Leopold's Way (30 page)

“No. Forget about it.” He turned to one of the detectives and started reading the inventory of missing stamps. Leopold stood there for a moment, then shrugged and walked away. It wasn't his case anyway; he'd just happened along in time to break his arm.

Yet the case did bother him, because he had broken his arm. The following day he called the public library and asked if they could give him the name of some leading stamp collector in the area. They had two names for him: Oscar Bailey, and an assistant professor at the university, a fellow named Dexter Jones.

That afternoon, driving as well as he could manage with one arm in a sling, Leopold went out to the university campus. It had been some years since he'd been called there to investigate the killing of a student by his roommate, and the place had changed considerably. New buildings were under construction everywhere, and the old ivy walls were almost obscured by workmen and steel scaffolding.

His last visit had been on a glorious autumn day, but this one was quite different. The off-and-on drizzle of the past few days had started again, dampening sidewalks and spirits, and the sight of a muddy puddle at one construction site only served to remind him of his fall two nights earlier. He entered the Fine Arts Building grimly and sought out the office of Dexter Jones.

Jones proved to be a graying, middle-aged man with glasses and what appeared to be a large mole on his nose. Eyeing Leopold over his glasses, he asked, “What happened to your arm?”

“Broke it chasing a burglar.”

There was a grunt of sympathy. “I had an accident myself this morning. Tip of a match flew off and burned my nose here.” He pointed to the mole-like mark. “Looks terrible!”

“I understand you're an expert on postage stamps, Professor.”

“It's only a hobby, but ever since the newspaper ran an article on me two years ago, the local library recommends me as some sort of expert. What can I do for you?”

“I want to ask you about a stamp called the Jersey Devil.”

Dexter Jones lifted his fingers from a scratch-pad he'd been toying with. “The Jersey Devil?”

“It was recovered after a robbery at Oscar Bailey's house.”

“Did you ask Bailey about it?”

“He was quite vague. I was hoping you'd be more direct.”

“Is it an official police matter?”

“The robber was from New Jersey. If the stamp was from there too, it might be a connection.”

“I see.” He thought about it some more before replying. “Very well, I have nothing to hide. The Jersey Devil is the name of a semisecret, privately-owned postal system operated in competition with the government.”

Leopold wasn't certain he'd heard correctly. “A private postal system? Isn't that against the law?”

“Yes. Which is why it's secret.”

“But who would use such a thing?”

“Various groups who need to conduct their business without fear of mail checks and interceptions by the government. Some quite respectable banks have even been known to use it.”

“The whole thing is a bit hard to believe.”

“Not at all. The government today exercises an amazing amount of control over the mails. Second and third-class mail can be opened under certain circumstances, and first-class mail can be delayed and recorded. It's only logical that criminal elements, dealers in pornography, sellers of sweepstakes tickets, drug peddlers and the like, will use some other method of communication.”

“But who's behind the Jersey Devil system?” Leopold insisted.

Dexter Jones paused to light his pipe. “A man named Corflu, who runs a trucking company in New Jersey. I've never met him, but I understand he's quite a colorful character.”

Leopold stood up. There seemed nothing more to be learned about the Jersey Devil. “Thank you for your time, Professor. It's been most interesting.”

Jones gave him a final grin. “Always glad to help the law.”

On the way back to his car, walking through the puddles that remained from the March drizzle, Leopold wondered about one thing. He wondered about the name
Oscar Bailey
which had been scrawled on the scratch-pad with which Jones had toyed.

Nothing happened for two days, and Leopold pretty much forgot about the Jersey Devil, and tried to busy himself with as much of the office routine as possible.

It was Friday morning when Fletcher walked into his office and dropped the bombshell. “How's the arm, Captain?”

“Heavy.”

“Didn't you say you talked to a Professor Dexter Jones about that odd stamp the other day?”

“Sure. What about him?”

“Nothing, except he was murdered last night. Apparently Jones was working late on campus. He left some test papers on his desk and started home around eleven. His car was in the faculty parking lot, and someone was waiting there for him. Shot him twice in the chest.”

“Robbery?”

“Not unless the guy got scared off.”

“Did Jones live long enough to say anything?”

“Not a word. Killed instantly.”

“What about his personal life?”

“Divorced years ago. Wife and children out on the West Coast somewhere. Apparently he was popular with the faculty and students. No sign of trouble there.”

“Girls?”

“Nothing there. He wasn't one to fool around with his students, if that's what you're thinking.”

Leopold remembered his conversation with the cheerful, pipe-smoking man, and he felt somehow as if he were partly responsible for what had happened. Was there something he could have done? Had he asked the wrong questions, or failed to ask the right ones?

“I'll be working with you on this one,” he announced to Fletcher. “I feel I'm part of it already.”

“I don't think you should, Captain, with your arm.”

“Nonsense! I'm not going to sit here rotting away for the next month. Besides, I may have a lead that could help us.” He told Fletcher about the name on the scratch-pad. “I think it's time I had a talk with Oscar Bailey.”

Leopold was becoming quite skilled at one-handed driving, though he wouldn't have liked going any distance that way. Returning to the scene of his misadventure gave him a brief moment of apprehension, and he was especially careful going up the front steps to Bailey's house.

The tall, elderly gentleman met him at the door, and seemed surprised. “Leopold, isn't it? Captain Leopold? What brings you here, sir?”

“A few questions, if you have the time. You may not have heard yet, but one of your fellow philatelists was murdered last night—Dexter Jones, out at the university.”

“Jones! Murdered, you say?” He took a step backward and sank into a chair. Leopold stepped in and shut the door behind him.

“Were you a friend of his, Mr. Bailey?”

“Not especially, but at my age the death of anyone is something of a shock, a reminder of one's own mortality. Who killed him?”

“We don't know. I thought you might have some ideas.”

Bailey waved a gnarled hand. “I hardly knew the man. We met a few times at stamp shows some years back, and he phoned me once or twice to discuss special stamp issues, but really we saw very little of each other. In a sense we were rivals, and in this business it's usually best for rivals to keep away from one another.”

“Then you wouldn't know if he had any enemies?”

“No.”

“He didn't happen to phone you during the last few days?”

“I don't….” Oscar Bailey hesitated, through uncertainty or design. “Yes, now that you mention it. He called to inquire about the theft, to find out what was missing.”

“Wasn't that unusual, if you were not close friends?”

“Oh, he was just curious, that's all. Wanted to gloat, I suppose.”

“Is there any possibility the thieves might have tried to sell him your stamps? I understand the girl got away with a valuable Hawaiian one.”

“Anything's possible, but I doubt if they'd try to sell it this close to home. New York would be better.”

Leopold nodded. It confirmed his own conclusion. “Then there's the matter of the Jersey Devil. I know all about it, so there's no need to be coy, Mr. Bailey.”

“I know nothing about the Jersey Devil.”

“That's odd, since Jones told me before he was killed that it was a private postal service used for extra-legal purposes.”

Oscar Bailey's face reddened a bit. “That may be so. My interest is in stamps and postmarks and covers only. The stamp you mention came my way and I added it to my collection.”

“Do you know a man named Corflu, a New Jersey trucker?”

“I may have heard the name. I don't remember.”

Leopold could see he was getting nowhere. Bailey wasn't about to discuss the Jersey Devil with any detective. “All right,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”

“Are you going to get back my two-cent Hawaiian?”

Leopold merely looked at him. “First, I'm going to find out who killed Dexter Jones.”

Jimmy Duke, the stamp burglar, was out on bail, and it wasn't until the following day that Leopold located him at his apartment in a rundown section of town. The day was sunny for a change, with the first hint of spring in the air, and Leopold felt good. Even the weight of the cast on his left arm was becoming bearable.

Duke, a stoop-shouldered young man with straight black hair and a pencil-thin mustache, didn't recognize him. “You another cop come to check on me? I ain't skipped town. You can see that, copper.”

“I want to ask you some questions.”

Then, seeing the cast on his arm, Duke's forehead twisted into a frown. “Are you the guy that broke his arm trying to grab me?”

“I'm the guy.”

Duke thought about this, twisting his face into another unlikely shape. He reminded Leopold of nothing so much as a great rubber-faced rat. “Well, what do you want now?”

“The girl that was with you. Where can I find her?”

“Hell, man, they kept me up all night asking me about the girl! I don't know no girl!”

Leopold stepped closer to Duke. “Look, buster, I was there, remember? I heard a girl's voice call your name. She made off with some quite valuable stamps, in case you don't read the papers.”

Jimmy Duke lowered his head and sulked. “I don't know her. I met her in a bar and she came along with me.”

“What's her name?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Who put up your bail?”

“My brother in St. Louis.”

Leopold sighed. “Look, Jimmy, I'm trying to get some information.”

Duke's face twisted into something approaching a smile. “First names now, huh? The friendly copper! That's a real gas, that is!”

“I'm on a murder case, Duke. A stamp collector was murdered two nights ago, and it could tie in with your robbery. You were already out on bail then. How'd you like to face a murder charge?”

“You know I didn't kill anybody!” The words had gotten through. He was scared.

“If you didn't, maybe the girl did. Who is she, Duke?”

“I don't know.”

“If she's such a good friend, why hasn't she split the rest of the loot with you?” It was a shot in the dark, but Leopold had a hunch it was true.

Jimmy Duke thought about that. He rummaged around for a cigarette and finally said, “All right, copper. Her name is Bonnie Irish. At least that's the name she uses. She's done some go-go dancing at clubs around town.”

“Where does she live?”

“Rooms with a couple of other girls, but don't waste your time. She skipped town after the other night. Probably in New York trying to peddle that stamp for 30 or 40 grand, like the papers said.”

Leopold nodded. He had the feeling the rat-faced man was telling the truth. “Don't leave town. We may want you again.”

“Don't worry, copper. I'll be here till the trial.”

During the next three days police and detectives searched the area for the dancer named Bonnie Irish, but she truly seemed to have dropped from sight. The two-cent Hawaiian had not yet turned up in any of the normal New York channels, and Oscar Bailey was growing increasingly restive.

“He calls twice a day,” Fletcher told Leopold the following Tuesday morning. “But I suppose we can't blame him.”

“I do have an odd feeling of frustration on this case, Fletcher. Any leads on the Jones killing yet?”

“Nothing. I know you don't buy it, Captain, but I'm leaning toward the theory that the killer was a holdup man who panicked and ran. Nothing else fits. The guy had no enemies.”

“Maybe you're right, Fletcher. Damned if I know.”

On Wednesday, Leopold's arm began to itch beneath the cast. He was restless and irritable, and anxious to do something. Finally he called Fletcher in and announced, “I'm driving over to Jersey to talk to this Mr. Corflu about his private postal system.” Something in a phone company report had brought Corflu to mind.

“Like hell you are, if you'll excuse me, Captain. You've been driving around with one arm far too much already.” Fletcher unrolled his shirt sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “I've got no other leads to follow. I might as well drive you over myself. You're sure we won't upset the Jersey authorities?”

Leopold, giving reluctant agreement to Fletcher's accompanying him, answered, “We're not going to arrest anybody. If this Corflu is violating federal laws, it would be up to the Post Office Department to get after him. I'm just interested in the murder of Dexter Jones, and that's what I want to talk about.”

“You really think Corflu had Jones killed because he told you about the Jersey Devil?”

“It's farfetched, I'll admit. But Bailey certainly seems afraid to talk about it.”

Traffic was light on this cloudy weekday morning, and they made good time. The offices of Corflu Trucking Company were on the outskirts of Paterson, in a low, rambling warehouse that had been converted to house a fleet of modern diesel trucks. Leopold and Fletcher were impressed by it, but they were even more impressed by Benedict Corflu himself.