Ghosts

by Ed McBain

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m assuming you met someplace away from the office…”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there ever a man with him?”

  “Once.”

  “Who?”

  “Alex Harrod.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A paperback editor. At Absalom Books.”

  “Is he a homosexual?”

  “I’m not that familiar with homosexuals.”

  “Why was he there?”

  “Danny thought it would be…well…He thought we’d be less noticeable if someone else was there with us.”

  “Where was this?”

  “The Hotel Mandalay bar.”

  “When?”

  “Last month sometime.”

  “What happened at that meeting, can you tell me?”

  “Nothing. Alex had a few drinks, and then he left. Danny and I…went upstairs to a room he’d booked.”

  “What’d you talk about?”

  “Danny and I?”

  “No, the three of you. While you were together in the bar.”

  “Books. Danny had some books he thought Absalom might want to buy.”

  “That’s all? Books?”

  “Yes. Well…yes.”

  “What else, Mrs. Lambeth?”

  “Nothing. Not then. Not in the bar.”

  “Where then?”

  “Really, I do find this…”

  “Where, Mrs. Lambeth? In the room? What did you talk about in the room?”

  The dog was howling like a hungry wolf waiting for an Eskimo to come out of his igloo. Together the dog and the wind created a veritable Antarctic symphony. Priscilla glanced at the dog and said, “I have to untie him.”

  “No, you don’t have to,” Carella said. “I want to know what Corbett said to you after that meeting with Harrod.”

  “It was pillow talk,” Priscilla said. “People say things in bed…”

  “Yes, what did he say?”

  “He asked me if I’d…if I’d ever had a two-on-one.”

  “What did you think he meant by that?”

  “He meant…me and two men.”

  “Did he have any particular man in mind?”

  “He asked me what I thought of Alex Harrod.”

  “Was that the man he had in mind?”

  “I…guess so. Yes. He asked me if I found Alex attractive. And he…he suggested that it might be…be fun to try it together with him sometime.”

  “What was your reaction to that?”

  “I said I thought Alex was attractive.”

  Her voice was so low now that he almost could not hear her. The dog and the wind refused to end their collaboration. Carella could do nothing about the wind, but he wanted to shoot the dog.

  “Did you agree to such an arrangement?”

  “I said I’d…think about it.”

  “Did the suggestion ever come up again?”

  There was a long silence, broken only by the howling of the dog and the wind.

  “Did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “At the Christmas party.”

  “Corbett again suggested that the three of you…”

  “Yes.”

  “And what was your response?”

  Priscilla looked at the dog. Her arms were crossed over her breasts, her gloved hands tucked into her armpits. She kept watching the dog.

  “What was your response?” Carella said.

  “I told him I…I might like to try it. We had both had a little too much to drink, this was the annual Christmas party…”

  “Did you set up a date?”

  “Yes, we…we did.”

  “For when?”

  “My husband is going to Wisconsin this week. His mother lives in Wisconsin, she’s very sick, he’s going out there to see her. We planned to…to go to Danny’s place in the country over the New Year’s Eve weekend. My husband won’t be back till…till the second.”

  “By the country, do you mean Gracelands?”

  “Yes, Danny has a house up there.”

  “Is it his house?”

  “I think so.”

  “Or does he share it with Alex Harrod?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lambeth,” Carella said. “You can untie the dog now.”

  The Isola directory listing for Alexander Harrod gave his address as 511 Jacaranda, downtown in the Quarter. Carella called first to say that he was investigating a homicide and wanted to talk to Harrod. He did not mention that the homicide victim was Daniel Corbett; he wanted to save that for the face-to-face. Harrod protested that it was already after 11:00 and wanted to know if this couldn’t wait till morning. Carella went into his long song and dance about the first twenty-four hours in a homicide being most important to the investigating detective and finally prevailed upon Harrod to give him a half hour of his time.

  The building in which Harrod lived was a three-story brick walk-up painted white. Carella rang the downstairs bell, got an answering buzz, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The apartment was at the end of the hall. He knocked on the door, and it opened at once, almost as if Harrod had been waiting impatiently behind it. Carella was surprised to find himself looking into the face of a tall, slender black man. Priscilla had not mentioned to him that the third man in the proposed menage a trois was black.

  “Mr. Harrod?” he said.

  “Yes, please come in.”

  He was wearing blue jeans and a tight-fitting white T-shirt under a blue cardigan sweater with a shawl collar. He was barefooted, and he padded now into a living room decorated in what Carella termed “tchotchke-potchke,” an expression he’d picked up from Meyer. The walls were lined with shelves and shelves of objets d’art and trinkets, small vases with dried flowers, photographs in miniature oval frames, keys picked up in antique shops, the letter A in various sizes, some in brass, others of wood painted gold, enough books to fill a good-sized bookstore, little framed notes that were obviously of sentimental value to Harrod. The sofa was done in soft black leather and heaped with pillows of various sizes, some of them mirrored, some of them tasseled, that spilled over onto the floor to form yet another seating area. A painting of two men wrestling was on the wall over the couch. The floor was covered with a white shag rug. The heat was turned up very high; Carella wondered if Harrod grew orchids in his spare time.

  “Is this about Gregory Craig?” Harrod asked.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I know he was killed, and Absalom published the paperback of Shades.”

  “It’s about Daniel Corbett,” Carella said.

  “Danny? What about him?”

  “He was murdered early tonight,” Carella said, and watched for Harrod’s reaction. The reaction came at once. Harrod backed away a pace, as though Carella had punched him full in the face.

  “You’re putting me on,” he said.

  “I wish I were.”

  “Danny?” he said.

  “Daniel Corbett, yes. He was stabbed to death sometime between five-thirty and six o’clock tonight.”

  “Danny?” Harrod repeated blankly, and suddenly he was weeping. Carella watched him and said nothing. Harrod pulled a tissue from the back pocket of his jeans and dried his eyes. “I’m sorry…we…we were good friends,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Harrod,” Carella said. “How close was your relationship?”

  “I just told you. We were good friends.”

  “Mr. Harrod, is it true that you and Mr. Corbett planned to go to Gracelands this weekend with a woman named Priscilla Lambeth?”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Harrod asked.

  “From Mrs. Lambeth.”

  “Well, then…”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Mr. Harrod, are you aware that Daniel Corbett suggested the three of you go to bed together?”

 
; “I was aware of that, yes. It still doesn’t mean—”

  “Wasn’t that the purpose of the planned trip to Gracelands?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Had you and Mr. Corbett ever done this before?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t mean with Priscilla Lambeth. I mean with any woman.”

  “What’s that got to do with his murder?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I don’t have to answer a damn thing,” Harrod said. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Detective. If you didn’t think I was gay, would you be here asking the same questions?”

  “I don’t give a damn about your sexual preferences, Mr. Harrod. That’s your business. I’m here to—”

  “Sure,” Harrod said. “Go tell that to every other cop in this city.”

  “I’m not every other cop in this city, I’m me. I want to know whether you went along with the idea of sharing a bed with Daniel Corbett and Priscilla Lambeth.”

  “Why?”

  “Were you and Corbett lovers?”

  “I don’t have to answer that.”

  “That’s true, you don’t. Where were you at five-forty tonight, Mr. Harrod?”

  “Right here. I came here straight from work.”

  “Where’s Absalom Books?”

  “Uptown on Jefferson.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “Five-thirty, little bit after.”

  “Did you talk to Mr. Corbett at any time today?”

  “We spoke, yes.”

  “What about?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “The trip to Gracelands?”

  “The subject may have come up.”

  “How’d you feel about the trip?”

  “Here comes the gay shit again,” Harrod said.

  “You’re the one who keeps bringing it up. How’d you feel about the trip?”

  “I didn’t want to go, all right?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was…” Harrod suddenly clenched his fists. “You have no right to hassle me this way. I was nowhere near Danny’s place when he was…when he was…” He began weeping again. “You son of a bitch,” he said, and again pulled the tattered tissue from his pocket and dried his eyes. “You’re always hassling us. Can’t you, for Christ’s sake, leave us alone?”

  “Tell me about the trip,” Carella said.

  “I didn’t want to go,” Harrod said, weeping. “I was sick and tired of…of Danny bringing all these fag hags around. He was AC-DC, all right, I could live with that. But these…these goddamn women he was always intruding into our relationship…” He shook his head. “I told him to make up his mind. He…he promised this would be the last time. He said I’d enjoy it. He said she found me attractive.”

  “How’d you find her?”

  “Repulsive,” Harrod said flatly.

  “But you agreed to go.”

  “For the last time. I told him I’d walk if he kept insisting on these outside relationships. This was to be it. The very last time.”

  “It turned out to be just that, didn’t it?” Carella said.

  “I was here at five-thirty,” Harrod said. “Check it.”

  “With whom?”

  Harrod hesitated.

  “Who were you with, Mr. Harrod?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Oliver Walsh. Are you going to hassle him, too?”

  “Yes,” Carella said, “I’m going to hassle him, too.”

  Oliver Walsh lived within walking distance of Harrod’s apartment. Carella got there at five minutes to midnight. He had not called first to announce himself, and he had warned Harrod not to pick up the phone the moment he left the apartment. Walsh seemed genuinely surprised to find a city detective on his doorstep. He was nineteen or twenty years old, Carella guessed, with a shock of red hair and a spate of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Carella saw all this through the wedge in the partially opened door; Walsh would not take off the night chain till Carella showed his shield and his plastic-encased ID card.

  “I thought you might be a burglar or something,” Walsh said.

  “Mr. Walsh,” Carella said, “I’ll tell you why I’m here. I want to know where you were between five-thirty and six o’clock tonight.”

  “Why?” Walsh said at once.

  “Were you here at home?” Carella asked, dodging the question.

  “No.”

  “Then where were you?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Mr. Walsh,” Carella said, “someone’s been murdered. All I want to know—”

  “Well, Jesus…you don’t think…”

  “Where were you?”

  “Between…between…what time did you say?”

  “Five-thirty and six.”

  “With a friend of mine,” Walsh said, and looked enormously relieved.

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Alex Harrod. His phone number is Quinn 7-6430, call him. Go ahead, call him. He’ll tell you where I was.”

  “Where was that?”

  “What?”

  “Where were you with your friend Alex Harrod?”

  “At his apartment. 511 Jacaranda, third floor rear. Apartment 32. Go ahead, call him.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “About twenty after five. He was just coming home from work.”

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “I left at about nine-thirty.”

  “Did you leave the apartment at any time?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did Harrod?”

  “No, we were there together.”

  “How long have you known Harrod?”

  “We met only recently.”

  “When?”

  “On Christmas Eve.”

  “Where?”

  “At a party.”

  “Where was the party?”

  “Here in the Quarter.”

  “Where in the Quarter?”

  “In Llewlyn Mews. A man named Daniel Corbett was giving a party, and a friend of mine asked me to go with him.”

  “Had you known Corbett before then?”

  “No, I met him that night.”

  “And that’s when you met Harrod, too, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you spoken to him since you left his apartment tonight?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “We can check with the phone company for any calls made from his number to yours.”

  “Check,” Walsh said. “I left him at nine-thirty, and I haven’t spoken to him since. Who got murdered? It wasn’t Alex, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t Alex,” Carella said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Walsh.”

  The way they reconstructed it later, the killer had gone after the wrong person. The mistake was reasonable; even Carella had made the same mistake earlier. The killer must have been watching her for the past several days, and when he saw her—or the person he assumed was Hillary Scott—coming out of the Stewart City apartment building at 8:30 Wednesday morning, he followed her all the way to the subway kiosk and then attempted to stab her with what Denise Scott later described as “the biggest damn knife I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Minutes after Denise rushed into the apartment with the front of her black cloth coat and her white satin blouse slashed, Hillary called first the local precinct and then Carella at home. He and Hawes got there an hour later. The patrolmen from Midtown South were already there, wondering what they were supposed to do. They asked Carella whether they should report this to their precinct as a 10-24—an “Assault Past”—or would the Eight-Seven take care of it? Carella explained that the attack might have been linked to a homicide they were working, and the patrolmen should forget about it. The patrolmen seemed unconvinced.

  “What about the paper?” one of them asked. “Who’ll take care of
the paper?”

  “I will,” Carella said.

  “So then maybe we get in a jam,” the second patrolman said.

  “If you want to file, go ahead and file,” Carella said.

  “As what? A 10-24?”

  “That’s what it was.”

  “Where do we say it was?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The guy tried to stab her outside the subway on Masters. But she didn’t call us till she got back here. So what do we put down as the scene?”

  “Here,” Carella said. “This is where you responded, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but this ain’t where it happened.”

  “So let me file, okay?” Carella said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You ain’t got a sergeant like we got,” the first patrolman said.

  “Look, I want to talk to the victim,” Carella said. “I told you this is a homicide we’re working, so how about letting me file, and then you won’t have to worry about it.”

  “Get his name and shield number,” the second patrolman advised.

  “Detective/Second Grade Stephen Louis Carella,” Carella said patiently, “87th Squad. My shield number is 714-5632.”

  “You got that?” the second patrolman asked his partner.

  “I got it,” the first patrolman said, and they both left the apartment, still concerned about what their sergeant might say.

  Denise Scott was in a state of numbed shock. Her face was pale, her lips were trembling, she had not taken off her coat—as if somehow it still afforded her protection against the assailant’s knife. Hillary brought her a whopping snifter of brandy, and when she had taken several swallows of it and the color had returned to her cheeks, she seemed ready to talk about what had happened. What had happened was really quite simple. Someone had grabbed her from behind as she was starting down the steps to the subway station, pulled her over backward, and then slashed at the front of her coat with the biggest damn knife she’d ever seen in her life. She’d hit out at him with her bag, and she’d begun screaming, and the man had turned and begun running when someone started up the steps from below.

  “It was a man, you’re sure of that?” Carella said.

  “Positive.”

  “What did he look like?” Hawes asked.

  “Black hair and brown eyes. A very narrow face,” Denise said.

  “How old?”

  “Late twenties, I’d say.”