Patterson says they got away with $250,000 worth of merchandise. A quarter million! How many pounds, how many cubic feet of paper does that represent?” Lindsey peered over the police officer’s head at the store owner.
Patterson was as tall and scrawny and pale as Plum was short and fleshy and black. He blinked owlishly. “Th-there wasn’t any truck here, Mr. Lindsey. I-I don’t think there was, anyhow.”
“Then how did they get away with the loot?”
“Uh, I sup-suppose they could have carried it in a corrugated carton. Or a backpack. Or—or—” He pointed at the insurance adjuster. At Hobart Lindsey! “Or, uh, somebody could have carried the comics away in a briefcase like y-yours, Mr. Lindsey.”
There was a rapping on the glass of the front door of the shop. Patterson revolved his head as if it were on a swivel. He craned his neck toward the sound, then turned back to face Plum and Hobart. “Uh, Marvia, uh, Mr. Lindsey. It’s Jan—Janice—and Linc. M-My staff. Can I let them in? Can I open the store now?” He held up his wrist, showing a digital watch. “It-It’s time to open.”
“Okay with me, Terrence.”
Marvia, Terrence, Jan, Linc. Oh, chummy, chummy. Patterson took the distance back to the front door with huge, birdlike strides. Jan and Linc, Lindsey could see, were standing with their arms around each other’s waists. Jan was Asiatic and Linc was some kind of nondescript racial mixture.
Officer Plum said, “I don’t think you understand what happened here. This wasn’t a massive theft of stock. Whoever knocked this place over knew exactly what they were doing. Terrence tells me that approximately thirty-five items were taken.”
“He just gave me a dollar value on the phone. He said a quarter million. I figured it would take a stadium full of comic books to make that much. Tons of the things. What are comic books worth? You’d have to haul them away in a truck.”
“No way.” She shook her head. “Just thirty-five of them. You don’t know anything about comic books, I take it.”
If only she knew! “Not the modern ones,” Lindsey said. “When I was a kid I read a few. Archie, Richie Rich, Disney stuff. And my father—”
He was going to leave it there, but she said, “Your father—what?”
“He was a cartoonist. He drew for the comics.”
“Anything in the store?”
Lindsey moved his head to indicate the display case containing Gangsters at War. “He wasn’t very good, I’m afraid. He was just getting established. He died before I was born.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“I never knew him, so I never missed him.”
She pursed her lips.
Lindsey hoped she wasn’t going to ask him more about it. He didn’t like telling the story. People always offered their sympathy when they heard it.
Officer Plum said, “But family is so important.”
Lindsey said nothing.
After an awkward pause, Officer Plum asked, “About these stolen comic books....”
Lindsey said, “Yes?”
“A lot of people collect them. Sometimes they even form syndicates and buy into them, as investments.”
She knew a lot about comic books for somebody who had just come to investigate a burglary. Lindsey said so.
If she hadn’t been so black, Lindsey thought, she would have blushed. Instead she blew out a breath through her nostrils. “I collect them myself. Just a few.”
Berkeley’s finest.
“Thirty-five items, worth $250,000. That makes just over—”
He took his pocket organizer out of his briefcase and flipped it open to the calculator.
“Don’t bother,” said Officer Plum. “It comes to a little over seven thousand apiece. But I have a detailed inventory here.” She tapped her fingernail against her clipboard. “I’m sure Terrence will provide you with an inventory on his claim, but if you’d rather, I can get you a photocopy of the report. You’ll probably want one anyway, to verify the insurance claim.”
Lindsey hesitated.
“Well, I have to go.” She turned around, walked to the front of the shop, spoke briefly with Terry Patterson, then left.
Patterson came back to where Lindsey was standing. “Y-You brought me the insurance forms, Mr. Lindsey? I really need to take care of this. Those weren’t my comics. I mean, some of them were and some of them weren’t. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I—”
Lindsey put up his hand. He couldn’t stand babbling, and it looked like Patterson was going to babble away indefinitely, “I have the forms here, don’t worry. But you know, we can’t just make out a check for this kind of money until there’s been an investigation. We have to make sure that the claim is legitimate. And if there’s any chance of recovering the loot, we have to work on that angle.”
Patterson put his hand to his forehead. He made a low, moaning sound.
“Besides,” Lindsey said, “there are a lot of unanswered questions. For instance, your two, ah, helpers.” Linc and Jan were in the front room. They had opened the street door as if no crime had been committed. They might have seen Officer Plum leaving, heard the end of Lindsey’s conversation with their boss. They must be boiling with curiosity.
Linc was arranging stock on the wire racks and tables. Jan was standing behind the cash register.
Already several customers had gathered inside the store. A handful of what looked like elementary-school children clustered at the wire racks, and an older man with greasy-looking gray hair and a bald spot stood near the wall. The elderly man gazed up at a thirty-year-old copy of Reform School Girls that hung in a transparent bag. Instead of the customary colorful drawing, the cover featured a photograph of a busty female model. A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth, smoke drifting lazily upward. She had her skirt hiked up and was adjusting the top of one sheer stocking. The top of her dress was pulled low over her shoulders and her bosom was exposed lewdly.
“Look at those two,” Lindsey said. “How do you know they didn’t steal the comics? What time did the burglary take place, anyway?”
Terry Patterson shrugged, looking more like an updated Ichabod Crane than ever.
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head.
Lindsey waited for an answer. It was a good device. Just wait. People are conditioned to keep a conversation going. If the silence gets too long, they talk. Sometimes it takes a little encouragement—like an expectant look or an inquisitorial grunt.
As usual, it worked.
“I, uh, Linc closed last night. He phoned me at home. That’s our regular procedure. This is just a small business, you see.
