson asked, staring at the floor.

“That’s right. We think it was some sort of inside job; someone knew about the confusion caused by the two names and took advantage of it. That’s whose portrait I want you to paint, Garson, the third man, the impostor who forges the names of Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk. I’ll send along some of the descriptions, and the witnesses themselves, if you like. He’s about five-feet ten, heavy-set, wears sunglasses and gloves.”

“Whose signature does he forge, the importer’s or the exporter’s?”

“Both. Not perfectly, but good enough.”

“Nothing else unusual?” Garson ground his foot on the floor.

“Just one thing. He writes holding the pen between his third and fourth fingers. He may have an injured index finger.”

This time the telephone call was for the chief. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.” The chief scrambled down the stairs without a good-bye, without even a nursery rhyme.

Dickory stamped her foot again. “Cockroaches,” she said. “We’re overrun with cockroaches.”

“I know,” Garson replied with disgust. “I found a few myself. Remind me to call the exterminator tomorrow. What time is it?”

“Exactly five-thirteen.”

Garson leaped from his chair and bounded down the stairs.

“Wait, Garson, what should I tell Cookie Panzpresser?”

“Tell her to donate the portrait to the Museum of Modern Art,” he said, and slammed the front door.

Dickory remained on the top landing, trying to decide if Garson had been joking. If it was a joke, it was a bad one. Suddenly she realized that she was staring down into the ugly face of Manny Mallomar. She darted into the studio, closing the door behind her, and ran to the window to see if Garson, her protector, was still there.

Garson had just turned beyond the bend. The derelict staggered to his feet and stumbled after him. Dickory’s eyes followed the derelict down the street. The upstairs wardrobe contained a costume similar to his, lumberjack shirt and baggy pants, although not quite as disreputable. He looked and staggered and smelled like a real bum, unlike Garson’s unsuccessful imitation, but perhaps this man was just a better actor.

The derelict lurched out of sight. Now, in the middle of the street, stood a fat greasy ghost and his skinny black shadow. Shrimps Marinara was pointing her out to the pop-eyed Manny Mallomar. Dickory edged away from the window. When she again looked down, the two ugly tenants disappeared around the bend, and, tapping his cane, so did the blind man. The blind man with the straight teeth and no gold earring in either ear.

4

“The gold earring was in his right ear,” George said. He had found a Dock on Fourteenth Street in the telephone book and called Dickory to report having seen the tattooed sailor again. “And you know who he was having dinner with? Guess.”

“Who’s Guest?” The television set was blaring, but Dickory didn’t dare ask her brother to make another trip back and forth to lower the sound.

“I said guess, not guest. Anyhow, it was the cook.”

“Who?”

“The sailor was in the café with the cook—the fat man in the white suit, who I saw in the window where you work. I listened to what they said, too. I thought you might want to know about it, because you looked so scared when the sailor handed you the letter.”

“Listen, George, I can’t hear you very well. Why don’t you come over here and tell me about it?”

“I can’t. My uncle is out, and I have to stay here and answer his phone.” George did not explain how he could answer the telephone when he was talking on it. “How about going to the zoo with me tomorrow to sketch?”

After another “who” and “zoo,” it was agreed.

Dickory returned to her assignment wondering why George was so excited about having seen the tattooed sailor with Mallomar. The note had probably set the time and place for that meeting. The sailor did not want to be seen on Cobble Lane, what with Chief Quinn popping in and out.

In a very short time she had finished her design, a composition based on two complementary colors which, in the right proportions, would form gray. She painted a red swash between two fine black lines, then a blue-green swash between the next. The three hatched pen strokes were already on the canvas from The Case of the Face on the Five-Dollar Bill.

At the zoo, George again insisted that the sailor’s gold earring had been in his right earlobe. And the tattoo was on his left arm. “It said ‘Potato,’ ” George reported.