101 Mystery Stories

18 We Spy Clark Howard

Benson, the substitute letter carrier, arrived at the main post office promptly at 7:00 A.M. He went into the sorting room and waited, along with three other substitutes, to be assigned a route. Presently the assistant postmaster came out of his office and passed out the route sheets. Benson got his last.

“You’ll be out in the Glen Hill district,” the assistant postmaster said. “It’s a lot like the Park Forest route you had last week; takes a while to get out there but it’s a nice, pleasant route once you get started. Nice upper- class neighborhoods, hardly any dogs at all.”

“Thank you, sir,” Benson said, taking the sheet. He was always careful to be polite with the assistant postmaster; it assured him a good route on the one day that he worked each week.

“How’s your college coming along?” the assistant postmaster inquired.

“Very well, sir, thank you,” Benson said. “This job helps a lot. I want to thank you again for putting me on.”

“Glad to do it,” the older man said. “Way I look at it, a fellow trying to get an education deserves all the breaks he can get.” He patted Benson on the shoulder and sent him on his way.

The bus ride to the Glen Hill substation took twenty-five minutes. Benson checked in with the route foreman and helped the letter sorter finish collating his route. By eight-fifteen he had his mail in a delivery scooter and was driving into one of the Glen Hill residential sections.

It was, as the assistant postmaster had said, a nice, pleasant route. The houses, most of which were two stories, were set well back on large lots with curved driveways and manicured lawns. An occasional gardner could be seen working, and now and again Benson passed a parked delivery truck of some kind, but for the most part there was little or no activity on block after winding block as he proceeded along his route. The mailboxes, without exception, were curbside; most of them were either wrought iron on black metal poles or tooled brass on wooden posts. They all had the house number on them and, more often than not, the last name of the occupant. One could not, Benson reflected several times that morning, have asked for an easier route.

It was getting on toward eleven when he happened to see the woman taking the mail out of the Manley mailbox. He was on Heather Street, in the eighteen-hundred block; he had just finished the east side of the street, which was still in the shade, and had turned around to go back up the west side. The Manley house was second from the corner, a Mediterranean affair with a balcony all the way across the front and lots of ivy climbing each side.

Benson had reached the fourth house in his return trip up the west side of Heather and had paused to sort through the next bundle of letters, when he happened to notice the woman in his rear-view mirror. She had crossed the lawn from the corner house, which was 1800, and taken mail from the Manley box, which was 1810. Of course, Benson thought, it could be Mrs. Manley; she could be visiting the neighbor next door and just have run out to get her mail. Then again...

Best to call Mr. Grey, he decided. Mr. Grey could check it out easily enough. It might be nothing at all, or it might be just what Mr. Grey was looking for. Best to call him.

Benson finished the block, then drove the scooter over to the Glen Hill Center. There was a drive-in restaurant there where he could eat lunch after he made his call. He wheeled onto the apron of a filling station, pulled up next to an outdoor phone booth and dropped his dime into the slot, then dialed the number Mr. Grey had given him, the number that was a private line to Mr. Grey’s office. The phone at the other end rang only once before it was answered.

“Hello? Grey speaking.”

“Benson, Mr. Grey.”

“Benson, yes. How are, my boy? How’s everything at school?”

“Just fine, sir.”

“Splendid. Well, what can I do for you, Benson?”

“I... I’m not sure I should be bothering you, Mr. Grey, but you said to call if I even suspected—”

“Exactly what I said, Benson, exactly. What is it?”

Benson told him about the woman coming out of 1800 and taking mail from 1810.

“Hmmm,” Mr. Grey said, and Benson could almost see him rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You’re positive she didn’t come out of 1810, get the mail, and then walk over to 1800?”

“Yes, sir,” Benson said. “There’s a hedge between the two yards; I saw her come around it on her way to the box.”

“Hmmm. All right, my boy, give me that name and the street again. I’ll check it out.”

Benson gave him the information.

It was just before noon when Fleck, the meter-reader supervisor at the electric company, answered his phone.

“Fleck, meter reading department.”

“Fleck, Grey here. How are you?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Grey. I’m fine, just fine. What do you need?”

“A little favor, Flack. Will you look at your records and see how long before the meter is due to be read at the residence of an Edward Manley at 1810 Heather?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Grey. You want to hang on while I check on it?”

“Yes, I’ll hold, thank you.”

Fleck put the receiver down and stepped outside his office to a large records room. He walked over to a clerk at one of the desks.

“Look up the file number for Heather Street, will you please?”

The clerk opened a large directory and turned several pages. “Bottom drawer of 33, top drawer of 34,” she told him.

“Thanks.” He walked along the wall of file cabinets, hoping that the eighteen-hundred block would be in the top of 34. His back had been acting up lately and he didn’t want to do any more bending down than necessary.

He reached cabinets 33 and 34, looked at the index on the top, and smiled. He was in luck; the card he wanted was in the top drawer of 34. Pulling the drawer all the way out, he estimated with a practiced eye where the card for 1810 would be, and his fingers, with seventeen years of training in them, flipped the row of cards apart just three away from his objective. He backed up, took out the card, and returned to his office with it.

“Mr. Grey,” he said, picking up the phone again, “that meter is due to be read next Tuesday.”

“Hmmm,” said Grey. “I wonder if you could move that up a bit, Reck. Say this afternoon, perhaps, right after lunch? And do it yourself?”

“Well, yeah, I guess I could. Think you might be onto something?”

“Well, I’m not certain, of course, not yet; but there’s a strong possibility. Can you call me as soon as you get back?”

“Will do,” said Reck, hanging up the phone and studying the meter card for a moment. Edward Manley; he idly wondered who Edward Manley was.

At quarter of three, the phone rang in the circulation department of the daily Courier. Percey, the circulation manager, answered it. “Yeah?”

“Percey?”

“Yeah. That you, Mr. Grey?”

“Yes. How’s everything in the world of journalism, my friend?”

Percey grunted. “Don’t ask me, Mr. Grey; I don’t write the garbage, I just see it gets delivered.”

“Yes, of course. Listen, Percey, I’m calling about a possible subscriber named Edward Manley. I’ve already checked with Tedland over at the Journal and McKee at the Tribune, so you’re my last hope. The man must read something.”

“Well, if he don’t belong to the other two, he must be one of ours,” Percey said. “Where’s he live?”

“Eighteen-ten Heather Street.”

“Glen Hill, huh? Okay, hold on.” Percey flipped an intercom switch. “Bring me the collection stubs for district six,” he said.

A moment later an office boy brought in a wide, rectangular tub containing probably a thousand collection stubs strung on two long metal rods, and put it on a table next to Percey’s desk. Percey waited until the boy left, then walked his fingers along one of the rods until he found the stub for which he was looking.

“He’s ours, all right,” he said into the phone to Mr. Grey. He chuckled. “This makes three in a row for me, don’t it? I’ll bet Tedland and McKee are turning green.”

“Sounds like you boys have a side bet on this thing,” Mr. Grey said lightly. “But, to business. Can you have the collector cover that area this evening?”

“Well, let’s see...” Percey counted the days on his fingers. “Yeah, I guess. It’s a little early in the month, but I can cover for that. Want me to call you when the collector gets back?”

“Please. I’ll wait for your call at my office.”

“Right.” Percey hung up. For a moment he drummed his fingers silently on the desk top, his lips pursed in thought. Then he flipped his intercom switch again. “Send the boy back in for this tub,” he said. “And have the first eight routes in district six collect tonight and bring their tallies in when they’re through. And don’t tell me we’ll be collecting early; I know we’ll be collecting early — but I want to beef up this week’s figures a little. I’ll be back after supper to go over the tallies.” He flipped off the intercom switch and went back to the work he had been doing when Mr. Grey’s call interrupted him.

Percey got back to the office at eight o’clock and settled down, with a cigar and the late edition, to wait for his district route collectors to come in. They were not allowed to disturb subscribers after eight-thirty, and many of them — Percey knew because he used to be a collector — quit fifteen or twenty minutes earlier than that. He guessed that the first of them would probably arrive about quarter of nine, and that all of them, including the particular one in whom he was interested, would be in by nine.

He was halfway through the sports section when his intercom buzzed. He flipped the switch. “Yeah?”

“The collectors are in, boss,” his assistant said. “They’re tallying now.”

“Okay.”

Percey left his paper open on the desk, went out to the big circulation room and walked over to one corner where the collectors were working at a long counter. In front of each of them were two metal tubs such as the one the boy had brought to his office earlier. The collectors were sorting their collection stubs into two categories, collected and uncollected, and stringing the stubs into the tubs accordingly. On each uncollected account stub the routeman had penciled a notation, citing the reason for his failure to collect.

Percey walked slowly around the counter, stopping now and again to speak to one of the men or casually finger through the stubs in the uncollected tub. One of the stubs he looked at in this manner was the one for Edward Manley at 1810 Heather Street. After looking at it, he proceeded on until he was back where he started, then walked over to the cooler for a drink of water, and unobtrusively returned to his office.

Back at his desk, Percey dialed Mr. Grey’s office. Mr. Grey, as usual, answered after only one ring.

“The collector couldn’t collect from that guy Manley,” he told Mr. Grey. “Nobody was home. He asked when he went to collect next door and the neighbor said that Manley and his wife were out of town to attend a wedding.”

“A wedding, hmmm,” said Mr. Grey. “Well, that’s very interesting, Percey. Yes, indeed, very interesting. As a matter of fact, I think it’s interesting enough to warrant immediate action.”

“Is there anything else you want me to do?” Percey inquired.

“No, I think not,” said Mr. Grey. “You’ve been a big help, as usual, Percey. Thank you very much.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Grey.”

Percey hung up and resumed reading the sports page.

Exactly one week later, they all were invited to Mr. Grey’s office — Benson, the substitute carrier, Fleck, the meter-reader supervisor, and Percey, the circulation manager. They sat in a row in front of their host’s desk.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Grey said, “I’m delighted to be able to report that the information furnished by the three of you culminated in one of the most successful raids ever conducted by this office.”

He sat back and smiled expansively at the trio. Momentarily his gaze rested on Fleck. “As usual, my friend, your evaluation of the doors and windows at the rear of the house was flawless.”

Before Fleck could thank him Mr. Grey shifted his glance to Percey. “And you, upon whose information I have come to rely so completely, continue to maintain a spotless record as an informant. Needless to say, your determination of the whereabouts of the Manleys contributed substantially to our decision to act when we did.”

Now Mr. Grey turned to Benson, the substitute carrier. His expression softened proudly. “We are all aware, of course, that without the initial information brought to our attention by this young man we would not even have been aware of the Manley house’s existence. It was a result of his alertness in observing Manley’s mail being taken by a neighbor, and his promptness in reporting that act, that initiated the action which ultimately led to our raid. For someone who is a newcomer to our ranks, I think that his performance was highly commendable.”

Fleck and Percey both nodded their agreement, and Fleck reached over to hit Benson good-naturedly on the arm. “Nice going, kid,” he said, and Benson blushed appropriately.

“Now,” said Mr. Grey, “to business. As I said, it was a very successful raid; very successful, indeed.” He opened a notebook and began to read aloud. “Aside from the jewelry and silverware, not to mention the cash in the wall safe, there were two portable color TV sets, three oil paintings of considerable value, about six thousand dollars in furs...”

The substitute carrier, the meter-reader supervisor, and the circulation manager all sat back and smiled as Mr. Grey’s businesslike voice continued reciting the inventory before him.