Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

Finkelday conceded that his review of driver’s licenses before photocopying them might be somewhat perfunctory. He certainly didn’t carefully compare pictures on licenses with the faces of the people who presented them. But he recognized the name Charles Colbert as that of a regular visitor, because, whoever he was, he drove a yellow panel truck labeled “Colbert Plumbing and Heating.”

No such firm was listed in the current Yellow Pages.

Finkelday obligingly ran them off a copy of his copy of the expired driver’s license. He didn’t even object when they confiscated two short pieces of copper pipe to add to Kestrel’s collection.

On Friday morning Auburn and Dollinger found Harry Lamphere back home at his snug little farmhouse on Wilmot Pike, puttering around in his pajamas. After admitting them to his spartan parlor, he collapsed into an overstuffed chair that nearly swallowed up his spare frame.

Dollinger politely asked about the progress of his recovery, and then switched on the grill. “On Monday,” he said, “you told us you wanted to check for damage to Water Department property in the house at Addison and Wells where the pipe was stolen. Is that right?”

“That’s the way I remember it,” said Lamphere, a vaguely defiant edge creeping into his voice.

“Hardly a month goes by,” said Auburn, “that I don’t get a piece of mail telling me the Water Department or my gas supplier has ‘partnered’ with some wildcat insurance outfit that offers a policy to cover the cost of repairs to my water or gas lines. And the literature pushing these fleece jobs never fails to remind me, in bold print, that any supply lines within my property boundaries not only are my responsibility but are in fact my property.

“Since you knew that nothing in that basement belonged to the Water Department, you must have had a different reason than the one you gave the sergeant for poking around down there.”

“Oh yes? What was that?”

“You were looking for the tubing cutter you left behind the night before, in all the excitement of stealing the pipe and killing Kent Roveling.”

“Hold on here a minute!”

Dollinger read him his rights. “The people at Finkelday’s,” he said, “the only scrap yard here in Wilmot, didn’t take a good enough look at the driver’s license you showed them to see that it had somebody else’s picture on it, or that it expired four years ago. But they did write down the license number of the truck from Colbert’s Plumbing and Heating, which is now registered to you. And parked in the shed next to your garage.”

Lamphere settled deeper among the cushions with a shudder of apprehension. “You guys been busy.”

“That’s what we get paid for. We know you used to work for Colbert, and bought the truck from his estate. We have evidence that the same defective tubing cutter you used on Addison Street was used to steal pipe from three other vacant houses in the past few months. Finkelday’s records show you sold him scrap pipe within a couple of days after each of those other thefts. We also know you called in sick on Monday, and didn’t submit any meter readings that day from Addison Street, or anywhere else.”

Lamphere started to say something but then relapsed into stubborn silence.

“Your job at the Water Department,” said Auburn, “gives you access to information on what houses have had their water shut off. Wearing your uniform, you can invade private property in broad daylight without being challenged or reported as a prowler. You can check on For Sale signs, vacant houses, basement doors, alley exits, dogs...”

“Hey, okay, maybe I ripped off some pipe here and there.”

Dollinger opened his briefcase. “I have a warrant here for your arrest on four charges of burglary. Please stand up, step away from the chair, face away from me, and put both hands on the wall up where I can see them.” Lamphere submitted tamely to being patted down for hardware.

“I also have a search warrant that authorizes us to examine the contents of this house, as well as your garage and shed.” He presented the document. “We’d appreciate your cooperation in providing keys to anything that’s locked.”

They had already spotted the plumbing-company truck and checked its registration plates yesterday through a window at the back of the shed. In carrying out a thorough search of the vehicle they found a plastic bottle of white crystals and two handguns secreted in a tool bin under the floor of the cargo compartment.

Lamphere, still in pajamas and slippers, stood by helplessly as they labeled and packaged each piece of evidence.

“Which of these revolvers made the hole in the window?” asked Auburn.

“His. The thirty-eight. He walked in on me just when I was getting ready to load the pipe in the truck — took a potshot at my headlight.” The other weapon, a .32 with a two-inch barrel, was evidently the one that had claimed Roveling’s life.

“This was before you taped the window and broke it in?”

“Yes, sir. See, when I first got there I checked all the doors and I found those big ones to the basement steps unlocked. Of course I went in that way, but after what happened I taped the window and broke it in so it would look like that’s the way I got in.”