The Alley (9 page)

"You're right," said Mrs. Stuart, who was very crisp and decided. "They've been up there for ages—now that you speak of it."

"Let's go in," said Mama. "Connie, you wait out here with Wagsie."

But at this moment, another police car came screaming into the street, stopped with a screech, and two more policemen arrived. They, too, wanted to know what the trouble was. Mama said that her house had been burglarized, that there were already two policemen inside looking for possible left-in burglars, that they had been in there for a long time, and that she didn't understand why they had not come out yet. Would the two new policemen go down into the cellar and see if there were any burglars hiding down there; because the two first policemen had certainly never gone down there—they had not even finished casing the upstairs. Was that such a lengthy thing to do, she asked?

The two new policemen did not say a word. Looking melancholy, they went into the house and back to the kitchen, and could be heard, soon, clumping down the cellar steps. They didn't wave their pistols around and say, "We've got you covered, rat."

"They are probably disappointed they were not the first policemen here," thought Connie.

"Well, we might as well go in, too," said Mama. "Quite a party there now," she said. So she and Mrs. Stuart went into the burglarized house, being by this time completely nonplused about the two quiet first policemen. The whole house was quiet.

"Can you imagine"—Connie rehearsed what she would say to Billy—"going into your own house—it burglarized, and with two policemen in it, you know not where? And with two other policemen down in the cellar?"

However, the minute Mama and Mrs. Stuart stepped inside and started up the stairs, the two policemen, the
first
two, hearing them coming, started down the stairs. They were muttering to each other saying, "Ts, ts, it's terrible." And halfway down the stairs, they and Mama met. One policeman said, "Ah, lady. They sure ransacked your house." "Ransacked it," echoed the other. "They sure gave your house the works from top to bottom," one said. "Yes—everything is a mess—" said the other. "Bureau drawers—ts. They left no stone unturned."

Mama was surprised. She couldn't believe it. She really thought that the burglars, seeing her and Connie coming home, had been interrupted at the very beginning of their work. But, being so scared of burglars—as who isn't? It's not cowardly to be scared of burglars; it's common sense!—she had not wanted to go inside the house until she was absolutely certain they had left. For a moment, she stared unbelievingly at the two policemen. Then she gasped, "Oh! My ring! My diamond ring!"

Usually Mama wore her diamond ring. But she had been planning to have it made a little larger. It was getting tight for her finger—or rather, her finger was getting a little too large for her ring. She had asked Papa to put the ring in a safe place—'til she could get to town—and he had. At least, he
thought
he had put it in a safe place. He had put it on the clip of a pencil, in its brand-new little pencil case, that some of his staff had given him for Christmas. And this—the pencil with the ring on its clip and in its case—he had put in one of the little drawers of his wardrobe, the drawer he kept his socks in, and also some ancestral jewelry.

Imagine! Only last night, Mama had said to Papa, "Where have you put my diamond ring, John? I feel funny without it on and not even knowing where it is. I have lost two pounds, and maybe it will fit my finger again now, and I won't have to have it enlarged." Papa showed her the ring. He showed her her diamond ring where it was on the little pencil in his wardrobe in his dressing room. And she had said, "Pshaw! It doesn't fit yet. Two pounds is not enough..." and off they had gone, just last night, to the alumni ball—she without her ring on. But, anyway, at least she knew then where her diamond ring was supposed to be.

So now, rushing past the two policemen, saying, "Oh, my ring, my diamond ring!" she tore into Papa's dressing room.

"Diamond ring? Diamond ring? Where, where?" the two policemen said.

Afterwards, Mama said she could feel their hot breath on the back of her neck as they raced after her to Papa's dressing room. They were almost shoving into her as she pulled open the drawer, the small one on the upper right, and of course—it had been rifled! Pencil case, pencil, diamond ring, gone! There were other things gone, too, but of these Mama knew nothing at the time. She knew only that her diamond engagement ring that had come down through the ages, from generation to generation, was most certainly gone.

Mama turned and looked at the policemen. They looked at her. The silence was heavy and deep. "Well, lady," said one of the policemen finally (his name was Sergeant Rattray—they found out later), "We can't spend any more time here. ("As though I had been keeping him!" said Mama to Papa afterwards, in disgust.) We'll list what's missing and then be off. What exactly is missing, Missus?"

Mama said she didn't know yet. She went into her room, and she saw that her bureau drawers had indeed been rifled, but in a neat and orderly way, not at all in the swift, reckless way that burglars usually turn things topsy-turvy. On the bed was a little package that she had wrapped in blue tissue paper, a present for somebody, and it had been unwrapped and was still on the bed in its loosened wrapping. Either the burglar did not want what it was—lavender soap—or had been interrupted or had no room in his pocket. Ah, but in Connie's room, her pretty little pink jewelry box had been roughly broken open, and although most of her little bracelets and pins were strewn all over the floor in true burglar fashion, her seven silver dollars that Aunt Lovey sent her—one practically every Christmas—were gone!

Then everyone went downstairs, where Mama listed things as best she could. The tall policeman—Sergeant Rattray—put in a phone call for the detective; and then he said he thought they'd go. At this moment, up from the cellar came the two second policemen. The first two policemen were rather surprised to see the second two—they had not known they were there nor how long they had been there. Now, could the first two look the second two in the eye when Mama explained to them that her diamond ring was gone? And that she didn't see how that was possible? Mama didn't say it, but she gave the impression that she thought maybe the two first policemen might have her ring! Connie was ashamed of her mother—and hoped the policemen would not arrest Mama for thinking such a thing.

The second two policemen looked at the floor. The two sets of policemen did not look each other in the eye. At this moment, Papa, summoned from the luncheon under the big green-and-white-striped tent, came in the front door; so the two fidgety first policemen had to wait until they had spoken to Papa, though they did say again briskly and with a hike to their shoulders that the detective would soon be here and they had to go. "No reason to stay," they said.

Mama whispered something hurriedly in Papa's ear—Connie heard her; thank goodness she was allowed in her own house now and could see and hear everything. "You know, John," said Mama, "I think those two first policemen have my diamond ring in their pocket! I don't think the burglars got it. It's as though someone whispered in my ear, 'Those two policemen have your ring.' It's as though I could see through their pocket, see it there, see that they have my diamond ring in their pocket, in one of their pockets."

"Sh-sh-sh," said Papa. "They'll hear you."

The four policemen were standing near the door, talking, making notes, clearing their throats. One of the first, Sergeant Rattray, picked up a screwdriver from the floor near the front door. "Here," he said, "here is the tool the burglars used to break into your house."

Mama took the screwdriver gingerly. The handle was partly broken, but gold letters on it were still legible—"Stanley." Connie said, "Why, this tool has a name, 'Stanley.'"

Papa went upstairs to see what things of his, if any, had been taken. He groaned, "Oh, my three brand-new suits are gone! Ding bust it!" This proved that the burglars really had been up in Papa's dressing room, and after they had taken the three suits, they might have, probably had, taken the ring as well. Then Papa made the discovery that his gold studs and cuff links inherited from his great-great-grandfather, a colonel of the South, were gone! Also, Papa's ancient watch and chain with his gold Phi Beta Kappa key on it were gone.

The two second policemen said they might as well go, and since no one could think of any reason why they should stay, off they went. They were very nice policemen—it's too bad they had not been the first ones on the scene.

Mama and Papa went back downstairs and sat down weakly at the dining-room table. The two first policemen muttered something to each other and said again they guessed they'd be getting back to the station to make their report. But Papa said they would have to wait for the detective and then go to make their report. The two policemen stood in the doorway, and they were obviously terribly anxious to get going. One whistled a bored little tune. In the dining room by themselves, Mama and Papa talked in low voices. Mama said, "John, I'm sure. I don't know why, but I'm sure the ring is in one of their pockets. What should we do? They look so guilty, and you see they want to be gone before the detective comes. When I said, 'Oh, my ring!' and they said, 'Where, where?' and I said, 'Here, here, in a pencil case that was in this drawer—that is where my ring was....' My, how self-conscious they were! They may not even know they have my ring. They may think they have only a pencil!"

Papa looked bewildered. He had heard a lot about women's intuition. Still, can you imagine (Connie saw his dilemma) saying to two policemen—one would be more than enough—"Were you, by chance, the robber who took my wife's ring, instead of the real robbers? Otherwise, what were you doing upstairs all that time—twenty minutes, my wife tells me. Does it take twenty minutes to go through a little house like this and see if burglars are still in it or not? What exactly were you doing?" Papa sighed. "Oh, Jane," he said. "I don't see how we can accuse them on just a hunch, I really don't..."

Connie thought her mother could not be right. She was quite ashamed of her. Had anyone ever heard of a policeman stealing? She never had. Mama said hesitantly, "Ts, I suppose not, John, but don't you think—isn't there some way to tell my suspicions to the detective? Why, it's as though my eyes could pierce right through their navy-blue uniforms and see my diamond ring on its little clasp, in the pocket of one of them. The way they said, 'Where, where?'" Connie had never seen her mother more positive. "It's as though someone had whispered in my ear"—she couldn't get over it—"whispered, 'They have it, they have it. The policemen have it, not the burglars.'"

At this moment, a plainclothesman arrived. The two first policemen gave him a hurried report, and then, before you could say Jack Robinson, they were out the door, in their car, had stepped on the gas, and had sped off the campus. The detective sat down and talked to Mama and Papa. Mama, since she could see that Papa was not going to, told the detective her suspicions herself. He didn't say yes, he didn't say no. He said he would tell Mama's suspicions to the captain of the precinct.

Papa demanded hotly, "Do you really think that it is possible that two officers of the law would do such a thing?"

The detective said he would not like to rule out the possibility as being unlikely. "It is unfortunate but true that some policemen are dishonest," he said. "Oh, you don't run into them very often—but once in a while..."

"Oh, dear," said Mama. "I was sure of it, but what could I do? And now they are gone. My ring is probably gone forever. Imagine them, probably right this minute, taking a good look at it beneath the dashboard."

Connie was enthralled. Seeing Billy at the back door, she went out. "You know, Billy, that there may be two dishonest policemen in the world—all the rest are honest—and we may have had, we are not sure, the only two dishonest ones?"

"Tell," said Billy, a happy shine in his eyes.

By this time a lot of children had gathered in Connie's yard. Hugsy Goode, the Arps, Katy Starr, practically everybody—the entire children's population of the Alley—came gradually into the yard. They didn't have to ask for permission this time; they could all just come right in. Some sat on the ground, some climbed to the top of the jungle gym, some sat on the glider, but naturally what they all wanted to hear about was the burglary. Billy Maloon and Connie got in the swings, but they didn't swing. They just sat in them and they talked, or rather, Connie talked—it being her burglary. Connie soon reached the part in the story where Mama saw through the policeman's coat into his pocket. "But what could she do?" she asked Billy, or anyone else who would tell her what. "Nothing. She could say and do nothing."

Billy Maloon thought for a while. He was impressed with the story, and he was also frightened. "No," he agreed finally. "She could not search them, because it was just a hunch, and you cannot search people, especially policemen, on hunches. Your mother could not say to them, 'You have my diamond ring!' They might have arrested
her.
"