Double Jeopardy, page 11
"Seventy-fi'," said the mustached woman.
"I'll take it."
She produced a bag to insert the merchandise. Jones pulled out his wallet, looked in it, and gave an exclamation. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I don't have any change. Can you break a twenty for me ?"
The woman extended her hand across the counter, accepted the bill, and took it toward the light at the back to scrutinize it. "It's all right," said Jones. "Though I don't blame you. You probably don't get too many big bills here." He was cudgeling his brain for a better lead, when she surprised him with: "You goin' ask about that, too ?"
"You mean the fifty-dollar bill? Has somebody else been asking?"
"You gi' me money, I tell you." The hairs of the mustache trembled slightly. "How much money?" "FT dollars."
She was a Latin. "Too much," said Jones. "I'll give you two."
They batted it around for a while, finally reached an agreement that three and a half would be a fair price for the information she had to dispense, and she leaned across the counter.
"All right!" she said, "this fifty-dollar bill is gi' me by Jesus Perez. He's a no-good man; I think he sell trujillol." "Is he a Mexican ?" "I do' know. I guess maybe."
"Did you ever see him with a blond American?" Jones described Warburton as nearly as he could without having seen him.
"No, never seen him."
"Where does this Jesus Perez live?"
"I do' know. Round here, somewhere."
That was a setback, and it was no use asking for a description of him either. However, if his name was really Jesus Perez and if he was enough of a character to merit the description of "no-good," he probably had a record. But that would take time.
"How often does he come in?"
She gave an expressive shrug. "Sometimes, sometimes not-Most late night."
"Has he been in tonight?" "Not yet."
Jones made a sudden decision. "Look here," he said. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I've got to find this Perez, and if you help me, I'll make it worth your while. I'm going across the street, where I can watch your window. If Perez comes in, I want you to move one of those melons into the window. If you'll do it, I'll give you five dollars now and five more after I find him."
An expression of peculiar craftiness spread across the woman's face. "All right, I do it," she said and held out her hand.
Outside children were still running and little groups still walking about the street, but he selected a stoop across from the Charcutería, settled himself with the air of a man who could do no more in such weather, lit a cigarette, and began his vigil, meanwhile turning over what he had learned. The tail Howard had picked up was probably an agency man; the same agency that had been looking for Warburton. And, almost unquestionably, whoever had been asking about the fifty-dollar bill before Jones himself had also been an agency man. But how had the agency learned so quickly of the appearance of the fifty-dollar bill from the robbery? There seemed only one satisfactory answer to that. They must have received the information from Di Paduano, governor of the Federal Reserve Bank. But why had he put a private agency onto the case while reporting the appearance of the money to the FBI? The answers to that were a good deal less satisfactory; in fact, they were not present at all. Then Jones remembered something else; he himself had already made the connection, within a high degree of probability, between the agency and the mysterious woman who was looking for Warburton. If the agency now stood convincingly connected with Di Paduano, then Di Paduano and the woman were connected. Things equal to the same thing are equal to each other. Something to check.
Across the street, the woman with the mustache stepped to the window, took out a bottle of vinegar, and replaced it with a melon.
The man who had come out of the Charcuteria with a plastic bag in his hand was short, and in the red glare of the light, looked extraordinarily broad-shouldered. Probably a shiv man, thought Jones, as he threw away the remains of his second cigarette, got slowly to his feet, and began sauntering east on 78th, not looking too often at Perez, but often enough to catalog and classify his walking rhythm according to the Echols system. The man didn't seem to be in any hurry and at the corner he waited patiently for a bus to go by. In the next block, he went to the second building and ducked in. Jones waited for long enough to make sure it wasn't a trick, which it might be if Perez had any idea he was being followed, then slipped over and noted the building number—353; the word "Rooms" appeared over the row of bells in the hall. If Perez had the three million, he certainly wasn't making much of a splash with it.
Jones turned into the avenue, located a down-at-the-heels drugstore of the non-automat type, and found the phone—one of the old kind, without a visi-panel. The duty man at FBI said Howard was still out; Jones told him that the big deal was nearly closed, but that he needed a witness, and gave the address. "The name on the door is Jesus Perez," he said, and drew from the duty man the answer that he would have the local office take care of it.
That meant that a police squad would be on hand to cover any exits at the rear, and that Howard was probably still entertaining his shadow, the agency man. Jones felt good as he rounded the corner again to keep an eye on 353, stepping toward the curb to avoid a group of three men coming along abreast.
It happened so quickly that he didn't even have time to react. The group apparently split to let him past; then, as he stepped forward, a line of snake wire whipped from one to another and was around his body, pinning him arms to his sides as they closed in.
"Don't worry, Fed," said one of them. "We aren't going to hurt you; just keep you on ice for a while, till we do some business."
Too late Jones remembered that the proprietor of the Charcutería had taken a bottle of vinegar out of the window when she put the melon in. The agency boys must have reached her first. That was why she had smiled.
"Some of you dime-store dicks are going to find yourselves without licenses," he said bitterly.
One of them laughed. "Leave us take care of that," he said, "and come right along and get your lollipop. And don't start yelling copper. It'll get you a pop on the head in this neighborhood." They were urging him gently up the hill, away from 353, surrounding him closely so that the snake wire would be invisible. One of them said heartily, for the benefit of passers-by: "That's all right. We'll get you home."
Jones formed a mental picture of the police squad arriving just in time to let Perez slip through their fingers because they didn't know whom they were looking for. He filled his lungs desperately, and at the top of his voice shouted: "Fire!"
The one on the right hit him. The one on the left let go.
Jones yelled: "Fire! Fire! Fire!"
All down the street, people were turning, heads were being thrust out of windows. A couple of lights went on. One of the trio said rapidly: "I'll cover it, Larry. Get this yap out of here." He vanished as a little group began to gather. Jones felt the snake wire whipped from around him, and his arms were gripped hard. One of the agency men addressed the group of five or six: "It's all right, everybody. He's just loaded up with trujillol."
"I am not," cried Jones. "There's a fire in 353. These guys started it!"
The group was nearer ten than five or six now, and he was beginning to get them. In a crowded tenement district, the arsonist is a deadlier enemy than the policeman. Someone said: "What for you hold him ?"
Unfortunately, one of the agency men was quick on the uptake, too. He swept his free arm around in a sweeping gesture. "Listen, everybody," he shouted, "this guy is just a nut. Somebody beat it up to the corner and turn in an alarm, and we'll see if there's a fire. You!" He pointed at the objector, who glanced over his shoulder, shrank back a step, and then under the impulsion of that monitory finger began to move in the indicated direction.
In a conversational tone, Jones said: "You guys won't get away with this; this is federal heat."
"Yeah?" said the other one. "You don't know how much punch we got behind us. If you——"
Somebody yelled: "Look! Cops!" And Jones saw heads swinging toward a point behind and over his right shoulder. The man on that side let go, and Jones swung round just in time to see the big plastex bubble swing gently down from the helicopter overhead, and a pair of blue policemen leap out, riot guns ready. The bubble whirled upward again, and a daylight stabbed down brilliantly onto the doorway of 353, just as it swung open and two men dashed down the steps. One of the policemen tried to halt them. There was a flurry of action, the policeman went down, Jones saw a hat come off a head so brightly blond that it looked white in the day-light, then the pair were lost in the shadows and the crowd that immediately began to gather. He pushed aside a gaping Chinese and rushed forward, waving his identification tag.
The cop who had been knocked down was on his feet. "Get that blond guy!" cried Jones.
"Not in this neighborhood, chum," said the cop. "You pick him up later. You the guy that called for the squad ?"
"Yes, but it's probably too late," said Jones. "Let's go in anyway, though. I think I have a big-time hood stashed in there. Have you people got the back covered ?"
"Yep. Roof, too. We always make the cover drops first on these jobs. The lieutenant turned on the heat as soon as he saw what the address was."
"All right, let's see what we got left," said Jones.
He stepped into the hall, followed by one of the policemen, while the other put his back to the door and faced the crowd in the street, which was already beginning to murmur.
Before either of them could ring, the inner door was opened and a thin woman with a robe clutched around her was saying: "If you want Mr. Perez, he's in 3B."
Jones glanced at the arrangement of the hall. "You come up the stairs," he told the cop. "I'll take the elevator."
It was ancient and decrepit enough to belong in a museum, one of the old self-service type of fifty years before. Jones produced his needle gun and stepped out just as the officer made the head of the stair well, riot gun held purposefully forward. "No use knocking," he said, and strode forward to grip the door handle of 3B.
It opened without resistance on what had once been the living room of a small apartment, now chiefly occupied by a bed, dirt, and disorder. The lights were on, but unless there was someone under the bed or in the bathroom, the place was empty. The window was open.
Jones had taken two steps toward it when someone came over the sill with raised hands, and behind him a policeman in blue. As classified by the Echols system, his walk was assuredly that of Jesus Perez. But the utterly astonishing, the rather frightening, thing was that Perez was wearing the head and face of Dr. Richard Mansfeld, chemist of the Braunholzer Institute.
It worried Jones for only a moment. Then he said: "Let's get that plastic mask off and talk business . . . Even if the best fish got away."
Sixteen
The short man in the chair by the window was named Swigart; he was a New York detective.
He said: "We did everything we could, but we couldn't get a crack out of Perez. He sticks to it that he got the $950 playing the races."
Howard permitted himself a faint smile. "And all the bills in the lot were new and came from the missing rocket shipment," he said.
Swigart snorted. "What can you do? The first thing he did was yell for a mouthpiece, and the springer won't even let us put the lights on him. Personal privacy laws!" He snorted again.
"I'd expect anyone with a record like his to know all the loopholes," said Howard. "You know it, don't you ?"
"I knew he had one, that's all," said Swigart.
"It came through about an hour ago. This will be news for you, too"—he addressed Jones—" Jesus Perez, Mexican descent, born in Lubbock, Texas. Twice given psychiatric treatment and eventually sent to the moon mines as an incorrigible. Served four years of a five-year sentence."
"The case is tightening up," said Jones. "Warburton is from Lubbock, too. As though we needed that item of proof."
Howard said: "Yes, and there's something else. Southwestern District reports that Warburton has a record, too."
"He has! What is it? What for?"
Howard shook his head. "That is what I'm afraid we're not going to find out unless Warburton tells us himself. It was for something that happened while he was under age. He was psyched and discharged as cured of criminal tendencies, so the record comes under personal privacy. The people at Southwestern only found out about it by accident. He hasn't any relatives there, and they were tracing general records at the city hall when they found a closed-case card for him. By the way, there's no educational record for him beyond high school."
"What beats the hell out of me is this," said Swigart, "if this Perez was in on the rocket robbery, what did he do with the rest of the money? Besides what he spent, $950 is an awful small dose to have left out of three million."
Howard said: "I have a theory that will furnish a partial answer to that. The first bill that turned up was a five hundred, in El Paso, thought to have come across the border from Mexico. I think we'll find that Mr. Jesus Perez has parents, or perhaps a sweetheart, south of the border, and that he has passed part of the money over for safekeeping. At least, we're having the Mexican police check. I don't suppose he said anything about his contacts down that way?"
"Not a thing," said Swigart. "The only thing he was willing to talk about was the robbery. He said he had an alibi; that he was in Chicago the day it was pulled. We asked Chicago to check that, but I'll bet all the tobacco in Kentucky that it turns out to be right. He wouldn't have been so willing to come out with it unless it was airtight."
"What's the next step?" asked Howard. "I take it you established those agency people wrere from the Owl, all right?"
"Oh, yes," said Swigart. "The two that were holding Jones didn't have time to make their getaway before the fire truck closed in, in answer to the alarm, and the locals turned them in. They had to do some fast talking and show their identification to keep from being hooked on the false-alarm rap. But the Owl wouldn't tell us who they were working for. Must be somebody with plenty on the ball, though. The Owl is usually pretty cooperative."
Jones said: "Would three million dollars be enough on the ball to make a difference? From the description, one of the men who ran out of that joint just as I got there could have been Warburton."
Swigart shook his head. "Three million would fix you quite a few operatives, but it would be peanuts for the agency as a whole. And it's the agency that's making the trouble."
Howard said: "By the way, Jones, did you get enough of a look at the one you thought was Warburton to set up a classified description?"
Jones shook his head. "I wasn't near enough to get his ears or nose. I think his walk would fall in the JM 22 group, but he was running and I only got a short glimpse of him, so I couldn't carry it any farther than that,"
"All right," said Howard, "now before we go any deeper into the matter of the Owl and who hired them, I'd like to get the Perez matter cleared up. You searched the place, Swigart. What did you get that might furnish a lead?"
"Practically nothing. No weapons, no tools, nothing we could put the bee on him for having except that money. We've got him booked for receiving stolen goods, but even that's weak. The only tie-up with the robbery, if it is one, is this." He laid a piece of paper on the desk.
Howard picked it up. "A receipt for the shipment of one box, special handling, from New York to San Francisco by rocket express, addressed to Juan Fernandez, 2303 Noriega Street. Did you ask him about this?"
Swigart said: "Yes. It certainly made him nervous but he didn't know anything about it. Said it must have been left in his room by the guy that had it before."
"You noticed the date on it? The shipment must have been made on the rocket that was robbed, or the one before."
"I did that."
"What about Juan Fernandez?"
"I called Frisco myself on it. There isn't any Juan Fernandez at 2303 Noriega."
Jones said: "There's an angle I'd like to have you people consider. That entry at the Braunholzer Institute, and the disappearance of a batch of materials for duplicating a human means there's something more than a strong probability that there is a duplicate of either Perez or Warburton wandering around somewhere. In fact, the existence of that plastic mask of the chemist at the Institute practically proves it. The use of the mask is the only way anyone could have gotten into the Institute; I established that myself. Now Warburton's a chemist and could have operated the machine, especially since he was Sondergaard's pupil. Perez isn't. I think it was probably Perez who was duplicated. In that case, either the Perez with the alibi in Chicago or Juan Fernandez, who received the box out in San Francisco, could be the duplicate. That would be a natural name for him to take."
"What is this other case?" asked Swigart.
Howard told him, then said: "Let's see, is Perez, the one with the moon-mine record, right-or left-handed? . . . Right-handed. What about the one you have down there in the pokey?"
Swigart said: "He's right-handed, too."
"Then you have the original article, none genuine without this signature. The one who showed up in Frisco as Juan Fernandez must be the left-handed twin." The executive wrinkled his forehead. "There's also the possibility that the bill in Mexico came from this left-handed Juan Fernandez. He'd have to be in for a cut of the dough, even though he's not strictly human— "
He stopped suddenly, looking at Jones. The Secret Service man only smiled. "Don't mind," he said. "My wife and I are both used to cracks like that. But I do think you're pushing the line of deduction pretty hard here. We don't know there was a Juan Fernandez in San Francisco, either Perez or his duplicate. And there isn't anything in the report of the arrival of the express rocket to indicate that there was any hocus-pocus at that end. In fact, it's hard to fit Perez into the picture at all, even though it does look as though Warburton duplicated him, and the time since the disappearance at the Braunholzer Institute is just about right for training the duplicate. All we have along that line is this shipment of the box. Warburton may have worked some kind of sleight of hand so the box, instead of the bag, held the money, though at the moment I don't just see how. Everything seems to come back to him."
