Tough Cop. John Roeburt

age,” Devereaux said dolefully. “But I’ll work it off,” he promised.

      “Now shower,” the Finn ordered, enjoying his moment of eminence and authority.

      Solowey came in and surveyed the scene wryly. Devereaux gestured the masseur out of the room.

      “Nice place to conduct detective business!”

      Devereaux smiled. “Peel and get massaged.”

      “I don’t like massages,” Solowey sniffed.

      “Keeps you young.”

      “And I don’t like youth. Too trying. The only thing I can remember about my youth is one big impatience to grow older.” Solowey smiled. “A scholar once said, you grow old if you’re lucky. I like being fifty.”

      “Then comes sixty,” Devereaux shuddered.

      “First comes fifty-one.”

      Devereaux shook his head. “After fifty you count by tens. Up to the final curtain.”

      “And that scares you, eh, Devereaux?” Solowey looked at him shrewdly. “My good friend, I wouldn’t exchange a precious minute of age for an hour of youth. Or a small idea for the muscles of a strong boy. You believe me?”

      Devereaux nodded mechanically. “Why not?”

      “Then also believe me when I say”—Solowey’s eyes sought and held Devereaux’s—“that this obsession you have with gymnasiums and athletics is a lack of maturity I have long detected in you.” Solowey sighed. “Forty-one, with all the painful triumphs you have won over foolishness, and you would surrender it all just to be twenty.”

      Devereaux frowned. “Pretty broad generality, no?”

      “Is it? At forty-one, already a retired detective. Like you were seventy. And running away somewhere, in search of yesterday. Now, in your best season. Now, when you are at the peak of your usefulness.”

      “Talk, talk.” Devereaux went to the shower stall. “Best way to shut you up is to drown you out.” The shower hissed into life.

      Later, while Devereaux dressed, Solowey chuckled over an open newspaper. “This clever Phillips. So clever, and such a misanthrope. Listen to his paragraph about an opening last night.” Solowey read, “ ‘The theatrical season opened last night to prove once again that innocuousness is a special virtue of the human species. Safe Harbor made its point admirably. Take it away, Hollywood.’ ”

      Devereaux made a face. “What about Phillips’ background? Find out something about him?”

      “Very little, my friend.” Solowey shrugged. “Two men worked all day producing a blank page. An expensive day, and for nothing. Libraries, newspapers, colleagues, nothing. Phillips is a man without a past.”

      “Exactly how much of his past is obscure?”

      “Everything until a book of criticism published ten years ago. After the book, Phillips began to become somebody. About Phillips the critic and essayist, there is much. There are articles about him, newspaper pieces, but no personal information, no background. It’s like Phillips was born with the first book he published.”

      “No record of a marriage?”

      “We haven’t found one yet. About the daughter, except for one picture printed in Harper’s Bazaar three years ago, also no record.”

      “What was the occasion for the picture?”

      “A horse show given by a New City, Rockland County, Country Club. Phillips and the girl were in riding habit. The caption read, ‘Martin Phillips and his daughter, Jennifer.’ I’m having a photostat made for the files.” Solowey made a gesture. “Anyhow, my men are still searching.”

      Solowey turned some pages back from the theater page of his newspaper. “Also, Devereaux, a few changes were made in that story you told me yesterday.” He tapped a news column.

      Devereaux arrested the knotting of his tie and craned toward the newspaper. “That old lady wasn’t murdered,” Solowey said. “A heart attack was the cause of death.”

      Devereaux frowned thoughtfully and Solowey continued, “And nothing was stolen, according to the police. Nothing they could determine, anyhow. A sum of money, about six hundred dollars, some trinkets, a watch, and some antique jewelry weren’t touched.”

      “But the room was sacked.”

      “Sacked, yes. So Longo was looking for other things, maybe, when he hid in that closet.”

      Devereaux’s eyes widened. “How do you know it was Longo!”

      “I found out the same way you did. But with far less violence.” Solowey smiled. “Like you, I guessed a man with sharp wits must also have sharp eyes. So I questioned the room clerk. He was first reluctant, but he finally talked without too much persuasion.”

      “After I softened him up,” Devereaux said grimly.

      “Perhaps.” Solowey caught Devereaux’s eye. “Another curious need in you, my friend. This need to be a tough cop. That was a pretty savage beating you gave the hotel clerk.”

      The implication irked. “The city’s a lot cleaner for my twenty years of being a tough cop, Solowey.”

      “Cleaner, perhaps. But is it a lot wiser?”

      “Look,” Devereaux began irritably, “violence is the only language hoodlums understand.”

      “There are ways better than fists, my friend. Far better ways. Every time you use your fists, Devereaux, you lose something. You prove that you’re a tough cop, sure. But you prove something else, too.”

      “Prove what?” Devereaux frowned.

      “Another time, maybe I’ll dare tell you.” Solowey smiled. “Meanwhile, one favor I ask. Don’t turn the room clerk in.”

      “But he’s taking numbers bets.”

      “A little cog in a big wheel. You should arrest the bankers, Devereaux.”

      “I caught the room clerk,” Devereaux said grimly.

      “He has a wife and a four-months-old infant.”

      “The man’s a habitual offender.”

      “He’ll quit, Devereaux. He took an oath with me.”

      Devereaux shook his head. “He’s lying.”

      “Perhaps. But a man who swears to God should be believed once, and maybe even once again. Being believed helps a man develop self-respect.”

      Devereaux shook his head. “No good, Solowey. I’m not playing judge and parole officer. Never have, never will. I’m a cop, and an arrest is an arrest.”

      Solowey sighed. “You make me think just a little bit less of you, my friend.”

      Devereaux pursed his lips. “What do you know about Nick Longo?” he said after a while.

      “Next to nothing. A subway pickpocket, from what I know. We’re checking further.”

      Devereaux got into his coat, then reached into an inside pocket. “Drop Longo, for now. I’ll go after him.” He held a photograph out to Solowey. “Know the man seated with Phillips?”

      Solowey said, “No. But if I had time—”

      “You’ve got all morning, at least. What would you say went on at that table, from the expressions in the picture?”

      Solowey said promptly, “Thieves huddled together. They’ve reached some crisis and are conferring on strategy.”

      Devereaux nodded. “My impression exactly. Phillips