The car was worth $89,000 according to Boyd’s, the only underwriters who would touch it. It was alleged to be a gift from I. G. Barben Pharmaceutical Corp. Car fans will miss its presence in the Annual Special Car Parade at Atlantic City.
Five shops were also destroyed in the blast.
Police Inspector Bulldog Grafferty, who investigated the car bombing, issued a carefully prepared statement today: “It was a valuable vehicle. The bomb rigging was extremely expert, the work of a master. Boyd’s had required the car to be guarded by Tilt and five other independent alarm systems.
“The only possible person who could have set up the blast is Bang-Bang Rimbombo.
“Bang-Bang is an ex-marine demolitions expert left over from the last war.
“Many car bombings have been attributed to him in the past although no arrests were ever made.
“Bang-Bang is a trusted member of the notorious Corleone mob which Mucky Hack has always been exposing in his tireless reporting.
“The New York/New Jersey mob is run by the able and charming Babe Corleone, the ex of the late ‘Holy Joe’ Corleone.
“It is well known that Corleone received his gang cognomen of ‘Holy Joe’ because he would not push drugs and that Faustino ‘The Noose’ Narcotici has been making steady inroads on the former Corleone territories in Manhattan.
“Thus, the motive for the rigging of the bombs by Bang-Bang exists. The expertise bears the unmistakable Bang-Bang trademark.
“Bang-Bang has not been arrested solely because he doesn’t complete his current sentence in Sing Sing until tomorrow and was still in jail at the time of the bombing.
“Several shopkeepers were arrested for permitting the car to park in that spot.
“The case, therefore, can be considered closed.”
Mucky Hack is survived by his managing editor and an old Ford.
For the life of me I could not see what he could find of interest in this story. He could read so fast that to see him sit there looking at one news item for ten minutes was baffling.
Possibly my annoyance, however, to be honest, came from the fact that he was holding the paper folded. There was a Bugs Bunny strip that was thus only half-revealed: Bugs had Elmer Fudd in a bath of carrot juice, and not being able to see the beginning of the strip, I could not fathom how Elmer had gotten there or why. Possibly Elmer had been ill? Possibly the bath had been prepared by Elmer as a trap into which he himself had then fallen? But there was no way for me to tell Heller to open up the page so I could see. It was frustrating!
Finally Heller looked at his watch. My Gods, he was wearing a combat engineer’s watch! In plain sight! I certainly put that down as a Code break. Then I was given pause: it looks like just a flat disc with a small hole in the center. Earthmen would mistake it for an identification bracelet or something like that.
He rotated his wrist, turning the watch downward and touched it. I had noticed before that he had this as a sort of nervous habit. But this is the first time I had really remarked it. It showed that he did have nerves after all.
He yawned — another nervous symptom. He looked at the toll gate area. Not one car had come through it in all the time he had been sitting there!
“So,” he said, “no Slinkerton!”
Then it came to me in a flash what he had been up to. The Fleet must have battle tactics and he was practicing one of them. He had invited pursuit to lay an ambush. But he had no weapon, so he had probably done it because of training conditioning triggered by mounting nervous tension.
That must have been it, for he now started up the Cadillac, doubtlessly disappointed that his ruse had not worked, drove through the complexity of exits and entrances to the turnpike, got another fare ticket and was shortly on his way, rolling once more northeastward.
The traffic was quite heavy, and with all those trucks weaving in and out trying to pass each other, any normal driver would have felt he had his hands full. But Heller was taking time out now and then to read a story about “Economic Chaos Just Down the Road According to Financial Experts of Merrill Bull, Inc.”
This expert watching him knew that the chaos which was down his road was not only economic! The lamb to slaughter had a better chance, in my opinion, than this idiot!
Chapter 8
At 4:20 that afternoon, Heller arrived at the rendezvous. He had dawdled along, stopping often, but he was still ten minutes early.
He parked the Cadillac carelessly in the higgledy-piggledy lot and made his way through the turmoil of tired kids and savage fathers and mothers that usually populate such temporary stop areas on a turnpike.
He made his way into the restaurant and was shortly seated at a table. He looked around.
I froze! Directly across the room from him was a dimly familiar face. Heller’s glance passed over it but not mine! I mastered my nerves and, using the second screen, got back to that view, stilled.
The face was very Sicilian in bone structure. It was deeply pockmarked. A knife scar ran from the corner of the mouth straight back to the bottom of the left ear. The eyes were reptilian. My memory for faces is unsurpassed. But I could not place him.
Hastily, I yanked a camera from a shelf and, excluding the edges of the screen, got a close-up of that face! Rapidly, I stripped out the finished picture and, working very fast, blew it down onto Earth-type paper.
Keeping an eye on the current screen, I saw a tall, gray-haired man walk up to the Sicilian. The Sicilian showed the gray-haired man something he held cupped in his palm. A photo? Then he nodded almost imperceptibly toward Heller.
The Sicilian was acting as the finger man!
The gray-haired man drew back and idled against the wall. He was wearing a bowler. He was impeccably dressed, a three-piece suit, the vest of which was gray. He was wearing pince-nez glasses connected to his lapel with a black ribbon. He was also carrying an umbrella.
Heller ordered, got and ate a hamburger and washed it down with Seven Up. He was picking up his check when the gray-haired man approached him.
With a touch of a finger to his bowler, the gray-haired man said, “I am Buttlesby, young master. Mr. Bury wanted to be sure you were safely met. I am to show you where to go. If you are ready, may we go?” Very courteous English accent, the perfect fake family retainer.
Heller simply got up, paid his check and followed Buttlesby out.
The Sicilian passed them and, when they reached the parking lot, was getting into another car.
Buttlesby opened the door of the Cadillac for Heller and helped him get under the wheel. Then Buttlesby went around and got into the passenger seat.
“If you please,” said Buttlesby, “proceed on up the turnpike. I will show you the turns.”
Behind them, Heller saw the Sicilian’s car was following them but after that he seemed to give it no heed.
“We will be leaving your car in a garage in Weehawken,” said Buttlesby.
“Why?” said Heller.
“Oh, dear,” said Buttlesby. “Absolutely no one ever drives across the river into New York! Heaven forbid! The Manhattan traffic positively devours cars, bangs them all up, ruins them. Anyone who is sensible leaves his car on the New Jersey side of the river and takes a taxi into New York. And in New York one uses taxis.” He laughed slightly. “Let the taxis take the buffeting. Your car will be perfectly safe in the New Jersey garage.”
Heller drove along in silence.
Buttlesby began to talk again. “Mr. Bury is dreadfully sorry, but he is detained in town. He has arranged for the young gentleman to stay at the Brewster Hotel on 22nd Street. Here is the hotel card.” And he tucked it into Heller’s outside breast pocket.