by Ed McBain
“That’s what she told your wife maybe. That’s the story you both invented to save your miserable hide.”
“No, I swear!” Tears had welled up into Halsted’s eyes. He reached forward eagerly now, pleadingly, grasping for Kling’s arm, straining for support. “What do you mean?” he said, sobbing. “What do you mean? Please, oh, please God, no…”
“She died getting rid of your baby,” Kling said.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Oh, God, I swear I didn’t—”
“You’re a lying bastard!” Kling said.
“Ask Mrs. Glennon! I swear to God, I knew nothing about—”
“You knew, and you went after somebody else who knew!”
“What?”
“You followed Claire Townsend to—”
“Who? I don’t know any—”
“—to that bookshop and killed her, you son of a bitch! Where are the guns? What’d you do with them? Tell me before I—”
“I swear, I swear—”
“Where were you Friday night from five o’clock on?”
“In the building! I swear! We went upstairs to the Lessers’! The fifth floor! We had supper with them, and then we played cards. I swear.”
Kling studied him silently. “You didn’t know Eileen was pregnant?” he said at last.
“No.”
“You didn’t know she was going for an abortion?”
“No.”
Kling kept staring at him. Then he said, “Two stops, Mr. Halsted. First Mrs. Glennon, and then the Lessers on the fifth floor. Maybe you’re a very lucky man.”
Arnold Halsted was a very lucky man.
He had been “temporarily unemployed” since August, but he had a wife who was an expert crochet beader and willing to assume the burden of family support while he sat around in his undershirt and watched the street from the bedroom window. He had raped a sixteen-year-old girl, but neither Eileen nor her mother had reported the incident to the police because, to begin with, Louise Halsted was a very close friend, and—more important—the Glennons knew that Terry would kill Arnold it he ever learned of the attack.
Mr. Halsted was a very lucky man.
This was a neighborhood full of private trouble. Mrs. Glennon had been born into this neighborhood, and she knew she would die in it, and she knew that trouble would always be a part of her life, an indisputable factor. She had seen no reason to bring trouble to Louise Halsted as well—her friend—perhaps her only friend in a world so hostile. Now, with her daughter dead and her son being held for assault, she listened to Bert Kling’s questions and, instead of incriminating Halsted in murder, she told the truth.
She said that he had known nothing whatever of the pregnancy or the abortion.
Arnold Halsted was a very lucky man.
Mrs. Lesser, on the fifth floor, said that Louise and Arnold had come upstairs at 4:45 on Friday afternoon. They had stayed for dinner and for cards afterward. He couldn’t possibly have been anywhere near the bookstore where the killings had taken place.
Arnold Halsted was a very lucky man.
All he had facing him was a rape charge—and the possibility of spending twenty years behind bars.
The case was as dead as any of its victims.
The case was as dead as November, which came in with bonechilling suddenness, freezing the city and its inhabitants, suddenly coating the rivers with ice.
They could shake neither the cold nor the case from the squadroom. They carried the case with them all day long, and then they carried it home with them at night. The case was dead, and they knew it.
But so was Claire Townsend.
“It has to be connected with her!” Meyer Meyer said to his wife. “What else could it be?”
“It could be a hundred other things,” Sarah said angrily. “You’re all blind on this case. It’s Bert’s girl, and so you’ve all gone blind.”
Meyer rarely lost his temper with Sarah, but the case was bugging him, and besides, she had overcooked the string beans. “Who are you?” he shouted. “Sherlock Holmes?”
“Don’t shout at Mommy,” Alan, his oldest son said.
“Shut your mouth and eat your string beans!” Meyer shouted. He turned back to Sarah and said, “There’s too much involved in this! The pregnant girl, the—”
Sarah shot a hasty glance at the children and a warning at Meyer.
“All right, all right,” he said. “If they don’t know where babies come from already, it’s time they found out.”
“Where do babies come from?” Susie asked.
“Shut up and eat your string beans,” Meyer told her.
“Go ahead, tell her where babies come from,” Sarah said angrily.
“Where, Daddy?”
“It’s that women are wonderful, understanding, fruitful, magnificent creatures that God provided for men, you see. And he also made it possible for these lovely, intelligent, sympathetic individuals to be able to make babies, so a man could be surrounded by his children when he comes home from the office.”
“Yes, but where do babies come from?” Susie asked.
“Ask your mother.”
“Can I have a baby?” Susie wanted to know.
“Not yet, dear,” Sarah said. “Someday.”
“Why can’t I have one now?”
“Oh, shut up, Susie,” Jeff, her younger brother by two years, said. “Don’t you know nothing?”
“It’s you who don’t know nothing,” Susie protested. “You’re not supposed to say ‘nothing.’ You’re supposed to say ‘anything.’ ”
“Oh, shut up, you moron,” Jeff said.
“Don’t talk to your sister that way,” Meyer warned. “You can’t have a baby because you’re too young, Susie. You have to be a woman. Like your mother. Who understands what a man’s going through and—”
“I’m simply saying none of you are seeing this thing clearly. You’re all involved in a stupid kind of revenge, looking for any possible stupid way to tie this in with Claire and blinding yourselves to any other possibility.”
“What possibilities are left, would you mind telling me? We’ve run this thing into the ground. Not just Claire. Everyone concerned. Everyone. All the victims, and their families, and their relatives, and their friends. There’s nothing left, Sarah. So we come right back to Claire and the Glennons, and Dr. Madison, and—”
“I’ve heard this all before,” Sarah said.
“Listen again; it won’t kill you.”
“Can I be excused, please?” Alan said.
“Don’t you want your dessert?”
“I want to watch Malibu Run.”
“Malibu Run will wait,” Sarah said.
“Mom, it goes on at—”
“It’ll wait. You’ll have dessert.”
“Let him go if he wants to watch his program,” Meyer said.
“Look, Detective Meyer,” Sarah said angrily, “you may be a big shot investigator who’s used to bossing around suspects, but this is my table, and I happen to have spent three hours this afternoon preparing dinner, and I don’t want my family rushing off to—”
“And burned the string beans while you were doing it,” Meyer said.
“The string beans are not burned!”
“They’re overcooked!”
“But not burned. Sit right where you are, Alan. You’re going to eat dessert if you have to choke on it!”
The family finished its meal in silence. The children left the table, and the sound of underwater mischief came from the living room television set.
“I’m sorry,” Meyer said.
“I am, too. I had no right to interfere with your work.”
“Maybe we are blind,” Meyer said. “Maybe it’s sitting there right under our noses.” He sighed heavily. “But I’m so tired, Sarah. I’m so damned tired.”
CARPENTER
Steve Carella printed the word on a sheet of paper and then studied it. Beneath the word, he printed:
WOODWORKER CABINETMA
KER SAWYER WOODSMAN (?)
“I can’t think of any other words that mean carpenter,” he said to Teddy. Teddy came to where he was sitting and looked at the sheet of paper. She took it from him and, in her own delicate hand, she added the words:
LUMBER? LUMBERMAN? LUMBERWORKER?
Carella nodded and then sighed. “I think we’re reaching.”
He put the sheet of paper aside, and Teddy climbed onto his lap. “It probably has nothing to do with the damn case anyway.”
Teddy, watching his lips, shook her head.
“You think it does?” Carella asked.
She nodded.
“It would seem to wouldn’t it? Why else would a guy mention it with his last breath? But…there are so many other things, Teddy. All this business involving Claire. That would seem to be—”
Teddy suddenly put her hands over his eyes.
“What?”
She put her hands over her own eyes.
“Well, maybe we are blind,” he said. He picked up the sheet of paper again. “You think there’s a pun in this damn word? But why would a guy pun when he’s dying? He’d tell us just what he was thinking, wouldn’t he? Oh, Jesus, I don’t know. Let’s try breaking it down.” He got another sheet of paper and a pencil for Teddy, and together they began working on possible combinations.
CARPENTER
Carp enter
Car penter
Carpen ter
Carpent, R.
“I’m stuck,” Carella said.
Teddy studied the word list for a moment and then counted the letters in “carpenter.”
“How many?” Carella asked.
She held up her fingers.
“Nine,” Carella said. “How does that help us?”
Nine, she wrote on her sheet of paper. Nein?
“So?”
She shrugged.
“How about trying it backward?” Carella said. He wrote down the word: RETNEPRAC. “That mean anything to you?” he asked.
Teddy studied the word and then shook her head.
“Let’s take it from the front again. Carp. That’s a fish, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Carp enter. Fish enter. Fish enter. Fishenter. For shenter. Force center. For center.” He shrugged. “You get anything?”
Teddy shook her head.
“Maybe he was trying to tell us that a man named Fish entered the shop and fired those bullets.”
Teddy nodded dubiously.
“Fish,” Carella said. “Fish enter.” He paused. “Then why would he say ‘Carp enter?’ Why not simply say ‘Fish enter’?”
Teddy’s hands worked quickly. Carella watched her fingers. Maybe Willis heard him wrong, her hands said. Maybe he was saying something else.
“Like what?” Carella asked.
She wrote the word on her sheet of paper: CARPETER.
“Like a man who lays carpets?”
Teddy nodded.
“Carpeter.” He thought it over for a moment. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But, then, maybe he was saying ‘carboner,’ too.” He could tell by the puzzled look on her face that the words looked alike on his lips: carpenter, carpeter, carboner. He moved his paper into place and wrote the word:
CARBONER.
What’s a carboner? Teddy’s hands asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “A man who puts carbon on things, I guess.”
Teddy shook her head, a wide grin on her face. No, her hands said, that’s the way you Italians say carbon.
“Atsa right!” Carella said. “Atsa whatta we say! Car-bon-a! Only trouble issa Mr. Wechsler, he’sa no was Italian.” He smiled and put down his pencil. “Come here,” he said. “I want to discuss this guy who lays carpets.”
Teddy came into his arms and onto his lap.
Neither of them knew how close they’d come.
November.
The trees had lost all their leaves.
He walked the streets alone, hatless, his blond hair whipping in the angry wind. There were 90,000 people in the precinct and 8,000,000 people in the city, and one of them had killed Claire.
Who? he wondered.
He found himself staring at faces. Every passerby became a potential murderer, and he studied them with scrutiny, unconsciously looking for a man who had murder in his eyes, consciously looking for a man who was white, not short, no scars, marks, or deformities, wearing a dark overcoat, gray fedora, and possibly sunglasses.
In November?
Who?
Lady, lady, I did it.
Lady, lady, I fired those guns, I left those gaping holes in your side, I caused your blood to run all over that bookshop floor, I took your life, I put you in your grave.
Who?
Who, you son of a bitch?
He could hear his own lonely footsteps echoing on the pavement. The neon clatter was everywhere around him, the sounds of traffic, the sound of voices raised in laughter, but he heard only his own footsteps, their own hollow cadence, and somewhere Claire’s remembered voice, clear and vital, even whispering, Claire, Claire, “Well, I bought a new bra.”
Oh?
“You should see what it does for me, Bert. Do you love me, Bert?”
You know I do.
“Tell me.”
I can’t right now.
“Will you tell me later?”
Tears suddenly sprang into his eyes. He felt a loss so total, so complete in that moment, that he thought he would die himself, thought he would suddenly fall to the pavement lifeless. He brushed at his eyes.
He had suddenly remembered that he had not told her he’d loved her, and he would never have the chance to do it again.
It was fortunate that Steve Carella took the call from Mrs. Joseph Wechsler. It was fortunate because Bert Kling was very much in sympathy with the woman and had made a few aural adjustments in listening to her. It was fortunate because Meyer Meyer was too accustomed to hearing similar accents and might not have noticed the single important clue she dropped. It was fortunate because Carella had fooled around long enough with the word “Carpenter” and was ready to pounce on anything that would shed light upon it. The telephone helped. The instrument provided a barrier between the two. He had never met the woman. He heard only the voice that came over the line, and he had to strain to catch every syllable.
“Hallo, dis is Mrs. Vaxler,” the voice said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Carella answered.
“From my hosbin is Joseph Vaxler,” she said.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Wechsler. How are you? I’m Detective Carella.”
“Hallo,” she said. “Mr. Carell, I donn like t’bodder you dis way. I know you busy.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Wechsler. What is it?”
“Vell, ven your d’tectiff vas here, I gave him a bonch bills he said he vanted t’look oveh. I need them beck now.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Carella said. “They should have been returned to you long ago.”
“Dot’s ull right,” Mrs. Wechsler said. “I vouldn’t be boddering you, but I got today a second bill from d’men vot pented the car, and I remembered I didn’t pay yet.”
“I’ll see that they’re sent to you right away,” Carella said. “Somebody up here must have goofed.”
“Thank you. I vant to pay them as soon as—”
“The what?” Carella said suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“The what? The man who what?”
“I donn know vot you mean, Mr. Carell.”
“You said something about a man who—”
“Oh, d’car penter. The men vot pented Joseph’s car. Dot’s right. Dot’s who I got d’second bill from. Vot abodd him?”
“Mrs. Wechsler, did…did your husband talk the way you do?”
“Vot?”
“Your husband. Did he…did he sound the way you do?”
“Oh, voise, d’poor men. But he vas good, you know. He vas a dear, good—”
“Bert!” Carella y
elled.
Kling looked up from his desk.
“Come on,” Carella said. “Goodbye, Mrs. Wechsler, I’ll call you back later.” He slammed the phone on the hook.
Kling was already clipping on his holster.
“What is it?” he said.
“I think we’ve got him.”
Three cops went to make the collar, but only one was needed.
Brown, Carella, and Kling talked to Batista, the owner of the garage. They talked in quiet whispers in the front office with the scarred swivel chair. Batista listened with his eyes wide, a cigar hanging from one corner of his mouth. Every now and then he nodded. His eyes got wider when he saw the three detectives draw their revolvers. He told them where Buddy Manners was, and they asked him to stay right there in the front office until this was all over, and he nodded and took the cigar out of his mouth and sat in the swivel chair with a shocked expression on his face because television and the movies had suddenly moved into his life and left him speechless.
Manners was working on a car at the back of the garage. He had a spray gun in his right hand, and he was wearing dark glasses, the paint fanning out from the gun, the side of the car turning black as he worked. The detectives approached with guns in their fists, and Manners looked up at them, seemed undecided for a moment, and then went right on working. He was going to play this one cool. He was going to pretend that three big bastards with drawn guns always marched into the garage while he was spraying cars. Brown was the first to speak; he had met Manners before.
“Hello there, Mr. Manners,” he said conversationally.
Manners cut off the spray gun, pushed the dark glasses up onto his forehead, and squinted at the three men. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Didn’t recognize you.” He still made no mention of the hardware, which was very much in evidence.
“Usually wear sunglasses when you’re working?” Brown asked conversationally.
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“How come?”
“Oh, you know. Sometimes this stuff gets all over the place. When I’ve got a small job, I don’t bother. But if it’s anything big I usually put on the glasses.” He grinned. “Be surprised how much wear and tear on the eyeballs it saves.”