"Don't you read the papers? Story's in the Morning Blade. Of course, if you haven't got three cents--"
"Okay, okay! Save your breath to cool your soup. I'll drop around and see what the guy looks like."
"Fine, Mack. Listen, Jerold Bell's coming over to see him, too. I told him to stop by and pick you up. Thought I'd save you cab-fare or a walk."
"Bell?" echoed McCracken. "Oh, the insurance guy. I remember him. Where's he figure in?"
"He insured the ring," Zehnder explained. "It's in the papers. Buy one, and I'll refund your three cents." There was a click in the receiver.
McCracken took his hat from the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on his head. He'd wait for Bell in the lobby and read the newspaper meanwhile.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror of the elevator and wondered if he'd been a triple-dyed sap to quit a paying job for a gamble on being his own boss. Six months ago, he'd been drawing down a paycheck every week, and no overhead to worry about. And this morning, he'd had a cup of coffee for breakfast, instead of the ham and eggs he usually ate.
Twelve bucks would buy a lot of ham and eggs. He hoped Zehnder hadn't guessed how badly he needed that twelve bucks.
The elderly walrus at the cigar counter was waiting on another customer, and McCracken fished up the contents of his pockets and looked at them. There was a folder of matches, three keys, and two pennies in cash, one of which was Canadian.
He shoved his hand back into his pocket, as the walrus turned.
"Morning Blade, George," said McCracken. He grinned engagingly. "Got a case today, George! So don't let the credit worry you. I'll be back in the money soon. Give me a pack of cigarettes, too."
"That's fine, Mr. McCracken," said George. "But if you're working, how come you can't pay--"
"Don't quibble, George. I'm going over now to pick up my retainer. I'll pay you this afternoon."
The walrus looked at him darkly, and then passed the cigarettes across the counter. McCracken had meanwhile picked up the top newspaper from the pile alongside the cash register.
The banner line read: "Italians Suffer New Reverses." That wouldn't be it.
"President Vetoes --" No. But there was two-column head at one side halfway down the page. It read:
SLIMJIM LEE MURDERED, ROBBED
The walrus had followed the direction of his gaze. "Say, is that the case you're gonna work on, Mr. McCracken?" he asked, and there was respect in his tone of voice.
McCracken's eyes caught the words "Mocking Bird" in the second paragraph.
He nodded absently, continuing to read.
"Golly," said the walrus. "Reckon whoever's hiring you has all kinds of dough, then. Slimjim used to be the biggest bookie in town. And the way he sometimes threw money around . . . You stick 'em for plenty, young feller."
"Mmmm," said McCracken, and started to add that you couldn't throw money around the way Slimjim Lee had thrown it, and still have much left, and that the big-shot gambler was reputed to be broke. Anyway, he wasn't working for Slimjim's heirs, if any.
Then he closed his mouth again. The way the walrus was looking at him awakened new possibilities.
"Say, George," he said, "I'm short of cash until I get that retainer. Let me have a buck and put it on my account, will you?"
"Sure, Mr. McCracken." The walrus rang up "No Sale" on the register and passed over a bill from the drawer. He made a notation on a slip of paper on the ledge.
"Makes it eleven dollars and--no, twelve dollars even." McCracken winced slightly. "Thanks, George," he said, and moved a few steps away to lean against the wall, while he studied the article in the Blade. It was quite brief--understandable as the murder had been discovered only half an hour before deadline of the Blade's final edition.
Slimjim Lee, whose real name was James Rogers Lee, had met his death probably between midnight and three A.M., although the body had not been discovered until four-thirty. Autopsy might determine the time of death more closely.
His body had been found in the visiting parlor of a theatrical rooming house on Vermont Street. He had been killed, presumably, by a long slender needle called a crocheting needle in one part of the story and a knitting needle in another paragraph. It had been thrust into his heart.
He was known to have been wearing, shortly prior to the murder, his famous ring with the huge solitaire diamond for which he was reputed to have paid six thousand dollars. His bill-fold was found empty. Undoubtedly, according to the police, robbery had been the motive, and the solitaire diamond the principal objective of the murderer.
Mr. Lee, according to the newspaper article, had been a close friend of Perley Essington, who roomed at the house in question, and was a frequent visitor at the Vermont street address. Perley Essington was a vaudeville performer specializing in whistling and bird imitations, and he was billed as "The Mocking Bird" on the Bijou's current bill.
Harry Lake, another vaudevillian and inmate of the rooming house, had seen Slimjim Lee enter the house at around midnight, and had assumed he was calling on Perley Essington.
Another vaudevillian and roomer, one LaVarre LaRoque, a dancer, had discovered the body when she came in at four-thirty in the morning. She had opened the parlor door when she had noticed a crack of light under it.
McCracken read the story for the third time, and was putting the paper in his pocket, when he saw Jerold Bell coming through the revolving door into the lobby.
"Hi, Mack," Jerry greeted him. "Haven't seen you since you left the force.
Have a quick one before we go see our fine feathered friend?"
Over a Scotch-and-soda, McCracken asked:
"You're in this because Continental insured the ring? How much was it really worth, Jerry?"
"He paid four thousand for it," Bell said. "I doubt if it could be sold now for over two and a half. Openly, I mean. As stolen property, whoever has it will be lucky to get a thousand. It's insured, incidentally, for two thousand."
McCracken nodded. "Cap Zehnder said you sold the policy. How come? I thought you handled only investigations for Continental."
"Ordinarily, yes. But in cases where unusual factors influence the amount of the premiums, I generally get called in. The regular salesman gets a cut, too, but turns the closing over to me and I help advise the amount of the premium."
"And what was unusual about this policy?"
Bell grimaced. "Just that Lee insisted on wearing that rock twenty-four hours a day, which made the risk much greater than is ordinarily the case with jewelry that valuable. Most people keep their stuff in safes or vaults, and wear it on special occasions. And then there was his occupation to consider, of course. A gambler, who goes to all the places a gambler goes to, and associates with the kind of people--well, I had to talk the company into issuing the policy at all."
"Leaving you out on a limb, now that the ring is gone?" McCracken grinned.
"Any chance that Slimjim might have sold the ring himself?"
"Not an earthly one," Bell said. "That ring was his luck, he thought. He'd have sold his shirt and shoes first. I've sat in on games with him, and knew him well enough to be positive of that."
"Ever met this Perley Essington?"
Jerry Bell nodded. "Wait until you see him, Mack. A crackpot of the first water. I never thought he'd pull anything like this--if he really did. Cap Zehnder says he has him cold, but I don't know what the evidence is."
"How well you know him?" McCracken asked.
The insurance man laughed. "A month ago, he wanted to take out an insurance policy on--believe it or not, Mack--on his whistle! How could you insure a whistle?
That was when he first got his engagement at the Bijou. He'd been 'at liberty' for a long time before that. I think Slimjim loaned him money to live on."