Leopold's Way (29 page)

Riker uttered a single obscenity and his hand went for the service revolver on his belt. Leopold had expected it. He moved in fast and threw two quick punches, one to the stomach and one to the jaw. Riker went down and it was over.

Carol Fletcher heard what had happened and she came over to Leopold. “Thanks for recovering my lighter,” she said. “I hope you didn't suspect me.”

He shook his head, eyeing Fletcher. “Of course not. But I sure as hell wish your husband had told me it was yours.”

“I had to find out what it was doing there,” Fletcher mumbled. “God, it's not every day your wife's lighter, that you gave her two Christmases ago, turns up as a clue in a murder.”

Leopold handed it back to her. “Maybe this'll teach you to stop smoking.”

“You knew it was Riker anyway?”

“I was pretty sure. With sixty men drinking beer all around here, no murderer could take a chance of walking out of that Men's Room unseen. His best bet was to pretend finding the body, which is just what he did. Besides that, of the four detectives on the scene early, Riker's Vice Squad position was the most logical for Freese's bribery.”

“Was there a tape recording?” Fletcher asked.

Leopold was staring at the Christmas tree. “I think Gibson was telling the truth on that one. Except that
he
never called it a tape. I did that. I jumped to a conclusion. He simply told me it was an old machine, purchased after the war. In those early days tape recorders weren't the only kind. For a while wire recorders were almost as popular.”

“Wire!”

Leopold nodded and started toward the Christmas tree. “We know that Gibson helped you put up the tree, Carol. I'm betting that one of those wires holding it in place is none other than the recorded conversation of Carl Freese, Tommy Gibson, and Sergeant Riker.”

(1970)

I
T DIDN'T START OUT
as a murder case, and Captain Leopold wouldn't have been so deeply involved in it if he hadn't offered Fletcher a ride home that night. They'd been working late at headquarters on a barroom knifing, and when the case was finally wrapped up Fletcher remembered that his car was at the garage for repairs.

“I'll drop you off,” Leopold said. “It's not out of my way.” He knew Fletcher's wife was always nervous when he worked late, and he did what he could to ease the situation. Since his promotion to lieutenant, Fletcher was working more nights, and Leopold sensed that all was not well at home.

“Thanks, Captain,” Fletcher said, climbing into the car. “I appreciate it. But it sure as hell is out of your way!”

The rain that had pelted the city all through the chill March afternoon had settled now into a misty drizzle that hardly showed in the car's headlights. They had gone only a few blocks when a sudden harsh message came over the police radio.

“All cars! Attention all cars in vicinity of Park and Chestnut! Investigate house alarm at 332 Park!”

“We'd better have a look,” Fletcher suggested. “It's only a block away.”

Leopold grunted agreement, already wheeling the car down a side street. “How many homes in this area have burglar alarms, anyway?” he wondered aloud. Though close to downtown, it was an area of middle-class houses and well-kept yards, with a reasonably low crime rate.

“That's the house.” Fletcher pointed, and Leopold slammed on the brakes. “Look! Around the side!”

Two figures had broken from the shadows and were running toward the back yard. Leopold was out of the car after them, shouting, “Stop! We're police officers!” They kept running, lost in the darkness between houses, and he started after them. He brought his gun out, but he wouldn't use it unless he had to. For all he knew, they were only a couple of punk kids.

“Careful, Captain,” Fletcher cautioned, coming up behind him. The yard was muddy from the rain, and slippery.

Leopold couldn't see the two who had run, but he sensed they were hiding nearby. “Got a flashlight, Fletcher?”

At his words, a girl's voice shouted, “Run, Jimmy!” A dark figure broke from cover not five feet ahead of Leopold and sprinted toward the voice.

Leopold made a long grab and ripped at the man's coat pocket, but he was off balance and falling. He tried to right himself, but his feet slipped in the mud and he went down hard, throwing out his left arm in an effort to catch himself.

Fletcher had come up fast, shining his light. “You all right, Captain?” he asked, reaching out a hand.

“Never mind me. Get after them!”

Leopold knew he wasn't all right. His left wrist had taken the full weight of his fall, and although the pain was not great, he couldn't move it. He sat in the mud for a moment feeling sorry for himself, then got carefully to his feet.

After a few minutes Fletcher returned. “A patrol car caught the man on the next street, but the girl got away. How are you?”

“I think I broke my wrist.”

“Damn! I'll have to get you to a hospital.”

“All right,” Leopold agreed. He didn't feel much like arguing.

Fletcher snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute! There's a good bone man right in the next block. I took one of the kids there. Come on.”

“It's a little late for doctor's hours,” Leopold protested. He knew it must be nearly eleven.

“Never mind that.” Fletcher got him into the car and drove to the next block, searching for the doctor's sign. Finally he stopped before an older house with a remodeled front. “This is it.”

“Not too plush for a doctor's place,” Leopold commented.

“He's paying alimony to two ex-wives. Come on.”

The sign by the door read:
Arnold Ranger, MD., Orthopedic Surgeon.
Dr. Ranger proved to be a youngish man with a ready smile and quick wit. “Always glad to help the police,” he said when they'd identified themselves. “We'll have to X-ray that arm, but judging by the angle of the wrist, I'd call it a fracture.”

Leopold followed him into the X-ray room. “It's been a bad arm for me. Last year a bullet nicked it.”

The doctor washed the dried mud away and carefully laid the injured wrist on the X-ray table. “Were you chasing a murderer?”

“Only a burglar. Down in the next block.”

“That must have been at Bailey's. He's had other robberies.” After a few moments he returned with the X-rays. “It's a fracture, all right. Both bones—the distal end of the radius and the ulna. It's quite a common thing, really, but you'll need a cast for perhaps four to six weeks, and full recovery will take two or three months.”

“That long?”

Dr. Ranger nodded and motioned Leopold onto a narrow padded table. “I'm going to give you a shot now. It won't completely knock you out, but it'll relax you while I set the bones. Perhaps your friend could come in and hold the wrist in place while I apply the cast.”

Fletcher came in then and stood by as the doctor worked. Leopold was aware that the entire operation seemed to be happening with remarkable speed. Almost before he knew it, the doctor was helping him off the table and back to the X-ray room for a final look. “All right,” he said finally. “I'll fix you up here with a sling, and you come back and see me in four weeks. Keep the arm elevated for a day or two, in case there's any swelling.”

The plaster cast was strange and heavy on Leopold's left arm. It reached from just below his elbow to his knuckles, with a slight crook at the wrist. Though it probably weighed only a few pounds, it felt much heavier. “Thanks, Doctor,” he grumbled.

“Oh, one thing,” Dr. Ranger said. “Could I have your health insurance number, for my secretary? She's always after me for treating people in the middle of the night and forgetting the paper work.”

Dr. Ranger saw them to the door, and Fletcher tried to help Leopold down the steps. “Careful here, Captain.”

“Damn it, Fletcher, I'm not a cripple.”

“Well, cripple or not, I'm not leaving you alone in that apartment tonight. You come home and stay in our spare room.”

Leopold started to protest, but Fletcher was firm. “Just tonight. Tomorrow you can go back to your place.”

“All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “And in the morning I want to see the guy they arrested. I want to know what he was stealing that cost me a broken arm.”

The morning was something of an ordeal for Leopold. The combination of a strange bed and the cast on his arm had made sleeping impossible, and he arrived at headquarters tired and not a little grouchy. After explaining what had happened, to the first dozen people he encountered, he retreated to his office and shut the door.

It was an hour later before Fletcher ventured inside with the morning coffee. “How's it feel?” he asked.

“The wrist's not bad, but this damned cast is getting me down already. A month of it and I'll really be ready for a rest home somewhere.” He'd investigated the cast already, tapping its hard outer shell, and fingering the thin layer of cotton that seemed to line it.

Fletcher sipped his coffee. “Want to hear about the guy you were chasing?”

“I suppose so. Who was he?”

“Fellow named Jimmy Duke. Three previous burglary convictions, all in New Jersey. Nothing too startling otherwise. He's thirty years old, and he's spent seven of them behind bars.”

“What about the victim, Bailey? That Dr. Ranger last night said there'd been a number of robberies there.”

Fletcher nodded. “Bailey is a stamp collector, of all things! He works out of his home, and does quite a business in selling stamps to other collectors, which explains the burglar alarm.”

“Did this Duke get much from him?”

“Quite a lot. All the most valuable items, unfortunately. But you saved some of them.”

“I did? How?”

“When you grabbed the man and ripped his pocket. That's where he was carrying some of the loot. The boys were checking the yard with their flashlights and they found stamps all over in the mud. Luckily they're protected in individual little glassine envelopes, so none of them were damaged. We figure the girl must have gotten away with the missing stuff.”

Leopold sighed and tried working the fingers of his bad arm. “I guess I should leave this chasing burglars to younger men and stick to murder cases.”

Fletcher opened an evidence envelope and showed him a collection of multicolored stamps. “These are the ones you rescued. Quite a collection.”

Leopold, who knew very little about stamp collecting, studied them with a mixture of interest and scorn. “You mean these things are worth money?”

“I guess collectors think they're a good hedge against inflation, just like art.” He pointed to one reddish-brown stamp. “They tell me this U.S. five-cent one is worth $55. And here's an airmail stamp worth around $500.”

“There's enough of a market for stolen stamps?”

“Apparently, among dealers and collectors. Unfortunately, one of the most valuable stamps in Bailey's collection is still missing.” Fletcher consulted the notes attached to the evidence envelope. “It's a rare Hawaiian Islands stamp, two cents, issued in 1851.”

“What's it worth? A thousand?”

“Bailey bought it 30 years ago for $20,000. It could be worth twice that today.”

Leopold whistled softly and gazed at the stamps with new respect. “No wonder he needed a burglar alarm. A bank vault would have been an even better idea.”

“Collectors don't like bank vaults, Captain. They like to take out their collections at odd times and look them over.”

“What's this stamp here?” Leopold asked, pointing to a large brown one that had been partially hidden by the others. It seemed poorly printed, and showed a crude drawing of a winged demon flying over a row of houses. Across the top were the words:
Jersey Devil—Ten Cents.

Fletcher bent over to study it and shrugged his shoulders. “I can't imagine. Never saw anything like it before. It certainly can't be very valuable, unless it's something left over from Colonial times.”

“No, those houses are modern. It's no Colonial stamp.”

“Well, anyway, we got them back for Bailey. He's coming down this morning to look them over.”

When Fletcher had gone, Leopold tried to busy himself with the morning reports and a batch of paper work left from the previous day, but he was not yet used to the heavy plaster cast and its intrusive presence was both annoying and frustrating. Finally he gave up the attempt and went out to the squad room to alleviate his uneasiness.

As soon as Fletcher saw him he motioned him over to the desk where he stood with a tall, elderly gentleman. “Captain Leopold, this is Oscar Bailey. He's the man who broke his arm saving part of your collection, Mr. Bailey.”

They shook hands and the elderly collector said, “I thank you for your efforts, Captain. I only wish you'd rescued the two-cent Hawaiian.”

“Any lead on the girl yet?” Leopold asked Fletcher.

“None, but Duke will probably break down soon and tell us who she is. We'll get your stamp back for you, Mr. Bailey.”

“I certainly hope so. The insurance wouldn't begin to cover its current market value.” He waved the evidence envelope full of his stamps. “And now I understand I won't be allowed to take these until after this man Duke has been tried.”

“I'm afraid that's correct,” Leopold said. “They're evidence that a theft was committed. We'll guard them carefully, however.”

“I hope so!”

“While you're here, I wanted to ask you about this item in your collection, this
Jersey Devil.”
Leopold pointed to the poorly-printed stamp. “What is it?”

“Nothing. A joke. It has no value.” Oscar Bailey was suddenly ill at ease, his eyes shifting.

“Is it from New Jersey? This Jimmy Duke has a criminal record in New Jersey.”