Inspector Queen’s Own Case

She was still in curlers and an old wrapper Sunday morning when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to the width of the latch chain, wondering who it could be.

“Richard!”

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he grinned. “I’ve got the Sunday papers, frozen juice, fresh rolls, eggs — got any ham? I forgot the ham. Jessie? Where are you?”

“You mustn’t do things like this,” Jessie moaned, flat against the door. “Don’t you know how a woman looks first thing in the morning? I’ll undo the chain, but don’t you dare walk in till you finish counting ten!”

“All right,” he said, stricken.

When she came out of the tiny bedroom, he was sitting on the edge of a chair with the paper sack in his lap.

“Richard Queen, I could strangle you. Is anything more hideous than a woman in curlers? Don’t just sit there. Let me have that bag.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked so deflated that Jessie laughed. “Anyway, I thought you looked fine. It’s a long time since I saw a woman in curlers.”

“Yes, I suppose it is at that,” Jessie said. She took the bag to the kitchen alcove and got busy.

“Did I say something wrong, Jessie?” he asked anxiously.

“Heavens, no. Make yourself useful. I don’t have any ham, but you’ll find a couple of minute steaks in the fridge and a box of French frieds in the freezer drawer. How does that sound?”

“Oh, boy!”

It was not until she was pouring his second cup of coffee that Jessie asked, “Well, what happened yesterday?”

“Nothing much,” he said in a careless tone. “The first men there were a patrolman and sergeant, radio patrol car, 17th Precinct — I know both of them pretty well. Then a couple of detectives from the 17th I know very well, and after that a lot of old buddies of mine — Deputy Chief Inspector Tom Mackey in charge of Manhattan East, Chief of Detectives Brynie Phelan, the Homicide boys — it was like Old Home Week.”

“And when they asked their old buddy how he happened to stumble over a corpse,” Jessie said, “what did their old buddy say?”

He set his cup down, smiling. “You know, Jessie, the longer I know you the more I wonder why you’re wasting your time in a nurse’s uniform.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He shrugged. “All right, I lied. The going was rugged for a while. I think I pulled it off, though.” He sounded grimly ashamed. “I suppose an honourable lifetime in and out of uniform counts for something, especially when the men you’re lying to are friends of yours.”

“What was your story, Richard?” Jessie asked quietly. “I have to know, Richard, in case they get to me. So I can back you up.”

He glanced at her with admiration. Then he stared at the floor. “I said I’d been going crazy doing nothing, began thinking about some rats I’d known in harness whom we’d never been able to collar, and remembered Finner and his vicious racket. I said I thought it would be nice to get something on him — he doesn’t even have a yellow sheet down at the B.C.I., no record at all. So I dropped in on Finner Thursday, I said, and let him think I was still on active duty and that we’d come up with something on him at last... on the theory that if you rattle a rat, he’ll panic. I said Finner hinted at a payoff to keep the boys off his back, and I said I pretended to play along and made a date to visit his office again Saturday afternoon, and I said when I got there I found him dead. That’s what I said, Jessie, and may the Lord have mercy on my soul.”

“That wasn’t really a lie, Richard,” Jessie said quickly. “It’s not so far from the truth.”

“Only about a million miles,” he snarled. “It’s the worst kind of lie there is. It doesn’t tell them a single thing I know that could help them. Jessie, I think I’ll have another cup of coffee.”

She emptied the pot into his cup in silence.

“So they’re off to the races,” he said, swishing the coffee around. “They figure the killer’s somebody who wanted to get at Finner’s files for blackmail purposes but was maybe scared off. They don’t discount the possibility that the answer may lie in one of the night spots Finner patronized. So they’re checking all the babes he’s fooled around with, some of them linked with some pretty tough characters. They’ve got every angle covered except the right one.” He nudged the Sunday papers, which were lying on the floor, with his toe. “Read all about it.”

“Don’t feel so bad, Richard.” Jessie leaned across the table to put her hand on his.

He gripped it and held on.

After a moment, pink-cheeked, she withdrew it and began to collect the dishes.

“What do we do now?”

He got up and began to help her. “Well, the problem is still to find out who the baby’s parents are.”

“I don’t see how we possibly can, now.”

“There’s a way.”

“There is?” Jessie stared. “How?”

“Isn’t every child born in a hospital hand-printed for identification purposes?”

“Or footprinted.” Jessie nodded. “Most hospitals take footprints these days.”

“Knowing Finner’s methods, it’s likely he had the mother give birth in a hospital. What we’ve got to do is get hold of Michael’s prints. It means an exhumation, of course—”