Ghosts

by Ed McBain

  “I’m mentioning it only because she’ll be a material witness when we get this guy, and I hope that doesn’t complicate—”

  “If we get him.”

  “Oh, we’ll get him.”

  “And if he’s our man.”

  “He’ll be our man,” Hawes said.

  “He’s got to be our man, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Carella said.

  “Why do you figure he did it?” Hawes asked.

  “I’m not sure. But I think…” Carella hesitated. Then he said, “I think it was because Craig stole his ghosts.”

  “Huh?” Hawes said.

  Adolf Hitler must have thought of himself as a hero; Richard Nixon probably still thinks of himself as one; every man and woman in the world is the hero or heroine of a personal scenario. It was therefore understandable that Carella considered himself the hero in the continuing drama that had started with the murder of Gregory Craig on December 21. He did not for a moment believe that Hawes might similarly consider himself the hero. Hawes was his partner. Heroes sometimes have partners, but they are only there to say, “Kemo sabe.” In Hawes’s scheme of things, he was the hero, and Carella was his partner. Neither of them could possibly have guessed that yet another hero might make the arrest that cracked the case.

  Takashi Fujiwara was a twenty-three-year-old patrolman working out of the Eight-Seven. His fellow police officers called him “Tack.” Like all men, he considered himself a hero, even more so on this night of December 29, when the stakeout was two days old and the snow had turned again to rain. It was Fujiwara’s devout belief that no one in his right mind should be walking a beat in the rain. He wasn’t even sure that anyone should be walking a beat at all, rain or not. What was the matter with putting all the city’s patrolmen in cars? What was all this bullshit about foot patrols deterring crime? Fujiwara had been walking a beat for two years now, and he had not noticed a discernible decline in the city’s crime rate. He did not know that at two minutes past 5:00 on this shitty, miserable rainy Friday he would become a hero not only in his own mind but in the eyes of his peers. He did not know that before the new year was a week old, he would be promoted to detective/3rd and become an honored and honorable member of the team of men up there on the second floor of the station house. He knew only that he was soaked to the skin.

  Fujiwara’s parents both had been born in the United States. He was the youngest of four sons and the only one of them to join the police force. His eldest brother was a lawyer in San Francisco. The next two brothers owned a Japanese restaurant downtown on Larimore Street. Fujiwara hated Japanese food, so he rarely visited his brothers in their place of business. His mother kept telling him he should learn to appreciate Japanese cuisine. She kept serving him sashimi. He kept kissing her on the cheek and asking for steak.

  It had been his mother’s misfortune, when she was just sixteen and when Fujiwara and his three brothers were not even the faintest glimmer in her eye, to accept from her grandmother in Tokyo an invitation to visit her. Reiko Komagome—for such was her maiden name—was at the time attending a private school in the San Fernando Valley, her parents being rather wealthy Japanese immigrants who owned and operated a brisk silk business with its base in Tokyo and its primary American outlet in Los Angeles. Reiko’s Thanksgiving holiday started on November 21 that year, and she was not due back at school till December 1. But since her birthday fell on November 10, a Monday, and since a trip to Japan could, after all, be considered an educational and cultural experience, Reiko’s mother was able to convince the school authorities to let her out a week and more before the start of the scheduled vacation—provided she diligently did her assigned homework while she was in the Orient. Reiko left for Japan on November 9. Toward the end of her stay there, however, she came down with a severe cold and an attendant fever, and her grandmother was fearful of sending her on the long voyage back to the States. She called Los Angeles and received Reiko’s mother’s permission to keep her in Tokyo at least until the fever abated.

  The year was 1941.

  On December 7—when Reiko’s temperature was normal and her bags packed—the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. She did not return to Los Angeles until the summer of 1946, when she was twenty-one years old. She got married the following year to a man who subsequently taught her the intricacies of the jade business and the joys of sex (Reiko was delighted to learn that Japanese prints did not lie) and who incidentally impregnated her with four handsome sons, the youngest of whom was Tack Fujiwara.

  The way Fujiwara got to be a hero and subsequently a detective/3rd came about quite by accident. He had relieved on post at a quarter to 5:00 and was walking a singularly dreary stretch of Culver Avenue some three blocks from the station house, an area of grim tenements interspersed with several greasy spoons, a billiard parlor, a check-cashing store, a pawnshop, a bar, and a shop selling tawdry lingerie of the breakaway variety. Most of the stores would be open till 6:00 or 7:00, he would not have to start shaking doorknobs till then. One of the greasy spoons would be open till 11:00, the other would close at midnight. The billiard parlor generally closed its doors sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 A.M., depending on how many customers were in there shooting pool. He had checked with the sergeant riding Adam Six, who’d told him to keep his eyes open for a brand new, blue Mercury sedan reported stolen that afternoon and who jokingly advised him not to drown out there in the rain.

  At ten minutes to 5:00 he stopped by at the billiard parlor to make sure nobody was breaking anybody else’s head with a pool cue. At four minutes to 5:00 he dropped into the greasy spoon next door and declined the proprietor’s proffered cup of coffee, telling him he’d stop back later tonight. He was walking past Martin Levy’s pawnshop at precisely two minutes past the hour when the opportunity to become a hero presented itself. The gates on the shop were already up for the night, but a light was still burning inside. Fujiwara saw nothing unusual about this; Mr. Levy often worked inside for a half hour or more after he’d locked up. He did not even glance into the shop. He turned back to look at it only because he heard the bell over the door jingle, and he was surprised to see a hatless dark-haired man running out into the rain with what appeared to be a diamond necklace clutched in his fist.

  Fujiwara did not have the faintest inkling that this was Hillary Scott’s eighteen-karat gold choker set with diamonds and valued at $16,500. Nor did he know that Levy’s shop had been one of those judiciously eliminated from Carella’s list because it was impossible to cover eight shops with two men to a shop when there were only an even dozen men available for the job. In fact, Fujiwara didn’t even know a stakeout operation was currently in progress at assorted pawnshops in the precinct; such information was rarely passed on to mere patrolmen, lest they behave in ways that might blow the whole undercover scheme. Fujiwara was just a poor wet slob walking his beat and witnessing what looked a hell of a lot like a robbery in progress. As the man ran out of the shop, he stuffed the necklace into the pocket of his coat, and if Fujiwara had entertained any doubts before that moment, they all vanished now. Drawing his pistol, he shouted, “Police officer! Halt or I’ll shoot!” and the fleeing man knocked him flat on his ass on the sidewalk and then trampled over him like a herd of buffalo and continued running for the corner of the block.

  Fujiwara rolled over onto his belly and, holding the gun with both hands and propping himself on his elbows the way he’d been taught at the academy, pulled off two shots in succession at the fleeing man’s legs. He missed both times and swore under his breath as the man turned the corner out of sight. Fujiwara was on his feet at once. His gun in his right hand, his black poncho flapping so that he resembled a giant bat flitting through the rain, he reached the corner, and turned it, and found himself face to face with the man he’d been chasing. The man was holding what looked like a bread knife in his right hand.

  Not knowing the man was a suspect in three murders, believing only that he’d stolen a piece of
jewelry from Mr. Levy’s pawnshop, Fujiwara’s eyes opened wide in combined fright, surprise, and disbelief. It was one thing to walk into a store where some cheap thief was holding a gun on somebody; in a situation like that you might expect an attack. But this guy had already rounded third and was heading for home, so why the hell was he risking a hassle with a cop? You dope, I’m a cop! Fujiwara thought, and stepped aside in reflex to dodge the knife. The tip of the knife penetrated the poncho, missing his body by an inch, snagging on the rubberized fabric, and then pulling free again for what Fujiwara hoped would not be a more definitive thrust. This time he didn’t bother with the niceties of shooting below the waist. This time he fired straight at the man’s chest, and this time he hit him—not in the chest, but in the shoulder, which was plenty good enough. The man reeled back from the force of the slug. The knife dropped from his hand and clattered to the slippery wet pavement. He was turning to run again when Fujiwara said, so softly that it sounded almost like the whisper of the rain, “Mister, you’re dead,” and the man stopped in his tracks, and nodded his head, and to Fujiwara’s great astonishment began weeping.

  The formal Q and A took place in Jack Rawles’s hospital room at 8:20 P.M. on New Year’s Eve. Present were Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, Detective Stephen Louis Carella, Detective Cotton Hawes, and an assistant district attorney named David Saperstein. A police stenographer took down everything that was said. Saperstein asked all the questions; Rawles gave all the answers.

  Q: Mr. Rawles, can you tell us when and how you came into possession of the choker you tried to pawn on December twenty-ninth?

  A: I took it because I was entitled to it.

  Q: When was this, Mr. Rawles?

  A: I already told the police officers.

  Q: Yes, but this is a formal statement you’re now making, and I wish you’d repeat it all for me.

  A: It was December twenty-first.

  Q: How did you come into possession of it on that date?

  A: I took it from Gregory Craig’s apartment.

  Q: Did you steal any other—?

  A: I didn’t steal it. I took it as partial payment of a debt.

  Q: What debt?

  A: The money Gregory Craig owed me.

  Q: How much money did he owe you?

  A: Half the receipts on Deadly Shades.

  Q: Deadly shades, did you say?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Deadly shades? I’m sorry, what…?

  A: You’ve got to be kidding.

  Q: No, I’m not. What do you mean by deadly shades?

  A: It’s a book. Gregory Craig was a writer.

  Q: Oh, I see. And you took the choker from his apartment because you felt he owed you fifty percent…

  A: By contract.

  Q: You had a contract with Mr. Craig?

  A: I did. Fifty percent of the receipts on the book. In black and white and signed by both of us.

  Q: I see. And where is that contract now?

  A: I don’t know. That’s why I went up there. To get a copy of it.

  Q: We’re talking now about December twenty-first, are we?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Which is when you went to see Mr. Craig to get a copy of the contract.

  A: Yes. My copy got lost in a fire. I used to live on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston. I had a fire in my apartment, and the contract went up with everything else.

  Q: So…if I understand this…After the fire, there was only Mr. Craig’s copy of the contract.

  A: Yes. Which is why I went up there. To see if I could get it.

  Q: What time did you get there, Mr. Rawles?

  A: At about five o’clock.

  Q: We are referring now to 781 Jackson Avenue, are we?

  A: Yes. Craig’s apartment.

  Q: And you got there at five o’clock on the evening of December twenty-first.

  A: Yes.

  Q: What did you do when you got there?

  A: I told the security guard I was Daniel Corbett. I knew Corbett had been the editor on the book. I read a story about them in People magazine.

  Q: Why did you use a false name?

  A: Because I knew Craig wouldn’t let me up otherwise. I’d written letters to him, I’d tried calling him. He never answered my letters, and he used to hang up when I called. Finally, he changed his phone number. That’s why I came down to the city. To talk to him personally. To demand my share of the money.

  Q: What happened when you went upstairs?

  A: I rang the doorbell, and Craig looked out at me through the peephole. I told him I didn’t want any trouble, I just wanted to talk to him.

  Q: Did he open the door for you?

  A: Yes, but only because I told him I was going to go see the district attorney if he wouldn’t talk to me.

  Q: We are referring now to Apartment 304, are we?

  A: Yes, I guess so. I don’t remember what apartment it was. The security guard told me, and I went up, but I don’t remember now what the number was.

  Q: What happened after you entered the apartment?

  A: We sat down and talked.

  Q: What about?

  A: The money he owed me. He knew I’d had that fire, I was stupid enough to write to him afterward and ask him for a copy of the contract.

  Q: You talked about the money…

  A: Yes. By my calculations, he owed me something like eight hundred thousand dollars. I was supposed to get half of everything, you see. The royalties on the hardcover edition alone came to something like four hundred thousand dollars. The paperback rights sold for a million and a half, and the author’s share of that was seven hundred and fifty thousand. His publishers got ten percent on the movie sale, but that still left him with four hundred and fifty thousand. You add that up, it comes to a million six, and half of that is eight hundred thousand. He never gave me a nickel.

  Q: Did you ask him for the money?

  A: When do you mean?

  Q: When you were there talking with him.

  A: Of course I asked him for the money. That’s why I was there. To demand the money. To tell him that if he didn’t pay me every cent, I would go to the district attorney.

  Q: What was his reaction to that?

  A: He told me to sit down and relax. He asked me if I’d like a drink.

  Q: Did you accept a drink?

  A: I did.

  Q: Did he have a drink, too?

  A: He had two or three of them.

  Q: And you?

  A: The same. Two or three.

  Q: What happened then?

  A: He told me I could go to the district attorney if I liked, but it wouldn’t do me any good. My copy of the contract had been lost in the fire, and he’d destroyed his copy, so now there was no record of the transaction. He said I didn’t have a leg to stand on. He said if I felt I had any cause for legal action, I should go to his publishers instead, and they’d laugh in my face. Those were his exact words. Laugh in my face.

  Q: Why hadn’t you gone to his publishers before then?

  A: Because I knew he was right. I didn’t have the contract; I didn’t even have the tapes. Why would they have believed me?

  Q: What tapes are you referring to, Mr. Rawles?

  A: I put it all down on tape for him. All my experiences in the house up there in Hampstead. We got to talking about it one day in a bar, and he said he found it all very interesting, and told me he was a writer, and then asked if I’d put it all on tape for him. We taped it in the house he was renting that summer—but only after he’d proposed his deal. Fifty-fifty. He’d get the book sold, and he’d give me fifty percent of what it earned. I told him no, I wanted my name on the book, too, I wanted to share the byline. I figured that would help me. I’m an actor. I figured my name on the book would help me get parts later on.

  Q: Did he agree to putting your name on the book?

  A: No. He told me he would never be able to sell it with a split byline on it. So I said okay. I figured fifty percent of the profits would carry me a long w
ay.

  Q: And this is what was in the contract?

  A: Yes, in black and white. He wrote the contract himself, and we both signed it. A simple letter agreement, but binding.

  Q: Did an attorney check it for you?

  A: No, I couldn’t afford an attorney. I’m an actor.

  Q: All right, Mr. Rawles, on the evening of December twenty-first, sometime after five o’clock while you and Mr. Craig were drinking together—

  A: Yes.

  Q: —he told you that going to the district attorney would do you no good.

  A: That’s right.

  Q: What happened then?

  A: I took out the knife.

  Q: What knife?

  A: A knife.

  Q: Yes, what knife?

  A: I had it in my dispatch case. I brought it down from Boston.

  Q: Why?

  A: Just in case.

  Q: Just in case of what?

  A: In case I had to scare him or anything. This man hadn’t answered any of my letters, he used to hang up the phone. I thought maybe I’d have to scare him into giving me my share of the money.

  Q: And is that why you took the knife out of the dispatch case? To scare him?

  A: Yes.

  Q: What happened then?

  A: I forced him into the bedroom.

  Q: And then?

  A: He tried to get the knife from me.

  Q: Yes?

  A: So I stabbed him.

  Q: You killed him because he tried to—

  A: No, he wasn’t dead. I rolled him over and tied his hands behind him with a coat hanger. Then I began searching the place. I believed what he’d said about having destroyed his copy of the contract, but I thought maybe he still had the tapes hidden someplace in the apartment. The tapes with my voice on them. The tapes with me telling the story. They would have been proof, you see. So I began looking for them.

  Q: Did you find them?

  A: No.

  Q: What did you do then?

  A: I stabbed him again.

  Q: Why?

  A: Because I was angry. He’d stolen my story, and he hadn’t paid me for it.

  Q: Was he dead when you left the apartment?