Free A Dog's Ransom by Patricia Highsmith

on duty, however, Clarence had had eyes only for possible poison-pen letter-writers—that was to say odd- or furtive-looking people, and parting from Cobb for a few minutes, he had followed a stooped man, who did look very furtive, to a house on West 95th Street.
    This man was an Italian named John Vanetti, aged sixty or more, who didn’t speak English very well, and seemed to have a speech impediment besides. He had been terrified by Clarence’s following him, of his insistence on coming into his apartment, although Clarence had been as polite and gentle as anyone could possibly have been.
    “I’m going to ask you to print something for me.”
    “What? What?” The Italian had been shaking.
    “Write. Please. Just print. ‘Dear Sir. Will you meet me at York Avenue . . .’ ” It had been difficult, agonizing.
    The old fellow was a shoe repairman and worked in a shop on Broadway. Of this Clarence was sure. There were some cobbler’s tools in his crummy little one-room place. The man could hardly print at all, and kept making letters in script, so that Clarence was positive he was not “Anon.” Clarence had apologized and left. Astounding, Clarence thought, that old guys like that still existed in New York. He had thought they had died out in his childhood.
    After that, back with Cobb, Clarence had spotted the cripple, and at the sight of him Clarence felt that he had seen him before in the neighborhood. This was a quicker, brighter type than the Italian, with a slight limp and something about him made the word “eccentric” come to mind. That was the type he was after. Clarence had followed him and spoken to his landlady. But by then it was nearly nine, and Clarence had to make his hourly call to the precinct house on the hour tonight, so he had rejoined Cobb. But he knew the name now, Rowajinski, and where he lived, and he intended to come back tomorrow.
    To Clarence and Cobb, 105th Street looked as usual. They stopped to ask the doorman at the apartment house if all was well. The doorman seemed glad to see them. All was well, he said, as far as he knew.
    Just after 10 p.m., Clarence again parted from Cobb and went to Mr. Reynolds’s building. He asked the doorman to ring the Reynolds apartment. Mr. Reynolds answered.
    “This is Patrolman Duhamell. I wondered if you’ve had any messages. Any news.”
    “No, we haven’t. And you?”
    “Nothing. No clues from the letters, sir. I’ll check with you again tomorrow.” Clarence had rung Centre Street, but they said they had no letters in a similar handwriting.
    “Thanks. Thanks very much.”
    Clarence was touched by the disappointment in Mr. Reynolds’s voice.
    The next afternoon, Monday, around 4 p.m., Clarence went to the house of Kenneth Rowajinski. He was in civilian clothes. The landlady answered, and Clarence was in luck: she said Mr. Rowajinski was in. She showed him through a door and then down some steps into a hall. Then she recognized him from yesterday.
    “You’re the policeman !” she said, and seemed to be horrified.
    “Yes.” Clarence smiled. “I spoke with you yesterday.” It was astonishing the difference a uniform made. People seemed to think cops weren’t human, or didn’t own any ordinary clothing.
    “Tell me,” she whispered, “has this man done anything wrong? Because if he has—”
    “No. I just want to speak with him.”
    Clarence could see that she was dying to ask about what, but she led him to the pale-green door.
    “It’s here.” She knocked. “Mr. Rowajinski?”
    Kenneth opened the door, after sliding some bolts. “What is it?” He jumped back a little at the sight of Clarence.
    “Patrolman Duhamell,” Clarence said, and produced his billfold with his police card visible. “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
    Mrs. Williams gave a jerky nod at Rowajinski, as if to say now you’re going to get it. Clarence went into the man’s apartment. Mrs. Williams was still standing there when Rowajinski closed the