Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Double Dozen

So Mitch, partly because he had this idea in the back of his head and partly because he was sick of being kidded, wanted an excuse to beat it. When he felt the toy gun still there in his pocket, he took the thing out and said maybe he ought to return it. The lieutenant said sure, go ahead, why not?

Before Mitch left, he went upstairs to the lab and told Jub what the score was and asked him to take a trip down to the junk yard. Because, even if Mitch had made a mistake about the kid, that bullet hole was real and there was still a chance of locating the Chevy. So Mitch arranged to meet Jub there and help him look.

The Jackson address was in the west end of town, not too far from the yard. The house was in a fairly good residential section and there were two cars in the driveway, one of them the jalopy Mrs. Jackson had driven down to headquarters, and the other a brand-new job.

Because of the new car and because nobody who ran a broken-down junk yard could afford to live in a house like this, Mitch had a funny feeling as he walked up the short path to the front door and rang the bell. The Jackson female opened the door, and she looked just as scared and nervous as she had been at headquarters.

She kind of shrank back from Mitch and then she said, “We just phoned and asked to have you come and bring it, and they said you were on your way.” She raised her voice and called out, “Len, he’s here.”

Jackson came from somewhere in the rear of the house. “Come on in,” he said He’d been sullen and itching for a scrap when Mitch had bought that hub cap this morning, but now the guy was all smiles and tail-wagging. So he wanted something, and the question was what.

Mitch stepped inside and took the imitation gun out of his pocket. “Junior forgot his toy,” he said.

“That’s what we wanted, that’s what we called about,” Jackson said. He grabbed it, and Mitch wondered if maybe the thing meant something and he’d missed out on it.

He asked directly. “What’s so important about it?”

Mrs. Jackson answered. “It’s Junior’s favorite toy, and he’s unhappy without it. He just can’t bear to lose it.”

“Yeah,” Mitch said, thinking how Junior had forgotten all about it ever since Mitch had stuck it in his pocket, and how neither of the Jacksons bothered to give it to the kid now.

So the toy gun was a handle to get Mitch here; they wanted to talk to him and now they were tense and edgy, but Mitch still couldn’t figure out what the play was.

Jackson said, “How about a drink?”

And Mrs. Jackson said, “Yes, what would you like?”

“Make it a beer,” Mitch said. He kept looking around the room, but he found nothing out of the ordinary, except that the place didn’t look used — no personal stuff lying around, as if they’d just got here and hadn’t had time to get settled

The Jackson dame went out to the kitchen for the beer. Jackson and Mitch sat down and Mitch said, “How come you’re not working? Yard closed up?”

“Too worried about the kid to bother with business,” Jackson said. “I been sitting here and stewing around, wondering what happened to him.”

“Must have been tough,” Mitch said. But if the guy had been worried, why hadn’t he gone up to headquarters instead of sending his wife?

“What was the idea of you grabbing him?” Jackson asked.

Mitch shrugged off the question with the gesture of a guy who had nothing but innocence inside him. “He was lost,” Mitch said. “I felt sorry for the little fella.”

“How’d you get along with him?” Jackson asked.

“Okay.”

“I mean, did he talk much? Kids are funny sometimes. What did he say?”

“A little of this and a little of that,” Mitch said, and he began to understand. Jackson was worried whether the kid had given something away — so worried that he had to find out.

The guy made some remark about the weather and about the neighborhood, and Mitch asked Jackson how long he’d lived here and Jackson switched the subject without answering direct. And all the time Mitch’s mind was churning, trying to figure out the real reason Jackson had phoned for him. Besides wanting to know if the kid had said anything, Jackson hoped Mitch would go back and say the Jacksons were nice normal people, that they had nothing to hide, had even invited Mitch in and given him a beer.

Which meant they weren’t normal and had plenty to hide.

Then it hit Mitch with a jolt that they were covering up — covering up for Rogan.

The kid was Rogan’s, and Rogan wasn’t far away. He’d come back for the loot. Jackson was a stand-in for him and was putting on an act to fool the police, and maybe the dame was Rogan’s wife and maybe she wasn’t, but sure as hell Jackson wasn’t the kid’s father. So if Mitch could slip in a question to show it one way or the other, he’d be on first base, anyhow.

He leaned back in his chair, as if he had nothing in mind except a little small talk. “That kid of yours,” he said. “He go to school?”

“Sure. What about it?”

“I was wondering what grade he’s in.”

“What do you think?” Jackson snapped. Obviously the subject was a touchy one and he forgot about being polite. “He’s six years old. Think he’s in high school?”

“Naah,” Mitch said. “I thought he was in college, maybe.”

Jackson picked up the toy gun and kind of hefted it, balancing it and fingering it as if he were plenty used to guns. “You got a real sense of humor,” he said.

“Yeah,” Mitch said. “What school’s he in?”

“Public school,” Jackson said, spitting the words out.

“Sure. Which one?”

It was the key question. Any father knew what school his kid went to. So if the kid was Jackson’s and everything was on the up-and-up, he’d rattle it off without even thinking. But if he couldn’t, then Mitch was right all the way.

Jackson turned around and called out to the kitchen. “Hey, Betty — our friend wants to know what school Junior goes to.”

She came out of the kitchen to answer. “P.S. Forty-five,” she said. “And we don’t have any beer.”

“That’s okay,” Mitch said. He looked at his watch and stood up. “Time for me to blow, anyhow.” And he left.

But outside, sitting in the car, he saw he had a problem.

He couldn’t let this ride — not when there was a chance he had a lead on a cop killer. On the other hand, if Mitch told the lieutenant that this was nothing but a theory on Mitch’s part, the lieutenant would either laugh it off or else tell Mitch to stay with it until he got something — which meant goodbye tomorrow.

So Mitch was hooked, and he knew it. His only hope was that Jub would dig up something at the junk yard that would blow the case wide open today... or else that Jackson would scare and lead the way straight to Rogan.

Mitch started the car, drove to the corner, and parked on the side street where he had a full view of the Jackson house.

Mitch waited about ten minutes, and then he saw Jackson come out and get in the new car, nose it out the driveway, and head up the street, past Mitch. Mitch followed, staying maybe fifty feet behind and letting himself be seen. After a couple of blocks Jackson pulled up at the curb and got out of his car. Mitch stopped directly behind and waited for Jackson to step alongside.

“What’s the big idea?” Jackson said. Being polite hadn’t worked; it hadn’t fooled Mitch, so Jackson was going to be nasty again. “You tailin’ me?” he demanded.

Mitch shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What for?”

“You guess.”

“Look, copper — I got a right to go where I want to.”

“Sure,” Mitch said. “Anybody stopping you?”

“Just lay off. Turn around and beat it.”