The Alley (18 page)

"You know whereof you speaketh," said the judge. "You will have to go to jail, you knoweth."

"We knoweth whereofeth," said Greggie. He tugged at his signet ring finger to get the ring off. (Wasn't it lucky that Greggie had a ring on? It was a signet ring and it had two capital G's entwining each other on its face, standing for Gregory Goode. He was the only boy in the Alley who owned a ring and it was lucky, though accidental, that he had been selected to play the part of Rattray.) However, hard as he tugged, he could not get the ring off. His mother had said that he would have to go to a blacksmith—if there were any blacksmiths any more—and have it sawed off. Greggie had thought that now, since he was on trial, the ring would come right off. But it didn't. It still stuck.

Then the other policeman, Officer Ippolito (Laura Fabadessa), spoke. She said, "Your Honor. Sergeant Rattray may have stolen the ring. But he lies when he says, '
We
did.
We
stole it!' I didn't know anything about a ring. I never saw the ring. I never knew there was a ring to steal. I was the one who opened the gift and—what was in it? Soap. I didn't want to smell like lavender and old lace. I didn't see anything worth taking. And I never saw a ring. And, Your Honor, I don't think my partner, Sergeant Rattray, when he stole the pencil, knew he had a ring, too. He thought he only had a pencil. That's my theory, though I am not a detective, just an ordinary cop. It was when Mrs. Ives clutched her heart and said, 'Oh, my ring, my diamond ring!' that he, Ratty, knew he had a hot potato in his pocket."

"That's right," whined Greggie Goode, no longer a proud and bully policeman. "I didn't know I had anything as expensive as a diamond ring. I would never have taken a real ring, Your Honor, only a fake one. I would have putten a real ring right back where I found it, Your Honor. I would only have taken the pencil for my little boy, Danny, for his birthday and putten the ring back. That's all, just for my little Danny boy."

Laura Fabadessa, Officer Ippolito, withered Greggie with her contemptuous stare. "I really didn't know either, Ratty," she said, "that you had a ring. 1 really didn't know it until the lady screamed, 'My ring, my ring!' Then I had the hunch, just like she did. 'Where was it? Where, where?' I asked. 'On the pencil case,' she uttered. Nearly swooning she was! Shows she really has the knack of seeing through pockets, tell your ma'm," she said in an aside to Connie.

When the laughter subsided, she went on. "And if it hadn't been for the lady spilling the beans that you did have the ring, you would never even have shown it to me—go fifty-fifty, right, Ratty? Right."

"What sayest thee to that, Sergeant Rattray?" asked the judge.

Greggie said, with a modest mien, "I always find the best things, Your Honor. Not to say that Ippolito, Ippy, is stupid, just not so fast at nosing things out as me. In one house that had been broke into right in this neighborhood, too—it was me spotted the new electric razor in the bathroom, passed over by the original burglars, too. But I found it, and I never did say anything to Ippy, no nothing. 'To the victor go the sperls,' I says." Greggie laughed at himself so hard that his skinny little body shook all over.

Laura Fabadessa—Officer Ippolito—gasped at the treachery being unmasked before her.

"Some buddy!" she sneered.

"Strip them of their rank!" ordered the judge. "Let them go to jail like any crooked criminal, they and their sob stories... 'didn't mean to do it ... just thinking of my kiddies!' Defenders of the law! Ha-ha. Some defenders!"

"Defenders of the law! Ha!" echoed Connie, appalled at such wickedness. "He, Ratty, should have given the ring back to Mama, if all he wanted was a pencil for his little Danny boy. But he didn't. He kept it. My!" she said. "You expect real burglars to be wicked—but,
policemen!
"

Billy Maloon put in, "Your Honor, let me remind you that you can't sentence the crooks until the jury says 'Guilty' or 'Not guilty.'"

"You are
right!
" said the judge with a resounding wham of the gavel. "Foreman—head juryman! Step forward!"

Jonathan Stuart stepped forward. He was growing impatient with the whole trial. "Yes, Your Honor?" he said crisply—the way he spoke when he wanted someone to hurry up and make the next move in checkers or chess. "Oh, hurry up!" Trust Jonathan not to get pirate language, medieval language, or any other language mixed up with what he knew was the right language for this occasion, present-day
good
Brooklyn talk—not 'sperl' for 'spoil,' not 'woid' for 'word'—just plain talk.

"See?" said Connie to herself, "what I mean about Jonathan—he is right ... he is always right ... alas."

"Foreman," said Katy, "and other gentlemen of the jury ... and ladies too. I charge you with determining the guilt or the non-guilt of, first, these five burglars, and second, these two policemen, who possibly are common burglars also, but who, worse, masquerade as protectors of the law—come in like scavengers after the real burglars have taken the initial risk of breaking into a house (thus making the job of the policemen easy and enabling them—often—to make off with the best of what's to be had). Weigh the case solemnly," the judge charged the jury, "for justice must be meted and the letter of the law obeyed by hooks or by—
crooks!
" Katy gave a lavish sweep to her grand robe.

Everyone laughed at the pun.

The jury then went into a huddle, which lasted thirty seconds. Jonathan Stuart, the foreman of the jury, jotted down notes in a blue notebook—he always had a pencil—sharp—and a notebook—clean—with him. He stood up, polished his glasses, and then he read the verdict. A hush fell over the whole courtroom in the Circle, even over the little ones crouching at the edge.

"Your Honor," he said. "The verdict is unanimous, and it is...
guilty!
The seven, all seven—the five burglars and the two policemen—all, all are guilty! 'Let the punishment fit the crime,'" he said with a squeak and a jump. It was his favorite Gilbert and Sullivan expression. Too bad he didn't have Professor Starr's robe on—he would have looked more comical, Connie thought.

"You have heard the verdict of the jury," said Judge Starr solemnly. "I now impose the sentence. For the first five real burglars—
ten years at hard labor.
For the two despicable policemen—
a stripping of their rank
and
fifteen years at hard labor.
"

"Think of our kiddies, of dear Danny boy," said Greggie Goode, the first policeman, throwing himself at the feet of the judge and pretending to be about to swoon.

"You should have thought of dear little Danny boy before you stooped to such a hyena-like crime. Like a vulture, coming in after the kill. Thus didst thou steal, after the house had been broken into. Ah—low, low. How doth the mighty fall, when stoopeth they to vulture-like crime. Now the sentence be imposeth. Now to celleths shall ye goeth. Now ye rippeth what thou sewest..."

("Euripedes, Eumendadees," said Billy. It was his favorite saying at this time.)

"Oyez, oyez, oyez," said the judge. "Court is adjourned."

The seven burglars, the five real ones and the two policemen ones, were run off to jail in Hugsy Goode's yard. "Into the pit with you," said Jonathan. It was a tight fit, but the seven fitted. Lucky that at least the only other inmate, Anthony Bigelow, had made a break; he must have had to go to the barber, or else where was he—not spoiling things any more?

"It's like playing 'sardines,'" said Laura with a breathless giggle as Arnold practically sat on her.

However, they could not stay in jail for long because everybody's parents suddenly, as though they had been given a signal that the trial was over, came to their back stoops and whistled or called for their children to come home for dinner. Usually, everybody had dinner at a different time. "Why don't parents all have dinner at the same time?" Connie frequently wondered. Having dinner early, before the others, was horrible for the early eaters, because the sound of fun outside kept them from eating anything, or else they bolted their food and got hiccups. On the other hand, having dinner late, when everyone else had finished and was back outside, was just as bad or worse. "Haven't you eaten
yet?
" they'd ask at the back door in disgust. "What custooms!" said Hugsy. Anyway, today, all dinners worked out just right.

Before he went in, Billy said to Connie, "Connie, if we could locate your father's pencil, then we would definitely know who was the real burglar of the ring."

"But," said Connie, bewildered. "The policemen were proven guilty, the judge said so, and they're in jail right now, with time out for dinner."

"That was a
make-believe
trial," Billy reminded Connie. "We—you and I—must keep our eyes open for your father's pencil. After all, we spotted the guy who said, 'Does this dog bite?' Now we must try to spot the guy who has your father's pencil."

"That's right," said Connie rather sadly. She had hoped that the trial in the Circle had solved everything. But it hadn't; there was more to be done. They could not yet put the burglary out of their minds—the Alley could not yet be the just plain, beautiful, not being watched by bullet-head man Alley that it used to be.

"See you later," said Billy, and he walked slowly home.

At dinner Connie said, "Papa, did Mama tell you about the bullet-head man and the Muras and Bully Vardeer, and the man asking, 'Does this dog bite?'"

For a while, Papa did not answer. He was morose about the news in the paper. "Trouble," he said. "Trouble everywhere." Finally he said, "What, Connie? What was that?"

"Ts," said Connie desperately. "Can't you ever listen?" She repeated her questions.

"Oh, that," said Papa. "Yes. Yes, your mother did tell me."

"And did you go to the presink?" asked Connie.

"No," said Papa. "They'd just say, 'Child's play.' 'Kids' stuff.' They already think your mother's crazy, seeing through pockets. They'd think me crazy, too, with Muras, and children's trials in the Alley, and a man who asks an innocent question about dogs, a man who probably was miles from our house at the time it was broken into—an innocent lover of dogs, that's all."

"Innocent, hah!" said Connie, disgusted. Even the best adults, like Papa, could be so stupid! It was because he was old, almost fifty ... forty-eight and one-half, to be exact—that he was so stupid. If only she had a young father who would believe things! A young mother, too, for that matter, like Mrs. Starr, Katy's mother. Katy's mother walked up the Alley with a cup of coffee in her hand, like a movie star ... stomach thrust forward—beautiful she was—the most beautiful person in the Alley. "The whole family is the most beautiful in the Alley, the most wonderful," thought Connie. "Well ... that's life," she thought. "I have an old father and an old mother. In their forty-eights."

After dinner Billy appeared at the back door. "I have to go to my grandmother's now; I'm spending the night there. But don't worry. These burglars don't work at night, you notice, when everybody is home. They work in the daytime, and mainly during the lunch hour. I figured it out. At least around here they do. So, we'll get on the job tomorrow."

"What job?" asked Connie.

"Casing," said Billy.

"What are we going to case?" asked Connie.

"Case the casers," he answered with assurance. "You know they're after Joe Below's house now."

"What a boy Billy is!" thought Connie. "He doesn't give up and let bullet-head men make off with a whole Alley! A whole beautiful, formerly safe Alley!"

"So long!" said Billy.

"So long," said Connie. She went to the back door and watched him go. It had begun to rain. No one was out. Connie couldn't swing, so she sat down in her little red rocker, and while Mama was cutting up the kidneys for the cats, Connie asked her if she would like to be read to. "Yes," said Mama.

Papa had stretched out on the divan in the living room and was snoring slightly, the awful newspaper, with its awful news, billowing on his stomach as he breathed. Wags lay on the floor beside him. The two cats crouched together in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room; they did not take their eyes off Mama, and they kept twitching their noses in patient anticipation. The kitchen was quiet and peaceful. "Are you listening?" Connie asked Mama.

"Yes, Connie," Mama answered.

Outside the rain pattered gently against the windowpanes. Lights came on here and there in the Alley. The little train went briskly by. "Hello, Connie. Good-by, Connie," it said as usual. Connie sighed happily. "What a life," she thought. "What a life!" And happily she began to read.

Casing the casers did not prove to be as scary or as interesting as Connie thought it would be. The next afternoon she and Billy Maloon went down the Alley toward Bully Vardeer's house. None of the children of their age were out—only little ones. Probably Katy, Ray, all the others had gone to the movies. Today Connie and Billy didn't care; they had so much to do. They had to case casers.

Connie's heart began to hammer very fast; probably Billy's did, too, because, although brave, he was frightened a great deal of the time. They stood at Bully Vardeer's end of the Alley, and they looked to right and to left toward both gates. Thoughts of the bullet-head man yesterday made them cautious. His famous words, "Does this dog bite?" echoed in their ears, especially in Connie's, for this was the second time in her life that she had heard the same remark uttered by the selfsame man in the selfsame, identical, highpitched, brisk tone of voice. It was only the first time in his life for Billy.

They turned the corner at Bully's garden and slowly made their way toward the gate next to his house. On the way past Bully Vardeer's garden, they noticed that Bully was not sitting in it. He had fixed his yard up like a Japanese garden, on the order, though small, of the beautiful one in the Botanical Gardens. Sometimes he sat on his back stoop, sunning himself, dressed only in shorts. His eyes would be closed so that even his eyelids would get the benefit of the sun's rays. Princey would be asleep at his feet; but now neither was out.