Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

The Rich Get Rich by Ed Lacy

Some years back, there was a popular song in which one of the lines ran... “Oh, the rich get rich and the poor get...” you can take it from there, if memory serves you.

This mild-looking, little, middle-aged man wearing expensive — but not flashy — clothes, came up to the detective squad room, said, “My name is Brooks. One night I... eh... had a few too many, I’m afraid. The point is, on my way home I was robbed, my wallet taken.”

“Okay, take a seat, Mr. Brooks,”

I told him, getting out the usual forms, asking his full name and address. The address, like his clothes, was expensive, one of those apartment houses that don’t look like much on the outside. Then I asked, “Where did this robbery take place?”

“On 63rd Street and Park Avenue. At about 2 a.m.”

“And that was last night?”

“No sir, last November.”

“November? Mr. Brooks, this is May 5th, why did you wait so long to report the robbery?”

“I realize I was amiss in waiting, but you understand I... well, I didn’t want my wife to know I was slightly stoned. Nothing much actually happened, a thug pushed me to the ground, took my wallet. I rarely carry more than a few dollars on me; the truth is I didn’t have any money in the wallet. Some bills in another pocket, my watch, and ring — but he didn’t touch any of those. All the wallet contained was some credit cards, my driver’s license.”

“I see — whoever took the wallet started using the credit cards and now has run up a big...”

Shaking his head, blinking slightly, Mr. Brooks said, “No, sir. I notified the credit companies the next day — haven’t had any trouble about the lost cards. Truth is, I had quite forgotten the incident until I received this in the mail — this morning.”

He handed me a letter from, the U.S. Internal Revenue Department asking him to come down to discuss his tax returns. I must have looked blank, for Mr. Brooks added, “Of course, I had my accountant look into the matter at once. It seems the tax people claim a man identifying himself as me, won $92,000 at a California race track this January. Now the government wants me to pay tax on the winnings — nearly $50,000. Of course I wasn’t at the track, nor did I win the money. You understand my problem, now, sir?”

I nodded. “Some goons knew there was a sure thing going at the track, needed identification to give the tax people — you must show identification on any win over $600. Carefully thought-out plan, even picked up their identification months ahead of time. Mr. Brooks, it’s almost impossible for me to locate a joker who mugged you 7 months ago. If you had reported this immediately, we...”

He blinked again. “I fully realize that, sir. It happened that even in my drunken state, I recognized my assailant — he had an odd nose — crooked — probably broken years ago. There once was a handy man in the apartment house who looked like that. At the time I figured the poor fellow was desperate, and since I hadn’t actually lost anything... why, I didn’t want to get him in trouble. Of course now, well.”

The rest was routine and hard work. My partner and I checked with the owners of the apartment house for a list of their former employees. Crooked nose was an ex-pug named Frankie Johns, a punk with a record of petty strong arm stuff. It took us less than two hours to pick up Frankie. An hour’s grilling and he told us he’d done the job for a syndicate guy named Archie, a big time hood. Archie had bodyguards and I took one on the eye while my partner lost a few teeth before we got them under control, cuffed Archie. We booked him for assault, fraud, evading taxes — and a dozen other charges. It turned into an important collar — before morning we had exposed an entire crooked racing ring, arrested seven guys.

Maybe you’ve read about the case in the papers. I got a commendation for the fast arrest, and I suppose it might help me get a promotion — some day; although I’m a detective first class now and only a brace of years away from retirement.

Meantime, while waiting trial, Archie confessed and the tax eagles swooped down on his safe deposit box, took $52,000 in taxes on that $92,000 hit. Mr. Brooks was not only cleared, but for his part in “informing on a tax delinquent” — or whatever the exact term is — the tax people gave him 10 % of the tax as a reward, or about five grand — which he needs like a hole in the head.

Oh, I’m not kicking... it was all part of my job, and there’s no way me and my partner could have ever got that reward. Still, it reminds me sometimes of that old popular song, you remember it? “Oh, the rich get rich and the poor get...” you take it from there.