100 Malicious Little Mysteries

An Easy Score by Al Nussbaum

It’s impossible to say exactly why the two men chose old Mrs. Hartman for their victim. Perhaps it was her obvious age and frailty. Perhaps it was the fact that she had come out of the bank only minutes before. Perhaps they had been attracted by the oversized shoulder bag she clutched protectively, or the fact that she walked only a block before leaving the busy thoroughfare and strolling along a quiet and deserted side street.

Any combination, or all of these factors, may have influenced them. In any case, they had seen her and marked her an easy score. They had come up behind her and then separated, one going to either side. The one on her left had tripped her and, at the same instant, the other man cut the strap on her shoulder bag and tried to take it away from her. Instead of throwing her hands out to block her fall, as they had expected her to do, the gray-haired old woman grabbed the bag with both hands and gripped it tightly. She fell to the pavement, and there was the sound of an old bone snapping, but she didn’t give up her hold on the bag.

One man wrapped the dangling end of the shoulder strap around his hand and tried to wrench the bag free, while the other man kicked the old woman with his square-toed boots. There were no cries for help, no screams. The only sounds were the shuffle of feet and the men’s heavy breathing as they tried to force Mrs. Hartman to release her bag. The men were determined to have the bag. Every tug on the strap was accompanied by several kicks to loosen her hold; but her tightly clamped jaws and frantic grip were evidence that she was just as determined not to have it taken from her.

Unfortunately, the woman wasn’t a match for even one man, let alone two. It was only seconds before she had been thrust into unconsciousness by pain and exhaustion. They tore the bag from her limp fingers and ran away, leaving her sprawled across the sidewalk.

No one saw the attack and robbery. It was almost fifteen minutes before Mrs. Hartman was discovered by another pedestrian. The police and an ambulance arrived simultaneously, but by then the two men were miles away.

She regained consciousness for a few moments as she was being carried to the ambulance on a stretcher. She turned her pain-filled eyes toward a uniformed policeman who was standing nearby, looking down at her. “My money,” she said in a tone so weak he almost missed it. “They stole my purse, and it had all my money in it.”

“How much was taken, ma’am?” the officer asked.

She paused a moment, then managed to reply, “Thirty-three thousand dollars,” before losing consciousness again.

She hadn’t been able to say much, but it was enough to raise the mugging from the level of a relatively minor offense, as such things go, and give it the stature of a major crime. Four detectives were dispatched to the hospital emergency ward to be on hand when she could speak again; and an equal number of newspaper reporters and television newsmen converged upon the hospital, too.

When she was wheeled from the treatment room, Mrs. Hartman looked like a mummy. Both of her arms and one leg were in heavy casts and her head was swathed in bandages. She was awake, though, and able to answer a few more questions. Detective Sergeant Kendris, a burly man in his forties, did all the talking. The people from the news media had to make do with what they were able to overhear and the photos they could take.

“Mrs. Hartman, can you hear me all right?” Kendris asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied weakly.

“You told the officer where you were found that you had been robbed of thirty-three thousand dollars. Is that right?”

“Yes...”

“How did you happen to have so much cash with you?”

Mrs. Hartman hesitated, as though seeking the right words. Then she confessed, “I’m... I’m a foolish old woman. I don’t always show good sense. Once every year, and sometimes twice, I draw all my savings from the bank. I keep the money at home for a few days, to look at it and touch it, then put it back in the bank. This time...” her voice trailed off weakly “... I lost it all.”

“Did you recognize the thief?”

“There were two of them, but I’d never seen them before. And I’m not sure I’d know them if I saw them again. It all happened so very fast...”

At that point the sedative the doctor had administered took hold and she went to sleep.

“If you have any more questions. Sergeant Kendris,” the nurse said, “you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

The next afternoon, Kendris stormed into the hospital, looking like an angry bear, but he didn’t get to speak to Mrs. Hartman. She slept all day, and the doctor refused to allow Kendris to awaken her.

The following day, Kendris returned again. He had calmed somewhat, but he was still visibly angry. Mrs. Hartman was propped up in bed and a high-school-age hospital volunteer was reading to her from the newspaper. Kendris asked the girl to wait outside while he talked to Mrs. Hartman.

“All right,” he demanded once they were alone, “what was the idea of lying to me?”

“I... I don’t know what you mean,” she answered.

“Come off it! You know what I’m talking about — your imaginary thirty-three thousand dollars. The robbery was all over the newspapers and television, but when I went to the bank to see if they had a record of the serial numbers on the money, I learned you’ve never had an account there. The only time they see you is when, like the day before yesterday, you stop in to cash your Social Security check. Why did you lie?”

The injured woman’s hands opened and closed and opened again in a gesture of helplessness. “I didn’t want the thieves to get away with it. I... I wanted them to pay for what they did to me.”

“But you didn’t have to lie,” Kendris persisted. “Don’t you know we’d have worked just as hard, made exactly the same effort, to recover your Social Security pension as we did for the larger amount?”

When she didn’t reply immediately, Kendris had time to examine what he’d just said and to see how ridiculous it was. As long as it had been believed that thirty-three thousand dollars had been stolen, there had been four detectives assigned to the case, and reporters to record their every move; but now he was the only one officially assigned, and that would last only until he returned to the office and put his report in the Unsolved File. At least he had the grace to be embarrassed.

“Oh, that isn’t what I meant! I’m sure the police do their best regardless of the amount lost,” Mrs. Hartman said, but to Kendris’ ears the words had a hollow ring. It made him all the more ashamed to have this beaten-up old woman show more concern for his feelings than he’d shown for hers.

“Look,” he said, cutting the interview short, “let’s just forget the whole thing.” He began moving toward the door. “If anything turns up, you’ll be notified,” he said, and then he was gone from the room.

The young hospital volunteer returned. She picked up the newspaper she’d set aside when Kendris arrived, and sat beside the bed.

“Would you like me to read some more?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Mrs. Hartman answered. “Read the part about the murders again.”

“But I’ve already read it four times,” the girl protested.

“I know, but please read it again.”

The girl cleared her throat and then began. “Police investigated a disturbance in an apartment at 895 Seventh Avenue at about ten last night and found two men, William White and Jesse Bolt, who shared the apartment, dead on the living room floor, the result of a knife fight. Neighbors said the men had been arguing and fighting most of the day, each accusing the other of cheating him out of an undisclosed amount of money. The knife fight in which they killed one another was the climax of the day-long confrontation. Both men had long arrest records. Police are continuing their investigation.”

Mrs. Hartman smiled behind her bruised lips. “Please, read it again,” she said softly.