by Ed McBain
“That’s absolutely correct.”
“What kind of a gun did you rent when you went away?”
“A twenty-two.”
“Would you remember what kind of a gun Kettering was using?”
“I’m not good on guns,” Miller said. “It was a big-game rifle—a powerful name. A name that sounded like a big-game gun.”
“A Savage?” Hawes asked.
“Yes,” Miller said. “Kettering was using a Savage.”
In the street again, Hawes glanced up at the apartment building. He saw Miller standing at the window, watching him. He ducked away from the window quickly when he realized Hawes had seen him. Hawes sighed and started for his car. It was then that he saw the man. The man moved behind a tree quickly, but not quickly enough. Hawes had caught a glimpse of him, and he walked to his car slowly now, opened the door, started the engine, and waited. The man did not move from behind the tree. Hawes set the car in motion. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man run for an automobile and enter it. The car was a Chevrolet, but Hawes could not distinguish the license-plate number in the darkness. Behind him, he heard the car starting.
He drove slowly. His pursuer did not know that Hawes knew he was being pursued. Hawes did not want the pursuer to lose him, nor did he wish to lose the pursuer. There was, of course, the added possibility that the man was not following him at all. Hawes would test this possibility in a moment.
He waited until he’d picked up the man’s headlights in the rear-view mirror. Up to that point, he had been driving slowly, as if unsure of which turn to take. Now he sped up, turned left, and watched the car behind him execute the same turn. He turned right. The Chevy turned right. He went straight for two blocks, and then made a left. The Chevy was still behind him. He executed a series of lefts and rights that eliminated all possibility of chance. The man in the Chevy was certainly following Hawes, and Hawes wondered why. He also wondered who. He could not see the front license plate in his rear-view mirror. He wanted to know who the hell was in that car.
He put on a sudden burst of speed, outdistancing the Chevy by a block, and then pulled over to the curb. He got out of the car and ducked into the nearest alley. Up the street, the Chevy braked suddenly and then pulled to the curb a distance behind Hawes’s car. The man got out of the car, looked up and down the street, and then began walking toward the alley.
The luxuriant summer growth on the trees shielded the street lamps so that the sidewalks were in almost total darkness. Hawes could hear the man’s footsteps as he approached, but he could not see the man’s face. The man had undoubtedly assumed that Hawes had gone into one of the apartment buildings. He stopped at each entrance and looked into the building, moving closer to the alleyway all the time.
The footsteps echoed in the hollow bowl of night.
Hawes waited.
They were closer now, very close, almost, almost…
Hawes reached out, swinging the man around.
The man moved with a reflexive action that caught Hawes completely by surprise. Hawes was no midget, and certainly bigger than the man who hit him. But he had reached out with one hand, grasping the man by the shoulder, and the man had swung around, partially pulled by Hawes, partially under his own power, so that the force of his blow was doubled.
He swung around with his fist clenched, and he threw the fist at Hawes’s midsection, catching him below the belt. The pain was excruciating. Hawes released the man’s shoulder instantly and dropped to the concrete. The man ran out of the alley mouth. Hawes had still not seen his face. Lying on the concrete, raw pain triggering through his groin, he could only think of a stupid joke he had once heard. He did not want to think of the joke. He wanted to get up off the concrete and chase his assailant, but the pain persisted in agonizing waves, and the joke ran over and over again in his mind, the joke about a man overhearing two women describing childbirth to each other. “Such pain,” one said. “Nobody ever had such pain as when I gave birth.”
“Pain? Don’t talk about pain,” the other woman said. “When my Lewis was born, it was unbearable. Such pain no one in the world has ever known.”
And the man walked over to them and said, “Excuse me, ladies, but did either of you ever get kicked in the balls?”
There didn’t seem to be anything funny about the joke now. Lying on the concrete, Hawes knew only pain, and the joke was not funny at all. Lying on the concrete, he could hear the Chevy’s motor starting. He dragged himself to the alley mouth, hoping to catch a glimpse of the license plate as the car went by.
The street was dark, and the car wasn’t observing any speed limits.
Hawes could not read the plate.
In a little while, the pain subsided.
STEVE CARELLA didn’t truthfully suspect John Murphy. He didn’t know whom he truthfully suspected at this stage of the game, but he did know that the man who’d fired the Savage at Kramer had been a dead shot. Only one shell had been fired, and that shell had blown away half of Kramer’s head. Whoever had killed Kramer had been driving an automobile not a minute before—or so it appeared. He had pulled the car to the curb, picked up the rifle, aimed, and fired. His aim had been unerring. The single shot had done it.
Carella doubted that John Murphy’s aim was unerring. The old man’s hands trembled even when he was sitting having a peaceful drink. If they trembled normally, how much more would they tremble when murder was about to be done? No, he did not truthfully suspect John Murphy.
He was not at all surprised, therefore, by the Ballistics report on the test bullet fired from Murphy’s .300 Savage.
The Ballistics report simply stated that the gun owned by John Murphy could not possibly have fired the bullet that had killed Kramer.
Steve Carella was not at all surprised—but he was disappointed, anyway.
14.
ALICE LOSSING lived in Isola.
Cotton Hawes had been hit uncompromisingly the night before, but on the evening of July twelfth he nonetheless went to visit Miss Lossing. The apartment building was on The Bluffs, overlooking the River Dix. The River Dix bounded Isola on the south, and from Alice Lossing’s building, Hawes supposed you could see the prison at Walker’s Island on a clear day.
He stopped at Apartment 8B and buzzed.
“Who is it?” a girl’s voice called from within the apartment.
Hawes hesitated. He could remember his indoctrination into the 87th Precinct. He had knocked on the door of a suspected murderer and then had said, “Police! Open up!” The man inside had opened up with a pistol, and a cop named Steve Carella had almost been killed that day. Even now, Hawes flushed slightly at his earlier stupidity. But Alice Lossing was not suspected of murder.
“Police,” he said.
“Who?”
“Police,” he repeated.
“Just a second,” the voice said. He heard footsteps approaching the door. The flap in the door swung back. An eye appeared in the circle.
“Who’d you say you were?”
“Police,” Hawes said. “Detective Hawes.”
“Have you got identification?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see it?”
Hawes held up his plastic-encased I.D. card.
“Haven’t you got a badge?”
Hawes held up his shield.
The girl looked at the I.D. card again. “You don’t look very much like the picture,” she said.
“It’s me. If you want further proof, call Frederick 7-8024. Ask for Detective Carella, and ask him if Detective Cotton Hawes did not leave the squadroom on his way to visit you.”
“It sounds convincing,” Alice said. “Just a second.”
Hawes listened while the girl unlatched the door. From the number of bolts being snapped back, it sounded as if he were being admitted to Fort Knox. He wondered why the girl was so damned cautious, and then the door opened and he knew why.
Alice Lossing was perhaps the most beautiful girl he’d seen all week long.
If he were Alice Lossing and if he lived in an apartment building, he would surely have constructed a steel door to keep away the wolves.
“Come in,” she said. “You’d better be legit.”
“Why?”
“I keep a pistol, and I know how to shoot it.”
“Do you keep a rifle?” he asked, from force of habit.
“No, thanks. A pistol serves the purpose just dandy.”
“The best weapon for a woman is a hammer,” Hawes said.
“A what?”
“A hammer.”
“Come in, come in. If you’re going to discuss weapons, don’t stand there in the doorway.”
Together, they went into the apartment. Alice Lossing had brown hair and brown eyes. She was a tall girl, at least five-seven, and she walked with the regal splendor of a queen. Her figure was neatly curved beneath the tapered slacks and sweater she wore.
When they were in the living room, she asked, “Why a hammer?”
“Several reasons. One, the excitability of a woman. Faced with an intruder, she may not shoot straight. She’ll empty the pistol, and then be left holding an empty weapon, which makes a clumsy club.”
“I shoot straight,” Alice said.
“Two, an intruder seeing a gun may pull his own gun, if he’s carrying one. Chances are, he’ll shoot straighter than the woman.”
“I shoot straight,” Alice repeated.
“Three, if an intruder has rape on his mind, he’s got to come close to do it. A hammer is a good infighting weapon. If he’s just got robbery or burglary on his mind, the best thing to do is let him take what he wants and then call the police. A gun might start trouble where there wouldn’t have been any trouble. Nobody gets heroic with a hammer. A hammer is purely a weapon of defense.”
“Is that your case?”
“Yes,” Hawes said.
“It stinks,” Alice said. “I keep a pistol in my night table, and it’s loaded, and I’ll shoot any person who steps into this apartment without being invited. I’ll shoot him straight and true and probably dead.”
“A girl can’t be too careful,” Hawes said. “Especially a pretty girl. I’m glad I was invited.”
“What’s this about?” Alice asked. “I’m purposely ignoring your compliment.”
“Why?”
“You’re too attractive,” Alice said. “I might lose my head and shoot off my big toe by accident.” She grinned.
“Exactly my point,” Hawes said, returning the grin.
“What is this about?”
“Phil Kettering,” Hawes said.
“What about him? Where is he? Do you know?”
“We don’t know. He seems to have vanished.”
“Don’t I know it,” Alice said.
“When’d you see him last?”
“In August of last year.”
“Haven’t heard from him since?”
“No,” Alice said. “I wouldn’t give a damn, but he’s got something that belongs to me.”
“What?”
“A ring.”
“How’d he get it?”
“I gave it to him. We got drunk together one night, and we decided to exchange rings. He gave me this piece of cheese”—she held out her right hand—“and I gave him a damn expensive cocktail ring. He wore it on his pinky.”
“May I see that again?” Hawes said.
Alice extended her hand. The ring was a simple signet, the letters P.K. in gold scroll, with a small diamond chip near the K.
“I had it appraised,” Alice said. “Fifty bucks, the jeweler told me. My ring was worth five hundred. If you find him, tell him I want that damn ring back.”
“How well did you know Kettering?”
“Not very.”
“Well enough to give him a ring?”
“We were drunk. I told you.”
“How long did you know him?”
“About four months. I’m a receptionist at Milady. Do you know the magazine?”
“No,” Hawes said.
“The women of America only wake up and go to sleep with the damn thing,” Alice said.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. I thought cops were well-informed. Anyway, I’m the receptionist there. Phil came up one day to deliver some pictures. A photographic essay on how to keep nail-polish bottles in one place. He had this long piece of wood with spaces drilled into it—”
“Is that when you met?”
“Yes. He asked me out. I accepted. I went out with him about once a week after that.”
“Up until the time he went on his hunting trip?”
“Is that where he went? He didn’t tell me.”
“Did he ever discuss hunting with you?”
“Once in a while. He was pretty good, to hear him tell it.”
“How good?”
“Won a lot of shooting medals. Supposed to be a crack shot. That’s the way he told it, anyway.”
“Did you ever see any of those medals?”
“One. He carried it in his wallet. It was a shooting medal, all right. I guess he was a good hunter.”
“Did he call you when he got back from the trip?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him since the end of August. I wrote him several letters asking for my ring back. He never answered them. I called his office, and I even went down there. The place was locked up. If I could remember where he lives, I’d go there, believe me.”
“Forget it,” Hawes said. “We’ve been.”
“Then he’s really gone?”
“Really gone,” Hawes said.
“Where?”
“We don’t know.”
“Well, I’d sure like to know. That ring was worth five hundred dollars.”
“Is he a good-looking man, Miss Lossing?”
“Phil? Not in the movie-star sense. But he’s very manly-looking.”
“Have a temper?”
“Not particularly violent, no.”
“Is he the kind of person who’d be likely to carry a grudge?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know him that well. We only dated for about four months, once a week. The only reason we exchanged rings is because we were drunk.”
“Did you go out to his home often?”
“I was there once. It’s a real suburban nothing. I ran for the hills.”
“Did he ever come here?”
“Of course.”
“Often?”
“To pick me up. Once a week. And to drop me off.” Alice Lossing studied Hawes for a moment. “What are you asking?”
“Only what I asked.”
“Are you trying to find out whether Phil and I—”
“No.”
“We didn’t.”
“Okay, but I didn’t ask.”
“You seemed like you wanted to.”
“Ask?”
“Yes.”
“About Phil? Or for myself?”
“One or the other,” Alice said.
“I’m not an asker,” Hawes said.
“No?”
“No. I have to report back to the squad when I leave here. I can do that by phone. Do you dance?”
“I dance.”
“Let’s.”
“Are you asking?”
Hawes smiled. Alice Lossing did not smile back.
“I’m a lady,” she said. “I like to be asked.”
“I’m asking. Would you like to go dancing with me?”
“You’re attractive,” she said. “I’d love to.”
“I keep wondering what a pretty girl like you is doing home all alone on a Friday night,” Hawes said.
“I was waiting for you,” Alice answered.
“Sure.”
“If you want to know the truth, I was stood up.”
“Okay.”
“You can call the squad from here, if you like. I’ll get changed.”
“Fine.”
“Are you off-duty once you make that call?”
“Te
chnically, I’m never off-duty. But actually, yes, I am.”
“Then mix yourself a drink when you’re finished.”
“All right.”
Hawes made his call and mixed himself a drink. They left the apartment at nine-thirty. Alice thought Hawes was very attractive. She kept telling him so all night long. He thought she was very attractive, too. In fact, he fell in love with her while they were dancing.
They went for coffee afterward, and then he took Alice back to her apartment. It was still early, and so they sat and listened to records for a while. Her lips were very red and very inviting, and so he kissed her. It was too bright in the room, and so they turned off the lights.
And so…
15.
ARTHUR BROWN was tired of the virgins of Bali in full color. He was tired of the four wooden walls of the mock telephone-company shack. He was tired of the headset with which he monitored the tape. He was tired of the inane social drivel that passed back and forth between Lucy Mencken and her contacts in the world at large.
Arthur Brown was a most impatient man. He’d had the bad misfortune to be born with a name that emphasized his color. With Arthur Brown, the hatemongers had really had a field day. Because he was fair-minded and because he thought it might be better to give the haters an edge by giving himself a handicap, he had often thought of changing his name to Goldstein, thereby adding religion to color and offering the haters an opportunity to really flip their wigs. His impatience was born of expectation. Arthur Brown could look at a man and know instantly whether or not his color would be a barrier between them. And knowing, he would then expect the inevitable slur; and expecting it, he would then impatiently wait for it. He was a man sitting on a powder keg, the fuse of which had been lighted by the chance pigmentation of his skin.
The tap on Lucy Mencken’s phone had none of the characteristics of a powder keg, but it nonetheless filled Brown with itchy impatience. He could, by now, have told anyone interested exactly what the Mencken family would be having for dinner every night of next week, exactly what sniffles or sneezes the Mencken children had suffered during the past few days, the forthcoming social plans of the entire family, and even the bra size—a spectacular size, he admitted—of Lucy Mencken.