Ghosts

by Ed McBain

“Nothing.”

  “No threatening letters or telephone calls?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Crank calls?”

  “Every author on the face of the earth gets crank calls.”

  “Did he mention any?”

  “Not specifically, no. But I know he had his telephone number changed last month, so I’m assuming that was the case.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Carella said. “Mr. Corbett, we may want to get in touch with you again, so…”

  “Don’t leave town, huh?” Corbett said, and smiled. “I used to edit mysteries on my first job in publishing.”

  “I wasn’t about to say that,” Carella said.

  “What were you about to say?”

  “I was about to say…” Carella hesitated. “That’s what I was about to say,” he said.

  In the street outside, as they walked to where Carella had parked the car, Hawes said, “You weren’t really about to say that, were you?”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  “Don’t leave town?”

  “Words to that effect.”

  It was beginning to snow again. When they reached the car, Carella unlocked the door on the curb side and then went around to the driver’s side. Hawes leaned over to pull up the lock-release button. Carella got in behind the wheel, shoved up the visor with its hand-lettered city detective on duty sign, and then started the car. They sat waiting for the heater to throw some warmth into it.

  “What do you think?” Hawes asked.

  “I think we’ll have to check further with some of the other people at Harlow. I don’t like having only her word for where he was, do you?”

  “No, but on the other hand, she’s a married woman who was getting laid in her own office, so it’s not likely she was lying, is it?”

  “Unless this is something more than the casual fling he says it is, in which case she could have been lying to protect him.”

  “Maybe,” Hawes said. “But I’ll tell you, Steve, it sounded casual to me.”

  “How so?”

  “If it isn’t casual, you don’t say you were fucking somebody. You say you were making love, or you were alone together, or you were intimate, or whatever. But you don’t say you were fucking somebody on her couch. That’s casual, Steve. Take it from me, that’s casual.”

  “Okay, it’s casual.”

  “And besides, if he went up there to kill Craig, why would he announce himself to the security guard? Why didn’t he say he was somebody from Time or Newsweek or Saturday Review? Why give his own name?”

  “So Craig would let him in.”

  “And so the security guard would remember it later on? No way.”

  “Maybe he didn’t go up there with the specific purpose of killing him. Maybe they got into an argument…”

  “The killer brought the knife with him,” Hawes said.

  “Yeah,” Carella said.

  “So?”

  “So what the hell do I know?” Carella said, and wiped at the misting windshield with his gloved hand. He was thoughtful for a moment. The wipers snicked at the sticking snowflakes. “All right,” he said, “here’s what I think. I think we ought to call Jerry Mandel up there in Mount Semanee and get him back to the city right away. I want to run a lineup on Daniel Corbett. Meanwhile, since we’re so close to the courthouses down here, I think we ought to try for an order to toss his apartment. More than eighty-three thousand bucks’ worth of jewelry was stolen from Craig’s place, and that isn’t the kind of stuff you can get rid of in a minute, especially if you’re an editor and not familiar with fences. What do you say?”

  “I say I’m hungry,” Hawes said.

  They stopped for a quick lunch in a Chinese restaurant on Cowper Street and then drove over to the Criminal Courts Building on High Street. The Supreme Court judge to whom they presented their written request sounded dubious about granting them the order solely on the basis of a telephone conversation with a security guard, but Carella pointed out that there was reasonable cause to believe that someone who’d announced himself as Daniel Corbett had been at the scene during the hours the crime was committed and that time was of the essence in locating the stolen jewelry before it was disposed of. They argued it back and forth for perhaps fifteen minutes. At the end of that time the judge said, “Officer, I simply cannot agree that you have reasonable cause to conduct a search. Were I to grant this order, it would only be disputed later, when your case comes to trial. Application denied.” Carella mumbled to himself all the way out to the elevators and all the way down to the street. Hawes commented that one of the nice things about living in a democracy was that a citizen’s rights were so carefully protected, and Carella said, “A criminal’s rights, too,” and that was that.

  They struck out with Jerry Mandel as well. A call to the Three Oaks Lodge in Mount Semanee informed them that he had checked out that morning, looking for better skiing conditions elsewhere. Carella told the desk clerk that if Mandel wanted snow, they were up to their eyeballs in it right here in the city. By then six inches had fallen, and it was still coming down. The clerk said, “Ship some of it up here, we can use it.”

  Carella hung up.

  The first of the crank calls came at 2:30 that afternoon, proving to Carella’s satisfaction that not only every author on the face of the earth received them, but perhaps every cop as well. The caller was a woman who said her name was Miss Betty Aldershot, and she said she lived at 782 Jackson, just across the street from the Harborview complex. She said that at exactly twenty-five minutes to 7:00 on Thursday night, she’d been looking through her window at the street below when she saw a man and a woman struggling in the snow. Carella did not know this was a crank call; not just yet he didn’t. He shoved a pad into place on his desk and picked up a pencil.

  “Yes, Miss Aldershot, I’m listening,” he said. “Can you describe the man to me?”

  “He was Superman,” she said.

  “Superman?”

  “Yes. He was wearing blue underwear and a red cape.”

  “I see,” Carella said.

  “He took out a big red penis and stuck it in her.”

  “I see.”

  “A superman penis,” she said.

  “Uh-huh. Well, Mrs. Aldershot, thank you for—”

  “Then he flew away.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Up over the buildings. It was still hanging out.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, fine, thanks a lot.”

  “You’ll never get him,” she said, and began cackling. “He can go faster than a speeding bullet,” and she hung up.

  “Who was that?” Meyer Meyer said from his desk. He was wearing the hat he had taken to wearing indoors and out, a checked deerstalker that hid his bald head and made him feel like Sherlock Holmes. The men in the squadroom had been speculating only a week ago about whether or not he wore it to bed. Hal Willis suggested that Meyer’s wife, Sarah, liked to get shtupped by baldheaded men wearing deerstalker hats. Deerstalker hats and black garters, Bert Kling said. Nothing else. Just the deerstalker hat and the black garters. And a big hard-on, Hawes said. Very funny, Meyer said.

  “That was Superman’s mother,” Carella said.

  “Yeah? How’s she doing?”

  “Terrific. I’ve been trying to reach Danny Gimp. Has he changed his number or something?”

  “Not that I know of,” Meyer said. “Listen, what are we going to do about Monday?”

  “I expect to crack this case by midnight tonight,” Carella said.

  “Sure, you and Superman. Seriously. If you plan to be schlepping all over the city, then let me have Hanukkah.”

  “Give me till midnight,” Carella said, and tried Danny Gimp’s number again. Still no answer. He disliked doing business with Fats Donner, but there was more than eighty-three thousand dollars’ worth of hot jewels floating around out there in the city, and such a haul might not have gone unnoticed in the underworld. He dialed Donner’s home number and listened to it ringing on the other
end.

  “Donner,” a voice said.

  “Fats, this is Detective Carella.”

  “Hey, how are you?” Donner said. “What’s up?” His voice was unctuous and oily; it conjured for Carella the mountainous, blubbery man who was Hal Willis’s favorite informer—but that was only because Willis had enough on him to send him away for the next twenty years. Fats Donner had a penchant for young girls, a charming obsession that caused him constantly to skirt the thin ice outside the law. Carella visualized his thick fingers holding the telephone receiver; he imagined those same fingers on the budding breasts of a thirteen-year-old. The man revolted him, but murder revolted him more.

  “Something like eighty-three thousand dollars in jewelry was stolen Thursday night during the commission of a homicide,” Carella said. “Hear anything about it?”

  Donner whistled softly. Or perhaps it was only a wheeze. “What kind of stuff?” he asked.

  “A mixed bag, I’ll read you the list in a minute. In the meantime, has there been any rumble on it?”

  “Nothing I heard,” Donner said. “Thursday night, you say?”

  “The twenty-first.”

  “This is Saturday. Could be it’s already been fenced.”

  “Could be.”

  “Let me go on the earie,” Donner said. “This’ll cost you, though.”

  “You can discuss price with Willis,” Carella said.

  “Willis is a tightwad. This is Christmastime, I got presents to buy. I’m human, too, you know. You’re asking me to go out in the snow and listen around when I should be home instead, putting up my tree.”

  “For all your little kiddies?” Carella asked, and the line went silent.

  “Well, okay, I’ll discuss price with Willis. But I want something even if I don’t score. This is Christmastime.”

  “Discuss it with Willis,” Carella said, and read off the list of stolen items.

  “That’s a whole lot of shit there,” Donner said. “I’ll see what I can do,” and hung up.

  Carella tried Danny Gimp again. Still no answer. He debated calling Gaucho Palacios, but he didn’t think something as big as this would reach the Cowboy’s ears. The clock on the squadroom wall read ten minutes to 3:00. He didn’t know what the hell to do next. He couldn’t run a lineup on Corbett until Mandel got back to the city on the day after Christmas. He couldn’t get a court order to search Corbett’s apartment for the stolen jewelry, and he couldn’t get a line on the jewelry until Donner got back to him—if he got back to him. He went down the hall to Clerical and asked Miscolo to mimeograph copies of the jewelry list for distribution to the city’s pawnshops, but he knew damn well they’d all be closed tomorrow and Monday, which put him almost into Tuesday, when Mandel would be back. At his own desk again, he dialed the Three Oaks Lodge in Mount Semanee and asked to talk to the manager. It was still snowing. Across the room, Cotton Hawes was working up a timetable for the Thursday night murders. Carella waited.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Hello, this is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad in Isola,” Carella said. “I spoke to someone there a little while ago, and he told me that Jerry Mandel had checked out early this morning…”

  “Yes?”

  “The person I spoke to said he had no idea where Mr. Mandel was heading. I was wondering…”

  “I have no idea either,” the woman said.

  “Who is this, please?”

  “Mrs. Carmody, the manager.”

  “Mrs. Carmody, has there been any substantial snowfall in the state over the past several days?”

  “Not in the state, no. I understand it’s snowing there in the city…”

  “Yes, right now, in fact.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll get some of it later today. I hope,” she said.

  “Where would the nearest area with snow be?”

  “From Semanee, do you mean?”

  “Yes. If Mr. Mandel was looking for snow, where would he have found it?”

  “Not before Vermont,” Mrs. Carmody said.

  “Vermont.”

  “Yes, Mount Snow was reporting excellent conditions, as were Bromley, Stratton, Sugarbush, and Stowe. We’ve been desperate for snow here, and so has Massachusetts. My guess is he’d have headed for Vermont.”

  “Where in Vermont? Which area would be the closest to Semanee?”

  “Mount Snow.”

  “Is that a very busy area? Are there many motels there?”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Mrs. Carmody said. “Were you thinking of trying to track him down?”

  “It crossed my mind,” Carella said.

  “If you started calling all the hotels at Mount Snow right this minute, you’d miss Santa coming down the chimney,” she said, and he was sure she was smiling at her own witticism.

  “How do I get a complete listing of all the available lodging there?” Carella asked.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we’re investigating a murder here.”

  “Well…I guess you can call the Mount Snow Lodging Bureau. Maybe they can help you.”

  “Thank you,” Carella said, and hung up.

  Hawes came over to the desk with the timetable he’d been typing.

  “This is the way it looks to me,” he said, and handed the sheet to Carella:

  TIMETABLE—

  CRAIG AND ESPOSITO MURDERS

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 21

  5:00 P.M. Man claiming to be Daniel Corbett arrives at Harborview, goes up in elevator after being announced by security guard Mandel.

  6:15 P.M. Man has still not left building when Karlson relieves Mandel at the door.

  6:40 P.M. Call to Emergency 911 from unidentified male reporting cutting victim on sidewalk outside 781 Jackson Street.

  6:43 P.M. Car Adam Eleven responds, woman later identified as Marian Esposito, white female, thirty-two years old, DOA.

  7:10 P.M. Call to Emergency 911 from Hillary Scott reporting stabbing in Apartment 304 at 781 Jackson.

  7:14 P.M. Detectives already on scene of Esposito murder respond. Victim Gregory Craig, white male, fifty-four years old, DOA.

  “That’s about it, all right,” Carella said.

  “Doesn’t tell us a damn thing, does it?” Hawes said.

  “Not much,” Carella said, “but it’s nice to have it all spelled out every now and then.” He picked up the phone, dialed the operator, and asked for Vermont Information. She told him he could dial that direct, and he testily informed her he was a detective investigating a homicide, and he’d appreciate it if she could get it for him. She said, sarcastically, “Oh, I beg your pardon,” but she connected him nonetheless. Vermont Information gave him the listing for the Mount Snow Lodging Bureau, and he dialed that number direct and spoke to a nice young woman who informed him that there were fifty-six hotels, motels, inns, and lodges listed with the Bureau, all within a twenty-mile radius of Mount Snow. She mentioned in passing that the Bureau did not list any hostelry with fewer than four rooms, of which there were a great many. She asked if he wanted her to read off the entire list, together with the capacity for each place.

  Carella debated this for a moment.

  Then he said, “No, never mind, thanks,” and hung up.

  The second crank call—or so it seemed at first—came twenty minutes after the first one. He lifted the receiver from its cradle and said, “87th Squad, Carella.”

  “It has something to do with water,” a woman’s voice said.

  “What?”

  “Water,” the voice repeated, and suddenly he recognized her.

  “Miss Scott?” he said.

  “Yes. The murder has to do with water. Can I see you this afternoon? You’re the source.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But you’re the source. I have to talk to you.”

  He remembered what Gregory Craig’s daughter had told them yesterday: She drowned. They said it was an accident. Water, he thoug
ht, and said at once, “Where will you be?”

  “At my sister’s,” she said.

  “Give me half an hour,” he said.

  “I’ll see you there,” she said, and hung up.

  When she opened the door for him, she was wearing a short robe belted over either pantyhose or nylons. She wore no makeup; without lipstick, rouge, or liner, she resembled Teddy even more than she had before.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at once. “I was dressing when my sister called. Come in.”

  The apartment was in the Stewart City section of Isola. Stewart City was not really a city, or even a town, but merely a collection of swank apartment buildings overlooking the River Dix on the true city’s south side. If you could boast of a Stewart City address, you could also boast of a high income, a country place on Sands Spit, and a Mercedes-Benz in the garage under your building. You could give your address with a measure of snobbery and pride. There were few places left in the city—or perhaps the world—where you could do the same. Hillary’s sister’s apartment, as befitted its location, was decorated expensively but not ostentatiously; it had the effect on Carella of making him feel immediately uncomfortable. The cool white artificial Christmas tree in one corner of the room compounded his sense of ill ease. He was accustomed to the scuzziness of the Eight-Seven, where the Christmas trees were real and the carpeting underfoot—unlike the lawn growing in this place—was more often than not tattered and frayed.

  “Miss Scott,” he said, “on the phone, you—”

  “Is it still snowing out there?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m supposed to be downtown at five for a cocktail party. Are there any cabs on the street?”

  “A few.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” she asked. “What time is it anyway?”

  “Four o’clock,” he said.

  “That’s not too early for a drink, is it?”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Right, you’re on duty,” she said. “Mind if I have one?”

  “Go right ahead.”