"I just checked up on the witness," said the sergeant. "No record. His
identification checks out O.K. Thomas H. Wilson, an executive at the
City-Chemical Bank; lives on Central Park West. The lab says that the
driver of the car wore gloves."
"Thank Wilson for his information, let him go, and tell him we'll call
him if we need him. Lay it on thick about what a good citizen he is.
Make him happy."
"Right."
I switched off and started to say something to my guest, but the
intercom lit up again. "Yeah?"
"Got a call-in from Officer McCaffery, the beat man on Broadway
between 108th and 112th. He's got a lead on the guy you're looking
for."
"Tell him we'll be right over. Where is he?"
The sergeant told me, and I cut off.
I took out my gun and spun the cylinder, checking it from force of
habit more than anything else, since I always check and clean it once
a day, anyhow. I slid it back into its holster and turned to the Duke,
who was already on his feet.
"Did the Commissioner give you a Special Badge?" I asked him.
"Yes, he did." He pulled it out of his inside pocket and showed it to
me.
"Good. I'll have the sergeant fill out a temporary pistol permit,
and--"
"I don't have a pistol, Inspector," he said. "I--"
"That's all right; we'll issue you one. We can--"
He shook his head. "Thanks, I'd rather not. I've never used a pistol
except when I've gone out after a criminal who is known to be armed
and dangerous. I don't think Lawrence Nestor is very dangerous to
adult males, and I doubt that he's armed." He hefted the walking stick
he'd been carrying. "This will do nicely, thank you."
The way he said it was totally inoffensive, but it made me feel as
though I were about to go out rabbit hunting with an elephant gun.
"Force of habit," I said. "In New York, a cop would feel naked without
a gun. But I assure you that I have no intention of shooting Mr.
Nestor unless he takes a shot at me first."
Just as we were leaving, Dr. Brownlee met us in the outer room.
[Illustration] "All right if I let Manny the Moog go, Roy?"
[Illustration]
"Sure, Doc; if you say so." I didn't have any time for introductions
just then; Chief Inspector the Duke of Acrington and I kept going.
* * * * *
Eight minutes later, I pulled up to the post where Officer McCaffery
was waiting. Since I'd already talked to him over the radio, all he
did was stroll off as soon as we pulled up. I didn't want everyone in
the neighborhood to know that there was something afoot. His Grace and
I climbed out of the car and walked up toward a place called
Flanagan's Bar.
It was a small place, the neighborhood type, with an old-fashioned air
about it. Two or three of the men looked up as we came in, and then
went back to the more important business of drinking. We went back to
the far end of the bar, and the bartender came over, a short, heavy
man, with the build of a heavyweight boxer and hands half again as big
as mine. He had dark hair, a square face, a dimpled chin, and
calculating blue eyes.
"What'll it be?" he said in a friendly voice.
"Couple of beers," I told him.
I waited until he came back before I identified myself. Officer
McCaffery had told me that the bartender was trustworthy, but I wanted
to make sure I had the right man.
"You Lee Darcey?" I asked when he brought back the beers.
"That's right."