One Red Shoe

A Marmalade & Sam Adventure

 

I wouldn’t say Sam McConnell exactly loves working Homicide. Investigating killings is ugly, and it can get dangerous, real fast. Sam does it because it’s part of the job, see? It’s what he’s good at.

And he does it because he’s serious about makin’ a difference in the world. He wants the badge he wears to mean something. He wants killers off the street and behind bars, where they can’t hurt nobody else.

So do I. Either that or swingin’ at the end of a rope. Yeah.

The name’s “Marmalade,” on account of my color, see? And don’t give me any smart comments about it. I’ve heard ‘em all. Sam gave me that name, one cold morning in nineteen thirty-four, when he found me in a trash bin behind his place.

I was a half-frozen orange kitten, just barely old enough to be away from his mama. Some jerk thought he could get rid of me by tossing me in with the trash, but Sam saw him do it, see? He put the dirty louse in a cell, and me in his coat pocket. Yeah.

I almost died that day, and would have, it wasn’t for Sam. I might have been eight weeks old, and I might not; I don’t know one way or the other. Detective Lieutenant Sam McConnell saved my life, and gave me a name, and I’m his partner. If ya’s see Sam, look again, on account of I’ll be there too, and no lousy crook is gonna get the jump on him while I’m on the job. Get used to me. I ain’t goin’ noplace.

Like I told ya’s, I’m Sam’s partner, his backup man. I go with him on all his cases. I’m from the Clan of Cat, if ya’s hadn’t already figured that out. My kind have got senses you humans don’t, and I can see things you can’t. That can come in real handy on the job. There’s a lot more to the world we live in than human eyes will ever see. Believe it, pal.

Anyways, that’s another story altogether, and I ain’t got time ta sit here talkin’ to ya’s all day. The “Red Shoe” case was a long time ago, but I remember it just like it was yesterday. It was in nineteen thirty-five, right after I turned a year old, in February.

This town is nearly always either too hot or too cold. I was born in the middle of an icy winter, and then we went through a summer so hot the air comin’ up off the pavement singed my whiskers. Now it was winter again, cold, cloudy and miserable.

I started out my career riding around in the pocket of Sam’s old smelly overcoat, see? It was warm and safe, in there. But by ‘thirty-five, I was way too big for that. I weighed in at a hefty twelve pounds in those days, so I mostly trotted along beside him.

That particular morning though, he was carrying me, on account of there was a couple of inches of new snow in the streets, and it was colder than a widow woman’s feet. The wind off the river was like knives when we came out of his place to head for Fifth Precinct Station.

The flat-head V-8 under the hood of Sam’s baby-blue ‘thirty-two Ford Coupe started just fine, but he had to scrape ice for a while before he could see through the windshield well enough to drive. He kept a little slat of wood for that in the glove compartment, but it took him a while to get all of it loose.

That was fine by me; I was sitting on the seat, where the heater he’d had installed the year before blew right on me, and it felt good. I figured by the time he got the glass cleared off, my ears would just about be thawed out, so I was in no hurry.

I don’t like to get in a hurry anytime I can help it anyway, see? It ain’t in my nature.

A dog will usually run everywhere he goes, and jump around like the ground was hot, but us cats have more sense than that, see? There’s plenty of time for hurryin’ when something bigger than I can fight is chasin’ me. Even then I’d rather climb a tree or a fence. Life’s too short for movin’ faster than ya’s got to.

I was just about warm again by the time we pulled up in front of the Station House. Of course, then we had to get out and run through the cold all over again. At least Sam carried me under his arm, so’s I didn’t have to get my paws wet. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s getting’ my paws wet.

That’s just the way it goes some days, see? I figured we was lucky, just getting up the front steps and into the Station without Sam doin’ a Brody on the ice and squashing us both. He’s the best detective on the force, but graceful he ain’t.

His battered desk was already stacked with paperwork when he set me down on it, and went to hang up his overcoat by the radiator, where it might get a chance to dry out.

A case of wishful thinking, I thought to myself. The smart money said we’d be back outside taking care of business before that could happen, but Sam left it there and came back with his first cup of Joe, and got busy.

I started playing around with the rubber bands and paper clips on his desktop, just to kill time. Sam always left some out for me, but I had to be real careful not to spill his coffee cup. Sam don’t like that, see? It’s bad enough that the thing is cracked and drips coffee without me knocking it into his lap. The same thing goes double for his ashtray.

Sam hates filling out arrest reports and stuff, but the job ain’t done until the paperwork is finished. A lot of it is just forms to be filled out, forwarded or filed, stuff like that. Sam read the top two pages of that stack and shoved the rest to one side without looking at it. Then he started leafing through the incident and arrest reports from the night shift.

There’d be some interesting reading in there. Fifth Precinct gets rough after dark, see? That’s when its creepier types come out of their daytime hidey-holes. You could count on half a dozen dead bodies to start your morning, plus twice that many assaults and break-ins. And that was after a quiet night. Yeah.

By January of ‘thirty-five Sam was working strictly homicides, so he didn’t concern himself much with expired winos or liquor store robberies. There was plenty of other gumshoes to take care of the small stuff.

Sam’s reputation let him pick out the cases he wanted, and Captain Shaughnessy usually went along. Sam had earned that, on account of everybody knew he was the best detective in the State. Sam’s my partner, and I’m proud of him, see? They don’t make humans any better. Yeah. Anybody says different in front of me is gonna lose some skin to my claws. Make book on it, pal.

This morning he went through the pile pretty quick, but then he picked up one of the sheets and started reading though it again, slower. He put the report back down and went to refill his coffee, but then he started going over it again. Something in there had caught his eye, sure enough. What can ya’s say? That’s why it says “Lieutenant” on his badge.

Finally, he got up and went to the Captain’s office. I followed along, not because I had any particular use for Captain Shaughnessy, but because I don’t like to get too far from Sam. Partners take care of each other, see?

After a quick rap on the door, we went on in. “This ain’t much of an incident sheet, Brian. What gives?”

Shaughnessy took a sip of his coffee, set the cup down and finally swiveled himself around in his chair. “Good mornin’ to you too, Sam,” he said. “The two of ya’s.” He waved in my general direction, so I started grooming my whiskers at him.

Brian Shaughnessy likes to point at people, but after a couple of run-ins with me, he figured out PDQ that I won’t put up with it. It ain’t good manners, see?

If human beings paid attention, they could learn a thing or two about manners from us cats. If they were half as polite as we are, most of the nastiness the Metro PD deals with every day would disappear.

Don’t hold your breath, though. People are gonna be people no matter what. Some of ‘em are ok, and the rest get thrown in the slam, as soon as me and Sam get around to it. Believe it, pal.

But back to the “Red Shoe” thing. “To what are ya’s referring?” Shaughnessy asked, as polite as he was ever likely to get. Sam handed over the incident report, and the Cap glanced at it. “What’sa matter wid’ it?”

“Feeney and O’Rourke found a red shoe by a bench in Camden Park whilst they was on foot patrol? That’s all? Oh yeah, it had some frozen blood on the toe of it.” Sam made kind of a disgusted gesture at Shaughnessy. “That ain’t much in the way of details. Has anybody been back over there since it got light outside?”

“Not yet. I ain’t even finished my coffee, Sam. Gimme a break. I’m gonna send McMahon and Harris to have a look around.”

Sam took the time to fish a pack of Luckys out of his pocket and light one up before he answered. “Nah. I’ll take it,” he said as he flipped the match away.

“What, one red shoe underneath a park bench? Probably nothin’ but an accident. I thought you was savin’ yourself for the big stuff these days. Let the other two take care of it; they ain’t doin’ anything important.”

“I told ya’s I’d check it out.” Sam said, already on the verge of a bad mood. “I hate stoogin’ around the station with the rest of these apes! A cop belongs in the street,” he ground out angrily. “Oh brother,” I said to myself. “You’d think we could get through one day without somebody starting him off.” Just so ya’s know, Sam’s got a temper, see? Crossing him in the morning ain’t a good idea.

I glared at Shaughnessy and gave a soft little hiss, just to show whose side I was on, in case he had any doubts. Sam’s not just my partner, see. He’s my buddy, with a lifetime lease. If ya’s got a problem with Sam, you got one with me too.

The Captain threw up both his hands and went back to whatever he’d been doing. Sam turned on his heel and left. He didn’t quite stomp his way out, but he didn’t miss by much.

He was headed for the property room upstairs, where they kept stuff that was liable to be needed as evidence. I followed him after a couple of seconds more, just to make sure I won the stare-down with the Captain.

Brian Shaughnessy’s an all-right guy, for a human, see? Ya’s just gotta put him in his place once in a while, or he gets an exaggerated view of himself. It’s a human thing.

Like I said, the shoe was in the property cage, tagged as possible evidence, and Sam signed it out so we could take it with us. It was one of those high-heel ladies’ shoes, see?  The expensive Italian kind, made of soft patent leather. Sure enough, the toe had some blood on it, dried now, and some deep scuff marks. I could see it also had a cork sole that would make whoever wore it look an inch or so taller.

Small humans get pretty sensitive about their size. I’d seen that before. They do all sorts of things to keep other people from noticing, like built-up shoes if it’s a dame, or cowboy boots if it’s a guy.

I thought it was a lot of malarkey, but then nobody asked me. It was none of my business anyway. Us cats don’t worry much about that kind of thing. You are what you are, and there ain’t nothin’ gonna change it. Life’s got plenty of real troubles in it, without sweatin’ the small stuff.

Troubles like it had started snowin’ again by the time me and Sam headed back out to the car. Oh, yeah. Just peachy!

I hate snow, see? It’s all cold and wet, and sticks to my whiskers. Water oughta stay where it’s put, and not come down out’a the sky like that, frozen or otherwise. Just one cat’s opinion. Give me a sunny day in May, anytime.

But Sam picked me up and carried me under one arm again, so that was okay. The park where the Patrolmen had found the shoe is a good distance from the Precinct house, so I knew the Ford’s heater would make short work of the snow that had gotten into my whiskers and fur.

Camden Park is in the south part of Fifth Precinct, almost into the Heights. It used to be a nice place, back before the crash. Guys that were well-off, but not really rich, used to walk with their sweethearts there, all that human stuff. There was even a little lake with geese and rowboats. The city kept the place up pretty good, cut the grass and kept the lights fixed, that kind of stuff.

All that ended with the Depression. There was no more dough to fix anything then. Bums, vagrants, and winos had taken it over, sleepin’ on the benches and under the picnic tables. The city had just about quit trying to do anything about them by then. There was noplace else to put those guys, and no money to do it with if there had been.

That guy Roosevelt kept sayin’ he had all the answers, but I never seen much sign of it. Just busted promises. That’s a human thing, too. They hand out promises like they was candy, knowin’ they’ll never be able to keep half of ‘em. In my book, if your word don’t mean anything to you, it’s likely nothin’ else does either.

The park had seen better days, like I told ya’s. The playground stuff was all broken down, about one out of every three streetlights was on the fritz, and there was trash everywhere. Even the streetwalkers had moved out, and I didn’t blame them, on account of it could be worth your life to be in there, at night.

By nineteen thirty-five, the Police foot patrols were only going into Camden Park in pairs, but Sam and me just drove on in and got out of the car. He knew I’d watch his back, and I knew he’d watch mine. Partners, see?

The bench in the report was one of a half dozen that faced the lake in the center of the place, which was frozen over at the moment. That’s another thing water shouldn’t ever do, is freeze. But nobody asked me, anyhow.

I couldn’t see no tracks but the ones we was makin’, but that didn’t mean anything, with it snowin’. A brass band might’ve marched through there an hour ago, and we wouldn’t’ve known it.

On summer days in a better time, this would’ve been a nice place to eat lunch and watch the guys with their girls in the rowboats. There was trees for shade, the whole deal. Now it just looked sad, the trees bare, and everything broken down and grey-like. Waiting for better days I guess, like the rest of us.

Sam always carried a little whisk broom under his car seat. He got it out now, and started sweeping the snow off the bench, just a little at a time so as not to lose any evidence, see? When he got one end clear without finding anything, I hopped up there to watch him.

Finally he found what he was lookin’ for: a spot of frozen blood about as big as the palm of his hand. And a bit further over he turned up a button, a big one, like from a woman’s coat. It was red, and just about a match for the shoe the two uniforms had found here last night.

That shoe had started to bother me. It didn’t make any sense. It was the kind a rich dame might wear to a party, but nothing anybody’d wear in the park on a cold, snowy night. And Camden Park was the last place any dame would want to be at night in the first place, much less one with dough.

Sam tried brushing away some of the snow from the ground around the bench, but everything was frozen solid underneath. There weren’t going to be any footprints in that, so we got back into the Ford. Sam started the motor, and then dug a cigarette out of his inside pocket and lit it. He didn’t throw the Ford into gear, though. He just sat there warming his hands in front of the heater and thinkin’ for a few minutes.

I knew what was goin’ through his mind, too. That red shoe was as out of place as a diamond in the gutter. It and the woman who’d worn it never should have been here. She’d clearly come from a better part of town, where the bad times hadn’t hit quite as hard yet.

The people who lived in those neighborhoods thought they had enough money to coast through the Depression and not get hurt. I had a feeling they’d turn out to be wrong, in the long run. But nobody asked me, anyhow.

Finally Sam dropped the button into another little bag and turned to me with one of his crooked almost-smiles. “We ain’t gonna get much more on this end, little buddy. We’ll get some chow, and then try our luck from the other.”

Sure enough, we was thinkin’ right together, like nearly always. That shoe hadda come from someplace, and when we tracked that down, we might be in business. But for right now, someplace nice and warm and a hot breakfast was definitely in order.

About twenty minutes later we pulled up and parked in front of the Bluebird Diner, on South Cleveland avenue. A woman named Diane DiSalvo owned the joint. Diane was an okay dame who liked cats in general and me in particular, so she never made no fuss about me comin’ in there with Sam.

She had a hot cup of coffee for him and a piece of bacon for me on the counter by the time we sat down. Sam and Diane had known each other a long time, and she recognized one of his thinkin’ moods when she saw it. So she just turned in his usual breakfast order, gave me a quick rub behind the ears, and left him alone. Like I said, an all-right dame.

When Sam finally pushed his plate back and motioned for a refill on his coffee, she figured it was ok to talk to him, and asked, “What’s in the sack, Sam? Dead bodies?” She could say stuff like that see, on account of bein’ an old friend.

Sam shook his head and took out the shoe. “What d’you make of this, Di?”

“You mean aside from having someone’s blood on it?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s probably nothin’. Did you ever see any shoes like this one?”

“Maybe once or twice,” she said. “Those don’t come cheap. It looks handmade. That’s a ‘Santini & Rossi’ label you got there. Way out of my class. Somebody’s got dough and wants everyone to know it.”

“Santini, you said? Who sells that brand?”

“Santini & Rossi. Nobody in town, Sam. Saul Berman’s might special order them, if anybody had that kind of money to spend on a pair of pumps. Which isn’t very likely in the crowd I hang around with.”

“Thanks, Di.” Sam nodded, and Diane smiled and gave me another scratch behind the ears. She’s got real class, see? Always nice, but not pushy. I kept hoping somethin’ would finally happen between her and Sam, but it hadn’t, not yet.

By the time Sam finished off his second cup and I had nipped up the last of my bacon, the snow had slacked off again, so Sam paid our check, and we made a dash for the Ford. I figured we was headed for this “Berman’s” place, and I wasn’t wrong.

Even in the middle of the Depression, the city still had a swank shopping district that catered to wealthy customers. There were still a few families who’d held onto enough of their dough to buy and wear the high-class stuff that was sold there, even in those days of bread lines and soup kitchens. It was in Lakeside Precinct, south of Midtown.

I’d been there a couple times with Sam, and I knew it would take us half an hour to make the drive, so I curled up on the seat beside him and dozed off. There ain’t no such thing as a bad time for a catnap, see? Especially in a warm car with a driver ya’s can trust.

Berman’s was a little shoe store down at the south end of Adams, where most of the better clothing stores and tailor shops were in those days. The social crowd who wanted better clothes than they could get off the rack all went to those places. There were enough of them to keep a few swank stores open, but not as many as there had been before.

Saul Berman was this sawed-off little Jewish guy with round glasses and a funny mustache, who ran his own place. He kept the better brands of shoes on display in the front and had a workshop in the back where he repaired what he sold. He also hand-made a few pairs to order back there, for the very highest-class customers.

He talked kind of funny, but you could usually get what he was sayin’ if ya’s listened. People said he came from someplace called Poland, with nothin’ but a set of shoemakers’ tools and a skinny wife. People of his religion were getting’ a real bum rap there, so he pulled his family out and came to the States.

In other words, Saul Berman was the kind of guy that pays his taxes and works hard all his life, and don’t expect nobody to give him anything he can’t get for himself. I saw the wife once, a couple of years later, and she ain’t skinny now, so I guess he made it big.

I could tell by his scent that he had at least two cats of his own, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. With a cat person, ya’s at least know he’s got something going on between his ears, see?

Sam flashed his badge and asked if the little guy had time to talk, instead of just starting to question him, so I guess he liked him too. Saul nodded and invited him into the back where he had some chairs, and I followed along and hopped up on the workbench. There was some interesting things to play with up there, bits of leather and coarse thread, so I started to amuse myself, see?

The shoemaker smiled and got a bit of spicey sausage out of his lunchpail for me. He was an all-right guy. A little strange maybe, but OK.

Sam told him what we’d found, and where, and got out the shoe. Berman sobered real quick when he saw it, and he got a strange look on his face. He looked at it like he’d seen a ghost, and turned it over real slow-like, in his hands. He wasn’t smiling at all now, as he saw the dried blood.

“I know dis shoe,” he said slowly. “I order the pair for a customer two years ago. Dey come from a maker in Italy. Two months ago, I put on dis heel to replace the original, which was broken. See my mark, here?” He pointed to a tiny “SB,” stamped into the front of the heel, just where it joined the sole.

We left Berman’s shoe shop with a name for the woman who’d lost the shoe: Dorothea Henson. Saul Berman pronounced it “Doro-TAY-ah,” and acted like she might’ve meant something to him, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He knew more’n he was tellin, that’s for sure, but Sam left it alone for now.

I had a hunch I knew what the deal was, between the shoemaker and the Henson woman, but I kept quiet too. Sam was on the scent now.

Berman also gave us an address. “You find her, Lieutenant,” he said in his strange accent. “You find Dorothea.” You could tell he wanted to say more, but he didn’t for some reason.

Twenty minutes later Sam was knocking on the door of an expensive flat in south Midtown, and I was sniffing around the little gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet.

Nobody was answering Sam’s rap on the door, so I was trying to look under it, see? It was pretty dark in there, and I couldn’t hear nobody movin’ around, either. Then suddenly there was two quiet footsteps, and I heard a window sash go up.

I screeched at Sam as loud as I could, and he hit the door with his shoulder, hard. It splintered open just in time for us to see somebody dive through the window and head down the fire escape. Sam yelled “Police!” But the guy just on kept goin’.

I snarled and jumped out there after him. You don’t never run from a cop, see? Never! He wasn’t movin’ fast enough through the piled-up snow to get away from me, so it didn’t take but a couple of seconds for me to catch the creep. Then I had him cold, because he was too busy trying to keep me from makin’ hamburger out of his face to run no more.

Most folks don’t realize how well armed an ordinary housecat is until it’s too late, see? And I was a long way from being an ordinary cat in those days. Believe it, pal! I cut that guy up nine ways to Sunday. He never had a chance!

By that time Sam had caught up with us and slapped the bracelets on him. Sam recognized the guy on the spot, which was no surprise. He’s got a mind like a filing cabinet, and he knows all the small-timers and crooks that infest this city.

“Look who we got here,” he said, coughing a little. “Vinnie Scapesi, as I live and breathe! How long did ya’s stay outta the slam this time, Vin? Two weeks? Some people don’t ever learn nothin’.”

“Keep him away from me, McConnel!” Scapesi panted, pointing at me with his chin. “Ya’s got a dangerous animal there. He oughta be on a leash!” I spat at him, and he twisted around and tried to get behind Sam, but my partner jerked him back and said “None of that! Ya’s just hold still!”

Two uniforms who’d heard the commotion came slogging up the alley from the other direction, while Sam was sort of shakin’ Scapesi in the air. Them bums are always there to claim a piece of the collar, especially after somebody else, namely yours truly, does all the hard stuff for them!

Sure enough, one of ‘em volunteered their services to take the guy to the nearest callbox and send for the paddy wagon, while Sam leaned against a light pole and tried to get his wind back. The run down the alley had really taken it out of him. Sam smokes too much, if anybody asked me, which they didn’t. If he wants to croak when he’s forty years old, it ain’t none of my business.

He nodded and told ‘em to throw Vinnie into a holding cell until we could get back to interrogate him. Suspicion of burglary, and suspicion of assault. That would do to keep him on ice for a while.

We went back and gave the Henson dame’s place a quick once-over, but not a real search. I knew Captain Shaughnessy would send some other plainclothes cops to take care of that, once Sam had a chance to phone in.

The main thing that hit me was that there was nothin’ tore up or out of place in there, except what Sam and me had done crashin’ in. That door lock hadn’t been busted up to then, see? It’d been in one piece and locked until we showed up.

That meant Scapesi hadn’t broken in at all. From all the signs he must’ve had a key to the place. Either that or he’d found the window open, which ain’t likely around here. In this town, everybody puts three locks on everything they own.

I sniffed around, and I caught the scent of the dame on all her clothes and belongings, and I could smell the guy we’d just caught, too. That’s all. Nobody else had set foot in her digs in quite a while.

It was just a high-class dame’s flat, without the dame. Her scent was almost familiar to me, in a funny sort of way. I had the same naggin’ little hunch I’d got at Berman’s store, but I couldn’t quite put it together yet. I shook my head and pushed it into the back of my mind. It was something to figure out later.

The burglar I’d run down, if that’s what he really was, hadn’t tossed the joint lookin’ for valuables. Everything was still too neat. If he’d come after anything in particular, he’d known exactly where to find it. Or not find it, as the case may be. He didn’t have nothin’ on him when I caught him.

No, whatever had happened here, it was no simple burglary. The guy had just walked up the hall and gone in with a key, like he owned the joint. Yeah.

I could see that Dorothea had some strange acquaintances, for a girl who could afford to live in this kinda place, and own all the stuff she had in it. There was something else going on here, but I couldn’t quite put my paw on it. Not yet.

There was a telephone on the kitchen wall, and while Sam was using it to report in, I found the bedroom closet and went inside. All her expensive clothes was hangin’ in the closet, nice and straight, and all of ‘em made for a small woman, just like I’d figured from the sole on the shoe. All her shoes were there on the floor too, lined up neat as a pin. But there was no mate for the red one they found in Camden Park. Wherever she was, she still had it with her.

Just when Sam was hangin’ up, the building superintendent came stomping in, all steamed up and loud, wanting to know who was gonna pay for a new door. Sam just stared at him until he finally ran down, and then told him “Send a bill to the city. If ya’s don’t know the street number, look it up.” The guy turned all red in the face then, and started shakin’ his finger under Sam’s nose.

I could’ve told the chump that pulling an attitude wasn’t gonna get him noplace with Sam McConnel, but he had to find out for himself. Seems like humans gotta learn everything the hard way, and there’s always a few that never do get it.

After just a little bit of that, my partner grabbed him by the collar and frog-marched him all the way down to his office in the basement, where he made him haul out the lease records for the whole building. I was laughing all the way, but inside where nobody but Sam could see it. Some days are more fun than others, see? That’s just life.

I just sat there chuckling to myself and grooming my whiskers at that dumb building super, while Sam lit up a Lucky and made him go over every entry for Dorothea Henson’s fancy apartment.

Not one of them was in her name. Every month’s rent for the last two years had been paid by bank check, and all of them were signed by the same person: Daniel J Warner. Yeah.

Daniel “Doc” Warner was a name every gumshoe in the State knew in those days. He was a big-time bookkeeper for the Mob, who had worked for all the top Outfit bosses during the big money days of Prohibition. Word on the street had it he was keepin’ accounts for Alfredo Carlotti now.

Warner was shrewd, too. He could hide all sorts of dirty money in plain sight, and never leave any loose ends we could use to pin him or his bosses down. We kept tryin’ though. You never give up on a smart crook like that. Not until he’s makin’ license plates upstate on a twenty-five-year ticket.

If Doc Warner was payin’ Dorothea’s bills, that meant she was connected with the Carlottis, see?  Probably to the Big Boss himself. And that meant the plot of this case had just gotten a lot more complicated. Oh, yeah. And it wasn’t even lunch time yet.

Sam shut the ledger with a soft thud, told the building super we was keepin’ it for evidence, and walked off with it under his arm. That started the guy squeakin’ like a rat again, but he wasn’t brave enough to try anything else. I don’t blame him, either.

By the time we got back in Sam’s coupe, the snow had tapered off again, but it was still killer cold in the city. With that kinda cold, there’d be some street people and bums who wouldn’t make it, I knew. It happens every year, but what can ya’s do? If it wasn’t for Sam, it would’ve been me, my first winter here!

Sam headed back up into our own precinct, and straight to the Station, just like I figured he would. I could see the connections already starting to match up in his head. Yeah.

Sam McConnell knows the street, see? Every lowlife, shylock, streetwalker and mob boss in the city is engraved in his brain, just like a filing cabinet. One of ‘em can’t make a two-dollar bet with another one, without Sam knows it.

As soon as we got back, Sam went straight to the front counter, where grizzled old Sergeant Flaherty stood his watch in command of the uniforms. Sean Flaherty’s one of a kind. They chiseled him out of solid granite and bolted him to the foundations when they built this old place. And he’ll always be right there, whether anything else is still standing around him or not.

“Sean,” Sam said, and Flaherty looked up from what he was doin’. “Pull Jimmie Scapesi out of holding and put him in Interrogation B, the one where it’s always too hot.”

“Right. Somebody oughta fix that, one of these days.”

I chuckled to myself at the thought of Scapesi in there sweatin’, with one of the uniforms to keep an eye on him. Meanwhile, Sam headed off to visit the jakes with the morning paper under his arm.

I hopped up onto the counter to see how long it would take the Sarge to offer me a sardine or two out of his lunch bucket. Like most Irishmen, Flaherty had a soft spot for cats, see? Me, I’ve got a soft spot for Irishmen with sardines in their lunch buckets.

Ten minutes later, more or less, I was sitting on the interrogation room table glaring at Scapesi, while Sam loomed over him from the other side. After the cold outside, the furnace heat in there was hitting him hard, you could tell. I could see the claw marks I’d put on his ugly puss, but he didn’t look too beat up …yet.

A trickle of sweat ran down the crook’s face, and he tried to edge away from me, but his chair was just about up against the wall, so he couldn’t go far. I showed him my teeth and hissed, and he jerked his head back so hard it bumped the painted brickwork. I groomed my whiskers at him to show how little I cared.

Ya’s hadn’t oughta sic wild animals on people, McConnel,” he said without takin’ his eyes off me. “That cat clawed me near to death in that alley! Get him away!”

“Who, Marmalade?” Sam said around his cigarette, “He’s nothin’ but a pussycat, until ya’s get him aggravated. Tell us about the Henson dame, see? Make it quick, and I might keep him off ya’s.”

“I don’t know no Henson dame,” he whined. I started a soft, high-pitched growl at that dirty lie, and he jerked like a cornered squirrel and bumped his head again.

“Gimme a break, Sam!” he yelped. “Dis here ain’t right!”

“Tell us about the Henson dame, Vinnie. Maybe I’ll make the bad kitty go away,” Sam said in a mocking voice.

“Or maybe I should oughta say the Berman girl. The shoemaker’s daughter.” He took a last drag on his Lucky and flipped it away.

Scapesi’s eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”

“Never mind that. Where’s the girl?” my partner ground out, clearly out of patience with this creep. “Or maybe ya don’t think I’d put ya’s in a closet with Marmalade here, and shut the door! Make it snappy! I want to go to lunch sometime this week, see?”

I already knew Saul Berman was Dorothea’s father, see? Her scent that I’d picked up in her apartment was too much like Berman’s to fool me for long. A family resemblance, ya’s might say.

My partner had figured it out his own way, but it was the truth. I’d bet a whole can of sardines on it. Yeah.

I liked Saul Berman, see? He was a nice little guy. And this pipsqueak Scapesi had roughed up his daughter! I moved up closer to him and spat, and I let him see my claws. That finished off his courage, and he started singin’ like a canary.

“Mr. Carlotti’s got her!” he squeaked, just like the dirty rat he was. “I just work for him, see? I swear on my mother’s grave. Carlotti had his goons put the arm on her! I never touched the dame myself!”

“Alfredo Carlotti? The syndicate boss?” Sam said sharply, and Scapesi nodded.

“The rest of it, Vinnie! Spit it out! Or I’ll make you wish it was just Marmalade that had you by the neck.” He cocked his arm back like he was gonna give the creep the back of his hand, but stopped just short. I spat at Scapesi again, this time right in his face. We was all through foolin’ around with this guy, see?

“Dorothea’s up in Mr. Carlotti’s house! She ain’t dead! Just skinned up a little bit. I swear it. Keep that cat away from me! He’s crazy!

“It was about the diamond necklace. That’s all it was! Doc Warner sent her word that if she met him in the park and gave it back, nothin’ bad would happen to her family, and Mr. Carlotti would let her split up wid’ him. He’d leave her alone.

“But two of Carlotti’s goons was there instead, and when she didn’t have it, they put the arm on her and hauled her back to the house. He told me to go to Dorothea’s crib and get the thing out of her jewelry box, but it ain’t there either. That’s all I know. I swear it! I never laid a hand on her!”

At that moment Captain Shaughnessy shoved the door open. I’d heard him movin’ around out there, getting himself an earful of Scapesi’s babbling. “Get a sworn statement from him, Sam,” he said in a deadpan voice, just like he was askin’ about the weather.

Sam nodded, while I kept glaring and hissing at Scapesi. The bum was so scared now that he was whimpering like a little kid. What a chump! I never would’a hurt him… well, not much, anyway.

Sam stepped out into the hall to talk to the Cap, but I stayed right where I was, for the moment. I kinda enjoyed watching Scapesi squirm. The chump was afraid of cats, and I was having a real good time at his expense. The jerk had it comin’. Yeah.

 “I’ll phone Judge Crocker’s office and get an emergency search warrant for Alfredo Carlotti’s place up in Scottsdale,” the Captain said. “We’ll get the girl if she’s there. I’m gonna pull in Doc Warner, too. Maybe we got something we can pin on that weasel this time. Complicity in the kidnapping ought to just about do it. We been tryin’ long enough. But what’s this ‘necklace’ our friend in there keeps talkin’ about?”

“Some expensive gift Fredo Carlotti gave the girl, I guess,” Sam said, digging in his pockets for another cigarette. “It’s probably just like the little sneakthief told it. Fredo was keepin’ her, see? Doc Warner was paying all of her bills, and her crib was full of all kinds of fancy stuff she never could’ve got on her own. She was Fredo’s girl, see? He likes to feel like he owns ‘em.

“My guess is, Dorothea decides to jilt Carlotti, and he wants his jewelry back. She won’t fork it over, and Warner starts talking about all the terrible things that might happen to her family. So she agrees to meet him in Camden Park last night, and give it to him. But she showed up without the diamonds, and that was a big mistake.

“That’s about it. I might have couple of the details wrong, but not by much. I’d give better than even odds she’s got Carlotti’s necklace squirreled away someplace, and she’s welcome to it, I say.”

“That’s pretty good, Sam.” Shaughnessy said, like he didn’t want to admit Sam had solved another one. “It all lays out. How do ya’s wanna play the bust?”

“Who, me? Me and Marmalade already done the hard part. Give it to McMahon and Harris. If you’re smart, you’ll send plenty of uniforms with ‘em, too, and break out the shotguns. There ain’t no tellin’ what Alfredo Carlotti’s got waitin’ in that big house.”

“Oh yeah?” The Cap stuck out his chin. “What are you and dis overrated alley cat gonna do that’s so much more important?”

“We’re goin’ to lunch is what. And Marmalade ain’t no alley cat, so keep a civil tongue in your head. He’s my partner!”

“Okay, okay! Forget I said it.” Shaughnessy threw up both hands and stalked off to make his arrangements for the raid on Carlotti’s place.

Sam and me spent a full hour at the Bluebird Diner, fillin’ up on Diane DiSalvo’s solid cooking. Sam had chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, and she made a big salmon patty for me, fried up just the way I like it. Some days it seems like everything works out just right, ya’s know.

Sam was in such a rare, good mood he let Diane get right up next to him in a booth, which he don’t do with many dames. She could’a taught us cats a thing or two about slidin’ up against a guy, too. Sam let her get away with it, so maybe there was hope for somethin’ good there, after all. If my partner had to fall for a dame, Diane was the one I’d pick for him. She’s all right.

Then we headed back to the Precinct, not movin’ any faster than we had to. The sun was finally breaking out, and it looked like the snow was done for a while. Might even be some decent weather on the way. Heaven knows we could use it.

By the time we got back into the squad room, it was all over but the cryin’. McMahon and Harris was strutting around like they’d killed the Kaiser, while the uniforms marched Alfredo Carlotti, Doc Warner, and a couple of Carlotti’s muscle boys straight up to Sergeant Flaherty for booking, and then into the holding cells.

Carlotti was playin’ the stone face, but Warner was already whining for his lawyer.

“Let em’ squat in their cells for a while, before they get to call anybody,” I thought to myself. I got no use at all for any louse that mistreats women. Trash in an expensive suit is still just trash. Yeah.

Sam watched the show for a minute or so, and then set me on his desk while he rummaged in the drawers for his extra pack of Luckys. He’d run out while we was at the Bluebird.

“It was just like ya’s called it, Sam,” said Captain Shaughnessy from in back of him. Sam don’t like it when somebody comes up behind him, see? Shaughnessy knows that, but he does it anyway, just out of spite, so Sam ignored him and kept on with what he was doing.

“The bust went real smooth. Carlotti never knew what was coming until we crashed in on him. We got the girl back okay, too. She’s just roughed up a little from the scuffle in the park, and madder than a wet cat over being manhandled and shut up in a closet overnight.”

I arched my back and glared at him for the “wet cat” wisecrack, but he never noticed. He just kept on talkin’. Some humans do entirely too much talkin’, is what I think.

“We took her to Mercy General,” he said, “and a couple of uniforms went to tell Berman and his wife what was goin’ on. They’re with her now. She’ll be fine in a day or two. One thing bothers me though. Why was Berman’s daughter goin’ by an assumed name? Why ‘Henson’?”

Sam had found his pack of smokes by then, and took his time lighting up before he answered.

“Didn’t want to advertise she was Jewish. Her family got out of Poland on account of it ain’t a safe place for folks of their persuasion to live anymore.

“Right next door to Germany too, y’know. That guy they got there, the screwball with the crazy eyes and the Chaplin mustache, he’s even worse. When Dorothea left home to take up with Fredo Carlotti, I guess she figured she was probably better off leavin’ the family name behind too.”

“That’s great work, Sam,” the Captain said. “No, I mean it. Ya’s start with one red shoe at nine in the morning, and by noon you found the girl, and we was on our way to bust a mob kingpin and his bookkeeper too. That’s real nice!”

And that’s just about all there is to tell about the Red Shoe case. We lucked out that time: nobody got killed or seriously hurt, which is the way you want all your cases to come out, if ya’s got any sense.

Which ya’s clearly don’t, on account of ya’s spent your whole morning listening to a Cop’s old orange cat tell about stuff that happened a long time ago. And which nobody remembers anyhow.

Myself, I don’t know why Shaughnessy was so surprised at how quick Sam put the whole thing together. That’s my partner. That’s Sam McConnel, the best police detective in the State. Anybody that says anything different is about to have more trouble than he can handle. From me. Make book on it, pal.

And now, if ya’s are done askin’ questions for one day, this old cat has got some unfinished business to take care of. I’m gonna go cough up a nasty hairball on Captain Brian Shaughnessy’s chair. Yeah.

 

 

END