by Ed McBain
The title page of the program read:
Three at Three
“An inadvertent palindrome,” the Deaf Man said.
“What’s that?”
“A palindrome?”
“All of it.”
“Inadvertent means accidental. A palindrome is something that reads the same forwards or backwards. I doubt very much that the people who designed that program realized that ‘Three at Three’ is a palindrome.”
“Oh. Yeah,” she said, her eyes widening. “Three at Three! It is the same forwards or backwards.”
“Actually, a palindrome should read forwards or backwards letter by letter. ‘Three at Three’ only partially qualifies. Then again, I’m sure its use was accidental.”
“So what’s ‘Three at Three’?”
“Three concerts at three o’clock.”
“Oh. Is this our Saturday concert?”
“The very one,” he said.
“Well, well,” she said, and opened the program.
There was a performance schedule and program for the first of the “Three at Three” concerts, which had taken place last Saturday and Sunday. She turned several pages and found the schedule for this weekend’s performances. First, there was a full-page picture of Konstantinos Sallas, the guest soloist. He appeared to be a man in his late thirties, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking as he peered at the camera past the curved neck of the violin he was holding in his left hand.
The following page offered a biography of the man. Melissa skimmed it. Born in 1969—she’d guessed his age about right—began studying violin when he was six, continued his studies at the Greek Conservatory, and then Juilliard in New York, won an Onassis Foundation scholarship, made his concert debut in Athens when he was sixteen years old, won the International Sibelius Competition in Helsinki when he was seventeen, and won both the Paganini International and the Munich International while he was still in his teens. Before his concert debut with the London Symphony, he had also taken top prizes in the Hannover, Kreisler, and Sarasate violin competitions.
On the next page, there was a program of what would be performed at this weekend’s “Three at Three” concerts. The first half of the bill would be Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major, opus 61…
“That’s the one Sallas will be playing,” the Deaf Man explained.
The second half would be Brahms’ Symphony No 4 in E Minor…
“Is he playing this one, too?” Melissa asked.
“No. Poor man would need a rest after the D Major.”
“So he’s just playing that one thing, is that it?”
“That’s it. A lovely piece. Starts with four timpani beats…”
“What’s a timpani?”
“A kettle drum.”
“Oh.”
“Four soft timpani beats,” he said. “Read the man’s reviews, he’s truly phenomenal.”
Melissa picked up the glossy sheet he’d handed her along with the program. She looked at her watch again. Sighing, she began reading.
“This wizard of the strings played Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto and Ravel’s Tzigane. His interpretations were humorous, fiery, and breathtaking…”
“Every sound that the extraordinary Sallas produced on his Stradivarius was like a shimmering crystal, which, against the heavy brass lines…”
“Konstantinos Sallas plays with consistent commitment, exquisite clarity and a thrilling…”
“It takes rare charm and brilliant execution for a solo violinist to hold the entranced attention of an entire…”
“Konstantinos Sallas brought singularly lustrous tonal effects and colors to the Sibelius…”
“I get the picture,” Melissa said, and handed the program and the publicity sheet back to him.
“Anything else you get?” he asked.
“What?” she said.
“Look again,” he said, waving the program back at her.
She turned to the schedule for this Saturday and Sunday.
Konstantinos Sallas, solo violinist with the…
“Oh,” she said.
“Yes?”
“His name.”
…Sallas, solo violinist…
“Yes?”
“It’s what you said before. A whatchamacallit.”
“Yes?”
“The letters,” she said. “They spell the same thing forwards or backwards.”
…Sallas…
“Sallas,” she said. “His name.”
“Good girl,” he said, and wondered how many other people were beginning to catch on along about now.
“DON’T YOU SEE?” Carella said. “It reads the same forwards or backwards.”
They were all clustered around his desk now, studying the Deaf Man’s final note of the day.
1353+3531=4884
“That number looks familiar,” Willis said.
“It’s the…”
“Right. The box number I tried to track down.”
“Doesn’t exist,” Meyer said.
“But why’s he taking us back there?” Eileen asked.
“Because he’s leading us back to the beginning again,” Hawes said.
“Also, the size of the numbers is very definitely getting smaller,” Carella said. “Here, take another look.”
They took another look:
87
78
87+78=165
165+561=726
726+627=1353
1353+3531=4884
“Backwards, and smaller and smaller,” Carella said.
“So what the hell does that mean?” Parker asked, and looked at the clock, trying to figure how much longer this goddamn June the ninth was going to last.
FOR A MAN, Emilio Herrera was a damn good-looking woman.
In fact, the detectives up at the Eight-Eight whistled when Ollie marched him into the squadroom.
“Sit down, Emilio,” he said, and indicated the chair alongside his desk.
“It’s Emma,” Emilio said, and sat, crossing his long splendid legs. Five feet seven inches tall in his high heels, weighing a hundred and ten in his padded bra, fingernails painted a glittery gold to match his frizzed blond wig, he tugged at his short blue skirt and then pouted a moist red look at Ollie, who indifferently pulled a pad toward him, and began writing.
Emilio watched.
If he wasn’t higher than a hot-air balloon, he’d have at least recognized Ollie’s name. But he happened to be floating on some very good Red Chicken and so he didn’t know this phat phuck from any other detective up here.
“My book,” Ollie said.
“Pretty,” Emilio said, thinking he was referring to the pad he’d been writing in, which he now saw carried his hand-lettered name across the top of one page.
“The book you stole,” Ollie said.
Emilio looked at him blankly.
“Report to the Commissioner,” Ollie said. “Which I myself wrote.”
“You did not!” Emilio said indignantly.
Ollie looked at him blankly.
“Olivia Watts wrote that report,” Emilio said.
“I am…”
“Olivia Wesley Watts!” Emilio shouted.
“I am she,” Ollie said. Or even her, he thought. “Where’s my fucking book?”
“It is not your book! It is Livvie’s book!”
“I am Livvie!” Ollie shouted.
“Sure! Same as I’m Emma!”
“Look, you little prick…”
“Oh, darling,” Emilio said.
“If you don’t tell me what you did with that book…”
“I got nothing to say to you about Livvie’s book.”
“There is no Livvie!”
“Ho ho.”
“I made her up. Livvie is me, I’m Livvie, but she doesn’t exist! Olivia Watts is a synonym I…”
“Olivia Wesley Watts. And it’s pseudonym, not…”
“Don’t get smart with me, you little…”
“And anyway, it isn’t. A
pseudonym. Because I saw her after the drug bust, and I told her…”
“You saw who after what drug bust?”
“Livvie. Detective Watts. The drug bust in the basement at 3211 Culver Ave, whenever it was. I saw her outside the building. I told her I’d burned the report so…”
“It wasn’t a report, it was a novel!”
“It said Report to…”
“You what?”
“What?”
“You burned it? You telling me you burned it? You burned my novel?”
“To protect Livvie…”
“I’ll give you protect Livvie.”
“So the bad guys wouldn’t get it.”
“I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”
Ollie was out of his chair now, coming around his desk, his hands actually reaching for Emilio’s throat.
“Do you know how long it took me to write that book? Do you realize…?”
“Relax,” Emilio said, “I memorized it.”
Ollie looked at him.
“Was it really all fake?” Emilio asked.
“You memorized it?”
“Word for word,” Emilio said. “Gee, it seemed so real. You’re a very good writer, did anyone ever tell you that?”
“You think so?” Ollie said.
“You captured the thoughts and emotions of a woman magnificently.”
Ollie almost asked, “How would you know?” But he recognized unadulterated praise when he heard it.
“Did the female viewpoint seem convincing?” he asked.
“Oh, man, did it!” Emilio said, and rolled his eyes and began quoting. “ ‘I am locked in a basement with $2,700,000 in so-called conflict diamonds and I just got a run in my pantyhose.’ ”
“What comes next?” Ollie asked.
“ ‘I am writing this in the hope that it will somehow reach you before they kill me. You will recall…’ ”
“Emilio,” Ollie said, grinning, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
STANDING ACROSS THE STREET from Sharyn’s apartment building, Kling saw the taxi when it pulled up, and recognized the girl the moment she stepped out of it. Same white girl Sharyn and Hudson had met with yesterday. Early thirties, he guessed. Black hair and brown eyes. Slim and svelte, five feet six or seven inches tall. She looked up and down the street before she went into the building, as if she suspected someone was following her…well, she was half-right on that score.
Sharyn had told him she couldn’t see him until later tonight because she had a meeting at the hospital. He’d known even on the phone that she was lying. Didn’t have to look into her eyes to detect the lie. So he’d followed her from her office, and sure as he was white and Sharyn was black, she didn’t go to any damn hospital, she went straight home to her apartment here in Calm’s Point.
He’d half expected Dr. James Melvin Hudson to pull up ten minutes later, but instead it was the dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty they’d had coffee with yesterday. He watched as she went into the outer lobby, studied the bell panel, found what she was looking for—Sharyn’s apartment, he guessed, bright detective—pressed a button, and waited for the answering buzz. When it came, he could hear it faintly from across the street. The girl let herself in, and walked toward the elevator bank.
He looked at his watch.
It was almost five-thirty.
OLLIE’S MANUSCRIPT WAS only thirty-six pages long, which he didn’t realize was perhaps the length of a mere chapter in most mystery writers’ novels, although there were some bestselling practitioners of the craft who seemed to prefer much shorter chapters, like say a page and a half long. In any event, reciting even a thirty-six-page book from memory was not an easy task, especially if you were a drug addict beginning to come down from a truly splendid high.
Almost unable to believe his good fortune, Ollie provided sweets and coffee for his thieving storyteller, and then set a tape recorder going. This was not unlike the good old days when wooly mammoths roamed the earth, and wise old men sat outside caves reciting tales of hunting valor and skill. The other detectives of the Eight-Eight pulled up chairs around Ollie’s desk, not so much because they were dying to hear Emilio’s story, but more because they wished to sneak a peek or two up Emma’s skirt. But as the tale unfolded, they began to get more and more interested in the intricate plot development and intriguing characterization.
It took Emilio precisely an hour and forty-three minutes to recite Ollie’s book word for word. By that time, the assembled detectives were all agog.
“Did you really write that?” one of them asked Ollie.
“Ah yes,” he said.
“That is terrific stuff,” one of the other detectives said, shaking his head in wonder and awe. “Absolutely terrific.”
“You got a sure bestseller there.”
“Make a great movie.”
“And, little lady, you did a great job reading it.”
Were it not for the presence of these other detectives, Ollie might have let Emilio go at that point, so grateful was he for the recitation, and the response to it. On the other hand, Emilio was just a no-good little cross-dressing whore who was a disgrace to his fine Puerto Rican heritage, and who, besides, had been pointed out as someone having knowledge pertaining to the hundred-dollar bills Melissa Summers was handing out in the drug community hither and yon, ah yes.
So Ollie picked up a throwdown dime bag of shit which he just happened to find under Emilio’s chair, and he said, “Well, well, well, now where do you suppose this came from, Emilio?”
Which is how Emilio gave up Aine Duggan.
WAITING FOR THE GIRL to come downstairs again, Kling visualized all sorts of things, none of them very pleasant.
First there was Sharyn and Hudson.
Sharyn in bed with a man blacker than she herself was.
Pornographic images of them doing all the things Kling felt only he himself did with Sharyn.
A black man fucking Sharyn.
(Was this a racist thought?)
A black man going down on her.
Sharyn slobbering the black man’s Johnson.
An expression she had taught him.
A black expression.
(Was this damn thing, whatever it was, turning him racist?)
Well, whatever it was…
And at first it had appeared to be merely (merely!) Sharyn and Hudson alone, just the two of them, a sweet little love affair between a pair of colleagues, what the Italians called una storia, he would have to ask Carella’s intended stepfather if that was correct, una storia, some “story” here between these two black medical practitioners, some little goddamn fucking story!
But then it had turned into what appeared to be a genuine three-way, Sharyn, Hudson, and the so-far anonymous white woman, Hudson at the center of an Oreo, the cream on the outside this time around, black Sharyn on his right, the white woman on his left, or vice versa, who gave a damn, it was still lucky Pierre, always in the middle! Would the picture in his mind be less detestable if the man in the middle was white? And if Sharyn had longed for a three-way, why the hell hadn’t she invited Kling himself?
And now—
Now this white woman rendezvousing with Sharyn on her own, the three-way turning into a possible lesbian relationship, the movie in his mind suddenly becoming black and white, the women hugging, the women kissing, the women fondling, the women muff-diving, Hudson excluded, Kling excluded, just the two women, black and white, locked in secret, steamy embrace.
The deception.
The deceit.
He snapped off the projector in his mind.
The screen went blank.
He looked at his watch.
Seven twenty-three.
It was starting to rain.
AINE DUGGAN WAS CURLED up in a fetal ball when Ollie found her in an alley off Thompson and shook her awake. It had begun to rain lightly. She blinked up at him.
He could barely recognize this woman with lo
ng stringy bleached blond hair and a few missing teeth, wearing blue jeans and a soiled gray sweatshirt, loafers without socks, scabs all over her ankles. The hooker he’d briefly questioned about Emilio Herrera shortly after his book was stolen had been wearing a cute short black skirt and a neat pink halter top and her hair was Irish-red and cut short and she looked like a teenager even though she was twenty-five at the time, which had not been all that long ago. She now looked thirty-five.
“Whussup?” she asked.
“I want to become a mailman,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I hear there’s money in it.”
“Who told you that?”
“Little birdie.”
“I don’t know whut the fuck you’re talking about.”
“A woman paying you to deliver a letter.”
“Yeah?”
“To the Eight-Seven.”
“Yeah?”
“Where’d you meet her, Aine?”
“How do you know my name?”
“Little birdie,” he said again.
It was dark in the alley, but if she wasn’t so down and out this very minute, she might have recognized Ollie, anyway, from their last encounter in a galaxy far far away. But the black tar had worn off, and she was no longer high, and she knew she didn’t have any money and would probably have to jones her next fix, so who was this fat asshole kneeling beside her, with her face getting all wet from the rain? Was he maybe a prospective john?
“You wanna see my pussy?” she asked.
“I wanna see Melissa Summers.”
“Yeah?”
“Where’d you meet her, Aine? Where can I find her?”
“Do I know you?” she asked, and peered at his face through the falling rain.
“Detective Oliver Wendell Weeks,” he said. “You know me.”
“Am I busted?”
“For what, Aine?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a bad person, Detective.”
“I know that.”
“I’m just a person needs to be comforted and helped…”
“Sure,” Ollie said.
“…a person to be pitied.”
“Sure, Aine.”
“I’m just a sorry fucked-up piece of shit.”