you can. The trouble is that the two Eldon F. Zyzyskczuks refuse to meet or even speak to each other,” Quinn explained, having resumed his chair. “And we still have no idea where to find number three.”
“That’s understandable,” Garson said. “Anyone who grew up with a name like Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, thinking himself unique, can’t admit that there could be another person with the same name. Except when it comes to a wrong bill.” Suddenly he jumped, crunched his heel on the floor in front of him, then leaned back in his chair as if nothing had happened.
Again the chief did not seem to notice. “Here’s what we have: Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the importer, is medium-sized everything: sandy hair, brown eyes, rimless glasses, a bachelor. He has a neat, slanted handwriting.”
“Right-handed?” Garson asked.
“All three are right-handed,” Quinn replied. “Now, Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the exporter, is a bit shorter, has dark hair and a moustache, blue eyes, a widower with one grown daughter who lives in California, and a nephew who helps in his business. He has a stiff up-and-down handwriting.”
Dickory stamped her foot in the kitchen area.
Quinn continued. “Six months ago, the third Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk appeared. There was such a mix-up about the first two, the third went unnoticed until he had bought and sold half the city of New York: real estate, cars, off-track betting schemes, stocks and bonds, you name it.”
“Forgery?” Garson asked, staring at the floor.
“That’s right. We think it was some sort of inside job; someone knew about the confusion caused by the two names and took advantage of it. That’s whose portrait I want you to paint, Garson, the third man, the impostor who forges the names of Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk. I’ll send along some of the descriptions, and the witnesses themselves, if you like. He’s about five-feet ten, heavy-set, wears sunglasses and gloves.”
“Whose signature does he forge, the importer’s or the exporter’s?”
“Both. Not perfectly, but good enough.”
“Nothing else unusual?” Garson ground his foot on the floor.
“Just one thing. He writes holding the pen between his third and fourth fingers. He may have an injured index finger.”
This time the telephone call was for the chief. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.” The chief scrambled down the stairs without a good-bye, without even a nursery rhyme.
Dickory stamped her foot again. “Cockroaches,” she said. “We’re overrun with cockroaches.”
“I know,” Garson replied with disgust. “I found a few myself. Remind me to call the exterminator tomorrow. What time is it?”
“Exactly five-thirteen.”
Garson leaped from his chair and bounded down the stairs.
“Wait, Garson, what should I tell Cookie Panzpresser?”
“Tell her to donate the portrait to the Museum of Modern Art,” he said, and slammed the front door.
Dickory remained on the top landing, trying to decide if Garson had been joking. If it was a joke, it was a bad one. Suddenly she realized that she was staring down into the ugly face of Manny Mallomar. She darted into the studio, closing the door behind her, and ran to the window to see if Garson, her protector, was still there.
Garson had just turned beyond the bend. The derelict staggered to his feet and stumbled after him. Dickory’s eyes followed the derelict down the street. The upstairs wardrobe contained a costume similar to his, lumberjack shirt and baggy pants, although not quite as disreputable. He looked and staggered and smelled like a real bum, unlike Garson’s unsuccessful imitation, but perhaps this man was just a better actor.
The derelict lurched out of sight. Now, in the middle of the street, stood a fat greasy ghost and his skinny black shadow. Shrimps Marinara was pointing her out to the pop-eyed Manny Mallomar. Dickory edged away from the window. When she again looked down, the two ugly tenants disappeared around the bend, and, tapping his cane, so did
“That’s understandable,” Garson said. “Anyone who grew up with a name like Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, thinking himself unique, can’t admit that there could be another person with the same name. Except when it comes to a wrong bill.” Suddenly he jumped, crunched his heel on the floor in front of him, then leaned back in his chair as if nothing had happened.
Again the chief did not seem to notice. “Here’s what we have: Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the importer, is medium-sized everything: sandy hair, brown eyes, rimless glasses, a bachelor. He has a neat, slanted handwriting.”
“Right-handed?” Garson asked.
“All three are right-handed,” Quinn replied. “Now, Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk, the exporter, is a bit shorter, has dark hair and a moustache, blue eyes, a widower with one grown daughter who lives in California, and a nephew who helps in his business. He has a stiff up-and-down handwriting.”
Dickory stamped her foot in the kitchen area.
Quinn continued. “Six months ago, the third Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk appeared. There was such a mix-up about the first two, the third went unnoticed until he had bought and sold half the city of New York: real estate, cars, off-track betting schemes, stocks and bonds, you name it.”
“Forgery?” Garson asked, staring at the floor.
“That’s right. We think it was some sort of inside job; someone knew about the confusion caused by the two names and took advantage of it. That’s whose portrait I want you to paint, Garson, the third man, the impostor who forges the names of Eldon F. Zyzyskczuk. I’ll send along some of the descriptions, and the witnesses themselves, if you like. He’s about five-feet ten, heavy-set, wears sunglasses and gloves.”
“Whose signature does he forge, the importer’s or the exporter’s?”
“Both. Not perfectly, but good enough.”
“Nothing else unusual?” Garson ground his foot on the floor.
“Just one thing. He writes holding the pen between his third and fourth fingers. He may have an injured index finger.”
This time the telephone call was for the chief. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.” The chief scrambled down the stairs without a good-bye, without even a nursery rhyme.
Dickory stamped her foot again. “Cockroaches,” she said. “We’re overrun with cockroaches.”
“I know,” Garson replied with disgust. “I found a few myself. Remind me to call the exterminator tomorrow. What time is it?”
“Exactly five-thirteen.”
Garson leaped from his chair and bounded down the stairs.
“Wait, Garson, what should I tell Cookie Panzpresser?”
“Tell her to donate the portrait to the Museum of Modern Art,” he said, and slammed the front door.
Dickory remained on the top landing, trying to decide if Garson had been joking. If it was a joke, it was a bad one. Suddenly she realized that she was staring down into the ugly face of Manny Mallomar. She darted into the studio, closing the door behind her, and ran to the window to see if Garson, her protector, was still there.
Garson had just turned beyond the bend. The derelict staggered to his feet and stumbled after him. Dickory’s eyes followed the derelict down the street. The upstairs wardrobe contained a costume similar to his, lumberjack shirt and baggy pants, although not quite as disreputable. He looked and staggered and smelled like a real bum, unlike Garson’s unsuccessful imitation, but perhaps this man was just a better actor.
The derelict lurched out of sight. Now, in the middle of the street, stood a fat greasy ghost and his skinny black shadow. Shrimps Marinara was pointing her out to the pop-eyed Manny Mallomar. Dickory edged away from the window. When she again looked down, the two ugly tenants disappeared around the bend, and, tapping his cane, so did
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